State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) by Andy McNab Read Free Book Online Page B

assembled audience. They were all males, men and boys as young as eight: fathers, sons, brothers, cousins, all forced here on the pretext of witnessing justice being done, allegedly in the name of Allah, but in reality to be left in no doubt that Abukhan’s rule of terror in this district was now absolute, and that any disobedience would be met with the same penalty, keeping prisoners having been deemed a waste of precious resources.
    In front of the gathering Abukhan paced up and down, blade in hand, addressing them in a low voice about the curse the girls had cast upon them, on their families, on the community, and how Allah was angry with them and demanded justice. Occasionally he looked at Jamal and the others, to check that they were being attentive. Once Jamal would willingly have taken a bullet for him, gladly given up his life. Not any more.
    He turned his gaze back to the girls. Face exactly where you want the lens to point, fix your eyes so they’re looking straight ahead and only move your head when you want the camera to move. If you need to look down for some reason, keep your head up. Always think about where the lens is pointing. Those were Emma’s instructions, the video in exchange for his escape. And, above all, when it happens, don’t look away. She was a journalist, interested only in the truth. He admired her calm, fearless focus; he wouldn’t let her down. You’ll be a hero for this , she had promised him . Your family will be proud.
    They had met five months ago. He had just crossed into Syria driving an aid truck and had pulled over to wait for the rest of the convoy. Emma Warner had strode up, opened the door of the cab and got in.
    ‘What you doing?’
    ‘I can pay for a tank of diesel,’ she said.
    He didn’t want her on board, didn’t feel comfortable with a woman in the cab, but they were already short of cash and the Kurdish guide seemed okay with it. She was small, in her late twenties, olive-skinned with jet-black hair, and dressed like a local in a hijab, with a loose, long-sleeved, ankle-length dress. She seemed to blend right in among all the Kurds and Syrians. She spoke to the guide in Kurdish and to the others in Arabic, but when she addressed Jamal her English was posh, like a news reader’s.
    When she looked at him, he felt she could see right through him, as if she was saying, You’ve never been here, have you? You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for. And she was right: he didn’t.
    Sixty kilometres inside Syria, they had a flat. He got the wheel off but there was no spare. The other trucks in the convoy wouldn’t wait as it was already dark so the Kurdish guide went off with the wheel, hitching a ride on a pick-up going back towards the border.
    While they waited she fired questions at him, to which he just shrugged.
    ‘Okay, if you won’t talk to me, how about we have sex?’
    He blushed deeply. He was a virgin.
    ‘Sorry if I’ve embarrassed you,’ she said, ‘but in this place you’ve got to take what you can when you can because tomorrow …’
    She made a faint ‘pkkh’ sound and an exploding gesture with her hands.
    He was relieved when they dropped her off in Ar-Raqqah, because she was starting to sap his resolve. ‘Thanks for the ride,’ she said, as she got down. ‘Nice knowing you. Try not to die too soon.’
    He watched her melt into the dawn crowd. He had never met a woman like her before – but, then, he hadn’t met many women at all.
    The second time was yesterday, right here in Aleppo. She was unrecognizable in a burka and niqab and he wouldn’t have spotted her at all, except that her eyes locked on his – just for a second, but that was enough. Women here kept their eyes averted from men, and fighters especially, for fear of getting hit or arrested, so even that fleeting glance was a surprise. He was at a stall, buying water and cigarettes with two others from his platoon, his AK dangling from its leather strap.
    She came