Hellfire (2 page)

‘Did you have any trouble leaving England?’ asked the lean, fierce militant who was driving him along a deserted highway.

Hassan’s companion hadn’t told him his name, or even where they were going. Hassan admired his confidence. Admired the way that the gangster-like border guards in military uniform had melted away with one look at his face as they crossed from Turkey into Syria and from Syria into Iraq. Admired the way his assault rifle lay carelessly on the back seat, and the handgun – he didn’t know what sort – rested on the dashboard, a warning to anyone who dared to stop them.

‘Piece of piss,’ said Hassan. The militant frowned. He obviously didn’t know that expression. ‘I mean . . . yeah . . . it was well easy. Told my mum I had to be in college early, innit? I reckon my sister was a bit suspicious, but she’s only eleven. Left the house at seven, seven thirty . . . I was on the plane to Turkey by midday . . . Got this girl to tell the teachers I was off sick . . .’

The militant’s frown grew more pronounced. ‘There will be no women in our schools when the Caliphate has spread,’ he said. ‘They do not need to be there. It is un-Islamic.’

‘Yeah,’ Hassan said quietly. ‘Bitches.’

About twenty metres off the road, next to a patch of low brush, he saw the shell of an old saloon car. It must have been destroyed by some kind of car bomb because jagged sheets of broken chassis were pointing outwards from its core. As they zoomed by, Hassan squinted. Was it a trick of the light, or had he seen the remains of a body slumped over the steering wheel?

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘You’ll see.’

It was almost dark when they turned sharply off the highway and on to a poorly kept road. Five minutes later, Hassan could see the outline of a small desert town in the distance. Even in the half-light he could tell there had been fighting here because he could just make out, in silhouette, the slant of a toppled electricity pylon a couple of hundred metres up ahead. ‘Where are we?’ he asked quietly. His companion didn’t answer.

On the outskirts of the town, the occasional local stood by the side of the road and gave them hard stares. Hassan realised they were a curiosity. Theirs was the only vehicle entering the town.

They passed a run-down concrete building on their left. A black flag with white Arabic lettering hung across its facade. Next to it was a mosque, outside which was a crowd of men, all bearded. There were no women on show. No children. They approached a lone acacia tree to which a few sheep had been tethered, and came to a halt in the shade of its branches. Theirs was the only vehicle around, with the exception of two old motorbikes leaning up against the side of a low stone building to their right. There were no electric lights. No kids playing in the street. Hassan felt like he had gone back in time.

‘Get out.’

Hassan did as he was told. His jeans and T-shirt were crumpled and sweaty. He felt very out of place compared to his companion, who wore camouflage trousers and a black vest that showed his tough, sinewy muscles. It was strangely silent here. No music. No conversation. The men outside the mosque stared at him. Hassan stared fiercely back.‘This way,’ the militant said. He strode along the road, and Hassan had to trot to keep up.

‘They told me there would be other people like me here, innit?’ Hassan said. ‘People from the UK. Are we going to meet them now?’ He was looking forward to some comradeship. He pictured himself in the desert, sitting outside a tent as the sun set, stripping down a rifle and talking with his new jihadi friends.

No response. The militant crossed the road towards another concrete building, two storeys high, whose windows had been blasted out. He didn’t enter, but walked round to its left-hand side. Hassan followed. He saw there had once been a perimeter fence around the back yard, but only parts of it remained now: a few posts, the occasional fence panel, some curled and jagged lengths of razor wire. His companion turned towards the back door of the building. Hassan followed.

Then he stopped.

He blinked heavily, as though he thought his eyes might be deceiving him. But they weren’t. Just fifteen metres away, resting against the back wall of the building, about four metres high and a couple of metres wide, was a wooden cross. A crucifix.

And on the crucifix was a man.

His feet were bound to the upright post with wire, and a large nail protruded from each wrist, holding the arms to the crossbeam. The face was blindfolded, and a sheet of white card covered his torso, with blood-red Arabic writing on it. The man was clearly dead. Hassan could tell because a large black bird had perched on his arm and was pecking away at the flesh, but the man didn’t even twitch.

