Stephen Leather - The Hunting

Raj heard a crackling sound to his right. Before he could turn the prongs of a taser were pressed against his neck and he collapsed onto the tarmac in a senseless heap.

CHAPTER 18

When Raj regained consciousness he was sitting in a comfortable seat with his hands bound in front of him and a hood over his head. He moved his legs and felt the chain binding them tighten. He was breathing quickly and starting to feel light-headed, so he forced himself to slow his breathing down. There would be enough air seeping through the hood to keep him alive, but not if he began hyperventilating. His feet were sore from where he’d been dragged across the ground and his right side and neck ached, presumably the result of being tasered. He could hear the hum of the Gulfstream’s engines and there was a faint vibration coming through his feet – they were definitely airborne, but where were they going?

The Gulfstream – like the lack of markings on the men’s uniforms and equipment – suggested it wasn’t a military operation, but the men had operated with military efficiency. Who were they and what were they up to? If it had been a military operation then presumably they would have just gone in with their guns blazing. The whole tasering business made no sense.

He sat back in his seat. Perhaps there was a reason why their captors needed them alive. For a trial, maybe. Was that the plan? To take them back to face some sort of war crimes tribunal? But if that were the case, why were they being so selective about who they were taking? Raj closed his eyes and pictured the men he’d seen being taken to the Chinook and then boarding the plane. Erol and Jaffar, the Bradford boys. Sid, from London. Mo from Belgium, and Faaz, the Finn. And the two Somalians, Abdullah and Sal. Seven in all. He opened his eyes again. And they thought that he was Amer Qasim. Amer had been Sid’s friend, killed when the vest had exploded. So all the men they had taken were connected to the group that had seized him. But what in particular had they done that would result in them being extradited? Or renditioned? Raj wasn’t sure what the difference was, but being hooded and shackled and put on a plane sure felt like rendition.

He swallowed and almost gagged because his throat was bone dry. ‘Hey, can I have some water?’ he shouted. ‘Please,’ he added as an afterthought. When no one responded, he shouted again. ‘I need a drink here.’

There were footsteps to his left, then the hood was loosened around his throat and a straw was pushed in. Raj opened his mouth and sucked greedily. After a few seconds the straw was pulled away. ‘I need the bathroom,’ he said.

‘That’s what the diaper’s for,’ growled a voice.

‘Seriously, you expect me to piss myself?’

‘Piss, shit, fart, the diaper’ll take care of it. Now shut the fuck up or I’ll taser you again.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Raj. The way they were being treated suggested this wasn’t a government operation. This was something else. But what?

He had lost all track of time and had no way of knowing if it was day or night. Despite his predicament, he nodded off, then woke up with a start. Someone was shouting off to his right, screaming obscenities and demanding to be released. There was the crackle of a taser and the shouting stopped. Raj dozed again.

During one of the periods when he was awake he tried to work out where they were being taken. Most long-range private jets had a range of between ten thousand and fourteen thousand kilometres. Anywhere in Europe was well within that distance. The United States was about ten thousand kilometres from Syria, Australia was closer to thirteen thousand. South America was some ten thousand kilometres away. Raj had no way of knowing which direction they were heading, nor did he have any idea how long they had been in the air. But the fact that his captors were American suggested that the United States might be their ultimate destination.

A sudden thought hit him. Guantanamo Bay. Cuba. He closed his eyes and tried to visualise a globe. Cuba was probably about eleven thousand kilometres from Syria. Was that where they were being flown to? Guantanamo Bay? Raj remembered reading an article in The Guardian about the detention camp, where America held its terrorists, usually without trial. President Obama had promised to close the camp but Donald Trump had vowed to keep it open indefinitely. At its peak the camp had held around seven hundred inmates but so far as Raj could recall, there were now just forty or so detainees. Was that the plan, to fly them to Guantanamo Bay and torture them? Raj’s pulse began to race. Would they believe him when he told them who he was and why he was in Syria? It would be easy enough for the Americans to check, but he had read countless stories of innocent men who had been held without trial for years and subject to all sorts of abuse and torture. And if they were being taken to Guantanamo Bay, why were they using private contractors and not troops?

He drifted into sleep again. He had no idea how many hours had passed when he awoke, his ears popping and the plane clearly starting to descend. It landed and taxied for a while before stopping. The hatch opened and he felt a hand groping around his waist to undo his seat belt. He heard the others being taken to the front of the plane and then he was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and told to get to his feet. His arm was gripped tightly as he was led forward. ‘Watch your feet, you’re going down the steps,’ growled a voice. Raj resisted the urge to tell the man there was no way he could watch his feet because he was wearing a fucking hood, but decided that his best option was to remain quiet. He was taken down the steps, his leg chain rattling on the metal, then he was walked across tarmac. The hood made it difficult to tell the temperature but it felt warm.

He couldn’t hear any planes so it probably wasn’t an airport or an army base. In fact it was unnaturally quiet, the only sound was that of leg chains scraping across the ground and the occasional grunt.

‘There are steps ahead of you, and watch your head,’ said his captor. Raj was manhandled up some stairs and into a seat, and a seatbelt was clipped around his waist. A few moments later, he heard a helicopter turbine kick into life and a rotor start to whirl.

CHAPTER 19

Van der Sandt heard the helicopter before he saw it. It was his company sixteen-seater H175 Airbus, flying in from his private airfield, fifty kilometres away. He was standing at the entrance to his house and as the helicopter came into view he walked across the lawn so that he could get a better view of it landing. He was dressed for hunting – lightweight trousers with Timberland boots and a camouflage shooting jacket, with a pair of sunglasses sitting on the top of his head.

The helicopter landed smoothly and the pilot cut the engine. As the rotors slowed, the side door opened. Neil Thomas and half a dozen armed men in fatigues were standing around the helicopter pad. The men had arrived in two black SUVs that morning, with bulging kitbags. Thomas’s regular security team had left, as had the entire house staff. A coach had arrived at dawn to take away the housekeepers, cooks, drivers and gardeners, along with the security guards. Catherine Shirley had left with them, but under protest.

Three men in fatigues climbed out of the helicopter. One of them, grey-haired and holding a carbine, walked over to Thomas and shook his hand.

Two more men in fatigues climbed out, and then they dragged out a hooded man wearing baggy clothing and pushed him away from the helicopter. Another hooded man followed. Then another. As they walked away from the helicopter they were taken towards the hangar. Van der Sandt kept counting until all the prisoners were off the helicopter. Eight. He smiled. All present and accounted for.