The Prague Ultimatum Page 18

  “And here comes the Good Cop. Well don’t worry, I couldn’t care less.” Salam spat his response, defiantly, although the wideness of his flickering eyes betrayed his fearful lack of confidence. “I hope you have better conversation than your friend.”

  “We’re not cops,” Stone answered.

  “Spies then, agents.”

  “Try soldier.”

  “Soldier?”

  “Yes, at least I am. Captain Lincoln Stone VC, Her Majesty’s Royal Tank Regiment, at your service.”

  The sound of raking phlegm echoed through the cavern and Stone lifted his hand to wipe the spit from his face, swallowing with great difficulty the urge to pick up where Williams left off and drop this murderous imbecile over the edge of the chasm himself, managing with great effort to keep his voice level and calm.

  “Not a fan of the Forces I take it?”

  “Should I be? After they spend decades fighting my people.”

  “The only people I fight are those fighting me,” Stone answered, meeting a contemptuous stare for his trouble.

  “You have denied me my prayer time; my devotion.”

  “I’ve done no such thing, pray away, I’ll wait; I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “Not like this,” Salam hissed, looking down at his ropes, “not restrained.”

  “Ah...” Stone mused for a moment before making his decision. “No can do I’m afraid,” he finally said, “Not until you’ve answered a few questions for me anyway.”

  “You cannot deny me…”

  “I can deny you whatever hell I like!”

  Stone bellowed the words which reverberated around the cavern and shocked the young prisoner into a stunned silence and brought even Williams to attention.

  “You rigged yourself up to explode in a crowd of innocent people yesterday; tourists with kids just wandering around looking for a good place to take a selfie, old people struggling home with their arms full of shopping bags, people out to listen to democracy in action right there on the streets. Civilians,” he said, his voice beginning to break, “innocents.”

  The Captain stood and kicked the char to the side, his struggle to contain his outburst becoming more obvious with each passing word.

  “If you’d had your way yesterday a lot of people would be dead now, including you, so as far as I’m concerned I can deny you pretty much everything and anything I can think of. Now you play ball with me and give me the answers I need, then I might just see my way clear to returning the favour, but if you don’t, then I walk back up to the surface and leave you in the company of my Scottish friend here, and let him take out his fourteen centuries of pent up frustration on you. Is that fucking understood?”

  In truth, he was as shocked by his outburst as the person on the end of it, though having given in to his aggression he saw no reason to acknowledge the regret. Stone had had his fill of Militants; he had fought them hand-to-hand across deserts and battle grounds ever since that first disastrous decision to move the troops to Afghanistan. Some were powerful, some were weak; some seemed imbibed with some fanatical belief in their own invulnerability, the certainty of reward for their martyrdom or both, but all possessed one shared characteristic; their eyes. A true fanatic of any persuasion, bore their twisted devotion in their eyes; a subconscious warning to any enemy stupid enough to get close that there would be no negotiation, no surrender; indeed there could not. At first disturbing, Stone had seen sufficient examples to no longer fear the sight. But what disturbed him now even more was the lack of such conviction in the eyes of the prisoner.

  “Here’s how it’s going to go,” Stone began, in control of his voice once more. “Between you and me I have no power here, no jurisdiction. But what I do have is the ear of the President, the Prime Minister and the Head of the Security Services. You answer my questions truthfully, thoroughly; or I pass you to the care of a prison system that makes Guantanamo Bay look like a fucking holiday camp.”

  “A question for a question?”

  “What?”

  Salam looked into Stone’s eyes almost with earnest as he repeated his question.

  “I don’t care if they kill me,” he said, “I ask for no leniency, only the chance to ask you a question. Soldier to soldier.”

  “I wasn’t aware you fit that description.”

  “Soldier to soldier,” the youngster repeated, staring intently, his head on one side. There was an almost ethereal quality to the gaze and Stone found himself acquiescing to the unusual request.

  “You answer my questions first. I don’t release any sensitive information and if I don’t like the sound of something you get no answer, ok?”

