Simon Toyne - The Key

‘I was sent to buy a relic,’ Hyde said, keeping the anger from his voice. ‘I bought a relic.’

‘Well, you bought the wrong one. This one is no good.’ He tossed it on to the table as if it were a paperback and turned away. ‘Make yourself useful: one of the drivers was caught stealing petrol and selling it to nomads. He’s in the brig. Go and deal with him — that should be more in line with your skill base. And shut the door on your way out.’

Hyde marched across the baking ground towards the tallest of the guard towers that doubled as a stockade, sweat dripping from his reddened face like his blood was boiling inside him. The Ghost had switched rocks on him and made him look like an idiot. He reached the door to the tower and practically kicked his way through it.

‘Open it,’ he said, nodding at the locked door of the brick cell built into the foundations of the tower. The guard obeyed.

Inside the cell was a twenty-something Iraqi lying on the wooden board that served as a cot.

‘Grab his hand and hold it flat against the bed,’ Hyde ordered. He didn’t want to waste time with this petty thief; he had bigger scores to settle. The guard did what he was told. Hyde pulled his knife from his belt and slammed it between two of the prisoner’s fingers. The man whimpered and stared at the knife with widened eyes.

‘You stole from the company, yes?’

‘No,’ said the terrified man, in what could have been a plea or an answer.

‘You stole from the company,’ Hyde insisted, ‘and thieving cannot be tolerated.’ In a single swift movement he levered the knife down hard like a guillotine, snicking off the man’s little finger with a soft crunch.

The prisoner screamed. Blood leaked from the cut, isolating the severed finger in a spreading crimson lake.

‘Steal again and it’s your hand,’ Hyde said. ‘Try to run and it’s your life.’ He turned to the guard, who looked as shocked as the prisoner. ‘Clean him up and send him back to work.’ Then he was out in the heat and brightness of the compound, wiping his knife against the leg of his fatigues.

Back in his office he wrenched open his desk drawer and pulled out the copy of USA Today. He grabbed his satellite phone from its charging dock and dialled the number written beneath the photographs of the three Citadel survivors. He’d like to do more than just snip a few fingers off the Ghost. He’d like to string him up and torture him slow, like they taught the black ops to do to put fear in the enemy.

The ringtone purred. Nobody picked up.

The Ghost had done it to him again.

Al Anbar Province, Western Iraq

Evening was coming, but the heat of the day remained trapped in the fringes of the Syrian Desert. It had been hammered into the rocky ground by the relentless sun and now radiated back up as though the world beneath the crust was molten. It was hard to believe anything could survive out here in this furnace heat and on this lunar landscape, but sparse tufts of grass somehow managed to struggle out of cracks in the earth and buckthorn spread across the gravel in whatever contours offered the tiniest amount of low shade — and the goats ate all of it.

The Ghost had a large network of men at his disposal, other fedayeen united in a common desire to protect the land and its people from the casual violence of dictators and invaders. He had spread word along the numerous goat trails that snaked out into the desert to the west of Ramadi, asking if anyone knew of a man who wore the red cap of an English football team. He wasn’t hard to track down. He was called Ahmar, the Arabic word for ‘Red’.

The Ghost found him crouched by the side of a muddy pool in one of the oases used by the herders, filling a canteen with water, surrounded by his goats. His faded red cap stood out vividly against the jostling backdrop of dusty black and brown wool. He had an AK-47 slung over his back and a Beretta sticking out of a leather belt that tightened the middle of his long white dishdasha.

Ahmar looked up at the sound of approaching hooves, eyes creased against the sun, his face a mass of leathery wrinkles. He could have been anywhere between thirty years old and a hundred.

‘Nice gun,’ the Ghost said, pointing at the Beretta.

The sound of the ruined voice triggered some recognition in the man and his face shifted into something between suspicion and fear. ‘I didn’t steal it,’ he said, his hand drifting to the gun, more to hide it than use it. ‘I traded it.’

The Ghost slipped from his saddle. ‘I know,’ he said, reaching slowly into his saddlebag. He produced a bundle of red material and unwrapped it, revealing the stone covered with symbols in the shape of the Tau. ‘I want to trade too.’ Ahmar hardly heard him, so mesmerized was he by the red cloth the stone had been wrapped in.

He reached out to touch the Manchester United football shirt, then stopped, suddenly fearful of what he might be asked to do in exchange for such a magical item. ‘What you want to trade?’

‘Just information. This stone — where did you find it?’

Ahmar considered the question then smiled broadly, revealing a mouth missing most of the teeth. ‘I show you,’ he said, kicking a goat out of the way.

He smoothed a wet patch of mud flat with his hand and snatched up a reed from the bank. With the point he made a series of fourteen dots to create the outline of what looked like a snake. Like all Bedouin, the goat herder navigated using the stars. The desert was ever-changing and there were no landmarks to steer by, but the stars remained constant. The Ghost steered by them too and recognized the constellation he had drawn. It was Draco, the watchful dragon, so called because it never set in the Northern hemisphere, but to the Bedouin it was known as the snake. Ahmar pointed at the square of four dots representing the head and traced his finger up along the line of its back until he was pointing at the horizon. ‘Follow the snake,’ he said. ‘Keep to the left of the Billy Goat. Three days’ grazing, a day on horseback — that is where I found this stone.’

The Billy Goat was the Bedouin name for Polaris, the North Star. By setting off to the left of it he would be heading northwest, following the sign of the snake deeper into the Syrian Desert. He had enough supplies in his saddlebags for at least a day, three maybe if he rationed himself and spared the horse during the worst of the heat.

Ahmar dropped down to wash the mud from his hand then wiped it dry on his dishdasha and held it out. The Ghost handed over the Manchester United shirt and watched him slip it over his head and rush to the main camp, calling out the names of other herders and holding his arms aloft as though he’d just scored a goal.

The Ghost remounted his horse and turned to the horizon. The sky was darkening to the east and the brightest stars already starting to shine. It would not be long before the western sky darkened too, where Draco lived, pointing the way into the desert, as it had since the beginning of time.

A day’s ride — Ahmar had said.

The Ghost kicked his horse and they moved away from the smell of goats and the shade of the oasis.

With the moon’s help, he might just make it before dawn.

Gaziantep is the larger of the two airports that service the city. Its position to the north places it closer to the Taurus mountains and closer to Ruin, therefore making it the destination of choice for most of the tourist traffic. At least, that was the gist of what the taxi driver had told Liv on their way here. As far as she was concerned, lots of tourists meant lots of flights, and that was all she was interested in.

She managed to buy a one-way last-minute standby ticket to Newark using most of the cash she’d found in the envelope. She used cash because she figured that if she was on some kind of watch-list then a credit-card purchase was more likely to trigger it. The desk clerk had made the booking and taken her money without a flicker of recognition. So far so good. But now she had to go through passport control.