Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4 (18 page)

He was staring into the middle distance, and forcing himself to hold back the tears.

‘They put me and my mother in a cell. Now and then they came in with their guns and made us get on our knees. They put their guns to our heads. Then they would laugh and leave us alone again. They did this for several hours. Then, near the end of the day . . .’ Joe felt a hot ball of nausea in the pit of his stomach. ‘They came into the cell. Four of them. They raped my mother in front of me. Then they killed her.’

He looked straight at the woman as he said this, and saw the horror in her face. But he didn’t tell her everything. He didn’t tell her that he knew the name of the leader of the four men – Mujahid, who had a scar carved into his throat in the shape of a smile. There were, after all, some things he needed to keep to himself.

‘You poor boy,’ the woman whispered. ‘Why did they do this?’

‘Because of me,’ Joe said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘They wanted me to know what would happen if I didn’t do what they said.’

‘But why you?’

Joe managed a weak smile. ‘Because they had heard that I was clever.’

‘You certainly speak very good English . . .’

‘It was not English they wanted me for. It was because I know about computers . . . electronics . . . coding . . . that kind of thing.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ the woman said.

‘Could I have a glass of water?’ Joe asked.

The woman nodded and left the room for a minute. Joe watched her through the window. She crossed the office to a water cooler. While she had her back to him, several people passed the office and glanced in at Joe. Without exception, they looked hostile. Joe didn’t mind. He was used to it.

He drew a deep breath and organised his thoughts. It was important that he told her enough to gain her sympathy, but not so much that she might guess why he was really here. When she returned with a plastic cup of water, he drank it gratefully, then picked at the edge of the cup with his fingernails as he continued.

‘Islamic State like publicity,’ he said. ‘They . . .’ he searched around for the correct word ‘. . . they
thrive
on it. They
want
people in the West to see them beheading their hostages and shooting down their citizens in the street. Because then, the West are forced to bomb them – which is even more good publicity for their cause. Do you see?’

The woman nodded mutely.

‘The best place to get publicity is on the Internet. Facebook, Twitter, the dark net. They are very active on all these networks. They need people who are skilled with computers to help them do all this. That’s why they wanted me.’

He paused while the woman scribbled down some notes. When she looked up again, she was obviously about to speak, but Joe got in there first. ‘Then, of course,’ he said, ‘there’s the communications.’

‘What communications?’

‘They are not as backwards as they like to pretend,’ Joe said. ‘They need to communicate with each other, and with their agents who are active all across the world. They know that people are trying to listen in – to hack their email accounts and do surveillance on their mobile phones. They need people like me to help them keep their communications secure – end-to-end encryption, OTR protocols, preventing external agents inserting malware on their systems. Cover their tracks. That’s what I did for them. Every day they put a gun to my head and told me that if I failed in my duty, I would join my mother and father in the ground. What choice did I have?’

He hung his head and continued to pick at the edge of his cup, which was beginning to split.

‘Why did they let you go?’ the woman asked.

Joe couldn’t help looking astonished at the question. ‘Let me go?’ he said. ‘They
didn’t
let me go. Why would they do that?’ He sniffed. ‘I escaped.’

The woman was staring at him in astonishment. She scribbled a few more notes. ‘
How
did you escape?’ she asked finally. But before Joe could answer, she held up one finger. ‘Just a minute,’ she said. ‘Are you telling me that you were party to Islamic State communications into and out of Syria?’

Joe fixed her with a calm stare. Then he nodded.

The woman scraped back her chair and stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she said. ‘Please wait here.’

Joe sat still as she left the room for a second time. He noticed that his hands were trembling. He crushed the plastic cup in an attempt to stop it happening. Looking through the window, he saw the woman approach one of her colleagues – an older man in a slightly crumpled suit who was sitting on the edge of a desk reading a piece of paper. He looked over at Joe as she spoke. When she had finished, he seemed to think about what she’d said for a moment. Then he nodded and picked up the phone on the desk behind him.

The woman hurried back to the interview room. She was slightly breathless.

‘Is everything alright?’ Joe asked.

‘Fine,’ the woman said. ‘Absolutely fine. I’d just like you to speak to . . .’ She hesitated. ‘To some of my colleagues, that’s all. I hope they’ll be here as soon as possible. Can I get you another glass of water?’

Joe shook his head. He could sense that, all of a sudden, the woman’s attitude had changed. He wondered if she had just called the police.

‘Right,’ the woman said. ‘Good. Well, if I could just ask you to wait here . . .’ She edged back towards the door, gave him a nervous smile and left the room. For a moment, he thought she was looking back in at him. Then he heard the sound of a key turning.

Joe was locked in. He supposed it was only to be expected. A wave of tiredness crashed over him. He got up from the plastic seat and walked to the corner of the room. There, he huddled down on the ground, cocooned into a little ball. It didn’t matter that the floor was hard. He’d slept in far less comfortable places than this. And it didn’t matter that he was locked in – he’d been in far more frightening jails.

For now, he was safe and warm. It meant that sleep came quickly.

The tailgate of the Hercules was closing. Danny Black stood in the belly of the aircraft, watching the wet Mediterranean night disappear. His mind was burning with the details of the operation they were embarking upon. He had memorised locations and terrain. Satellite mapping had shown them the area around Dhul Faqar’s compound. It was located on the banks of a large reservoir fifty miles outside the city of Mosul. A main supply route cut north–south to its eastern side. Mountainous region to the north. But there was only so much a satellite image could tell you. They needed to get eyes on the stronghold before they could make a plan to assault it. All Danny knew was this: it would be a hell of a sight easier with a full squadron and a handful of Black Hawks. But they weren’t an option. Not if they were going in under the radar.