The militant turned and saw Hassan staring at this gruesome sight. ‘A traitor,’ he said simply. ‘Accused of selling secrets to the West. We executed him three days ago.’ He looked Hassan up and down. ‘Some advice,’ he said. ‘You’re about to meet someone. Do what he says. Otherwise . . .’ He looked meaningfully back at the crucified man. ‘Now get inside.’

The interior was a wreck. The floor was littered with broken plaster and brick. Cables hung from the ceilings. There was a faint smell of burning. The militant strode through it all, but Hassan hesitated. ‘Is it . . . is it safe in here?’ he asked.

The militant turned. ‘You came out here to fight,’ he said. ‘And you expect it to be safe?’ He continued to wade through the rubble until he reached a flight of steps leading downwards. Hassan felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he followed. He would make sure he didn’t say anything like
that
again.

The stone steps led into a dark basement. It was much colder down here. He found himself in a room about ten metres by ten, with a door at the far side. It was lit by a small, smoky oil lamp in one corner. There was no rubble on the floor down here, but there were two people. One of them was tall and thin, with white skin and dark stubble. The other was sitting on a low stool. His head was wrapped in a red and white shamagh, so that it was impossible to see his face. Just his eyes, gazing out.

This man had clearly been expecting them. When he spoke to the militant who had brought him here, his voice was muffled by the cloth. They spoke in Arabic. Hassan noticed that the militant’s demeanour had changed. He was respectful, almost frightened. Hassan didn’t know why. The masked man didn’t even seem to be carrying a gun. Hassan found his eyes drifting towards the other guy. Looking at his white skin, he wondered if he was British, and smiled at him. The smile wasn’t returned.

The figure at the stool stood up. He slowly walked across the room towards Hassan, who became aware of a different smell: a pungent perfume. When the figure was half a metre away, he stopped and looked Hassan up and down. ‘This is him?’ His English was very clear, but with an accent. Middle Eastern. Hassan tried to place it more exactly, but couldn’t.

The militant bowed his head.

‘He doesn’t look like much. If you’ve brought me a coward, I’ll have you both killed.’

Hassan felt himself sweating. ‘I’m not a coward,’ he said.

Silence. The man’s dead, dark eyes stared at Hassan from behind his shamagh. Hassan found himself sweating even more. He realised he should have kept his mouth shut.

Very quietly, the man spoke to the white-skinned guy.

‘Show him, Jahar,’ he said.

Jahar nodded. He walked to the door on the opposite side of the room, put a key in the lock and opened it. Then he gestured at Hassan to look inside.

Hassan crossed the room and looked.

This second room was even darker – Hassan couldn’t tell how big it was. It stank of excrement. Kneeling about three metres from the door, with his head bowed, was a man. He was white, with shaved hair and several days of stubble. He wore bright orange robes. He blinked in terror towards the light, but said nothing.

Hassan was aware – from the perfumed smell – of the mysterious figure behind him. He spun round to find him standing very close.

‘So you want to fight?’ the figure whispered.

‘Yeah.’

‘You want to bring the law of Sharia first to Arabia, then to Africa, then to the world? One glorious caliphate to the glory of Allah?’

Hassan didn’t even know what the man was talking about. He just nodded.

‘Every caliphate requires a Caliph,’ said the man. ‘And that is what you will call me. But if you speak of me to anybody, you and the family you have left behind can expect the same fate as the crucified man you met on your way in. Do you understand?’

Hassan felt a knot in his stomach. But he jutted out his chin and said, ‘Yeah.’

‘Good. You have probably noticed that we have a prisoner in our midst.’

Hassan nodded.

‘His name is Alan MacMillan. He calls himself an aid worker, and he thinks that makes him important. But he is just another infidel of no significance. Our duty is clear.’

Hassan nodded mutely.

‘The lights, Jahar.’

