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And he thinks,That bloody woman—why didn’t she go into that helicopter like she was ordered?
Declan says nothing, and Horace sighs. “Please keep me advised on Jeremy and Oliver—and on the Americans. Remember, at the end of the day, two bad men from the Philippines have been removed. That mean hundreds of innocent Filipino civilians will live to see another day.”
Declan nods and Horace adds, “You may see yourself out, Declan. I have a meeting with ‘C’ in an hour, which means I shortly need to be on the A10.”
Declan backs to the door and says, “One more thing, sir?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Langley,” he says. “I’m sure that once the sun rises on their East Coast, you’ll be getting a call from your counterpart.”
“I imagine I will,” Horace says. “When that happens, do tell the nice man from Langley that I’m unavailable.”
Declan looks a bit shocked.
“You don’t want to talk to the CIA?”
Horace returns to his paperwork. “Dear me, no.”
Chapter7
FROM HISgood eye—the one not swollen shut and oozing blood—Jeremy sees it’s around noon when he and Ollie are dragged out to a small courtyard next to the building where they are being held. The two of them are kicked, pushed, and slapped, and his muscle memory remembers the previous time he was captured by locals, outside Mogadishu.
He’s hoping this capture has a similar outcome, for eventually he was released, though it had gotten quite dicey at times.
The overhead sun is hot and the courtyard is dusty, and Jeremy tries to take everything in, looking at Ollie (bloody but still conscious), the gunmen (still chatting and laughing), and the building wall up ahead.
A light green piece of tarp has been hammered into the stone and wood.
Not good.
He’s prodded along with AK-47 stocks. One of the gunmen opens a long, zippered pouch, takes out a tripod and a video camera, and expertly sets them up. He and Oliver are pushed to their knees, side by side.
Ollie whispers, “What’s up, Jer?”
“Looks like we’re about to star in our own flick,” he whispers back. “Lucky us.”
But Jeremy knows better. In the standard hostage taping, there’s always a flag or a banner in the background, proclaiming the group, militia, or movement that’s responsible for the capture.
Yet there’s no flag or banner. Just a plain tarp.
What happens next will be the message, not the words on any flag or banner.
“Hey!” he yells out to Farez, the bearded militia leader. “My government will pay a handsome ransom for us! No dickering! No negotiating! Just name your price.”
The leader comes over, still laughing, and kicks Jeremy in the side. He groans and grits his teeth, but manages to stay upright. A small victory—perhaps his last.
Farez draws back, spits on the ground. “As if we’d take your British filthy money.”
He turns and barks out an order, and the older, heavier man wearing the black robe and black kaffiyeh ambles forward, carrying a small, rolled-up carpet. He bends down, gets on his knees, and unwraps the carpet.
There’s more laughter and applause as the object in the rug is revealed.
A curved sword.
The man coughs and tries to get up, and two of the militiamen rush to help him up by his arms. He holds the sword up to the sun, its sharp edge bright indeed, and the yells and chants grow louder.This is why Britain and America are in the fight of their lives,Jeremy thinks.How can one defeat or reason with a movement consumed with such bloodlust? If only those in Westminster and Fleet Street could understand this.
“Jer…”
