Authors: Chris Ryan
The Kill Zone (20 page)
‘Listen to me, you little piece of shit,’ Jack said. ‘In
my
job you hold the equivalent rank of a turd I did in a bucket when I was captured. Men
died
because of you. Burned to death. Ever wondered what that feels like, Willoughby? Burning to death?’
my
job you hold the equivalent rank of a turd I did in a bucket when I was captured. Men
died
because of you. Burned to death. Ever wondered what that feels like, Willoughby? Burning to death?’
Willoughby didn’t reply.
‘No,’ Jack pressed. ‘I guess not. Because you just stay here safe and snug while the rest of us are risking our arses on the ground. Well if you think you’re going to get us to take the rap just because
you’re
getting heat from the pen-pushers who tell you what to do . . .’
you’re
getting heat from the pen-pushers who tell you what to do . . .’
He raised his hand again, one vein on the side of his neck pulsating with anger. But Willoughby cowered so pathetically that Jack just let his fist fall and stared at him with total contempt.
Jack looked over his shoulder. Palgrave was there, and so were Fly and Dunc Forsyth. The OC’s face was stern, but the other two looked confused.
‘All right, Jack,’ Palgrave said, his voice full of authority. ‘Step back . . .’
‘Take it easy,’ Jack spat. ‘I’ve finished with him.’
Nobody in the room moved.
‘You two,’ Palgrave addressed Jack’s mates. ‘Take him to his bunk.’ He looked over at Willoughby. ‘I’ll smooth this out.’
But Willoughby had straightened up now. He moved his hand from his bloodied face and shot Jack a look of pure poison. ‘There’s nothing to smooth out,’ he stated. ‘Captain Harker will be on the next flight back to the UK. I hope you’ve enjoyed your time with the Regiment, old boy, because it’s at an end. Bodyguarding celebrities for you from now on.’
He put his hand back up to his bleeding nose, pushed past the soldiers and left the room, dripping small spots of blood on to the floor as he went.
The burial of the Taliban dead near the poppy fields on the edge of the village was a swift, unsentimental affair. They had been called to the next world, that was all. Farzad Haq had no time to mourn foot soldiers or mercenaries. He had more important things to attend to.
It was after dark that he oversaw the loading into an old Toyota truck of the missiles from the compound he had commandeered during the assault. The drivers were men he could trust. Loyal. Devout. He had contacted them two days ago and they had just arrived. If the British had waited until now for their assault, they might have troubled him. But they hadn’t, and now his men would see to it that Haq’s hard-won missiles successfully made the dangerous journey west out of Helmand, into Nimroz Province and across the border to Iran. From there, their transport would be easier. The missiles would reach their destination in just a few days. He watched the truck disappear into the Afghan night with pride.
He, in the meantime, had a different journey to make. South. Into the mountains of Pakistan where his people would be waiting for him. God willing, they had made the necessary arrangements.
Farzad Haq unconsciously stroked the stump of his thumb with his good hand. It was a habit of his. As he stood there under the cover of darkness, he thought back to a night thirty years previously. The image of himself, and Adel, and his grandfather, together for the final time, caused him pain as it always did.
But Haq smiled. Grandfather would be proud. He gathered his robes around him and started to make preparations to leave.
29 JUNE
10
In London the following morning, the sun was shining. Habib Khan stepped down from the bus that had brought him all the way from his small home in Muswell Hill to the shabby office in West Kensington where he spent his working day. His suit was old-fashioned – a pocket watch would not have looked out of place – and his beard was trim and neat. He looked a little smart for this part of town, but it didn’t seem to worry him.
Situated just above a pub that Habib Khan wouldn’t have considered stepping into even if he drank alcohol, the poky network of rooms that housed the office of the Islamic Council for Peace were far from glamorous. But that was OK. The organisation didn’t exist to make its members comfortable. It had a higher purpose than that.
Khan punched in the code on the keypad of the office’s front door, then headed up the dimly lit stairs. Walking into the main reception room, he greeted with a gentle smile the young woman who sat typing at her desk.
‘They’re all waiting for you, Mr Khan,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Mariam.’
