Dark Horizon, page 17
His smile crumbled when Hamid questioned him about the security of his communications. Yusuf had been given an anonymous burner phone for his use, along with an array of SIM cards that could be activated once and then disposed of. But Nasir suspected Yusuf had become lax, inviting the attentions of those who wanted their organisation wiped out. It would only take a single intercepted message for MI6, the CIA, Mossad or any one of their insidious enemies to set about tracking them down. One weak link could doom them all.
Yusuf assured Hamid that he had been using the burner as instructed, but the lie was poorly masked. Yusuf’s reluctance to hand over the phone confirmed it, and Hamid had to compel him with a back-handed slap.
As he examined the device, as Yusuf attempted to laugh off the whole exchange, Hamid’s blood ran cold. There in the memory was evidence of multiple messages sent without swapping the SIM, the most recent of which had occurred only twenty minutes before Hamid arrived at the townhouse.
He stepped to the window and his suspicious gaze quickly picked out a courier van parked near the bridge over the nearby canal. It faced in a different direction from the other vehicles, set up so that it could move off at speed. Exactly the positioning Hamid would have chosen if he were conducting surveillance on Yusuf’s house.
As he watched, a blink of light briefly illuminated the hard, pitiless faces of two white men sitting in the courier’s cab, both of them clad in the dark blue tactical jackets of the Dutch counter-terrorist unit, their so-called Special Intervention Service.
The rush to action swept over him. If the Dutch were outside, an interception could be only moments away. To survive what was coming, Hamid had to act with speed and efficiency. He couldn’t rely on his fake passport, and its falseness would quickly become apparent to anyone who gave it a thorough checking. But there was another option.
Hamid studied Yusuf, gaining a quizzical look from the honey seller. He didn’t understand why Hamid asked him to take off his jacket, empty his pockets and open his safe, but he did it out of fear. And when his back was turned, Hamid cracked open his skull with a blow from the glass ornament.
Yusuf was still alive, mewling in pain as Hamid dragged the man to the middle of the room. Then, with the sharp end of the ornament, he finished him off. Hamid took care to destroy Yusuf’s face, mashing at it until it was an unrecognisable pulp of gore.
Hamid took the dead man’s jacket, his wallet and his papers from the safe, dropping his own coat into the fireplace along with the Qatari passport, the burner phone and the envelope of unused SIMs. Risking a look out of the window once more, to Hamid’s alarm he saw the shadows of the men moving at the back of the courier van. It would not be long now.
He moved quietly to the ground-floor kitchen below, locating an aerosol can of oven cleaner in a cupboard under the sink, and amid the pipes hidden from view there, his hands traced over a gas line. It took effort, but he ripped it out of the wall and broke the tubing. The rotting reek of natural gas hissed into the air and he covered his mouth with a dishcloth as he loaded the can of cleaner into the maw of a microwave oven. Setting it for ninety seconds at full power, Hamid sprinted to the front door – and then exited on to the street at a steady but regular pace. He willed himself to be just another unimportant person out in the evening. A cipher. A nobody.
He walked unhurriedly along the pavement of the Raamgracht, heading east in the direction of the Rembrandt Corner across the canal, where the Golden Age painter’s home still stood. Hamid did not look back as he heard boots on brick, and he did not slow down when someone called out for him to stop.
Their accent was English, he noted, something that would count for much more in the days ahead. But in the moment, he ignored the voice.
Then events happened on top of one another, a ripple effect he later recalled more as vague impressions rather than full and complete instances.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, dragging him to a halt.
In Yusuf’s kitchen, the can in the microwave reached the point of combustion and exploded.
That ignition blossomed into a room filled with gas, supercharging the fireball into a roaring burst that blasted out the windows of the townhouse and set it ablaze.
Hamid was knocked off his feet with the shock, as was the man who had tried to waylay him. But he had been ready for it, and Hamid was back up and running, counting on the distraction to give him the time he needed.
Except that it didn’t.
He was sprinting for the mouth of an alleyway when a shotgun-propelled taser dart hit him in the small of the back and poured its full electric charge into his spine.
