Hunter Killer (33 page)

At midday they opened a couple of MREs and shovelled cold, stodgy sausage and beans into their mouths straight from the foil parcels. At 16.00hrs they did the same. An hour later, Hamza roused himself. He looked like shit. His hair seemed to have grown twice as greasy as he slept and his teeth had a dark green tinge to them. He had a slight tremor in his hands, like an alcoholic in need of a drink. Maybe he was after a hit of khat. Danny found himself thinking about Kyle. It made him feel faintly sick to think that the success of this mission might rely on a junkie like his brother.

Hamza gave Danny an insincere smile. His eyes were darting around the room, though, and on the exit. Despite what Danny had said about nailing him if he tried to leave, the truth was that they couldn’t kill him. It wasn’t just that he was a CIA tout and the ruperts would make their lives hell if they did. The whole op now depended on this twat leading them to the man who had the information they needed. No Hamza, no mission.

The tout walked over to the far side of the room where he opened the drawer of a small desk. He took out a packet of tobacco and cigarette papers, and with a gesture offered them to Danny. Danny shook his head, and Hamza started rolling himself a cigarette.

‘Where’s the marketplace?’ Danny said.

Hamza was concentrating hard on his cigarette. ‘Not far from here,’ he said. ‘It’s in the western quarter of the town. It will take maybe five minutes to get there. I know a back way. Less people.’

He grinned again, revealing his khat-stained teeth. But the grin soon fell away when he saw the fierce look Danny gave him. He took a lighter from the desk and lit up. He inhaled deeply and allowed smoke to steam from his nostrils.

‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ Danny said. He’d been planning their next move while he kept stag. ‘You lead us into the marketplace. Me and Spud will lead your donkey.’

‘What for?’ Hamza asked.

‘There’ll be lots of other people with donkeys, right?’

Hamza nodded.

‘So it’ll help us blend in. Once we’re there, you stand outside the place where the khat chew happens. You don’t go in.’ Hamza’s face fell, but he didn’t dare say anything. ‘When this Ahmed character leaves, you go up to him and shake his hand so we know who he is. Then you come straight back here.’

‘Here?’ Hamza looked deeply uncertain.

‘Does he speak English?’

Hamza shook his head, then brushed a strand of greasy hair from his face.

‘Then you have to translate.’

‘But . . . what will you
do
with him? You will not hurt him? He is respected. An elder. If he thinks I have done something to . . .’

‘He’ll be fine.’ Hamza didn’t need to know that was probably not true. ‘We’ll give him some money for his information. He’ll be very happy.’

‘What about
my
money?’ Hamza said.

‘You get
your
money when we get the information we need, and not before.’

Hamza’s eyes narrowed, but he mastered that calculating look and started soaping his hands once more. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said.

Danny stepped up to him. ‘Don’t make a fucking mistake, pal,’ he breathed.

‘No, sir,’ Hamza replied quietly. Close up, he stank of sweat. ‘No mistakes.’

The guys made their preparations, wrapping their
shemaghs
around their faces, stowing everything they didn’t need in their embroidered bags. At 17.45hrs, they gave Hamza the word. Their contact gave them a craven little bow, then stepped out of the front door of his house. Danny and Spud allowed him a 30-second start. At the last moment, Danny stepped over to the desk and looked in the drawer. There were several pouches of tobacco and cigarette papers here, all with Arabic writing, and a stash of lighters. Danny and Spud helped themselves.

‘You think we’re okay bringing Ahmed back here?’ Spud said. ‘Maybe we should find somewhere deserted, take Hamza and Ahmed with us, interrogate them somewhere out of the way.’

But Danny had already considered that. ‘I reckon Ahmed’s going to take a bit of persuading to talk. Hamza’s on edge. He might run to get help. I’d rather have him where I can control him. And anyway, we don’t know the geography well enough. We should get off the streets as quickly as possible, before someone notices us and starts asking questions.’