Jahan flicked a switch on the wall of the second room. A tiny part of Hassan’s brain wondered where the electricity was coming from. But by far the greater part studied the room.

It looked, in some respects, like a professional photographer’s studio. Two lamps shone from the corners on to the prisoner, who was blinking in the sudden brightness. Behind him was a backdrop that showed a convincing daytime desert scene. Along one side, out of the way, was a camera on a tripod. Hassan walked into the room. He saw that the prisoner’s hands and feet were tied behind his back and strapped to a post protruding from the floor behind him. There was no way he could move from his kneeling position.

The man spoke from the doorway. ‘You will have the honour of dealing with him.’

At these words, the prisoner started to whimper. Jahar entered the room. Hassan saw that he was carrying a needle and syringe. He stuck the needle through the orange cloth of the prisoner’s clothes and into his upper arm. Almost immediately, the prisoner’s head bowed again, and he fell silent.

‘Valium,’ Jahar said. ‘Stops them struggling. Makes it cleaner and easier.’

‘Makes what easier?’ No reply. ‘You mean . . .’ Hassan made a small slicing movement with his hand.

Jahar smirked. He moved the camera and its tripod into the doorway. Moments later he was handing Hassan a knife, about nine inches long and obviously viciously sharp, along with a black balaclava. ‘Put it on,’ he said. Hassan did as he was told as Jahar stood behind the camera, leaving Hassan in the room next to the drugged prisoner.

‘
Show
us you are not a coward,’ said the man from the other room. ‘You know what to do.’

Hassan looked at the knife, then at the prisoner. He realised his hand was trembling slightly, and he tried to stop it.

‘If you prefer,’ the man said, his voice quiet and taunting, ‘you could be given women’s work. The washing of clothes and preparation of food for real fighters like Jahar. Perhaps that is all you’re good for.’

Hassan straightened himself up. ‘I could hurt him first,’ he announced. ‘Beat him up a bit. Stick something in him . . .’ He put his palm flat over the hostage’s face, yanked his limp head back and touched the tip of his knife to the his cheek.

‘It’s not necessary. Beatings do not interest anybody. Nobody watches the video of a beating. Beheadings are a different matter. You must learn the skill. You will probably start to enjoy it.’

Hassan touched the knife against the back of the hostage’s neck. It broke the skin immediately, and blood started to drip down the side of his neck. Hassan’s hand was trembling. He tried to steady it. He saw a little red light on the camera that told him it was recording.

The man was still talking. Hassan breathed deeply, barely listening.

‘Then you will travel away from here and continue your new life as an executioner. You might even be afforded some respect like Jahar here, who has now conducted four beheadings, to the glory of Allah.’

Hassan wanted to do it quickly and cleanly. ‘Where . . . where are you sending him, Caliph?’ said Jahar. In a corner of his mind, Hassan knew Jarah sounded nervous, asking such a bold question of this man. But there was also a note of envy in his voice. Hassan felt pleased. He raised one hand – it was still trembling slightly – and prepared to make the first hack.

‘Nigeria,’ said the Caliph quietly. ‘To do God’s work and punish the infidel, I am sending him to Nigeria.’

Part One

Target Red

One

‘Nigeria! Of all the
bell-ends
of a place, we get deployed to
fucking
Nigeria.’

Danny Black stood on the edge of a well-manicured lawn watching his Regiment colleague Tony waving a pair of barbecue tongs in the air, and listening to his constant stream of complaints. Even though they were being deployed tomorrow they were still on standby, which meant the two-pint rule applied. Both men had a Stella on the go anyway.

‘Last time I was there,’ Tony continued, ‘mate of mine pulled this Nigerian bird down by the docks in Lagos. Got so many fucking diseases his dick nearly fell off.’

‘Right,’ Danny said. ‘Shame.’

‘Seriously, though, I’d rather do the tango along the top of the Kajaki dam than sweat my nads off in Abuja. Eh, Danny? You agree with me, right?’