He crashed back down on to the brick weave and lay there, shuddering violently, unable to rise again, the stench of fire and burning wood choking him.
‘You have been missing for two months, brother,’ said Nasir. ‘To say we have been troubled by your absence is a grave understatement.’
Hamid’s sibling switched to Arabic but still he picked up the phone on the table and pressed it to his ear for some semblance of privacy. He was well aware that both the turncoat MI6 agent and the American woman Breeze could understand the language. As for the other woman, the British pilot, he could not be certain, but for the moment she had left the cabin to attend to the aircraft.
‘Your concern for my health warms my heart,’ said Hamid, without weight. ‘I take it I have you to thank for this liberation?’
He glanced up at the bearded man, who hovered nearby, watching him with renewed interest. Just like the American, the turncoat could not hide his shock at the revelation of his prisoner’s true identity.
‘It has not been without its challenges, nor are we beyond them yet. It became necessary to engage outside contractors to handle the work. But we could not leave you wherever the infidels took you.’
Hamid sensed the shape of an unanswered question lurking in his brother’s pauses. ‘You are aware of who took me in Amsterdam? The British working with the Dutch, their leashes held by the CIA, as usual.’
‘Indeed.’ He could almost hear Nasir nodding. ‘At first we thought you were dead. The gas explosion in the house – a body was found in the rubble but it was too badly burned for certainty. And then our sources told us Yusuf had been arrested.’
‘He was, in a way. I became him,’ said Hamid. ‘I wore his identity like a cloak. A stroke of good fortune I chose to exploit to the fullest. Had they known who I was from the beginning, we would not be having this conversation.’
‘They took you to England, then? You were interrogated.’ There was challenge in Nasir’s tone, faint but obvious to one who knew him well.
‘They interrogated Yusuf,’ said Hamid, with scorn. ‘Thanks to the care I have taken in the past, the infidels had no idea what Hamid looks like.’
‘They learned nothing from you, of course,’ Nasir replied, the statement hovering on the verge of being an accusation.
‘Of course.’
There was another long pause and Hamid listened carefully to the silence on the other end of the line. Wherever he was, his brother was not alone. Hamid wondered if the others were there – perhaps taciturn Malik, Nasir’s unsmiling attack dog, forever on the verge of a violent outburst, and most likely the venerable Zameer, the eldest of their cadre held over from the old days, who was treated by the younger men as the voice of wisdom.
What have they been saying in my absence, wondered Hamid? What is being kept from me?
He cleared his throat, reaching for a way to reassume control of the narrative. ‘This pilot, the British woman. You have her under control.’
‘You need not be concerned,’ said Nasir. ‘It is in hand. The contractor is dealing with that aspect of things, and you and I will be reunited in due time. I know you understand that circumstances have changed since . . .’ He paused, reframing his words. ‘We had to react to the unexpected consequences of your capture, yes?’
Hamid’s tone hardened. ‘Your meaning escapes me.’ Now he was certain his brother and the others were hiding something.
‘It is of no concern,’ repeated Nasir. ‘I must conclude this conversation for the moment; there are preparations to be made.’ There was a wan smile in his voice as he ended the call. ‘Have faith, my brother. All will be well.’
Sitting crookedly in the pilot’s position, Kate used a half dozen wet wipes to clean her hands, staining the damp fibre of the tissues a ruddy pink with the blood from Breeze’s wound. She rubbed them hard over her skin, feeling the sting of the chemical cleaner. The odour of it brought up unpleasant memories for her, recollections that threatened to drag Kate back into the past she had boxed up and buried.
She tried to put herself beyond it – staring over the Hawker’s control panel and out of the canopy – but there was only black sky out there, and rather than absorb her fears, it reflected them back at her.
Movement behind her broke through Kate’s gloomy reverie and she pivoted as the man in the prison jumpsuit, the one Breeze had called Hamid, entered the flight deck.
