There was a footfall. We all turned at the same time, weapons cocked and in hand, beams of light playing over the rock walls.
A voice rang out, loud, an American voice, edged with malice and with humor.
“The British Army does not make war on women and children, or on prisoners. It is reassuring and rewarding to hear the voice of the British trooper on the ground upholding those great values of civilization.”
He stepped into the circle of light from our flashlights. I knew him: Captain Bill Hartmann, currently attached to Delta Force, but nobody knew where he originated. Most assumed he was CIA. Right now he had four men behind him in full battle dress, armed with HK416s.
He smiled at us each in turn. “Hail, dear allies,” he said. “Well met. I have to congratulate you on a superb job. But you guys look tired. Why don’t you let us take it from here?”
Bradley stepped in front of Mohammed and squared his massive shoulders.
“This man is our prisoner and he is coming back to London with us.”
Hartmann's smile was a thing you wanted to stamp on. He shook his head and said, “No, Sergeant, he’s not. We are taking him back to Washington.” He pointed a finger at Mohammed. “I suggest we get this piece of shit outside and you talk to your colonel on the phone. He’ll give you your new orders. We have a couple of choppers waiting. One of them will take you back to your base. Think of it as a small thank-you, for services rendered.”
I still had my P226 stuck to the back of Mohammed’s head. I said:
“This man has to face justice for what he did.”
Hartmann narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re an American.”
“I said, this man has to face justice for what he has done.”
“And so he shall, son. Good old American justice. We’ll see to that back home, don’t you worry. Now hand him over and quit being an asshole.”
Nothing happened, except that I could feel my finger tightening on the trigger.
“I know what you’ll do with him. He won’t stand trial and he won’t be punished.”
He took three strides and came up close in front of me. He cupped the back of my neck with his left hand and looked into my eyes.
“This guy’s brother is a Saudi prince, boy. He plays golf with three different presidents from two different parties. One of his sons is at Harvard and another went to Sandhurst, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. So grow up, son. This is the real world, and down here bad shit happens all the time. So hand him over before I have my boys shoot your boys.”
I pulled Mohammed to his feet and we all marched outside. There was an icy wind and a frosted moon was riding a few inches above the eastern horizon. Bradley made the call, said, “Yes, sir...” a few times and hung up. He looked at me and jerked his head—I should hand him over.
I grabbed the bastard by the scruff of his neck and rasped at him in Arabic.
“Sawf ajduk! I will find you, and you will pay for what you did to that village. I swear!” Then I thrust him toward Captain Hartmann.
They both stared at me for a moment and Hartmann wagged a finger at me.
“I don’t like you, boy. You’re in the wrong army, doing the wrong stuff. You ain’t heard the last of me.” He turned to Bradley. “You got a chopper waiting at the plateau. You should report this son of a bitch.” He pointed at me. “He was going to execute a valuable prisoner, an unarmed man. I’m going to talk to my people, and they will talk to your people. You’d better be on the right side when the shit comes down, Sergeant Bradley.”
They walked away, along the path, toward the plateau where the choppers were waiting. I turned to Bradley. “I’m sorry, Sarge.”
He shook his head. “You should have shot him when you had the chance.”
Jones slapped a huge hand on my shoulder. “We’ll back you up, boyo. If it comes to that.”
Skinner spat again and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Ain’t nobody saw what went down here tonight ’cept us, right? Our word against his.”
I nodded. I knew guys like Hartmann, and so did they. And they knew that Hartmann’s word carried more weight than the four of us put together, and then some.
We made our way back toward the plateau and the waiting chopper in silence. We knew it was over. It was over for me, at least.
Chapter Two
They gave it the works. They wanted to make it stick, and even though the Brits—and especially the Regiment—don’t like being told what to do, they knew that the “special” part of the Special Relationship meant that Washington looked after Westminster’s interests because Westminster no longer had the military might to do it herself. So while Washington would usually ask nicely, because Britain was an essential ally, Westminster would usually say “Yes” to whatever Washington asked. That was the way it was in post-imperial Britain.
We were flown to Bagram, to the small, unofficial HQ the SAS still had in what was left of the airbase there. I was allowed to shower, eat and sleep for four hours, and then I was summoned to Brigadier Alexander “Buddy” Byrd’s office for a “chat.”
The office was functional, military green steel and melamine. The venetian blind was raised and the window showed a view of dilapidated, empty barracks and desultory soldiers and officers trying hard to look like they were doing a job instead of thinking of going home.
The Regiment doesn’t stand on ceremony, and there is a tradition of officers and troopers using first names. It’s an unspoken recognition that if you made it far enough to become a “blade,” you’re worthy of respect. I stepped through the door and Byrd watched me close it and sit down on the beige and chrome chair opposite him at his desk. At sixty, he was handsome, lean and strong, and probably the most dangerous man I had ever met. Yet he had a bland, amiable face and spoke with the quiet, deferential manner of the English upper-middle classes. He smiled, then turned it into a wince.
“Spot of bother up at the caves, ay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It got a bit out of hand.”
“Shame Mohammed didn’t defend himself, really. Would have saved everyone a lot of bother.”
“Yeah. He’s not that kind of man.”
“Whitehall wanted him rather badly, of course.”
“Hartmann was right behind us. They let us do the dirty work, then they came in and claimed the prize.”
“He says you were going to execute Ben-Amini.”
“I was. The Sarge was telling me not to do it. I couldn’t get the memory of the massacre at Al-Landy out of my head. The kids, the children...”
I stopped myself and looked out at the bright glare of the desert day. When I had my breath under control again I went on.
“But that wasn’t why he reported me. He was mad at me because I wasn’t going to hand over Ben-Amini. None of us were. But the Sarge spoke to brass and we got our orders, which we obeyed.”
Byrd sighed and pulled open a drawer. He pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet and poured us a shot each. He’d never done that before and I knew it was a farewell.
“For my part,” he said, “I couldn’t be less interested in Whitehall’s political maneuverings. But we are soldiers and we must obey orders. On the other hand, we can’t go around executing prisoners without trial, because then, however justified that execution may be on a personal level, as an institution we become no better than them. I hope you understand that, Bauer.”