Ultimate Weapon (25 page)

He opened the back door, locked it behind him and slipped back up to the street. It was empty at this time of the evening. Nick glanced left and right, but could see no sign of the professor. He started walking quickly, heading back towards the centre of Cambridge. He kept on walking until he saw a McDonald’s. Stopping inside, he ordered a quarter-pounder meal with a large coffee. As he sat down, he took a bite on the burger, suddenly aware that he hadn’t had anything proper to eat for a day at least. His body was weak with hunger, and he paused, stirring some sugar into the coffee, knowing that he needed to compose himself, and get some food into his stomach before he tried to do anything else. Christ, man, he told himself angrily. You’re bloody Regiment.
You’re supposed to be able to keep fighting for days on a couple of biscuits and a bottle of water.

The food settled in his stomach, and he could feel the sugar hitting his bloodstream. He looked down at the bank statements. In the course of two weeks in January, slightly over ninety thousand had passed through Wilmington’s account. Another forty thousand had been paid out. There were no names next to any of the transactions, just a series of numbers from anonymous bank accounts. Nick stared at them for a minute, then fished out the mobile from his pocket. He checked the messages. There weren’t any. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing. He took a sip on his coffee, then pressed dial on one of the numbers stored in the phone’s memory earlier today.

‘You again?’ said Bill Horton as he picked up his call.

‘I need some help,’ said Nick. ‘I wanted to see if you could trace some bank account transactions for me.’

‘What are you up to, Nick?’ said Horton.

‘I’ve told you, it’s personal,’ said Nick. ‘I just need to know who an account belongs to.’

He was well aware that Horton’s firm did a lot of work for the big City banks. They all had plenty of high rollers who needed protection sometimes, and they never minded paying big money to keep their key staff safe. That meant Horton had contacts with their security offices, which also meant he could tap into the networks that allowed banks to share information with one another. If anyone could figure out who these transactions were between, and do it fast, then it was Horton. ‘Please, mate …’ said Nick.

In the Regiment, a guy never said please. You didn’t say it among ex-Regiment men either. Unless you were really desperate, thought Nick.
Like I am now.

There was just a moment’s hesitation on the line. ‘Email me the details,’ said Horton. ‘I’ll get it sorted for you first thing in the morning.’

‘I need it now,’ pressed Nick.

‘Sod it, mate,’ said Horton. ‘I’ve got to talk to some bankers, and I’m not calling them now.’

‘First thing in the morning,’ said Nick.

‘Sorted, mate.’

Nick shut the phone, and put the last of the chips in his mouth. He drained the coffee, and stood up. A cold blast of air hit him in the face as he started walking along the street. He tracked a man who appeared to be
loitering outside the burger bar, wondering if he was following him. The man glanced up at him, scowled menacingly, then walked on. Just a drunk, Nick decided. He kept on walking. Cambridge was a student city, and he should be able to find an Internet café that was open all night. If he couldn’t, he’d just have to make his way down to London. He had to get these bank account details to Horton before morning.

If I can find out where Wilmington’s money comes from, maybe I can find out what’s happened to Sarah.

Jed looked at Mansour. He was a strong, thick-boned man, with discipline and willpower. You needed to be strong just to survive in Saddam’s Iraq. To make the kind of living that Mansour was obviously making took guts and strength and brains. But this afternoon there was fear in his eyes. And rightly so, thought Jed grimly. The battle was about to rage down on the city, and there was no telling what the furnace would consume before it burnt itself out.

‘We need to get back to the plant,’ said Jed.

Mansour paused. ‘That’s up to you,’ he replied.

‘Too right it’s up to us,’ said Matt. ‘Trouble is, it’s up to you too. We need some transport, and we need you to help us.’

Mansour tried to smile, but there was no humour in the expression. He had the look of a man who was trying to calculate who he was most afraid of: the men in front of him, or the men who would be dealing with him if he was caught helping a pair of British soldiers. Not a pretty calculation for anyone to make, thought Jed. Still, if he didn’t want to play with those odds, then he shouldn’t have got into this game in the first place. ‘Where do you need to go?’ he said nervously.