He was different in every way to the man he had been when Breeze’s team had dragged him aboard the jet. He stood taller, a new confidence stiffening his back, his head raised instead of his eyes averted. He surveyed the confines of the jet’s cockpit, his gaze finally falling on her.
‘All your tears and panic, that was for show,’ she said. ‘You’re exactly what Breeze said you were.’
‘I am much more than that.’ The accent Hamid had been using before dropped away. ‘From this point forward, you will take your orders from me.’
Despite the flatness of his tone, Kate’s frustration triggered into a hard jolt of real anger. ‘And who the hell are you?’ She nodded toward Finn. ‘They told me to listen to him.’
‘They?’ Hamid was irritated by that. ‘My brother?’ When she didn’t reply, he carried on. ‘In answer to your question, I am the person standing between you and death.’
‘Is that so?’ She met his gaze, refusing to look away. ‘Well, how about I put this thing into a steep dive and crash it into the Med, and we’ll see who ends up dead. Because from where I’m sitting, it seems like I am the person keeping you alive.’
Fury flashed in his dark glance, and Kate thought he might lash out and hit her, but then Hamid came forward and climbed into the vacant co-pilot’s chair, settling in so he could meet her eye to eye on the same level.
‘What was the transaction?’ He cocked his head. ‘The bargain made so you would do this?’
She thought of Alex and George, and her gut twisted. ‘You know.’
‘I do not,’ he admitted. ‘But I can guess. You are not a mercenary, not like him.’ Hamid indicated Finn with a tilt of the chin. ‘You have been coerced. The men my brother employed have someone you care for.’ He read the certainty in her expression, as much as Kate tried to hide it. ‘At least that part has clarity.’ He leaned forward and examined the moving map display on one of the cockpit’s screens.
Kate’s jaw hardened. She was tired of these men pulling her around like a dog on a chain, forcing her to go where they wanted. ‘Whatever you think is going to happen, wherever you think you are going, we’ll never make it there.’
‘Why?’ Hamid raised an eyebrow. ‘Because you will fly us into the ocean in some grandiose display of self-destruction?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Because the people who put you in cuffs – Breeze’s people, the CIA or whoever – you have to know they won’t let you run.’
He studied her again, and Hamid’s piercing gaze made her skin crawl. ‘I think you were once a military aviator. You have the manner about you, and I know that the West thinks nothing of putting its women into battle. Am I correct?’
‘How does that matter?’
‘You were Royal Air Force?’ He sounded out the words and, again, he didn’t wait for her to acknowledge it. ‘I wonder how many combat sorties you have flown. How many bombs you have dropped.’ Kate’s throat turned dry as Hamid’s tone darkened. ‘I wonder how many of my kindred killed by those weapons could be attributed to you.’
‘That’s rich, coming from a terrorist,’ she said, pushing back. ‘I’ve seen what you’re responsible for. You’re a mass murderer. There are a lot more ghosts following you than me.’
Kate thought that would anger him but instead Hamid smiled coldly. ‘Yes. You are right. And I will add more without regret or hesitation if you fail. Those you love will join the count if anything happens to me. So it is in everyone’s best interest that you keep me safe.’
Her attention shifted suddenly as a flicker of light over Hamid’s shoulder drew it away, and Kate stared out into the dark sky. Through a break in the heavy clouds, a shaft of grey-white moon glow caught on long, narrow wings off the Hawker’s starboard side.
There was another aircraft out there, thin and insect-like, half hidden in shadow.
‘What do you see?’ Hamid whipped around, following her line of sight.
‘I warned you,’ she told him. ‘They’ve sent a Reaper.’
SEVENTEEN
In ground training at flight school, Kate had excelled in observation tests. She had a sharp memory for it, being able to parse the blacked-out silhouette of an unknown aircraft in seconds, quickly spooling off details of identity, nationality, armament and capability. She could catch a glimpse of something streaking past at Mach 2 and know exactly what kind of plane it was.
And so there was absolutely no doubt in her mind as to the nature of the craft paralleling the Hawker’s flight. She pulled a pair of compact binoculars from the storage bin beside her seat and held them up to her face, steadying the optics with both hands.