That was good enough for Spud. They left the tiny house, untethered the donkey and followed Hamza, Spud leading the beast behind him.

By day, Ha’dah was a different town. Immediately they stepped out into the street, Danny clocked four armed men. They each brandished a Kalashnikov, and one of the gunmen couldn’t have been more than 13. It was hard to be sure, but Danny didn’t have them down as Houthi militants – they didn’t have the swagger of someone who thought they were in charge. He reckoned that these were regular Yemeni civilians who just happened to be armed. A small part of him wondered where these weapons came from.

That question was soon answered.

The marketplace that Hamza had talked about was not a single location. Rather, it was a sprawling mass of stalls lining the streets in a random, hotch-potch fashion. The first stall they passed was little more than a black blanket laid out on the ground. Behind it, a boy no older than 12 sat cross-legged. And sitting on top of the blanket was a selection of firearm ammunition to rival the armoury at Hereford. There was everything here, neatly packed in pristine brown cardboard boxes the size of Danny’s fist – 9mm rounds, 5.56s, even .50 cals. As Danny had predicted, there was another donkey behind the stall. What he hadn’t predicted was that it would be carrying a basket over its back which held a stash of old Russian fragmentation grenades. The kid behind the stall didn’t look at all excited by his wares, but was tracing patterns in the dust with his forefinger. Twenty metres further down the same street, the hardware got a little more serious: two men stood behind a rickety wooden table on which lay two rocket launchers and five RPGs. One of them shouted out in Arabic to Danny, and tried to catch his eye. Danny just lowered his head and walked on by.

The market stalls didn’t just have weaponry on display. There were stinking piles of dried shark meat heaped up in wicker baskets – again, some of them carried by donkeys – and colourful spices. Saffron strands, ground turmeric and fenugreek seeds were stacked in neat little piles. An elderly man with a deeply lined face and intensely blue eyes presided over a tableful of small glass vials of assorted perfumes, whose pungent stink caught in Danny’s throat as he passed. There was street food – big dishes of lamb and rice, and women cooking large, thin flatbreads over glowing braziers.

And people. Hundreds of people, milling around these little side streets, bartering at the stalls. All the men wore knives at their waists and at least a third of them had rifles or handguns on display. Danny did his best not to lock eyes with anyone, not only because he needed to keep his attention on Hamza, who was walking about 15 metres ahead of them, but also because he could feel the tension in this place. Establishing eye contact with one of the locals would just make them look at Danny and Spud a little closer. And that was the last thing they wanted . . .

They’d only been walking for four or five minutes when Hamza led them into a square about the same size as that in which the mosque was situated. The surrounding walls were high – three storeys at least – and dotted with the same regular window-holes that he’d seen elsewhere, many of them with shadowy faces peering out. There were perhaps 50 people milling around the square itself, almost exclusively men, and all dressed similarly to Danny and Spud, in robes and
shemaghs
. Most of them had
jambiyas
swinging by their waists. In one corner was a pick-up truck, its doors all open and five young Yemeni men – all armed – loitering in the back. They didn’t look particularly aggressive – more like the Ha’dah version of London kids hanging out at a bus stop. Hamza barely seemed to notice them as he crossed the square to where a painted green wooden door stood open. In front of it were a few rickety tables, around which sat a collection of Yemeni men, some of them young but mostly very old, with their distinctively lined faces and wary eyes. They had bowls of tea in front of them, and one of the older men was smoking
shisha
from a water pipe.

Hamza looked back, his face anxious, and picked Danny and Spud out from the crowds. The guys avoided eye contact and instantly peeled away from each other. Danny took up position on the eastern side of the square, Spud led the donkey to the opposite edge where he made a show of checking the animal’s teeth and ears. Danny pulled the tobacco from the deep pockets of his robe and started slowly to roll cigarettes. As good a way as any to blend in – he noticed that well over half the men in the square seemed to be smoking – although he couldn’t risk actually smoking his creations because that would mean removing his
shemagh
. Together they formed a three-man triangle, each of them fifteen metres apart, with Hamza at the leading corner. Their Yemeni contact looked longingly through the door – this was clearly where the khat chew was taking place – but with another glance at Danny, he took a seat at one of the tables and called for tea.

