40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Read online

  Crane played with his scar, scratching at his beard as though it itched, which it didn’t.

  “You know, that’s a good point, lad, remind me of it later at the de-briefing, in case I forget.”

  “If we’re alive to have a de-briefing,” Dudley-Jones thrust his hands in the pocket of an oversized coat that someone had lent him.

  “For God’s sake, Lance Corporal, you can’t ever think like that, do you hear me?” Crane reached out and pulled up Dudley-Jones’ head by the chin. Staring into his eyes he hissed, “Stay positive, it’s the only way. We will make it, and we will get out of this. Understand?” Crane was breathing hard and glaring at the young Lance Corporal.

  When Crane let go of him, Dudley-Jones kept his chin high, “Understood, sir,” a small smile starting to thaw the icy fear still present in his eyes.

  “Right.” Crane threw away his cigarette. “Let’s finish this.”

  Captain Popal had also been taking a break. His hands were now wrapped around a mug of hot something or other. Mint tea maybe Crane thought. He didn’t think Afghanis drank coffee, or alcohol, but then again he couldn’t remember. He seemed to be blundering around in a fog of tiredness and stress, clear thinking becoming more and more difficult to sustain.

  “Shall we continue, Captain?”

  Crane, Dudley-Jones and Popal walked back to their negotiating position at the bottom of the steps. Crane noticed the Captain had kept his mug. The call made, all three men listened via radio microphones and earpieces, installed when Captain Popal arrived to help.

  The Captain began by reminding Freed that it was now dark. He pointed out that Freed must be tired and cold and wondered if he wanted a drink of the hot mint tea he was holding. By way of response, Freed slowly sat down and crossed his legs, but kept his arms wide and his thumb on the trigger of the mechanism. He slowly nodded his head. Faran began to move up the steps towards the door.

  “Captain, what the hell are you doing?” Crane hissed, falling in step behind him. But Faran didn’t reply, merely continued speaking to the bomber in a soft sing song voice.

  “What the hell is he saying?” Crane demanded of Dudley-Jones.

  “Um, something about remembering the scriptures, the words written in the Qur’an.”

  “Keep translating,” Crane hissed as Popal continued to mount the steps.

  “Keep your eye on the bigger picture. Remember the higher goals. Allah is great. Allah is good. Allah will look after all those who are true believers and keep a place for them.” Dudley-Jones followed the stream of words as best he could.

  “Crane?” the horror in Captain Edwards’ voice cracked in his other ear like lightening. “What the hell’s going on?” Crane imagined he could hear the lock and load of the snipers’ rifles in the background.

  “Give us a moment, Captain. I think Popal is going to do it. Looks like Freed is giving up. Hold back for now.”

  “You better be right about this, Sergeant Major!”

  Crane tuned out Edwards’ voice as best he could. Dudley-Jones was still translating and Popal still speaking in his hypnotic voice. Cold sweat trickled down Crane’s back. Even though he was stood behind Captain Popal, he knew that if the suicide vest was detonated now, all four of them stood little chance of surviving either the blast or the shards of glass that would rain down on them. Pushing the thought away and trying to detach his mind, Crane put one foot in front of the other, following Captain Popal up the steps, moving slightly sideways so he could see what was happening, even though he was even more exposed to any blast.

  “Hold steady, sir,” Crane whispered in his mike to Captain Edwards.

  As he looked through the glass doors he saw Freed slowly lower his hand containing the detonator. Crane held his breath. Equally slowly Freed’s arm returned to its outstretched position. His hand was empty.

  “Hold fire, he’s giving up. Hold fire,” Crane repeated, hoping his throat microphone picked up his low voice, afraid that any shouting would disturb the delicate situation playing out in front of him. In the background Dudley-Jones continued translating and Captain Popal continued talking in Pashtu.

  “He’s asking Freed to put his hands on his head, sir,” Dudley-Jones said. As Freed complied, Crane started breathing again.

  Day 35

  Crane was sitting through the interminable de-briefing meeting, trying hard to keep himself from looking at his watch. Everyone had commented on the support services, the role of the Royal Military Police, the assistance of the Aldershot Police, the tricky business of evacuating disabled athletes from the sports centre, communications between all parties and back up from Bomb Disposal and Special Services. Captain Edwards complimented the team on their successful operation, particularly Crane and Dudley-Jones for their roles in the negotiations. After acknowledging the praise, Crane turned to the subject of the suicide bomber himself.

  “Do we know what explosive were in his vest?” he asked Kim.

  After shuffling paper, she replied, “No report from Bomb Disposal as yet, sir.”

