Ultimate Weapon (16 page)

Matt stepped across him, getting into the driving seat of the car. The engine was still running. Jed climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

‘Find us a bar, cabbie,’ said Rob, his face breaking into a rough grin.

‘Then a lap-dancing club,’ said Steve. ‘See what the local talent look like when it gets its burka off.’

Jed laughed. ‘Let’s make a weekend of it.’

Matt’s foot was pressing hard on the accelerator, squeezing all the life it could from the Datsun’s engine. The car was wheezing and shuddering: at moments, the
speedometer would flicker up to twenty-five miles an hour as they hit a downward slope, then it would fall back. Bloody useless. They were driving away from the murder scene in a car that was capable of little more than a gentle jog. As soon as somebody found those bodies, they were dead.

‘Get off the road,’ said Jed.

Matt nodded. There was no need to discuss it. They all knew they couldn’t stay where they were. The road was twisting through an empty industrial estate, and had come out into another stretch of wasteland. About a mile ahead, Jed could see another highway. ‘Here,’ he hissed.

Matt steered the car off the road, into the mud and weeds that ran along its edge. There was no track, just a couple of miles of empty land, its surface rough and pitted, broken up by the occasional palm tree. ‘Head towards the inner city,’ said Jed, pointing towards the light sparkling from central Baghdad. ‘We’ll get lost in there. It’s our best chance.’

His body jerked forward as the Datsun hit a rock. The suspension creaked and groaned, and somewhere inside the vehicle Jed was certain he could hear something snapping.

‘We’d be better off with a sodding camel,’ said Matt.

He was twisting the car through the rough ground, trying to avoid the dips, but the Datsun was hardly up to driving on a proper road. Steam was coming from the engine, and it was over-revving furiously each time Matt tapped the accelerator. Another mile, thought Jed.
Hold out that long, then at least we’re clear of the scene.

The ditch took him by surprise. The Datsun dipped, and Jed could feel his head crashing into the steel roof as his body was thrown upwards. Matt tried to get the car back on track, but the engine was just revving. Nothing was happening to the wheels. ‘Bugger it,’ said Matt. ‘We’re fucked.’

Jed opened the door and climbed out of the Datsun. The trench measured fifty feet across by ten wide, and was at least five feet deep. It looked man-made. There had been at least two occasions in the last fifteen years when Baghdad had built up its perimeter defences: at the height of the Iran-Iraq War, when the Iranians briefly broke through the lines, and looked like threatening the capital; and after Gulf 1, when the allies could easily have kept marching north until they hit Baghdad. Must have been dug for one of them, thought Jed.
And finally, the bloody thing has actually stopped some attackers
.

‘I think we’d better do the rest of the trip on foot, guys,’ said Jed.

Matt, Steve and Rob had already climbed out of the car. The machine had died on them, and it didn’t look as if much would bring it back to life. Rob was the best mechanic among them. ‘What d’you think, Rob? Any chance of fixing it?’ said Jed.

Rob opened up the bonnet, then shook his head. ‘It would take a couple of hours, and then the bloody thing would just break apart again on this ground,’ he said.
‘Unless we can get our hands on an SUV, we’re better off on foot.’

‘Fuck it,’ snapped Steve. ‘We’ve only been in the sodding country an hour, and the whole thing’s gone tits up already.’

‘We’ll be OK,’ said Jed.

They were equipped with rough maps of the city. Using the satphone, Jed checked in with Laura back at the Firm’s headquarters in Vauxhall. She told him they just had to press on. The mission was too critical to be abandoned. They worked out their position from their drop-off point: they had travelled around its outskirts, and were now heading towards the Ad Dawrah region to its north, but they were still at least five miles from the target. They would have to get across the Tigris. That would be when they were at their most vulnerable. Through the streets of any city, even Baghdad, you could pass unnoticed so long as you didn’t draw attention to yourself. But before they crossed any bridges, they would have to make sure there weren’t any roadblocks.

