‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Don’t forget your passport.’
Dillon disconnected.
Bethan put down her phone. What was happening in Albania that required Scotland Yard?
The week suddenly felt as if it had come to an end.
Chapter 8
Gunnymede entered the cavernous arrivals hall of London Heathrow Terminal 3 amongst a stream of people, trolleys and luggage. As he moved with the flow, he glanced along the line of cards in the hands of drivers and greeters waiting behind a long, steel rail. None bore his name or a phrase that meant anything to him.
Gunnymede had no baggage. All his clothing, including a garish t-shirt bearing some inane slogan across the chest partially covered by an oversized jacket had been purchased from a market stall in the Green Zone in Baghdad two days before. The embassy staff member who’d bought it had either poor taste, a small budget or a wry sense of humour. Gunnymede had no say in the matter. As soon as he arrived at the embassy he had been taken to the infirmary where his wound was cleaned and stitched and immediately after he was shown into the bubble room with a tray of tea and sandwiches where he was connected with Dubai operations and debriefed on the failed operation. Gunnymede had been anxious to report not only Saleem’s survival but his threat to carry out a major attack on London. But Ops hadn’t seemed particularly interested in the attack. Gunnymede supposed their lack of curiosity was justified. Saleem was a low level fighter. It was one thing for him to make such threats and another altogether to carry them out. The fact he was in Syria and had a slender chance of getting out of there alive decreased the priority. In short, Saleem had been all talk.
Gunnymede omitted the part where he’d actually been hanging by his neck, swinging off the ground and choking to death seconds before he got away. He put it down to security reasons, protecting something other than his dignity. It was in fact the truth. He was protecting the existence of his saviour.
When Mustafa kicked away the log and ran, Gunnymede was, to all intents and purposes, a dead man. He had seconds to live. But as the noose tightened and he began to lose consciousness he hit the ground. At first he thought the scaffold had been felled by an explosion. They seemed to be going off all around. But then the rope was removed from his neck and the bonds cut from his wrists. An explosion nearby threw a load of sand over him. Gunnymede was turned onto his back. He fought to focus on a man looking down on him. It was one of the Daesh fighters. The Arab looked around, wide-eyed, afraid. ‘Can you hear me?’ he shouted.
Gunnymede was still dazed.
The man slapped his face. ‘Can you hear me?’
Gunnymede raised his hands against another blow. ‘Yes.’
‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Run! Get out of here! Or we’re both dead!’
And with that the man sprang to his feet and took off.
He was a friendly. He could only have been an undercover operator. There was no other explanation. He’d taken a huge personal risk in saving Gunnymede. And Gunnymede had to respect that to the point of not even telling the Dubai team. The spy was above their level and probably only known to his handler. Gunnymede would be eternally grateful to him whoever he was.
As the spy ran off, Gunnymede struggled to his feet unsteadily and set off at the run. But with his first step came a searing pain in his side. His hand was covered in blood after inspecting it. It was not the time or place to worry about a mere flesh wound. He looked back to see if he was being pursued and caught sight of the Kurdish soldiers he’d shared the scaffold with, all hanging limply by their necks. He ran on as hard as he could. The air raid was coming to an end. The fighters would soon emerge from their hiding places.
He pushed on, holding his bloody side, through the remnants of the ancient city. He paused to get his bearings using the sun and headed due west. Lebanon was that way. How far, he’d no idea.
A mile from the Daesh compound he came across a farmer loading goats into the back of an old truck. Without being seen, he crawled inside and hid amongst the animals. It wasn’t long after the truck was on its way that Gunnymede realised they were heading east not west. Towards Iraq.
It didn’t matter. He didn’t care at that point, as long as they were moving away from Daesh. His wound had stopped bleeding but it was going to need stitches. After patching it up with strips of his clothing he explored his confinement.
As the truck bumped along the sand road Gunnymede moved between the goats and found the mesh back door was held shut by a twist of wire. Hanging by a hook was a plastic bag containing old clothes. Gunnymede removed his military fatigues and exchanged them for a grubby pair of trousers and a shirt. He looked like a beggar, which would do perfectly. He was reluctant to give up his boots though. The alternative was bare feet. But there was so much military gear lying around the desert these days the boots would not attract any particular attention.
Gunnymede made himself as comfortable as he could on the grubby floor and spent the next few hours keeping the goats from falling on him whenever the truck jolted. Several hours later they arrived at a market town. He lay flat in the middle of the bed, the goats surrounding and concealing him. Daylight was fading and when the