  “Ok.”

  With the surreal arrangements in place, Stone began his inquisition. Where did Salam come from? Syria. Which cell did he belong to? None. Who was his accomplice killed in the Square? A friend and fellow student now enjoying the reward for his devotion. On and on Stone pressed; each question fully responded to but telling him little that he didn’t already know, until finally, one question met only silence.

  “I repeat,” said Stone, “you took refuge in Czechoslovakia, you enrolled in University. By all accounts you were initially a sociable guy before withdrawing in on himself, no strong political convictions other than regarding Assad, and no mention of profound religious beliefs, certainly nothing to put you in the category of potential suicide bomber at least. I want to know what turned Abdul Salam the frightened refugee into Abdul Salam the attempted murderer?”

  Again the ethereal stare, the unbalanced head, the disturbed expression.

  “What made you go into battle for the first time, Captain?”

  “We haven’t got to me yet,” Stone shook his head, “answer my question.”

  “Divinity,” he snapped quickly, as though the answer mattered little to him, “a response from Heaven to my devotion. Now please; when your country sent you to wars you knew were wrong, what made you stay and fight? Duty? Honour? God?”

  The prisoner shivered and strained against his bonds giving Stone every bit the impression that he really did need to know. He sat upright against the back of the chair and narrowed his eyes, the limp necked prisoner firmly in his view.

  “Ok,” Stone almost whispered, “I’ll tell you. In the Falklands I was defending my countrymen from invasion, in Kuwait I repelled attacks on innocents and in Kosovar I helped keep the peace. But by the time of Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria… by the time they came along I was so damn tired of it all. Some of the lads still had their heads full of that Queen and Country bullshit but I was all out of that, there was no romance left to soldiering for me. I knew it was all bollocks; that we’d been lied to and the intelligence was shit, but I was used to politicians lying; my trust extended as far as my own command chain because no-one else was going to make sure I had boots on my feet and food in my belly. But as we were stuck there anyway, I aimed to be as professional as possible, be nice to the civilians we were trying to help, look after the innocents and my Squadron and pray that we’d all get out of it alive. And if I found some bastard shooting at me I made damn sure I shot him first. Yes, I knew it was dodgy, but when you’re there on active service you live in a bubble; the reasons for being there aren’t important anymore, you just get the job done, keep your conscience as clean as you can and get home. The biggest philosophical question every day is what the mess will serve up for tea. But in that bubble with you are people who still feel the romance, who still think it’s an adventure. They’re your Squadron, your kids, you have a burden of responsibility, you can’t abandon them. So you stay and fight, and hope that however wrong the war might be, the people you’re fighting are worse.”

  Stone closed his eyes and exhaled, as though his speech exorcised a thousand demons within him.

  “That’s what made me stay and fight and that’s why I stay in the Army to this day; I have a responsibility to my Regiment.”

  No answer came from the prisoner, only a gentle nod of his lopsided
head and a continuing stare from the wide eyes.

  It was Williams, pulling away from the cave wall with sheer exasperation on his face who finally broke the silence.

  “Not that I’m not loving all this profound introspection,” he said, discarding the luxury of his vantage point and moving briskly behind the captive figure whose hands were bound, clenched in impotent defiance, “but I’ve got a box set of Chicago Fire to watch tonight and I don’t want to be up too late, or I’ll be all cranky in the morning.”

  The lightening alacrity which subdued Stone in the alley returned, as the gleam of Williams’ blade flashed almost imperceptibly behind the prisoner, accompanied by the restrained man’s cry.

  “I’ve just slit your wrists,” Williams said nonchalantly, walking from behind the man and towards the mouth of the cavern. “It’s not too warm in here, that’ll buy you some time. I reckon you’ve got about an hour, maybe two before you bleed out; plenty of time to have a think about whether you want to talk to us or not.”

  “You think I’m scared of dying?” The bleeding man’s voice tried to convey its typical mocking tone, but was tinged with an undisguisable confusion.