Jed started walking, heading due north. From the map, he reckoned they had about two miles of scrubland before they hit streets again. Ad Dawrah was a cheap factory workers’ district, close to a big oil refinery. Once they crossed the river, they were into Baghdad proper.
That’s when this gig would start to get interesting
.

They walked at a steady, measured pace. The unit lined up in a regular formation: one man went a few paces in front, to scout the area, while another man hung back
a few paces to keep an eye on the rear; the other two guys stayed in the middle, one looking left, the other right. They never drifted more than five yards apart from one another: if they came under attack, they would need to fall back into a unit to defend themselves.

They covered the ground in silence. The air was quiet and still out here, and any voices would travel an unexpected distance. Somewhere, Jed could hear a desert dog howling. Huge animals, like Alsatians on steroids, they roamed the outskirts of the city, and could take a chunk out of a man’s limb with a single bite. If you came across one, the only option was to shoot it on sight.

An hour had passed by the time the bridge loomed up before them. Two miles of the trek towards the target had now been completed. They had passed through the scrubland, and made their way through the backstreets of the Al-Dawrah district. It was an area of heavy industry, served by the big boats that made their way up the Tigris from Basra. As well as the refining plant, there was a cement factory, a series of workshops, and a huge chicken farm, which, according to some of the intelligence reports Jed had seen, might also have been used to breed biological weapons: chickens could incubate all kinds of viruses. ‘We’ll give the chickens a miss,’ whispered Jed to the others, as he consulted his map to steer the unit towards the bridge.

‘Right,’ said Matt. ‘We’re only the fucking SAS. We wouldn’t want to get mixed up with a bunch of hens in a bad mood. They might think we’re stealing their eggs.’

Jed checked his watch. It was just past three in the morning. The still of the night was all around them. There were apartment blocks housing the workers for the factories, and cafés, shops and petrol stations dotted through the district, but everyone was sleeping. This was the second time Jed had walked through Baghdad at night, and he’d noticed it was a timid city: there were only a few nightclubs, and they were in the smart hotels in the centre of the city. Otherwise, everyone went to bed early. Luton on a wet Tuesday evening was more fun. This was a place where you kept your head down, got on with your job and tried not to attract any attention. They’d seen a couple of police patrols but since you could hear the cars approaching, the unit had enough time to duck into a doorway and let them pass – they could walk around without anyone seeing them.

But that was about to change. From about four onwards, the city would suddenly spark to life. Jed reckoned the factories would start up at six, just as the dawn was breaking. The trucks would start delivering supplies. The cafés would open. Suddenly they would be surrounded by people. Yes, they could lose themselves easily enough in a crowd, but it would always be risky. One false move and they would be exposed.

‘Hold it,’ whispered Jed, raising an arm. They were standing by the banks of the river, looking up. The Fourteenth of July Bridge ran straight up from the southern side of the city into the Republican Palace complex where all the most important government buildings were located. From there they could skirt to
the east of the city to hit the compound. The bridge was named for the day in 1958 when the Baath Party overthrew Iraq’s last monarch, King Faisal II: it was the country’s first suspension bridge, and still one of its most impressive.

That means it’s even harder to get across, thought Jed.

The roadblock was clearly visible. Two barriers were slung across the road, and there were at least five armed policemen stopping the few vehicles making the crossing. Most likely, they’d already found the two guys they’d shot earlier. Even if they assumed it was Iraqi gangsters, they would be looking for their killers.

‘Want to chance it?’ whispered Rob. ‘We might be able to bluff our way through. And if we don’t we’ve got the ammo to take them out.’

Jed shook his head. He glanced at the river. The Tigris was a thick, fast-running stretch of water, muddy and dirty, with scum foaming on its surface from the raw sewage and industrial waste that was pumped into it every day. ‘Too risky,’ he muttered. ‘They’ll have backup they can call on. Get into a shoot-out on a bridge, and you’ve got no space. Better to try and swim it.’

‘I can see a boat,’ said Steve.

