Last Light (14 page)

Daniel cupped his mouth, ‘I think we should run!’ he shouted.

CHAPTER 26

12.30 p.m. GMT
Whitehall, London

He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the basin as he washed his hands. Caught in the downward glare of the little recessed spotlight above him, every bump, groove and crevice on his face stood out with merciless clarity. He looked ten years older standing here - fifty-five instead of forty-five.

It occurred to him that what he was doing was a job much better suited to a younger man. It was the arrogance and confidence of youth that carried you through this kind of undertaking. Doubting, second-guessing, checking the dark corners . . . those debilitating habits came with
maturity
. . . shit, who was he kidding . . .
old age
.

His passport might say he was forty-five, but the tread-marks on his face spoke of a man much older. The wear and tear of staying at the top of the game had made its indelible mark on him. And now there was
this
.

He heard knuckles rapping against the wooden door to the gentlemen’s wash-room.

‘They’re ready in the press room, Prime Minister.’

Charles nodded. ‘Just give me a few minutes.’

His press secretary was still outside, Charles could see the twin shadows of his legs punctuating the strip of light coming through under the door.

‘Sir, we are running short of time. Your broadcast is rescheduled for 1.30, and the TV people need you down in the press room to put some make-up on and do their lighting.’

For Christ’s sake . . .

‘I said I’ll be along in a minute!’ he shouted irritably.

The twin shadows shuffled beneath the door for a moment, and then vanished.

He splashed some water on his face and let out a ragged sigh. With only an hour to go, he had yet to fully decide what exactly he was going to announce.

How honest should I be?

That was the question.

During the night most of the Cassandra recommendations had been discreetly put into action. Internal travel arteries had been locked down. The terror threat cover story was being pushed hard, and all airports, sea ports and rail stations had been successfully closed. But the cover story wasn’t going to last for long.

Throughout the morning the process of blocking the main motorways had begun. Each blockage explained as either a severe traffic accident, or some truck losing its load across all four lanes. Again, those cover stories were only going to last a few hours at best; if they were lucky, until tomorrow morning.

Most of the main oil storage depots had, by now, been garrisoned with soldiers. The oil out there in the wider distribution system; the tankers, the bigger petrol stations - all of them would need to be requisitioned at some point, but that was a very visible process, and could only be done at the last possible moment.

The trick here was going to be not to spook the general population. Malcolm’s advice had been that they had to keep
them
doing whatever they normally do, for as long as possible. That was his job, the Prime Minister’s job, to keep everyone happy and calm for as long as he could. Malcolm had wryly quipped that Charles’ role now was to be nothing more than the string quartet on the promenade deck of the
Titanic
.

Just keep them happy with your reassuring smile, and words of encouragement.

In the meantime, for as long as the public could be fooled, they had to get as many of their boys as they could back from Iraq and guarding key assets in the time they had. They had to get their hands on as much of the oil and food as was spread out there in warehouses and oil terminals.

It meant doing what he did best - bullshit the public for as long as possible.

Time was running out.

The travel lock-down was going to be explained as a ‘largescale unspecified threat’ picked up by their secret services. That would also help to explain the higher than normal military traffic that people would undoubtedly have already noticed. There would be questions about the worsening situation in the Middle East, and whether that and the cessation of oil production from the region had anything to do with these ‘security’ measures.

And here he’d have to deliver the Big Lie, and he’d better do it convincingly.

‘No,’ muttered Charles aloud, staring at his reflection, knitting his dark eyebrows and narrowing his photogenic eyes; producing a very believable expression of sincere concern which he projected exclusively at the listener in the mirror. He backed it up with a reassuring nod as he continued.

‘There’s no link other than a general heightened security level. We have a healthy strategic reserve of crude oil to see us through this temporary upset. Potential choke points in oil supply, particularly from an unstable region like the Middle East, is something we have prepared for long in advance, and there is certainly no need for anyone to panic.’

His secretary was back, shuffling uncomfortably just outside the door once more. Charles could visualise him with his fist raised and knuckles hovering inches from the wooden door, agonising over whether to knock again, but knowing that he must.

‘It’s all right,’ shouted Charles, loosening his tie ever so slightly and undoing the top button of his shirt to affect that tousled ‘I’ve-just-been-dragged-away-from-my-desk-to-tell-you-how-I’m-fixing-things’ look. He rolled up his sleeves for good measure. It was all about appearances. The right tone of voice, the right facial expression, the right look for the occasion. He’d learned a lot of that watching Tony Blair, a brilliant performer during moments of crisis.

Charles nodded at the reflection. He looked like a man who’d been working hard through the night but now had a firm handle on things.

‘I’m ready.’