Mariam was only eighteen years old, but the council couldn’t operate without her cool efficiency. She had been granted asylum only a year ago after her family had been forced to flee Iran, and Khan had employed her soon after she arrived in London. How thin she had been back then, how black the rings under her eyes. Now, though, she looked like a different woman. Her lips were full and plump; her skin glowed. The freedom of the West suited her, but she remained a devout Muslim. Mariam worked with the enthusiasm of someone who was not only grateful for her job, but who truly believed in everything this organisation was trying to achieve.
‘Perhaps I might ask you to join us, Mariam,’ Khan suggested, peering at her through his little round glasses.
Mariam looked flustered. ‘But Mr Khan, the phones—’
Khan held up one hand. ‘It won’t take long, my dear. What I have to say involves all of us. Please.’ He indicated a door on the other side of the room.
Mariam put one hand to her short brown bob, clearly nervous at the thought of sitting with the members of the council – all of them men – whom she thought of as her superiors. But she stepped towards the door and allowed Khan to open it for her.
There were eight men in the next room, which had the faint smell of mildew. They were a selection of imams and businessmen who shared a common interest in promoting the peaceful observance of Islam. They all looked a good deal older than Khan, and although they all wore Western dress – it was the policy of the council not to don more traditional garb for fear of alienating people – there was an aura of quiet wisdom about them. Sitting quietly at a round table that was empty apart from a jug of tap water and a few glasses, they looked mildly surprised at Mariam’s presence. She stood uncomfortably by the door. ‘Have a seat, my dear.’ Khan said this in the tones of an affectionate uncle, but she looked no more at ease once she had sat down.
Khan remained standing. ‘Gentlemen,’ he murmured, then took a moment to gather his thoughts as he looked at each of them in turn. ‘Gentlemen,’ he repeated. ‘Thank you for being here. We have congregated at short notice, and I appreciate you all making the time.’
The men around the table nodded.
‘We are failing, gentlemen.’
A murmur of disagreement, but Khan spoke over it. ‘I do not say,’ he announced, ‘that what we have set out to do is not worth doing. Far from it. Our struggle to encourage the Muslims of Britain to integrate peacefully into society, and for society to accept them and their beliefs for what they are, is the foremost struggle of our times. But we have not achieved enough. All over the country, young Muslims are being swayed, converted to a violent fundamentalism that has nothing to do with Islam and everything to do with hatred. We all know, in our hearts, that the situation is becoming worse, not better.’
An awkward silence around the room. But no dissent, because they all knew he was right.
‘What, then, are we to do? Should we give up our struggle? Should we allow our peaceful religion to be hijacked by the forces of evil?’
One of the men – the oldest one there – spoke up. ‘Of course not, Habib. But what more can we do? We are not a wealthy organisation. Perhaps if we had more funds—’
Khan raised one hand. ‘Funds,’ he said, ‘will not be necessary. I have decided that we have a different weapon with which to fight.’
Looks of confusion around the table. ‘What weapon?’ asked the older man.
Khan smiled. ‘The truth,’ he said.
The others blinked at him as he continued. ‘Those Muslims in this country who are seduced by fundamentalism believe they are fighting in a holy war. But what if we were to show them that they are getting involved with people who are no more than common criminals? What if we were to show them how wrong they are?’
Khan stepped up to the table, poured himself a glass of water, then took a small sip. ‘There are parts of the world where terrorists are allowed to operate without concern for the rule of law. We know where these places are – the western borders of Pakistan, Yemen, those parts of Afghanistan under Taliban control. And yet there are too many moderate Muslims in this country who remain unaware of these terrorist breeding grounds. If we can draw the attention of our communities to the fact that these overseas terrorist factions are having a direct influence on our impressionable youngsters, perhaps they will be further spurred on to do what is necessary to counter that influence.’
He looked around the room. All eyes were on him. ‘There is one country,’ he continued, ‘that is worse than the others. Where Islamist rebel groups have aligned themselves with Al Qaeda. A safe haven for the most wanted terrorists in the world, where they are given sanctuary. A place where their operations are of only the slightest interest to what passes as authority. That country is the Republic of Somalia, and as leader of this council I have decided to make a trip there.’