As well as map work, Danny had learned identification codewords, and had a few words of Sorani Kurdish at his disposal. He knew there would be a mutual lack of trust between his team and their contacts on the ground. A few words of a foreigner’s language was a good way of breaking the ice.

The aircraft started to throb and hum as its engines started up. Hammond joined him. ‘You realise,’ he said quietly, ‘that you won’t be the only SF team on the ground in northern Iraq.’

‘I guess that figures,’ Danny replied.

‘You can expect Russians, Americans. And I don’t have to tell you what’s riding on this back home?’ Hammond said.

Danny looked over his shoulder. Spud and Caitlin were still at the briefing table, poring over Alice Cracknell’s maps.

‘It’ll be a gangfuck in London if you don’t get to this Dhul Faqar character.’

‘We’re under-strength without Tony,’ Danny said. ‘You know that.’

Hammond nodded. ‘I’ve seen what you can do, Black. Other people might think you’re a liability. Make an effort to prove me right and them wrong, eh?’

It was the closest Hammond had ever come to giving him a compliment. Danny appreciated it. Kind of.

‘We’ll have to hit these oil middlemen
before
they arrive at Dhul Faqar’s compound. We don’t have the numbers to do it any other way. If we get delayed crossing the border, the op’s screwed.’

Hammond gave him a look that said: you know what that will mean. ‘Is Spud OK?’ he asked.

Danny knew what he was driving at.

‘Spud’s fine. It would help if Caitlin knew how to HALO.’

‘You can take her in tandem. She’ll be fine.’

‘She’s a good operator,’ Danny said. ‘I just hope these Kurdish guys don’t take a liking to her.’

‘She might be your best asset. The Kurdish
peshmerga
have a lot of women fighting on the front line. Talking of which . . .’

‘What?’

‘You know Duncan Barker, right?’

Barker was a Regiment-mate of Danny’s back at Hereford. He nodded.

‘I’ve asked him to go speak to your missus. Tell her your op’s been extended, not to expect you home for a few days.’

Danny gave him a sharp look.

‘I want your mind to be on the job,’ Hammond said by way of explanation. ‘Not on any problems you might be having back home.’

‘Who told you I’m having problems?’

‘Nobody.’ Hammond hesitated. ‘I’ve got kids too, Black. I know it can change the way you think about the work, when they come along.’

But before Danny could ask Hammond what he meant, the aircraft moved forward. The loadmaster called to them to take their seats. Danny and Hammond headed back up to the front of the plane and strapped themselves in. Two minutes later, they were surging down the runway. Then they were airborne.

Danny didn’t bother waiting for the loadie’s go-ahead. As soon as he felt the aircraft straightening up, he unclipped his belt and headed over to where their hardware was stashed. They had weapons to check over and HALO gear to don. They needed to be briefed on up-to-date weather conditions at the insertion point. And they needed a final run-through of their security codes and mission objectives.

The three-hour flight time to the Turkish border would pass quickly. Danny got to work.

Duncan Barker considered himself a good mate of Danny Black’s. That didn’t stop him cursing his mate as he drove his motorbike through the Hereford rain towards Danny’s flat. RAF Credenhill was all but empty. Three-quarters of the Regiment were abroad. Those that remained in the UK on standby had been called into camp and given their marching orders down to London. Barker himself was heading to the Smoke that evening. Something big was going down. Why, then, was it so important that Barker should be knocking on the door of Danny’s flat to give his bird a message? What was wrong with the fucking telephone?

Rain was streaming off him as he rang the bell to the ground-floor flat. As he stood, waiting for an answer, he could hear the faint wail of a baby from inside. Through the glass of the front door he watched someone approach. When the door opened, and the someone became a real face, he found himself talking to a woman who looked like she hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours.

‘Are you Clara?’ he asked.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name’s Barker. Mate of Danny’s from . . . you know . . . work.’

She stared at him.

‘Yeah, so . . . the headshed asked me to come round, let you know that Danny’s not going to be back for a few days.’

Nothing registered on her face. It was only when Barker was about to excuse himself that she spoke. ‘Will you come in?’

‘Nah, you’re OK, I’d better . . .’ But Clara looked so crestfallen that he changed direction mid-sentence. ‘Yeah, alright then, for a minute.’

Barker was a big guy. It was awkward for him to manoeuvre past the pram that was blocking the hallway. He knocked a colourful soft toy from the handle, and Clara immediately scrambled to pick it up and tie it back on to the pram. ‘Danny bought it.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘From Mothercare. You should have seen him . . .’

Barker didn’t know what to say. His boots left a line of wet footprints all the way down the hallway and into the front room. Clara didn’t seem to care. Her baby was here, lying in a wicker Moses basket, bawling her eyes out. Her mother lifted her from the basket and she immediately stopped crying. Barker wasn’t really a baby person, but even he had to admit the girl was a cute little kid. A shock of dark hair – like a mini version of Danny Black.

‘Why is he delayed?’ Clara asked.

Barker gave her an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘Can’t really—’

‘—talk about it. I know.’ She started rocking the baby, and humming very gently.

Thirty seconds passed. Barker started to feel awkward. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d better . . .’

‘Is he safe?’ Clara asked.

Barker smiled. ‘Danny? Don’t worry about him, love. He can take care of himself.’ He paused. ‘You know, he’s the guy that everyone in the Regiment looks up to.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Me included. I wish I had half Danny Black’s skills. He’s a good soldier. A
born
soldier. Danny’ll be fine.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s the rest of us that need to worry.’