Spy Shadows Read online

  Spy Shadows

  Spy Shadows

  Freddie P. Peters

  Henry Crowne Paying The Price Book 4

  Spy Shadows

  First published 2020 by Freddie P. Peters

  www.freddieppeters.com

  Text copyright © Freddie P. Peters 2020

  The right of Freddie P. Peters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  ISBN: 978-1-8380760-0-9

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by Jessica Bell.

  Typesetting by Aimee Dewar.

  This is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or localities is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Also by Freddie P. Peters:

  Collap$e

  Breaking Po!nt

  No Turning Back

  Glossary of Abbreviations

  Term

  Meaning

  NGO

  A non-profit organisation that operates independently of governments and addresses social or political issues.

  TOR

  A web browser designed for anonymous web surfing and protection against traffic analysis.

  VPN

  A virtual private network that enables users to send and receive data using public network (internet) through a virtual, private secure channel.

  Other terms

  Term

  Meaning

  Peshmerga

  “Those who face death”. It is a military force of the autonomous region of Kurdistan in Iraq, the only military force to include a female battalion known for its fierceness and feared in the region.

  Glossary of Arabic Terms

  Arabic Term

  English Translation

  Abaya

  A loose overgarment, robe-like dress worn by women in the Middle East.

  Allahu Akbar

  God is most great. Used by Muslims in prayers, as a declaration of faith or thanks.

  Kameez

  A long tunic worn by many people in the Middle East and southern Asia.

  Khoubz

  A round flat shape bread with a slightly coarse texture eaten throughout the Middle East.

  Marhabaan

  Welcome, hello.

  Niqab

  A veil worn by Muslim women in public, covering all of the face apart from the eyes.

  Qur’an surah

  A chapter of the Qur’an.

  Salaam alaikum… Alaikum as salaam

  Greeting meaning “peace be upon you”. The response being “and peace be upon you too”.

  Samovar

  A greatly decorated tea urn.

  Shemagh

  A traditional Arabian scarf worn throughout the Middle East region, often in black and white or red and white.

  Shura Council

  A consultation council in Islamic law called Sharia law.

  Taqiyah cap

  A short, round skull cap.

  Wahhabist

  Someone who practises a strict and conservative interpretation of Islam’s Sunni branch.

  Chapter One

  Wasim is lying on his belly, elbows stuck in the dusty soil, binoculars pushed against his eyes. The gunshots have refocused their attention. Henry crawls close to him and adjusts his own field glasses to follow the scene. Two people are running, desperately trying to reach the border between Syria and Turkey. Bab al-Hawa is a small place, a few houses, a compound that could be anything, a mosque… But it is the place where ISIL fighters cross to move between the two countries. Henry can’t quite make out who is who in the distance. He has not used night vision glasses much before and his eyes still can’t quite work out people and weapons.

  The rapid discharge of a machine gun stops one of the men, but the other keeps going; in a few seconds he will soon enter Turkey and perhaps be safe. The same rattle of bullets shot in succession throws him to the ground. Still, he staggers up, holding his left arm.

  “They are not jihadists… they’re kafir,” Wasim’s low voice can’t hide disquiet. Henry does not ask the question that burns his tongue. “Infidels? How do you know?”

  “Should we hang around?” Henry asked instead.

  “Not sure.” Wasim half turns on his side, watching the other three young fighters that are with them. He had chosen them when they left the IS training camp to accompany Henry and himself across the border. Keen, inexperienced but stubborn as well, they want to fight the jihad. The heavy man who has been their driver for most of the journey is now on the phone. He knows one of the men who is in pursuit of the two fugitives… a cousin of a cousin. Henry can make out some of the words: brother… help… and the final one he has just learned in Arabic a few days ago… hostage.

  Wasim shuffles back from his position to where the three men are bunched together, hidden behind a cluster of large boulders. He interrupts the conversation. There is no room for dissent in this forsaken place where so many political factions are at war.

  Henry yet again fails to understand the whole of Wasim’s sentences. His voice is low and harsh… must deliver the banker… no time… Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the leader can’t be made to wait. The three men all start nodding at the name that inspires dread and awe. The phone rings again and the big man answers. These brothers really need our help with the hostages they were supposed to hand over. It would be a blow to their credibility. Wasim couldn’t care less about their reputation. His task is to bring Henry Crowne, convicted IRA terrorist and former City banker to the leader of an emerging jihadi group called ISIL and the other fighters accompanying him had better remember it. The phone rings once more. The hostages and their captors are on their way, the rendezvous point half a mile from where Wasim and his group are heading.