He took another sip of water and watched the others over the brim of his glass. A hubbub of conversation had suddenly started up; the men were staring at him and at each other in anxiety; Mariam looked as though she might cry.
The old man who had previously spoken stood up. ‘Habib,’ he said above the conversation. ‘Nobody admires your dedication to our cause more than I. But to travel there – that is madness! You do not need
me
to tell you that they have no government and no laws. You do not need me to tell you that it is nothing but a—’
me
to tell you that they have no government and no laws. You do not need me to tell you that it is nothing but a—’
‘A hideaway for terrorists, murderers and scoundrels. A safe location for Al Qaeda and any number of other fundamentalist networks from around the world.’ Khan smiled again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not need you to tell me that. You do not need to tell me that it is ravaged by war, that it has no police force, nor that it is unsafe even to walk the streets. It is for these reasons that it has become a magnet for the very criminals who would divert our young people from the path of peace. I will walk into the terrorists’ backyard. I will talk to them. I will tell them that they have no business with our peaceful Islamic communities, no business turning our youngsters towards the path of evil. It is not enough that Western politicians deplore the existence of these terrorist networks in troubled parts of the world. It takes one of
us
to put the spotlight upon them. To stand up to them publicly. To denounce them.’
us
to put the spotlight upon them. To stand up to them publicly. To denounce them.’
‘But Habib, if you go there to bring the world’s attention to these people, you will be putting your life in great danger.’
Khan nodded. ‘And it is for that reason that I will raise publicity for everything we are striving towards. We will let the news outlets know that I am travelling to Mogadishu, and we will let them know why. Though I doubt any of them will come with me, danger is always newsworthy. We will have more coverage than we have ever had before.’
‘But Mr Khan.’ It was Mariam who had spoken, and she looked embarrassed as all the men turned to look at her.
‘Yes, Mariam?’ Khan’s voice was calm. Kind.
‘What if . . . what if you
die
, Mr Khan?’ Her voice was teetering on the edge of tears.
die
, Mr Khan?’ Her voice was teetering on the edge of tears.
A silence. Khan took another sip of water before putting his glass back on the table.
‘I sincerely hope I will
not
die, Mariam. But if I do, we will have made our point more eloquently than we could ever have hoped. Do not worry, my dear. I have prayed, and I know this is the right path. I intend to make my announcement this afternoon. When I do, I expect us all to be busy with interview requests and the like. We must remember that
I
am not the story. The story is that those who commit violence in the name of our faith seek refuge in the arms of criminals and gangsters. That they
are
criminals and gangsters and that we, members of the Islamic community, recognise that and condemn them.’
not
die, Mariam. But if I do, we will have made our point more eloquently than we could ever have hoped. Do not worry, my dear. I have prayed, and I know this is the right path. I intend to make my announcement this afternoon. When I do, I expect us all to be busy with interview requests and the like. We must remember that
I
am not the story. The story is that those who commit violence in the name of our faith seek refuge in the arms of criminals and gangsters. That they
are
criminals and gangsters and that we, members of the Islamic community, recognise that and condemn them.’
He removed his glasses and cleaned them, absent-mindedly, on his tie. ‘I do not ask that anyone accompanies me,’ he continued once they were back on his nose. ‘I ask only that you support me in this endeavour. Do you?’
The members of the council looked at each other. Something unspoken seemed to pass between them, and the old man stood once more.
‘Yes, Habib,’ he said quietly. ‘We support you. And may God protect you every step of your way.’
Jonathan Daniels, Director General of MI5, dreaded trips to Number 10. He hated meeting with politicians, whose smiles were always broadest when they were shafting you the most. And audiences with the PM – he dreaded those most of all. It was his experience that the man in the top job was the most insecure of the lot. He hadn’t met a prime minister yet who didn’t appear to think, somewhere deep down, that MI5 was just a tool to be used in his political machine to help secure his precarious position. This one was no different. He looked across the table at the familiar face, the dapper suit and the blue tie. And as he always did when he was in the Prime Minister’s presence, he reflected that the man looked like a boy, fattened around the jowls from too much chocolate. Of all the leaders Jonathan Daniels had met – and he’d met a few – this one was the least impressive.
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