Ultimate Weapon (45 page)

One man was advancing towards the car. He looked about fifty, and had a long grey beard that covered his face. He was wearing a thick sheepskin jacket, and his hands were covered in scars and bruises. The imam, thought Jed. Or some kind of tribal elder. He pushed Wilmington forward. The professor began to speak, slowly and softly at first, but with his voice gathering in strength and confidence, and the Kurd was listening to him intently. He looked suspiciously at Nick and Jed, then he noticed Laura sitting in the car, and his face clouded with anger. The other village men – all the women and children stayed inside – advanced closer, so that they formed a circle that completely enclosed the intruders. Wilmington talked some more, starting to gesticulate with his arms, and slowly the mood lightened. The man started to nod enthusiastically, and a smile was breaking on to his lips. ‘He says it’s OK,’ said Wilmington, turning to Nick and Jed.

‘Ask him if he knows where Sarah is,’ said Jed.

‘He says to have breakfast with him, and he’ll tell us what he knows.’

Laura climbed out of the car, and they walked across the muddy dirt track. The man was leading them towards the back of the mosque, and at least a dozen of the
villagers were following behind them. In the distance, Jed could hear the sound of goats and sheep braying, and could smell the fresh tea being brewed. A full English would be a treat, he thought: sausages, bacon, eggs, fried bread, some beans, and a big hot mug of PG Tips. Not much chance of that in this hellhole. We’ll probably get a couple of boiled goat’s eyes for breakfast.
If we’re lucky
.

‘Can we trust them?’ Laura hissed, looking around nervously as they approached the mosque.

Jed glanced back at the steady line of men that was blocking their way back to the car. ‘I’m more worried about whether I can trust
you
than the local ragheads.’

Behind the mosque, there was a simple, one-storey dwelling. It was made out of wood, with a straw roof. Tied up next to it was a donkey, and at its side, a pile of straw and firewood. The man led them inside. The building was just one room, with a fire in the corner, filling it with a sweet, sticky smoke. He pointed towards a table with a bench on either side of it. An elderly woman started to lay out some plates. She poured hot, sweet tea into their cups, and put down a series of wooden platters: pitta bread, black olives, tomatoes, white cheese, a jar of honey, and some deep-fried soujouk, a type of sausage made out of ground meats and spices. Jed waited a moment. It was days since he’d had anything proper to eat, and he knew that if he tucked in too quickly he would just make himself ill. He took a hit of the tea, letting the sugar fill his veins, then filled some pitta bread with sausage and cheese, taking a deep bite. Slowly, he could feel the food feeding some strength
back into his muscles. Eat while you can, he told himself, as he packed another pitta.
Any meal out here could be your last
.

Wilmington and the man were talking quietly to each other in Kurdish, while Nick and Jed fell on their food. Laura hardly touched hers. Eventually, Wilmington turned to them. ‘Salek was here,’ he said. ‘He had a young woman with him, and she answers to Sarah’s description.’

Jed could see Nick stop chewing. He was holding his pitta bread in his hand, all interest lost in the food. ‘Was she OK?’

Wilmington nodded. ‘Tired, stressed, but not harmed.’

‘And where the hell is she now?’

‘Still with Salek,’ said Wilmington. ‘He’s known in these parts, and has enough money and connections to buy himself a safe passage through the mountains. He was taking her towards Khailyhameh.’

‘Where the hell’s that?’ said Nick.

‘A village, about forty miles from here, right up in the corner of the Zagros Mountains, where Iraq, Iran and Turkey all meet.’

‘Why?’ said Nick. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘He wants to hide her,’ said Laura. ‘Sarah is the only bargaining chip Salek has left now. He needs to take her to the most remote part of the country he can find. Salek’s looking after himself now, and he knows Sarah is valuable property. As Wilmington says, if the Iraqis are done for, he can just take her over the border to Iran.’

Nick put down his food. ‘Then let’s move,’ he said.
‘If that’s where she is, that’s where we’re going as well.’