CHAPTER 27

3.42 p.m. local time
Al-Bayji, Iraq

Mike stared down at the corpse of the young man.

Amal had died quickly, only perhaps a minute or two after being dragged to safety behind the Land Cruiser. The bullet that had knocked him to the ground had also ripped a lung to shreds on its way through. Amal had died gurgling blood and struggling desperately for air in Mike’s arms. His shirt, a Manchester United football shirt, was almost black with blood that was already congealing, drying in the heat of the afternoon.

Mike chugged a mouthful from his water bottle. The platoon medic had circulated some of the bottled water around the men half an hour earlier, and now that the situation outside had calmed down, he realised how dehydrated he’d become through the morning.

Farid squatted in the shade of the vehicle a few feet from him. He said nothing and stared at the body of the young lad, but Mike sensed the old man was actually studying him, wordlessly coming to some kind of conclusion about him. It felt uncomfortable being silently judged, appraised like that and he decided to break the silence.

‘I dragged his ass back here because he had the goddamned car keys in his pocket,’ Mike grunted coolly.

Farid nodded silently.

‘He had the keys in his pocket, and I didn’t want those fuckers outside getting hold of them,’ he added for clarity.

Farid finally looked up at the Texan. ‘But you have not take keys from Amal.’

Mike shrugged.

‘Keys still in his pocket.’

‘I’ll get them when I’m good and ready.’

Farid’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Mike. ‘You not get him for the keys,’ he said quietly.

Mike rolled his eyes tiredly. ‘All right, you win, okay? I didn’t get him because he had the keys. You happy now?’

Farid shook his head. ‘Why?’

‘Why did I go get him?’

The old man nodded in response.

Mike opened his mouth to speak before really knowing what sort of answer he was going to give. ‘Shit, I don’t know. Maybe because the kid had the balls to go out there and grab those guns, whilst the rest of us pussies were sitting back here sucking our thumbs.’

It took the Iraqi a moment to translate and understand what he’d said. ‘You get him, because Amal was brave?’

Mike shrugged again. ‘Yeah, so maybe I did, okay? That was a pretty fucking gutsy thing for the kid to do. And really shit luck that he didn’t make it all the way back.’

Farid smiled and nodded. ‘Allah smile upon you for your courage.’

Mike laughed. ‘Yeah? If Allah sent me out to rescue the kid, why the hell did he allow him to die?’

The old man shrugged. ‘His will. Is not for man to understand.’

‘Yeah,’ sniffed the American, ‘that’s what I figured, the usual religious rationale. Basically bullshit.’

‘Not bullshit. But beyond our understanding.’

‘Yeah see, though, that’s the same old crap every goddamn fanatical imam or suicide bomber uses.
It is God’s will
and who are we to question it, or try to understand it? Kind of open to a little abuse, isn’t it?’

Farid nodded. ‘Yes. Bad men do this. Imams who teach violence against others. That is bad, that is
haram
. As are those men who kill with terror bomb, or gun . . . or tank, and helicopter. To kill in Allah’s name is
worst
sin of all.’

Mike looked up at the old man, surprised to hear him say that. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard one of your lot say that.’

Farid shook his head wearily. ‘There are many who say this. But, picture of brothers burning American flag, or firing gun in the air, and the sinful ones, calling for Jihad and war and death, those things are what is make the news on TV, uh?’

The American pursed his lips in consideration. ‘Maybe.’

‘The Qu’ran teaches peace above all.’

Andy squatted against the wall a dozen yards away and tried dialling Leona’s number again, but the screen on his mobile winked out halfway through. That was it, the bloody thing was run flat. He pushed it back in his pocket and cursed to himself.

He had no idea if Leona had
really
understood not to go home. Yes, he’d told her that, but if they’d had a few more moments to talk, he could have explained why.

They were watching him. He had always half suspected that might be the case, but never fully convinced himself that they - whoever
they
were - would go to quite that much trouble.

And who the hell were they anyway? For a long time after that trip to New York, Andy had suspected he’d actually done business with some shady section of the CIA. He had read enough about them over the years to be more than a little spooked. And to know you don’t mess them around.

Now he found himself wondering
did I really deal with the CIA?

If not, who the fuck was it in that hotel room next door?

Andy cast his mind back to Saturday, just two days ago, sitting in his room in Haditha, using the PC there to log on and pick up his mail. He’d been pleasantly surprised at seeing one from Leona. It had been chatty but short, typical of her - Jenny got the long ones - no mention of any mysterious faces though. And Christ, he would have remembered
that
if he’d read it in her mail.

No doubt about it. The realisation had hit him as soon as she’d mentioned
who
she had seen during the earlier call this morning.