‘Across town,’ said Jed. ‘We’ve got the address.’

After getting the order from the Firm, he’d sent a message back to say they’d received it, and it would be executed tomorrow night as instructed. Both he and Matt were pissed off about it. Even though they knew what they were signing up for when they joined the Regiment, and it was too late to start complaining now, it didn’t stop either of them being pissed off at the position they were being put in – and the risks they were being asked to run.

Jed had contacted the Firm to get details of RVP for the pickup. They were planning a cruise missile strike on the plant, with fighter bombers in support if necessary. People thought cruises were smart missiles the way they were written up in the press. But actually they were only smart in the way a stag party tumbling out of a lap-dancing club at three in the morning was smart. They didn’t know their way home, and neither did a cruise. They were fine for taking out a village, but useless for a precision target. That’s why you needed what the army referred to as ‘man-in-the-loop’ technology. Roughly translated, that meant some poor bugger had to risk his bollocks bringing the big angry bird home. You used a laser-target designator to pinpoint an invisible laser beam straight on to the target, and that guided the bomb straight into its path. The LTD had a range of more than a mile, so you could put a bit of distance between yourself and the big bang, but it was still rough and dangerous work. And the closer you got into the centre of a city, the rougher and more dangerous it became.

The LTD was a small piece of kit, but it needed a tripod to set it up properly. Somebody – and Jed had no idea who – had stashed weapons and materials at different points around Baghdad – as if they’d been planning this war for a while, Jed thought. The Firm had given them the address of the place where they could pick the kit up. All they had to do was get there, then head back to the plant.
And stay alive.

‘I’m not a taxi driver,’ said Mansour.

‘You are now, mate,’ said Matt. ‘Nothing wrong with doing a bit of minicabbing on the side. Comes in handy when you need a bit of extra cash.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘For us as well,’ said Matt.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ repeated Mansour, ignoring the remark. ‘There are roadblocks all over this city. I get found with you two, I’m a dead man.’

Matt took a menacing step towards him. ‘And you’re a bloody dead man if you don’t.’

A bead of sweat had already started to form on Mansour’s forehead. It was hot in the workshop, and Jed could feel the tension crackling between the men. ‘Cut my throat if you have to, Englishman,’ said Mansour. ‘At least it will just be me that dies.’

‘I’m bloody tempted,’ said Matt, taking another step forward.

‘It makes no difference,’ said Mansour. ‘You have no idea what it’s like in this city. If the Fedayeen capture me transporting a couple of British soldiers around Baghdad, they won’t just shoot me on the spot. They’ll
torture me first. They’ll round up family. They’ll gangrape my wife and my sister, in front of me, then kill them. They’ll torture my children before my own eyes. They’ll get my brothers, cousins, their wives, everybody, and shoot them all.’ He looked first at Matt, then at Jed, the defiance gleaming in his eyes. ‘So just fucking do it if you want to. Getting my throat cut here would be a blessing.’

Matt had already pulled a hunting knife from his pocket. The blade was glistening in the pale light. Jed stepped forward. ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘The guy’s got family. He’s done enough for us already.’

‘You trying to get us bloody killed again, Jed?’ said Matt.

Jed shook his head. ‘Just trying to come out of this war without causing any more carnage than necessary.’

He looked at Mansour. ‘Give us a car, and a decent map, we’ll find our own way.’

‘There’s no car,’ said Mansour.

‘Get us one,’ snapped Matt.

‘I’ve done enough,’ growled Mansour. ‘My house is being watched. This is your war, you fight it. I can give you a map, that’s all.’

Matt looked as if he was about to punch the man, but Jed moved to block him. There was no point squeezing the guy any more, he thought, we’ve already got all the juice we’re going to get out of that one. ‘Try and get your family somewhere safe, mate,’ said Jed. ‘I reckon this city is going to turn very nasty in the next forty-eight hours.’