  “I don’t think you’re scared of the kind of death you want, no. You know the kind? You looking all heroic and commanding in your military fatigues before blowing yourself and a restaurant full of kids to Kingdom Come on your way to meet your seventy-two virgins. But bleeding slowly to a very lonely, painful and pointless death, miles away from the TV crews before I dress you in a crop top and hotpants, and bury you in a fucking pig carcass, is a very different prospect.”

  Stone’s face was one of incredulous fury and he gripped the striding Williams by the arm, spinning him around to face him.

  “This isn’t how it’s done, you can’t do this!”

  “Oh yes I can fucking do this!” Williams yelled back, stepping closer into Stone, their rage filled faces barely inches apart.

  “I didn’t come here for a philosophy lecture, and I couldn’t give two shits what keeps you motivated enough to shoot bad guys in the desert; I came here for answers! That guy dripping on the floor is the only way I’m going to get them, and if all he’s going to do is put everything down to ‘divine inspiration’ then I’m just wasting my time.”

  “He was talking to me!”

  “About what? I’m trying to find a link to these bombings and stop anyone else from dying; you’re stuck on some sort of fucking grand voyage of self-discovery! If you want to find yourself, go talk to a Priest or a psychiatrist, and stay the fuck away from my fucking prisoners!”

  He pulled his arm free from Stone’s hand and resumed his stride into the black tunnel, glancing back over his shoulder as he disappeared into the darkness.

  “He said he’s happy to die, let him get on with it.”

  Stone followed in his wake, his anger building exponentially, emerging in a dimly lit tunnel away from the main cavern.

  “We’re not leaving him to die man,” Stone hissed as Williams slowed his pace and turned back to him, “I don’t give a fuck if he’s a terrorist, we do things differently where I come from.”

  Williams looked heavenward in exaggerated frustration.

  “Look at him, he’s no fucking terrorist. For fuck’s sake man, you’ve done enough tours in that part of the world to know a genuine Jihadist when you see one!”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?!”

  “Of course I bloody know!” Stone hissed his angered frustration at the wrinkled Scot, glaring into him with menace. “I’ve fought with enough rogues, militants, whatever you want to call them to know when someone’s the real deal. It’s in the eyes, that’s where all the righteous anger and hatred shows itself, in everyone, and that’s the problem! He’s no terrorist, he’s a kid! There’s no hatred in his eyes, there’s nothing, just…”

  “Drugs.”

  “What?”

  “Drugs!” Williams shrugged, a condescending smile forming on his face in response to Stone’s puzzlement. “Think about it, it’s more common than you realise. Look back over some of these so called ‘terrorist attacks’ in recent years; some are the real hard core fanatics, some are even strategically organised with access to weaponry and an unshakeable certainty that paradise awaits them for taking out the number 47 from Croydon; but how often do you read about some atrocity or other committed by a normal, young kid, with no previous indicators? Kids exactly like our friend through there.”

  “Radicalisation, or so the papers say.”

  “Oh and you believe the media do you? ‘Cos they really treated you fairly didn’t they? Yeah, some radicalisation goes on, but for a lot of these attacks you need to look further than your local mosque for your brainwasher.”

  “Where? Why would anyone need to brainwash kids into committing terrorist acts when there’s plenty of terrorists to go around?”

  “The same reason people hang highly decorated career soldiers out to dry when the need takes them: scapegoating. Why advertise your targets when a conveniently placed terrorist will take them out for you?”

  “But the true fanatics desire chaos, why would they submit to being part of an organised attack?”

  Williams grinned widely.

  “That’s where the drugs come in,” he said, “come on and follow my lead.”

  Together they walked back into the alcove, the dim light illuminating them like ghoulishly distasteful decorations.

  Williams leaned against the damp cave wall, glancing over at the tethered would-be killer, who stared back defiantly. The condescension was gone from the older man’s face and replaced with a weathered weariness, his voice quiet and contemplative, as Stone watched.

  “Say you wanted to commit an act of violence against someone or something, but you don’t want to advertise your own responsibility.”