He led the way. The jetty was about three hundred yards back along the river, a decent enough distance from the bridge. Jed, Matt and Rob followed, keeping their bodies low to avoid attracting attention. It was a simple wooden rowing boat, measuring eight feet, tied up to the side of the wooden jetty. There didn’t seem
to be any alarms. Steve knelt down, using his knife to cut through the ropes, then climbed on. Jed, Matt and Rob followed, Rob kicking the boat out into the river. Steve grabbed the oars, and started steering them to the other bank. The river was about two hundred yards across, but the current was thick, swirling around them. Jed cast a quick glance up towards the bridge. There was no question they would be visible to the guards. It was just a question of whether anyone looked.

The oars were slicing into the water. Steve was a big man, over six three, and with the muscles that came from working out for an hour every day in the gym. He was pulling hard, pushing the boat through the vicious current. Matt and Rob sat at the back of the boat, while Jed was at the front to try and balance their weight through the tiny vessel. Their kitbags were slung on its floor. He glanced down into the water. It was thick and brown, the colour and texture of dried blood, reflecting back nothing but its own brute strength.
A river that could wash away an army, thought Jed
.

A light. His head spun round, looking up towards the bridge. A searchlight had flashed down from the police checkpoint. It was skimming across the water, its beams catching in the flowing currents and spinning out across the surface. Bugger it, he muttered under his breath. The rest of the unit had noticed it as well. Matt and Rob were hunkering down at the back of the boat. Steve was pulling furiously on the oars, dragging them faster towards the opposite shore. They were still forty, maybe fifty yards, from the bank, and the current was taking
them away from the bridge. Jed’s mind was racing. Stay moving, and it made them easier to spot. Stop moving, and it made them easier to capture if they were spotted. In an instant, the decision was made.
Get the hell out of here as fast as possible
.

‘Keep going,’ he hissed to Steve. ‘Fast as you bloody can.’

The light was spinning closer towards them. Jed glanced back towards the bridge. The searchlight was revolving in a circle, spreading a beam about ten metres in circumference. It was panning up and down the river. Looking for something.
Us
.

‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t we go any faster?’

‘You try it,’ hissed Steve.

The boat was picking up speed but it was hard going. As they drew to within forty yards of the shore, the current seemed to gather strength. There were specks of foam and dirt swirling on the surface of the river, and the water was crashing into the side of the boat, pushing it further and further downstream. The searchlight danced just a few feet away from them. Jed held his breath, watching as the light illuminated the water, changing its colour from murky brown to a slimy, stewed green. He looked at the shore. Thirty yards, nothing more. The light turned, and suddenly he could see it heading straight for them. It was skimming across the river, travelling at a dozen feet a second. ‘Left, left,’ he said to Steve, wondering if they could spin out of its path. Steve was tugging on the oar, and Jed could feel the boat turning beneath him.

Collision. The beam hit the boat, and Jed could suddenly feel its full force. The light flooded the boat, its heat pricking Jed’s skin. He could see the faces of his unit: fear mixed with determination, the usual expression of soldiers who knew they were going into combat. The beam skimmed across, and for a moment Jed wondered if the policemen might have missed them. It flicked past, paused on an empty stretch of water, then inched back towards them as the man controlling it slowly adjusted its direction. Then the light was fully on them, covering the entire boat in a neatly illuminated circle. Just like a target, thought Jed.
With us in the bloody middle of it
.

He could hear the sound of gunfire before he could feel it. The slow rattle of a machine gun revving up to life. The bullets splattered into the water, breaking up its surface like tiny pebbles. Steve was yanking furiously on the oars, sweat dripping from his face, as he stabbed the wood into the water and dragged it back furiously towards him. Behind him, Matt and Rob were hunkering down in the back of the boat, retrieving their kitbags and slinging them on to their backs.

A splintering sound. A couple of bullets had ripped into the bottom of the boat, ripping up the wood, then slicing through into the water below. They had passed just inches from Jed’s legs. Already water was starting to seep up through the holes the bullets had created.