With Matt at his side, he walked out of the workshop. It was just after four in the afternoon, and the sun was shining brightly on the city. The road was empty, but up in the distance you could hear the rumbling traffic of central Baghdad. Across the road, they found a blue Toyota Corolla with at least fifteen years on it, they thought. Matt had done training in nicking cars – he’d picked up tips as a kid – and broke into the bonnet to hot-wire the vehicle. Modern cars were hard to break into, because they had so many sophicticated anti-theft devices built into them, but an old wreck like this was easy. They would be able to have it started in a matter of minutes.

Jed slung his kitbag on to the back seat and fired the ignition. The engine spluttered, then roared into life.

Jed steered the car out on to the road. The pickup point was towards the north of the city, in the al-Zawiyah district, composed mostly of the residential streets, some factories and workshops, and an army barracks. Matt had a map out on his lap. ‘Keep to the side roads,’ he said. ‘I reckon that’s the best chance of staying out of trouble.’

Jed put the Toyota into third, and picked up speed. They had their AK-47s tucked down beneath their legs, and both of them knew what they had to do if they were stopped. Start shooting, and keep on shooting, until either they’d killed all the guys in front of them, or been killed themselves. There was no point in trying to bluff their way out. They didn’t stand a chance. And there was no point in being taken alive.
Better to go down fighting.

They covered one mile, then another. People were
coming out of the factories and offices, and the kids were all home from school. Some were kicking balls around the street, other were just hanging out, chatting. There weren’t any proper shops, just stalls selling fruit and rice, and the occasional piece of meat. Christ, it’s a miserable place, thought Jed, as he steered the Toyota through yet another street crowded with apartment blocks and rough-looking cafés.
At least the bombs can’t make it much worse.

‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath.

He looked across at Matt, then straight ahead. There was a roadblock about a hundred yards up the street, with at least five soldiers manning it. Fifteen cars were backed up in a line. A couple of guys in front were honking. Jed craned his neck, trying to see what was happening. The car at the front of the queue had been stopped, and two men ordered out of it. Another man was sitting on the back seat. Three soldiers were shouting at the men, their AK-47s pointing straight at them. Suddenly a shot rattled through the crowded street. Instinctively, Jed flinched, then looked back up. The cars had all fallen silent. Up ahead, he could see that one man was slumped over the bonnet of the car, blood seeping from the open wounds on his head. The second man was cowering at his side. Another soldier was pulling the third man from the car.

‘Shit,’ muttered Matt. ‘What the hell do we do now?’

‘Hold tight,’ said Jed.

‘We should run for it,’ said Matt. ‘While we still have a chance.’

‘I said, hold tight,’ repeated Jed through gritted teeth.

He stretched his neck to keep an eye on the fight. Another rapid burst of gunfire split through the sky, then another. A silence had overtaken the street. None of the cars were moving. No one was running away. Nobody was saying a word, just sitting quietly, thought Jed grimly. And giving thanks to Allah it was those buggers and not them.

The captain started waving the cars through. Almost reluctantly, they started to move again. Jed’s breath was shallow, and a bead of cold sweat was running down the back of his spine. Whatever those boys were doing, it probably wasn’t as bad as what we’re planning.
If they shot them on the spot, what the hell would they do to us?

The Toyota drew level with the roadblock. Jed looked straight ahead, keeping his eyes on the bumper of the Renault in front of him. Don’t look round, he told himself. Don’t let them look into your eyes. The soldier was inspecting one of the corpses on the ground. Another was being lifted up and bundled into the back seat of the car he’d been driving just a few minutes before. They’ll probably take him to the river, thought Jed.
Life is cheap in this city.

They drove straight through. The guards were no longer stopping people. I guess they’ve had enough trouble for one day. He pressed his foot on the accelerator, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the roadblock. Through the rear-view mirror, he could see a woman running up to the guards, shouting and waving her arms. Already, the soldiers were
aiming their AK-47s at her, and their commander was pointing his pistol into the air. Bugger, thought Jed. This city is on a knife edge.
When cruise missiles start crashing into the streets, the whole place is going to implode.