They’re tapping my mail.

Leona’s mail had been edited. Andy wished he could have quizzed Leona further over the phone, wished he’d asked her where she’d seen him, in whose company, in what setting?

What else had they intercepted? He looked down at his dead phone.

Oh shit.

Andy felt a surge of panic.

I said don’t go home. I said go to Jill’s. But I didn’t say who Jill was, did I? I didn’t say where Jill was, did I?

He was sure he hadn’t. Of course not, because Leona knew Jill well.

Can they find out who she is? Is she in our phone book?

Probably not . . . no, definitely not. She was Jenny’s mate. Jenny knew her number, it was in her head, in the quick-dial list on her phone. The phone book was for family, casual friends, people you sent the cheaper Christmas cards to.

Leona and Jake will be safe there for now. Jill will look after them.

As long as Leona did as she was told. As long as she stayed clear of their house, she and Jake would be safe, in theory. But, as far as he was concerned, the sooner he could get to them the better. Every hour, every minute that passed, with him stuck out here was an hour, a minute, too long.

Andy looked up at the situation around him. Smoke still billowing from the wreckage around the entrance, the British troops just a bunch of frightened young lads and Lieutenant Carter on his own, out of his depth and terrified.

I’ve got to find a way home, somehow.

He walked across the compound towards the young officer. Closer, he could see the young man was trembling, clearly shaken by the recent encounter. He looked up at Andy.

‘They nearly h-had us. Fucking nearly broke in.’

Andy nodded, and squatted down. ‘But you got us through it.’

He shook his head. ‘Bolton got us through it.’

Andy looked around for the sergeant. Without the NCO, these men would be truly lost. He saw that Bolton was being treated by the platoon medic, Corporal Denwood. Bolton was smacking his fist on the ground angrily and cursing the medic loudly, as the wound was being dressed.

Somehow that seemed encouraging.

Andy saw that many of the lads in the platoon had noticed Carter slumped down; sensed the desperation in his body language.

‘You know, they’re watching you,’ he said quietly.

Carter looked up at his men, grouped in weary, gasping clusters, sheltering behind the compound walls and several smouldering, tangled mounds that had not so long ago been vehicles. He could see the whites of eyes amidst soot-smudged faces, pairs of eyes that darted elsewhere as he met their gaze.

‘You’re right.’

‘If you lose it, we’re all dead.’

‘We’re all dead anyway. They’re not going to send a relief force for us.’

‘You managed to get through to your battalion again?’ Andy asked.

Carter nodded. ‘Through again to Henmarsh in the battalion ops room. They’ve already evacuated half the men holding position around K2. Their perimeter is beginning to get stretched thin. It sounds like they’re getting a lot of contacts over there.’ Carter stifled a grim, guttural laugh, ‘The militia are smelling our blood. They know the army’s leaving. It’s party time for them. The best he said they could do was send a Chinook to wait for us outside the town.’

Andy grinned. ‘Fuck, there we go then. That’s our way home!’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’ sighed Carter.

Andy looked up at the only way out of the compound. The entrance gate was twisted and welded into the carcass of the truck. There was no way they were going to shift that obstruction enough to drive out in the remaining vehicles.

‘We leave here, we’re doing it on foot,’ muttered Carter, ‘and they’ll cut us down before we get twenty yards from the wall.’

Andy leant forward, his face suddenly pulled back into a snarl. ‘There’s no way I’m bloody well sitting here like a lemon,’ he hissed.

Carter shook his head. ‘You want to go? Fine, take my gun if you want. There’s the exit. You’ll be dead inside thirty seconds. ’

‘And we’re dead if we stay.’

Carter shrugged, ‘Pretty crappy deal, isn’t it?’

‘Shit! That isn’t fucking good enough, mate. I can’t afford to just give up like this. I’ve
got
to get home.’

‘We all want to go home,
mate
.’

Andy spat grime out of his mouth on to the ground, and then looked up at the walls for a moment. ‘So where will they send this Chinook if we want it?’

‘Anywhere outside the town.’

‘How about back over the Tigris, the way we came in this morning?’

Lieutenant Carter nodded wearily.

‘How much longer are they holding their position around K2?’

‘I don’t know. As long as it takes to complete the battalion’s evac.’

‘Tonight?’

Lieutenant Carter nodded. ‘Maybe.’

‘We’d stand half a chance at night at least, wouldn’t we? I mean,’ Andy picked up Carter’s SA80, ‘these have got those night-vision things, right?’

Carter looked at him and nodded. For the first time today Andy saw the faintest flicker of a smile spread across the young man’s mouth.

‘Yeah . . . and theirs haven’t.’