Invasion (45 page)

Zaid nodded. ‘Banished from Europe. For men like us, a life without the taste of combat is a life barely worth living. Am I right?’

‘As always,’ Mousa admitted, ‘but it gets worse. I have spoken with my subordinate in England, a Major Karroubi. You know of him?’ Zaid shook his head. ‘He informs me that the British continue to strengthen their defences along the Scottish border. Our own forces are moving steadily north, taking control of more towns and cities. There has been some fighting, but not much. Most of the Infidel soldiers have escaped across the border. They are digging in, preparing for a fight. This could be the last campaign for the foreseeable future. Perhaps the last significant one of my career.’

‘What about the Chinese?’ Zaid remarked, crushing the butt of his cigarette on the sole of his sandal.

Mousa shook his head. ‘The
Cleric is wary of their power. Besides, Europe must
be conquered
first before he’ll consider such a campaign. Peace and stability must exist across the empire before we turn our guns to the east. His words, not mine.’

Zaid nodded. ‘So, the clock is ticking.’

‘Correct.’

‘You want back in.’

‘Of course. The battle for Scotland will be significant,’ Mousa breathed, ‘and the Infidels will fight like cornered rats. The thought of watching it all on TV in some Damascus officers’ mess is...well, I’d rather put a bullet through my brain.’

‘Enough of the drama,’ Zaid laughed. He leaned forward on the table, his fingers toying with the brass lighter. ‘I get it. And frankly I’d feel exactly the same. So, what is it I can do for you?’

‘I need a team,’ Mousa explained, ‘all professionals, discreet. And loyal.’

‘To you?’

‘To
you,’ stressed Mousa. ‘You
once said you knew London. You had people there.’

‘Since the early days,’ admitted Zaid. ‘They are old now, like me, but the flame of Jihad has always burned brightly in England. The right people will be found. What’s the job?’

So Mousa explained. When he was finished, Zaid leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. ‘It can be done. The repercussions, however, will be another matter. Are you sure about this, Faris?’

‘Let me worry about the fallout. In the meantime we plan, nail down the details. The good news is
it isn’t a complex op. It’s merely about timing and execution. And deniability. Karroubi will provide the necessary local intelligence. The rest will be up to you.’

‘Okay.’

‘And from now on, no direct contact. We’ll use the Baghdad Business News forum to update each other. You still have the usernames and ciphers, yes?’ Zaid nodded. ‘Good. We’ll keep our distance, until it’s over and the dust has settled. And today’s visit-’

‘–never happened. I know the drill,’ smiled Zaid. He took another pull of his cigarette and let the smoke drift slowly from his nostrils. ‘What a gift to be young again, eh? I would go to London myself to squeeze the trigger.’

‘I know.’

‘This kind of op reminds me of North Africa, during the Arab Spring.’

‘I was a teenager,’ Mousa reminded him. ‘I watched it on the TV.’

‘The uprisings, the assassinations, ops on the fly, no satellites or intel briefs, just six guys around a kitchen table, map spread out, AKs and grenades at the ready. Those were good times.’

‘The birth of the Caliphate,’ stated Mousa.

‘Right. And the west just lapped us up, all those Infidel governments cheering us on, wailing about democracy, only to see their puppets eventually replaced by true Islamic governments.’ Zaid shook his bald head. ‘Fools. Blind and stupid.’

‘Their naivety has always been pitiful,’ Mousa agreed, finishing off his coffee. The children were called to the house and they raced across the lawn, their laughter filling the air. Mousa watched them as they scampered around
the dining table and took their places, tiny legs dangling from chairs, wide eyes staring at the
feast before them. He glanced at Zaid. ‘Like I said, you’re truly blessed.’

‘Grandchildren,’ Zaid sighed. ‘Wonderful to have, but so many? What were my girls thinking!’

Mousa smiled. Zaid’s family was everything
to him. It was one of the reasons the man had fought so hard on the battlefield, had killed with a ruthlessness Mousa had rarely seen, believing at one time that Zaid’s character
was flawed, that perhaps his mind had been scarred by the experience of war. But he’d been wrong. As Mousa had discovered
as the men had grown close, Zaid had killed so that he may live and return home, to the wife he loved, to his children.

Mousa looked around again, at the sprawling villa, the sculptured grounds, the idyllic setting. This
is what Zaid had fought and killed for, a chance to see out his days in peace and comfort, to care for his family, watch them grow. Mousa was troubled by a sudden pang of envy, the choices he’d made, the Spartan existence he led, the loneliness that sometimes woke him during the night. He quickly banished the thoughts, mindful of the reasons that brought him here today, the days and weeks, perhaps months ahead that would pass agonisingly
slowly as he cooled his heels in a Damascus military camp. This was no time for sentimentality.

‘You’ll stay for lunch,’ Zaid said, rising to his feet.

‘Of course.’