A slate-coloured form came into view through the lenses, drifting lazily through the night air. Long and gangly, the drone’s prow began with a blind, windowless nose that looked more like something sea-bound than a combat aircraft. Narrow wings resembling straight razors emerged from either side of the skinny grey fuselage, and the shape ended in a Y-form triad of stabilisers and the blurred blades of a fast-spinning pusher turboprop.
She looked for and found the faint signature of a star in a barred roundel, rendered in low visibility paint on the closest wingtip. The drone belonged to the US Air Force, and its official designation was an MQ-9 Reaper Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle, or UCAV. It was doubtless being piloted remotely by some console cowboy sitting thousands of miles away in an air-conditioned container unit inside the wire of an American military base.
The Reaper pulled into echelon position, alongside and just ahead of the Hawker’s nose, and Kate saw moonlight reflect off a glassy panel in the hemispherical turret beneath the prow of the drone. The sensor head pivoted around to take a good look at the jet, and Hamid saw it too, instinctively retreating out of its line of sight.
Kate remained where she was, looking the thing right in the eye as the cyclopean scanning pod turned slowly to track along the length of the Hawker. She knew the Reaper’s intelligence capabilities from her time in the RAF, having become grudgingly familiar with the British-flown variants of the MQ-9 during her last deployment. It handled a live video feed with infrared and image-intensifying systems, a laser rangefinder, a multi-modal radar and more. A lot was packed into that slim frame, but what drew her eye were the stubby objects hanging off the armament rails beneath its wings. Even in the half-darkness, Kate could recognise the distinctive shape of an AGM-114 Hellfire missile.
‘It’s armed,’ she said carefully. ‘And they want us to know it.’
‘They won’t fire on a civilian aircraft.’ Finn stood in the vestibule, drawn by Kate’s warning. His features were tight with disdain. ‘It’s a bluff, nothing more.’
She shot him a hard look. ‘Are you willing to take that chance?’ He didn’t reply, and she let the binoculars drop.
With the moonlight framing the Reaper’s dark, cruciform profile, Kate saw the drone aircraft rock its wings with deliberate, measured pace, before settling back to a stable attitude. Then, the UCAV’s navigation lights flashed on-off, on-off.
‘Why is it doing that?’ Finn came forward, crowding into the cramped cabin with Hamid, peering through the side of the canopy. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means I have to respond.’ Kate reached forward to reactivate the radio, but the bearded man snarled at her before she could do so.
‘No! I told you before, no communications.’
She let out a grunt of annoyance. ‘Listen to me! The wing-rocking and the blinking lights? That’s pilot shorthand, right? Whoever’s controlling that drone is telling us we’ve been intercepted by the military. We have to either acknowledge that fact by radio call or make the same moves, and then follow them to a landing site of their choosing. If we do anything else—’
‘They will attack.’ Hamid gave a terse nod, then glared at Finn. ‘Did you not account for such an eventuality when you planned this operation? Or were you hoping to trust in providence?’
‘I had limited time to prepare.’ Finn became defensive. ‘A situation made worse by the loss of the original pilot. But we’re talking about the shooting down of a British-registered civilian jet in the middle of a commercial air corridor!’ He snorted in contempt. ‘Whitehall will not allow it to go that far! And once we enter Algerian airspace, they won’t dare follow us.’
‘You stupid, arrogant tosser.’ Kate shook her head. ‘That’s an American drone. Who do you reckon is calling the shots back home? I’ll bet you it’s not anyone who gives a damn about what flag is painted on our tail.’
‘Despite her coarseness, I must concur with the pilot.’ Hamid locked eyes with Finn and the other man visibly shrank under his steely glare. ‘The time has come for full disclosure. You will tell me precisely what my brother is planning and how that plan will be executed.’
‘No, that wasn’t the agreement,’ said Finn, backing off a step. ‘I was told to secure and deliver a passenger. Until we land, I’m in charge here.’ He drew himself up again, trying to assert whatever brittle authority he could muster. ‘We just have to keep our nerve.’