Wilmington exchanged a few words in Kurdish with the man, then turned back to Nick. ‘Khailyhameh is a bad place,’ he said, with fear in his eyes. ‘It is part of Halabja valley, which saw some of the heaviest fighting during the Iran–Iraq War. Much of the society around there was destroyed. It was where Saddam used chemical gases against the Kurds who remained. These days, it is controlled by Ansar al-Islam, a radical Islamic group with links to al-Qaeda. They hate all Westerners. It isn’t safe for anyone to go there.’

‘And Sarah’s there?’ said Nick.

Wilmington nodded.

‘Then she’s in danger, and we’re going to get her.’ He looked straight at Wilmington. ‘And you can risk dying there, or you can die right here. It’s your choice.’

The late-afternoon sun was streaming through the valley. Jed steered the car along what was nothing more than a mud track. From the village to Halabja might have only been forty miles, but there was no proper road, and the Civic wasn’t built to drive across country. Along the way they’d had to stop a dozen times as the car had to be pushed through some thick mud. Once, they’d had to clear away a tree that had fallen across the track. It might have been quicker to walk, thought Jed. It would certainly have been faster on horseback.

Along the way, you could see the remnants of old battles everywhere. More than fifteen years might have passed since the end of the Iran–Iraq War, but there were
still burnt-out husks of old tanks, abandoned trenches and empty trucks. They went through three ghost villages, the buildings still intact, but crumbling as the stones and mortar slowly turned back into dust: all the people had been wiped out in Saddam’s gas attacks. You could smell the destruction all around you, thought Jed, as he powered the car towards their destination. What must Sarah have felt as she was taken through these villages? That she was leaving all civilisation behind her.
And all hope with it
.

When they reached the village, Jed climbed out of the car. A dozen men were walking towards them, talking among themselves. They were rough-looking characters, with thick black beards, and AK-47s slung around their leather and sheepskin coats. Jed scanned their faces, looking to see who was the village elder, but none of the men looked to be more than twenty-five. Christ, who’s in charge here?
Maybe no one
.

Nick and Laura also climbed out of the car. The three of them stood next to the Civic, looking straight at the men walking towards them. Jed steadied himself. Show no fear, he told himself. Make sure they know you’re not afraid, and you’ll have earned their respect.
That’s at least one battle won
.

‘Get out, Professor,’ barked Jed. ‘Your mates are here.’

Wilmington started to climb out of the Civic. His face was drenched with sweat, and the fear was evident in his eyes. A few days’ growth of beard had collected on his face, and there were scratches and cuts on his skin. His clothes had been reduced to rags, and exhaustion had
turned his skin and eyes to a grey, soggy pulp. His hands were shaking, and his voice was fractured. ‘Move it,’ Jed snapped.

In front of him, one man stood out from the pack. He was holding his finger tight on the trigger of his AK-47 and there was a pair of long, curved hunting knives hanging from the belt around his waist. His beard was long and scraggy, and he was so thin he was little more than a skeleton with bit of muscle hanging off it. Jed hadn’t met many men he wanted to kill the first moment he saw them, but this was one of them.

The sun was beginning to shade into the mountains, sending beams of pale orange light down into the valley. As Jed glanced around the village, all he could see were six single-storey houses. There was no sign of electricity, and just a well at the end of the single dirt street for water.

The man in front of the pack barked something in Kurdish. It was a rough, harsh dialect, different from Arabic or Turkish. He was pointing at Wilmington, and waving his gun at the same time.

‘He wants to speak to me,’ said Wilmington nervously.

‘Then bloody speak to him,’ said Jed, pushing him forward.

Wilmington staggered across the ten yards of scuffed ground that separated the dozen men from the Civic. One of the men grabbed his hands, yanking them hard behind his back. Wilmington cried out in pain.

‘Bloody leave him alone,’ Jed snapped.

The leader took a step forward. He was pointing his gun straight at Jed, and his finger was hovering menacingly on the trigger. Jed glanced into the car. His own kitbag was lying on the back seat, with his gun inside it. Out of reach.
Even if they could take on all twelve of the bastards, they could never get to their guns in time
.