They strolled towards the veranda, where the women were shuttling in and out of the villa, their arms laden with platters of barbecued lamb. The children cooed and gasped excitedly. ‘There is another matter,’ Mousa ventured quietly as they crossed the lawn.

Zaid came to a stop. ‘Oh?’

‘The death tax, the payment to the families
of the dead,’ Mousa explained quietly, turning his back to the veranda. ‘All one hundred and seventy-four of them.’

‘Yes, the other terms of your punishment,’ Zaid chuckled. ‘I was wondering when you’d get round to that. What with travel and funeral costs, compensation to the families, it’ll all come to a pretty penny, even on a Major-General’s salary. Still, since you’ve been away I guess you haven’t spent that much.’

Mousa could see amusement dancing behind the man’s eyes, the lines that deepened as the smile widened. He tried and failed to control his own smile.

‘Don’t play with me, Sergeant Hadi. Saddam’s gold – I take it you haven’t spent it all?’

‘It would take several lifetimes to spend what is buried under our feet,’ Zaid laughed, tapping the grass with his sandal. ‘Take what you need, Faris. But first we eat.’

Mousa nodded his thanks, the financial burden lifted from his shoulders at least. The rest was out of his hands, but the dice had now been thrown and Mousa had always been lucky. He smiled and slapped his old Staff Sergeant on the back.

‘Lead on, my friend. You know, for the first time in a week I’m actually hungry.’

Harry trudged along the narrow woodland path, wet ferns brushing against his legs. A bird screeched high overhead, its forlorn cry echoing around the forest. Harry craned his neck, trying to catch sight of it, but the thick canopy above and the gloom of the dawn gave him little chance, and soon the screeching faded into the distance. He kept walking, head down, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat.

He’d woken before dawn and breakfasted alone, eager to escape the confines of the castle, deciding to take a long walk through the grounds. Clothed in wet weather gear, Harry had left the castle just as the first of the sun’s rays painted the eastern horizon. Halfway across
the gravel drive he’d
heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. Gibson and Farrell had appeared, dressed in civilian clothes, and Harry had waved them away bad-temperedly. However, despite his protests, he knew they were still out there somewhere, amongst the trees, shadowing his movements. Their unseen presence only added to the mounting stress he’d begun to feel as the days turned to weeks. He knew the breakdown was coming, could feel it building with each passing day, the outbursts of temper, the lapses in concentration, the worried glances of those around him.

He wanted to run, to escape the eyes and whispers, to confront the demons that plagued him and scream until his lungs burst. But he didn’t. He kept it in, lied to the doctor, flushed the pills down the toilet and drank too much at night. Walking, that was good – the fresh air, the exercise. So he’d taken to following the paths each morning, stamping around the surrounding forests, hoping for the weight to lift from his shoulders, for the black clouds to clear from his mind. The weeks had passed and he’d remained shackled by the chains of his emotions. Until this morning.

The tears had started not long after Harry had risen. He’d
cuffed them away, stifled the involuntary sob that escaped his lips as he shaved. At breakfast he’d pushed the food around the plate, frightened by his fragile emotional state. Now, deep in the forest, the tears came again, coursing down his cheeks, the panic building in his chest. He began to speed up, walking faster along the path, trying to outpace the building pressure. He broke into a jog, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his vision blurred by tears.

He stumbled, then fell, lying prone on the woodland path. He rolled over on to his back, unable to move, paralysed by fear, guilt. And sorrow. He gave into it then, made no attempt to stem the tears, the mournful wails that broke the silence of the morning, echoing through the trees. He beat his fists on the
ground until his hands hurt. He curled into a ball, clutching his knees tightly, rocking himself on the forest floor, crying until he was spent.

Eventually, the convulsions stopped and Harry lay motionless, listening to the breeze that whispered through the shifting treetops above him. Time passed, how long Harry didn’t know, but the grey clouds overhead eventually brought a fine rain drifting through the trees. He sat up. The demons had finally been confronted, the weight that had crushed him lifted. How long for he couldn’t know, but the panic had abated. Slowly he dragged himself to his feet and brushed away the woodland debris that clung to his clothes. He felt spent, but better, if that was the appropriate word. He believed it was.

‘Anna’s dead,’ he told the trees around him. ‘She’s not coming back.’ It felt right to say it aloud, to face the reality of life without her. The road ahead would be tough, the future uncertain, and the pain… well, like all things, that would pass in time. He felt his strength returning, the black fog drifting away towards the far reaches of his consciousness.

There was work to do, a crisis to focus on. The weight of expectation lay heavy on his shoulders. He was Prime Minister after all, and he had a duty to a country that was still in turmoil. That had to be his motivation now. Like so many others, he’d suffered devastating loss, but there were other considerations too, the details that would help him put his own loss into perspective.