  The boy gritted his teeth in resentment but silently listened to the Scotsman’s quiet voice.

  “Sure, you could try and persuade a fanatic to do it for you and hope for the best, but fanatics are pretty unreliable, so instead you make your own, well, what should we call him? Stooge? No, how about Fuckwit? You find a kid, a bit of a loner, lacking in confidence, keeps himself to himself you know? He’s the kind of kid who everyone regards as ‘normal’, or ‘average’ whatever the fuck that means, but he’s from a minority group, preferably one of the brown ones, he has a latent connection to his parent’s faith and he’s not happy about the latest illegal invasion of wherever and the demonising of his people’s religion. Now you befriend that kid, encourage his weed habit and make sure he has enough of the stronger stuff to make him just paranoid enough to start believing the bullshit you feed him, maybe slip him a tab or two of LSD at prayer time to make him think he’s on some grand fucking voyage of spiritual enlightenment, and…”

  “Bingo,” finished Stone, sadly, “You’ve got your very own fanatic, easy to handle, dependant on you and willing to blow themselves up on your say so, to earn their one way ticket to Paradise.”

  “Drop a few electronic paper trails on the right web sites and everyone’s happy.” Williams picked up the thread, clearly relishing the interplay between himself and the soldier. “Your Fuckwit gets martyred, conveniently taking all evidence of you with him, the media have an excuse to ramp up the anti-Muslim headlines and you can carry on whatever your real agenda is completely unsuspected, everyone’s a winner.”

  “Apart from the poor sods the stooge takes with him.”

  “Ah, well, collateral damage you see? The more carnage the better, it adds to the panic, adds to the fear!”

  The aged spy’s voice grew louder with each word, his wiry frame punctuating his theories in a mania which Stone began to infectiously feel taunting him too.

  “Indeed,” the Captain agreed, “But speaking of collateral damage, the Stooge kind of qualifies on that score too, don’t you think?”

  “I thought we were calling him Fuckwit?”

  “Potato, Potahto,” Stone s
hrugged, “But imagine going through all that, believing you were doing God’s will only to find out afterwards that it was all for nothing when your bomb belt doesn’t go off? That your spiritual experience was really a drugged-up stupor and your guide on your religious journey was a fraud?”

  “Oh, well that’d certainly be a bit of a pain in the arse,” Williams nodded sagely, “And it would take a special kind of Fuckwit to screw up a belt bomb. A Fuckwit, just like you.”

  Williams pulled away from the wall and sat in front of his prisoner, his face a hair’s breadth away. “I’ve seen the videos, the mugshots and read the reports; when you were picked up, your pupils were wider than my ex-wife’s legs at Hogmany; I’m guessing you were tripping when you tried your rendezvous with Major Tom; what was that, about forty-eight hours ago?”

  “LSD normally leaves the body in around six to twelve hours,” Stone picked up his colleague’s trail, hanging further back than the older man, staring down at the frustrated martyr from above. “But that depends on your metabolism, your weight, how much of the stuff you’ve had lately… You’re only a skinny guy, but even if it stayed with you a bit longer, you must be running on fumes now.”

  “You know? I’d almost feel sorry for you, if it weren’t for the whole you being a murdering cunt thing.” Williams’ hawkish eyes burrowed deep into the boy’s, searching, Stone thought, scouring for confirmation of his dread. “Here you are; a warrior, a soldier for the cause. But you’re a blind soldier, you’re going around thinking you’re fighting the good fight but in reality, you’re blowing shit up in the name of causes you don’t even fucking know exist!”

  “We want a name,” Stone cut in, his demeanour demanding and fierce, “we want to know who took you on your journey from ordinary guy to wannabe killer. Believe me, whoever he is has no interest in you or the ideal you think you hold. I’m not promising anything but if you tell us what we need to know maybe we can cut some kind of deal.”

  “My wrists…”

  “Name, arsehole!” Williams snarled, Salam looking up blankly in return as though he were struggling to assimilate or counter the pair’s version of his story.