  “Very well, chase them up.”

  “Sir.” Kim nodded and made a note on her pad.

  “Where is he now?” Crane asked Staff Sergeant Jones, meaning Captain Freed.

  “Under arrest in the guard room. We haven’t interviewed him yet, we’re waiting for your decision on how to proceed.”

  “Good. Billy, Dudley-Jones and I will come over and interrogate him after this meeting.” Crane looked at Captain Edwards, “Oh, if that’s alright with you, sir?” he asked as an afterthought.

  “Very well, Crane, but I think it should be an interview, not an interrogation.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I merely meant that you should remember he is an officer and a member of the Afghan Army.”

  “That tried to blow up a lot of people.” Crane threw his pen on the conference table.

  “But he didn’t did he, Crane?” Edwards was talking down his nose as usual.

  “Um, excuse me, sir?” Dudley-Jones interrupted looking from Captain Edwards to Crane, clearly not sure whom to address.

  “Yes?” Edwards and Crane said in unison.

  “Um, it’s just that Sergeant Major Crane asked me to remind him of something at the de-briefing today.”

  “And that was?” Edwards sounded irritated.

  “Um, sir, my question last night. Why didn’t Freed blow himself up to start with?”

  “What?” Edwards looked at Dudley-Jones and then Crane. “Do you know what he’s talking about, Sergeant Major?”

  Crane smiled, “Yes, sir. Dudley-Jones made a good point last night, that suicide bombers usually just go ahead and press the button. They don’t negotiate or hold hostages.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Dudley-Jones addressed Edwards. “The whole idea of a suicide bomber is firstly surprise and secondly to kill as many people as possible. Saving himself is just not normally on the agenda. So how come Freed didn’t do that?”

  “Well, I guess that’s something you’ll have to ask him.” Edwards collected his papers. “If that’s all, then I’ll be off. Dismissed.” Everyone stood as Edwards left the office and then looked at Crane to see if they were actually dismissed.

  Shaking his head he said “Just a minute, people.”

  Once the team were settled again Crane continued, “Kim, did you manage to keep the boards up to date last night?” Crane referred to his white boards displayed along the back of the open plan space.

  “Yes sir, I’ve just got the Freed board to finish. I want to make sure I’ve got all the information gathered from last night.”

  “Good, make sure you put the latest queries on and the info from Bomb Disposal when it comes in. Oh, and I want the tapes from the negotiations last night. Can you separate out the part from when Captain Popal approached Freed with a hot drink? That’s the only bit I want.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  After Kim acknowledged the order Crane turned to Staff Sergeant Jones. �
��Has Freed said anything?”

  “Not a bloody thing. At least not in English anyway. He just sits in his cell, rocking backwards and forwards and mumbling in Pashtu.”

  “Has he had any contact with the other Afghan officers?”

  “No. Requests were made, but we’ve deliberately ignored them for now.”

  “Good, let’s keep it that way. I want him to feel isolated. That may help us to get him to talk.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Sir?” Billy joined the conversation.

  “Yes, Billy?”

  “Should I ask Captain Popal to attend the interview… sorry interrogation?”

  “No. We’ll rely on Dudley-Jones if Freed refuses to speak English. Remember we know he can, it’s whether he will or not that’s the problem. Is that alright with you, Lance Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir. All this translating is good for keeping my language skills up.”

  “Glad I can be of help.” Crane collected his papers, a small smile playing across his face. He then addressed the team, “Okay, dismissed. Billy and Dudley-Jones, you’re with me. Let’s go and see Freed.”

  On their way over to the guard room, Crane asked “Is the sports centre open now, Staff?”

  “Yes. The area was swept again last night after Freed gave himself up. Nothing was found, so we gave the BOA the all clear and the Paralympians were back in this morning to continue with their training. At least, the ones that weren’t involved in the hostage situation and taken to hospital.”

  “Oh God, I’d forgotten about them, are they all alright. No harm done?”

  “Pretty much, sir, no physical injuries as far as we can tell.”

  “Good, at least things are beginning to return to normal.”

  Night 35

  The voice filled the empty office. Crane stabbed at a key and shut it off. The lights were subdued in the main office and he only had an angle poise lamp throwing a narrow beam on his desk. He felt as though he was cocooned within the SIB offices, as if in a cave, safe from the shifting shadows outside, that held only menace. As he yet again pressed the play button for the media player on his computer, the shadowy threat gained form and once again invaded his space.

