Chris Ryan - Killing for the Company

08.45 hrs. The imposing walls of the Old City loomed into view, and beyond the walls, golden in the morning sun, the Dome of the Rock. Luke fixed his attention more firmly on the convoy ahead and the surrounding traffic, picking out potential firing points or suspicious activity, clocking the military presence, which was increasing the closer they came to the Old City.

Russ had been almost silent since they left the base. Now he suddenly spoke. ‘Holy city for ragheads, Yids and Bible-bashers,’ he murmured. ‘You ask me, they’re as bad as each other.’

The convoy didn’t head straight for the ancient walls of the Old Town, but skirted round to the north instead. Twenty minutes later they found themselves heading back south, down a road that ran between the elevated eastern wall of the Old Town and a gently sloping hill, covered with squat olive trees. It was quieter in this part of the city. Less traffic, fewer people. East Jerusalem, bordering on the West Bank: where Israel met the Arab world. Fifty metres ahead, he saw three Israeli police cars, their blue lights flashing. They had congregated beside a stone wall about three metres high. On either side of the road, Luke saw that the access panels at the bottom of each of the street lamps had been taped over to prevent anyone secreting anything there, and a couple of waste bins had been sealed too. The Jerusalem authorities had clearly responded very quickly to Stratton’s change in plan.

As the convoy approached the police cars, Luke saw a low rectangular gateway. Two armed Israeli soldiers stood outside. On the other side of the road a small crowd of locals had gathered. Why had the area been cordoned off? they wanted to know, and who was about to arrive?

Luke and the guys were the first to exit their vehicle. They brought their 53s with them, and as they approached, the soldiers and the Israeli police officers gave them the kind of look that you soon got used to in situations like this. Not friendly, certainly; but grudgingly respectful. They knew they were being approached by military personnel of a different tier.

‘Who’s in charge?’ Luke asked no one in particular, but one of the Israeli soldiers stepped forward. ‘Is the area secured?

‘My men are performing a final sweep.’

Luke gave a curt nod, then checked out the entrance. Above the gate was an inlaid stone with the words ‘Hortus Gethsemani’, and beneath it a small blue arrow indicating the entrance. Luke walked inside to see a walled garden, well tended, although the ground was dusty. There were olive trees dotted around, many gnarled and ancient. He could tell at a glance that the police and IDF had done their job. It was entirely deserted. Adjacent to the garden, and just visible through the trees, was an old church — more like a highly decorated temple. Famous, probably.

He walked back to Stratton’s Merc and opened the back door to see their man sitting serenely, face forward. ‘OK, sir. Let’s go.’

Stratton got out of the car and walked towards the gate, with Luke shadowing him just a metre behind. As they approached, the guards stepped back to allow the peace envoy through. Luke stuck close, sensing Finn just behind him. The three of them walked through the gate and several metres into the garden before Stratton stopped.

He took a deep breath and appeared to be soaking in the atmosphere of the place.

‘Leave me,’ he said.

Luke and Finn glanced at each other.

‘Our instructions,’ Luke replied in a level voice, ‘are to provide close protection. The close bit is important.’

Stratton turned to them, and his eyes shone.

‘At the other end of this garden,’ he said, ‘is the Church of St Mary Magdalene. If you think I am going to allow you into such a sacred place carrying weapons…’

Luke saw red. ‘If you think I’m going to try and defend you armed with a fucking prayer book…’

Stratton’s lips thinned. ‘You forget yourself, soldier.’

The two men stood their ground for several seconds. Finally Luke turned to Finn. ‘Check the church,’ he instructed. ‘We’ll guard the entrance while he’ — he glanced at the peace envoy — ‘while he does whatever he has to do.’

Finn didn’t look too happy. ‘Luke, mate, we…’

‘Just do it.’

Finn nodded, strode across the garden towards the church and disappeared inside, leaving Luke and Stratton to stand awkwardly together, surrounded by the distant noise of the East Jerusalem traffic and the cheeping of the birds in the olive trees.

Five minutes later Finn returned. ‘It’s clear.’

Luke nodded at Stratton. ‘All yours.’

Stratton surveyed Luke with a mistrustful glare before marching up to the church with the two Regiment men following behind. The facade of the building was highly ornate, with three large arches forming its entrance. He disappeared into the gloom, while Luke and Finn took up their positions outside.

‘I don’t know why you’re winding the fucker up,’ Finn said. He sounded almost as pissed off with Luke as Stratton did.

‘I’m just a bit fed up with the holy-man act,’ Luke replied.

Finn shrugged.

Luke glanced into the temple. ‘No one diverts from a meeting as important as the RV with Hamas just to kneel before a fucking altar. Holy man or no holy man.’ He turned back to his mate. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’m going in.’

He made to enter the temple, but Finn grabbed him by the arm. ‘Mate, what’s going on?’

For a moment Luke thought of telling him. But where the hell would he begin? No. Now wasn’t the time or the place. He pulled away from his friend. ‘I don’t want a bollocking from the Ruperts for leaving him alone. He doesn’t have to know I’ve got eyes on.’ Without another word, he slipped into the church.

It was musty, thick with incense, all gold and marble. The ceiling was vaulted and the air colder than outside. Stratton stood about twenty metres ahead at the altar, his head bowed. He looked very small in the large chamber of the church, and he stood very still. Luke crept to the left-hand side of the building, much as he had done in St Paul’s two nights previously, only this time he had his 53 in his fist and his Sig strapped to his body. Stratton did not notice his presence as he crept silently up the church, before stopping behind a metre-thick pillar, out of the peace envoy’s view.

Luke had heard a noise.

Footsteps.

He barely breathed. His back was pressed against the pillar, so he was looking towards the front entrance of the church. On the ground to his left, the stained-glass window behind the altar had cast a colourful arrangement of reds and blues and greens on the marble floor. Luke looked down at it. A dark shadow there would give him a split-second warning of anyone approaching; and it was difficult, in the echoing acoustic of the church, to work out from which direction the footsteps were coming, or where they were headed.

They stopped after a few seconds and for a moment there was silence.

Someone spoke. A woman. She had a husky voice and a pronounced Israeli accent.

‘This had better be important,’ she said, speaking only just loud enough for Luke to hear. ‘You know Jerusalem isn’t safe for me.’

‘You don’t need to worry,’ Stratton replied. ‘The church is empty. So is the garden. I’ve seen to it.’

‘Obviously. But if I know about the tunnel to the crypt, other people will know about it too.’

‘Right now this is the most secure place in Jerusalem. We can talk freely here.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘I didn’t ask you to like it.’ Stratton’s voice was sharp now, like he was reprimanding an employee. ‘That little bit of housekeeping in London. Ostentatious, wouldn’t you say?’