Anna was an adult, and had died instantly. She hadn’t suffered, was probably unaware of the danger to her life, even up to the moment of her death. But what about the others, the children dying in front of their parents, the old and the infirm cowering in fear behind their front doors, the system that cared for them suddenly snatched away? He was joined to these people now, connected by the horrors of war, a war being fought and lost on English soil, the population reduced to a frightened herd. They needed him, as much as he needed them.

He resumed his walk, conscious of the time that had passed. With each step, Harry began to feel a little better. He knew the pain would be back, but maybe not for a while and maybe not as intense. For now he felt he could function again.

The path led Harry out of the forest and along the shoreline. Around him, steep hillsides swept majestically upwards towards the grey skies above, their sharp flanks dotted with swathes of purple heather. Harry walked down to the shoreline and stood for a moment, the cold, slate-coloured waters of Kerrera Sound lapping at his feet. A mile away, across the Sound, the island of Kerrera was still shrouded in an early-morning mist. He pulled the map from his pocket, deciding to loop back around McIntyre through the forest to the north. The peace and solitude of the morning were comforting, and Harry had no desire to rush back to the business of war just yet. Another hour’s exercise would do him some good.

He pushed on, through the northern forest and up through the rocks of a prominent escarpment that overlooked the Sound. Above the tree line, limbs aching, Harry sat down on a smooth rock to catch his breath. From up here the view was magnificent. He could see the turrets of the castle in the distance and, out on the Sound, a small motorboat left a wide wake on the glass-like surface. It really was a-

‘Nice view, eh Boss?’

Harry spun around, startled to see Mike Gibson several feet above him, perched on a higher rock. He was dressed in waterproof trousers and a green fleece jacket, an automatic
rifle cradled across his lap.

‘Jesus Christ, Mike, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing up here?’

Gibson jerked a thumb at the escarpment behind him. ‘There’s an anti-aircraft battery up there near the summit. We saw you heading this way, so I thought I’d get here first, just in case you stumbled into them. Everyone’s a bit jumpy at the moment.’

‘Of course,’ said Harry soberly.

Gibson climbed down. There was an awkward silence for a moment or two and Harry could see doubt etched on the soldier’s face, the unspoken question forming on his lips. He didn’t want people worrying about his emotional state anymore. There were so many other issues at stake and, besides, Harry had no room for self-pity.

‘The business
in the woods, Mike. I don’t want you to be concerned.’ Gibson started to protest but Harry held up a hand. ‘It’s been building for weeks, everyone knows that. I’ve been a bloody mess since we got here – the pressure, my own personal loss. Since all this started I’ve had no time to confront my grief. I think this morning, down there in the woods, my grief confronted me. Do you have family, Mike?’

Gibson shrugged. ‘Got a sister. She lives in France, but we haven’t spoken in years. Dad died before I was born and my mum went a few years later. There’s no-one else.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry murmured
sympathetically, ‘yet in some ways we’re luckier than others. At least we’re free of the burden of uncertainty.’ He paused, then said, ‘I take it Farrell saw my little episode too?’ Gibson nodded. ‘No one needs to know about this, Mike. I’m alright, really. Besides, there’s work to be done and I need the distraction. I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves.’

Gibson looked at him long and hard, clearly making his own appraisal. Then
he nodded. ‘Sure, Boss. It’s nobody’s business but yours, anyway.’

Harry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not true. My mental health is everyone’s business, including
yours. People’s lives will depend on any future decisions I take.
You could end my career with what you’ve seen today, and I wouldn’t blame you if you felt that that was the right thing to do. But I feel I’ve got something back this morning. I feel ready again. You need to believe that, Mike.’

‘No pressure then,’ quipped Gibson, then the smile slipped from his face.
‘Look, we all deal with things differently. I had problems when I was a kid, after mum died. Usual stuff – booze, scrapping. I could’ve gone bad, but the army saved me, gave me direction. I got a second chance. I understand what you’re going through,
Boss. I won’t say anything.’

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, then held out his hand. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

Gibson grasped it and the two men shook. ‘No probs.’

Harry got to his feet, his eyes searching out the distant castle below. ‘They’re worried about me down there, and rightly so. I know there’s
been talk of replacing me.’ He turned to the soldier beside him. ‘I’ve been gone a long time, Mike. Questions will be asked.’

Gibson tapped the radio fixed to his chest rig. ‘Already told them you’re inspecting the hilltop defences. That you might be a while.’

Harry smiled. ‘Thanks, Mike. I mean it.’

‘We should get going,’ Gibson replied, staring at the clouds overhead. ‘Looks like more rain.’

Harry headed off, stepping carefully down between the rocks towards the tree line below. ‘By the way, where is Farrell?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘Waiting for us lower down. Said you were a fit old boy, that he couldn’t keep up with you.’

Harry recognised the gesture for what it was and silently thanked him for it. He smiled to himself, feeling the strength returning as they headed down into the trees.