‘Quiet, Jed,’ said Nick firmly. ‘Let Wilmington speak to them. He knows their language. If he tells them we’re British, maybe they’ll start to cooperate.’

‘Right,’ said Jed. ‘Or maybe they’ll get their frying pans out to put our balls in.’

The man was leading Wilmington towards a tree that lay behind the main road. It was still early in the year, but the first buds of fresh blossom could just be detected on its branches. The men were talking quickly in Kurdish, and Wilmington was shouting at them. As they pushed him, his expression was turning wilder and wilder. Eventually they thrust him against the tree trunk. Suddenly, five men were standing in a semicircle around him, their guns raised straight in front of their eyes.

‘What the hell is happening?’ said Jed.

‘Buggered if I know,’ said Nick.

One man had pulled out a rope, and had already tied Wilmington’s hands behind his back. The knot was tight and cutting into his skin: his wrists were starting to bleed heavily where the bark and the rope were slicing the flesh open. He was shaking, and there were tears streaming down his face. He was shouting at the men in the Kurdish, yet Jed found it impossible to decipher a word. You don’t need to translate, he told himself
grimly. He’s pleading desperately for his life.
That sounds the same in any language
.

‘Stop them,’ shouted Wilmington desperately.

His eyes were swivelling between Jed and Nick. ‘Please, please,’ he stuttered. ‘Stop them …’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ shouted Jed, heading for the tree.

One of the men took a pace forward, thumping the barrel of his AK-47 in Jed’s chest. He could feel the metal slamming into his muscles, and could see the man’s finger hovering on the trigger. ‘Leave it,’ snapped Nick.

‘They’re going to shoot the bastard,’ said Jed.

‘He brought Sarah here,’ said Nick. ‘He was going to pay for that one day.’

The barrel of the gun was still jabbing into Jed’s chest. He looked into the eyes of the gunman, just inches from his own face, and he could see the fury rising inside him, but also the fear. He looked no more than eighteen. No training, and no discipline, he realised. Just a teenager with a machine gun.

‘Leave it, Jed,’ said Laura. ‘We can’t help him now.’

For a brief second, the valley was silent. Wilmington had stopped screaming. His legs had buckled, and there was urine running down his trousers. He was falling to the ground, held up only by the knot securing him to the tree trunk. The leader barked a single command, triggering a rapid burst of fire from the five gunmen positioned around the tree. A hundred bullets ripped simultaneously through Wilmington’s body, puncturing it in a dozen different places. His lungs collapsed, and
his head fell to one side, virtually sliced clean from his neck, held in place only by a thin twist of muscle.

Christ, thought Jed.
No matter what he might have done, no man deserves to die like that
.

The leader turned to face them. There was a jagged smile on his face. ‘That’s what we do to collaborators,’ he said, speaking in a rough, broken English.

‘You speak English,’ said Jed.

‘Of course,’ said the man angrily. ‘What do you think we are? Savages?’

He walked towards the Civic, while the boy with his AK-47 jabbed into Jed’s chest started to back away. There was a sparkle in his eyes, Jed noted: the look of a man who enjoyed giving the orders to kill. ‘He said you were British,’ he said, looking towards Nick.

‘We are,’ replied Nick.

His face was calm and impassive, like a piece of rock.

He nodded. ‘Then we have no quarrel with you,’ he said. ‘So long as you understand our rules. My name is Rezo. We are the law around here. Only us. You do what we ask, and you don’t cause any trouble.’

‘You killed our guide,’ said Nick.

Rezo shrugged. ‘He was a collaborator.’

‘I thought you said we weren’t your enemies,’ said Nick.

‘Kurds should never work with Iraqis,’ said Rezo. ‘It offends our pride. The punishment for that is death. But we have no quarrel with you because you are British.’ He stood back, resting the tip of his gun on the ground. ‘Now, what are you doing here?’

‘We’re looking for someone,’ said Nick. ‘A man named Salek. He should have passed through here with a young girl. A British girl …’

Rezo nodded. ‘He passed through here last night.’