  Henry waits. He has learned not to address Wasim in English unless he has been spoken to first, only trying his Arabic when spoken to by the other men, much to
their delight, a good way to ridicule him… He is still kafir after all. No matter what al-Baghdadi wants to do with him, they do not trust the English banker.

  The air is damp, and the night sky of a brightness Henry has witnessed only since his arrival in ISIL’s camps across the border in Turkey. There is no pollution in Bab al-Hawa… Just used cartridges from the rounds fired by machine guns, indicating the crossing point has been well used in recent months. The empty shells roll under Henry’s heavy army boots as he crouches before standing up. He brings the white and blue shemagh around his face. Wasim and one of the other fighters run downhill towards the grimy 4x4 they have used to cross the border on rough terrain. Henry follows and climbs into the vehicle, squeezed between two of the men. The fetid smell of sweat and questionable hygiene has stopped bothering him.

  Since he left the UK six months ago, he has travelled by every conceivable means of transportation, all of them far from the luxury he once knew… There were no five-star hotels and first-class lounges on his way to infiltrate a terror group in Syria. He has at least had some preparation in the letting go of unnecessary comfort. Four years spent in the High Security Unit of Belmarsh Prison in London has taught Henry a thing or two about minimal living and survival. Still, the road to Syria has been a harsh training ground, the way of the jihad is cruel beyond words and the newly formed army has no patience for the fighter who can’t deliver on his promises.

  The crossing from a small deserted beach on the shores of South Hole in the UK to Malta had been ridiculously smooth, taking less than four days. The flight from Malta to Turkey had been equally uneventful. He knows why, but he does not complain. Yet nothing has prepared him for the violence that hit him when he joined one of the boot camps near the border of Syria. He would not be allowed to join the inner circle of al-Baghdadi’s commanders before he had proved himself.

  The 4x4 engine revs as Wasim urges the vehicle to climb the steep slope, sliding sideways into the sludge left by recent rain. Such a blessing in this dry part of the world is nevertheless ill received by the small group – tracks left behind are easy to spot, not what they need when delivering their unusual cargo.

  Henry spots the other vehicle coming their way. The mobile phone rings again. The rattle of the battered truck can now be heard echoing in the distance and drowning out the purr of the 4x4 engine. The big man, who is in contact with one of his relatives, replies. Wasim does not say anything when he hears one of the hostages in the truck needs assistance. At least that is what Henry has understood. Wasim parks the vehicle at the side of a surprisingly well-maintained road. They are now in Syrian territory and the plan had not been to stop for help, whatever the reason. The young fighter, Ali, who is squeezed in to the left of Henry, jumps out to move quickly towards the old truck. Henry can hear raised voices coming from the back of the vehicle. It now moves past the 4x4 and reverses, exposing its hold. Two fighters jump out, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. The full moon gives enough light for Henry to make out one form lying down and another crouching at the back of the pick-up.

  Wasim stays put. The smell of recent gunfire is on the newcomers’ skin. Henry can smell it from where he is sitting, his shoulder and head stuck out of the 4x4 window. The man lying down screams in pain as Ali climbs into the back of the truck. The scream shocks Henry but perhaps less than it would once have done.

  “Who are they?” he whispers to Wasim.

  “Hostages… journalists. This lot abducted them as they were crossing into Syria. They tried to run back towards the Turkish border. One of them is badly injured.”

  “Ransom?” Henry is keen to know. After all, he has been recruited by ISIL to consolidate the financial empire they are building to sustain their efforts in defeating the West. He might as well start learning right away the sources of income they intend to generate.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Why almost?”

  Wasim has stopped speaking in English. One of the fighters comes back. Wasim eases his heavy body out of the 4x4. The situation won’t get out of control. He will make sure of that. Henry has a point though, hostages are income and it might play in their favour. Henry shivers; the nights are cool despite the heat of the day. He is simply grateful that a childhood spent in Belfast, Northern Ireland has hardened him against harsh weather.

  Wasim is bending over the journalist’s body, opening up the jacket carefully. The man screams again. But this time Henry’s body freezes – he has heard that kind of scream before, the agony of a wound that almost certainly cannot be treated… At least not here in the middle of this barren land. The fighters who are holding the journalists are now arguing. Wasim shakes his head. His own fighters have joined the fray.