Danny stood quietly, his back up against a rough stone wall, his fingers busy with the tobacco. He noted all the exits to the square: the street at his ten o’clock, by which they’d entered, and two others leading off at a diagonal on either side of the cafe, at one o’clock and three o’clock. It was impossible to know how long it would take before this Ahmed character emerged. Until he did, Danny and Spud – who was now scratching the donkey’s ears while he kept one eye on Hamza – needed to melt into the background. The
shemagh
, still wrapped round Danny’s face to hide his white skin, made his breath hot and moist. His eyes flickered between Hamza and the armed kids in the pick-up, but as before he avoided full eye contact with anybody.

He didn’t trust this Hamza character. Didn’t trust him not simply to say whatever he thought they wanted to hear, just to get his money. He saw no evidence of a khat chew. No evidence that this was anything other than a street cafe, with old men drinking tea. He needed to investigate further.

Time check: 18.03. Danny stepped towards the tables. Hamza had some tea in front of him now. He lifted the bowl and put it to his lips, watching Danny over the brim as he approached. Danny was a couple of metres in front of the line of tables when he heard the music: scratchy Arabic beats coming from inside the building, with a voice wailing – tunelessly to Danny’s ears – over it. He approached the door and looked inside. There was a single room, large and dark. About fifteen men sat in a circle, remonstrating with each other as vigorously as they were chewing. To the left of the circle, three other men were dancing. The colourful scabbards round their waists jiggled as they did so. Danny remembered Roberts’s description of life in Yemen: this looked like a khat chew, all right. He retreated, and under the watchful eye of both Hamza and Spud, returned to his position by the wall.

Five minutes passed.

Suddenly, Danny became aware of a commotion around the exit to the square at his nine o’clock. A small group of men entered – Danny counted five of them. The locals in the square parted to give them passage, and even the kids on the pick-up seemed to sit a little straighter. There was a lull in the general conversation as the newcomers strutted further into the square. They wore mismatched clothes. Three of them wore camouflage gear – either a jacket, or trousers, or both. The other two were more traditionally dressed but wore heavy bandoliers of rounds like necklaces. Each of them had the ubiquitous AK-47 strapped to their bodies, and they had an arrogant swagger. To Danny they looked like jokers. But jokers with assault rifles could do a lot of damage, as the locals clearly knew well. Hamza shifted nervously in his seat. Only the older tea drinkers appeared unmoved by the arrival of these overbearing youngsters, and stared at them impassively while sipping at their bowls of tea.

One of the newcomers was clearly the leader. He wore full camouflage and instead of a
shemagh
had a kind of low fez, white with purple Arabic lettering. Danny could tell he was looking for trouble. He was jutting out his chin and trying to catch the eye of anyone he could. If his gaze descended on any of the locals, they would step backwards from him, bowing slightly. The young man took up a position in the centre of the square, looking around for someone to pick on.

His eyes fell on Danny.

There were about eight metres between them. Five or six locals blocked the way, but they were clearly tuned in to the situation and melted away as it became clear that the swaggering militant had chosen his target. They locked eyes. The militant had a wispy beard like Hamza’s, and a hooked nose. He was chewing something, probably khat. Not a good sign.

A crackling in Danny’s ear. Spud. ‘I’ve got line of sight, mucker. I can take him if you say the word.’

Danny looked beyond the young man. Sure enough, Spud had stepped a few paces from the donkey and had manoeuvred himself further along his stretch of wall. He had one hand in his
dishdash
, ready to pull a weapon. He could put this fucker down, no question, but a single round wouldn’t just kill the tough – it would kill their chances of hooking up with Ahmed as they fought their way out of the area.