  Henry knows Wasim must be careful. He is a Muslim, but he is also British. He does not know Syria as well as these men do. He needs them to help deliver Henry to Raqqa. Not being able to speak freely to Wasim has been punishing. Henry’s Arabic is coming along well. He has always learned fast, but he does not want people to know how fluent he has become. He can no longer show how brilliant he is. His stellar banking career is over. He does not regret it… it has taken time to come to this now obvious conclusion. Five years ago, he was accused of a crime he did not commit and yet it unveiled a crime perhaps greater, his involvement with the IRA and its finances. It has taken four years at HSU Belmarsh, amongst the worst of criminals, for Henry to decide what he must do next.

  Wasim has now raised his voice; the Arabic language gives it a sharpness and command it does not always show in English. It is not a question of fluency, rather of intent. Henry understands more words… responsibility, taking over, but the other fighters are having none of it. Kidnapping has become a business and these young men want in on the action. Wasim comes back to the 4x4 and opens a small compartment below the wheel. He takes out the first aid kit and hands it over reluctantly.

  “These bloody idiots are going to get us caught,” he mutters in English.

  “How bad is it?”

  “He won’t last the night,” Wasim replies.

  A drop of ice lodges itself into Henry’s belly. “Where are they from?”

  “One Brit, one Yank…” Wasim volunteers. “They want to find a doctor… he needs more than that.”

  “We can’t let him die.” Henry has spoken despite himself. He knows it is not his place to have an opinion about who lives and who dies in these ISIL-held territories, at least not yet. But he inevitably feels close to these two people who belong to his own culture.

  Wasim darts him a cold look. “Yes, we can.”

  Henry is about to argue, gripped by anger; his back straightens and his fists tighten.

  “Don’t,” Wasim cuts him short. Henry’s jaw clenches. He trusts Wasim though. Henry is good at judging character and he has decided he can rely on him. He has known this since the moment MI6 presented him with their ISIL infiltration contact, who has become his minder. Wasim trained him after he helped Henry escape Belmarsh and he has followed him through the gruelling recruitment camps.

  “How far are we from Raqqa?” Henry can’t just drop the subject. Perhaps there is a compromise and something to gain from the situation.

  “On the motorway, ten hours, but we are not going there the easy way, are we?”

  “How long down the scenic route then?”

  Wasim’s features freeze into the mask that sets when he means to rebuke Henry. But Henry has seen the glimmer in his eyes. He has learned to appreciate Henry for who he is. A brilliant brain, an arrogant bastard and yet someone you cannot hate… a powerful combination.

  “Eighteen hours, perhaps a little longer… We need to cross between Syria and Iraq at the right time of the day.”

  “If we saved this journalist guy, he might be worth a lot to ISIL… right?”

  “Your point?” Henry can see Wasim has prepared his argument, but more raised voices interrupt them.
One of the captors is shoving the young fighter Ali who has tried to help him use the medical kit. Wasim grabs the Sig Sauer pistol from underneath his seat and slides it into the waistband of his trousers. His entire body language has changed from alert to relaxed but ready for a fight. Henry moves back into the 4x4 and finds the Glock he has stashed away in his rucksack. Wasim approaches with raised hands to calm the situation down but the conversation has turned nasty. The captors want the 4x4 to deliver their hostages to the nearest hospital in Aleppo.

  Henry has so far managed to avoid pulling the trigger on anyone who has got in his way. He has not yet been asked to show he can kill a man because everyone assumes he has. But soon, very soon, either to protect his life or to show that he truly belongs, he will have to. Wasim is trying to reason with the captors – he calls on verses of the Qur’an that invoke brotherhood. This seems a good move as the arguing suddenly stops. The fighters who accompany Henry and Wasim, and the captors they have just met, are young. Despite the beards that age them somewhat, they are in their early twenties at most. The moans of the injured man refocus everyone and the demands of the young captors are going to resume, more pressing this time, perhaps even violent. The older of the two, a gangly youth with a distinctive russet beard, moves towards Wasim, one hand clenched on his AK-47.

  The gunshots roll like thunder over the low hills of Bab al-Hawa. Henry has reached for his Glock, his two hands secure on the piece, training it on the two captors. Four shots delivered in groups of two; the youth with the russet beard falls first, surprise etched on his face. His companion does not fare much better. He has dropped his weapon as if on fire but to no avail.

  Wasim still holds the gun at the ready. He has another 14 rounds to go. His own people can’t believe it… Muslim on Muslim… he who has just spoken about brotherhood.