  The sing song voice of Captain Faran Popal emitted from the tinny speakers on Crane’s laptop. Having trouble hearing properly, Crane plugged in a set of headphones. Immediately the voice became richer and deeper. Hypnotic. Even though Crane couldn’t understand the Pashtu words, there was a deeper feeling behind them derived from the softness of tone. It was as though Popal was reaching out to the suicide bomber, using his voice like a warm blanket, wrapping itself around Freed and supporting him. Encouraging him, praising him and then reeling him in. Crane stopped the player and stared into the empty office beyond his door.

  Captain Edwards said this was entirely normal. That it was what Captain Popal had intended to do. Persuade the suicide bomber to give himself up without any loss of life, even Freed’s own. But Crane wasn’t sure. It didn’t sit right with him somehow. Pressing the play button once again, Crane listened to Dudley-Jones translating as Popal sang his Pashtu song.

  “Keep your eye on the bigger picture. Remember the higher goals.”

  Crane punched the stop key. Strange words. Why would Captain Popal encourage Freed to think about pictures and goals? What bloody bigger picture? What bloody higher goals? Was Popal sending a message to Freed, or was Crane just clutching at straws? Becoming side tracked by Dudley-Jones and what he perceived to be vital intelligence?

  Crane punched play. “Allah is great. Allah is good. Allah will look after all those who are true believers and keep a place for them.”

  Stopping the player once again, Crane mulled over the last few phrases. At least those he could understand. The usual religious rhetoric about Allah. But then again, the phrase ‘true believers’ stuck out. Struck a discordant note. As Dudley-Jones intimated, true believers who were suicide bombers, just pressed the button. The whole point was martyrdom. Crane also noted that Freed said nothing throughout the whole ordeal. He simply nodded or shook his head, depending on the question. It was the same in the interview this morning. He said nothing. Spoke not a single solitary word. Crane wondered why, but had no answer. Yet…

  Crane rewound the sound bite and started again. With the mint tea. He reached for his own cup, so caught up in the recording that he was surprised when he lifted it to his lips and found it wasn’t mint tea but coffee. Stopping the recording he wondered what the hell was the significance of the mint tea? Or was there nothing significant about it, was he just blundering about desperate to find some meaning behind the innocuous words?

  After listening to the recording one more time, Crane was no nearer figuring anything out. So he shut down the computer, left the office and walked out to his car.

  The night was clear and Crane looked up at a sky filled with stars. It made him feel small. A tiny insignificant dot on the surface of the earth. The earth that must itself look like a tiny dot from any one of those stars. Whilst Crane felt overwhelmed with the vastness of the sky and the galaxy, what it didn’t do was make him feel inconsequential. He knew what he was doing was important. He no longer felt like a babysitter. He might be very confused about what was going on, but he trusted his intellect, instincts and his team to help him solve the mysteries. For now the threat was over. He could go home. After visiting Tina in hospital, that was.

  Day 36

  Praise be to Allah and the Prophet Mohammed for showing me the way. The path. The right and true road to travel down. Praise be to their holy names.

  I told you I could do it. I hope you believed me. Well, even if you didn’t, if you doubted, then doubt no more. I have had nothing but congratulations from the officers of the Coldstream Guards. Obviously I had had to apologise profusely for my colleague Freed, pretend I felt bad about what had happened. Insinuate how ashamed I was that a fellow Afghan officer could do such a terrible thing. Act as if I am humiliated. That I had no indication he could do something so dreadful. I managed to show incredulity when we discussed how he must have planned the whole thing in secret, with no one any the wiser.

  So I am now a trusted member of the team as I told you I would be. I managed to keep my mask in place throughout the negotiations and the ensuing melee. With the help of Allah the great one.

  But I must not forget Freed. He played his part well. I will pass on my whispered congratulations to him when I am allowed access. For now your Royal Military Police won’t let me anywhere near him. But I am sure they will relax that constraint in due course. At the end of the day they won’t have very much on him. Once the full facts emerge. In the meantime he has his instructions. Say nothing. Speak to no one. Offer no explanation whatsoever. Refuse to speak English. Simply pretend you cannot understand what they say.

  The successful negotiation has been noted on my file and I am now destined for greatness. Destined to be a leader of men, in my beloved Afghanistan. But that is not enough for me. I do not crave the praise and acceptance of the British Army. I crave only the praise and acceptance of the Muslim nation that I represent. The glory I can bring to the name of Allah. This is my reason for living.

  Soon, I will walk that particular path. And no one can stop me. Not even your redoubtable Sergeant Major Crane.

  Night 36

  Crane was only able to visit Tina during the early evening visiting hours in the maternity ward. A transient place, where mothers-to-be were waiting to go into the labour ward as their time approached, or resting after giving birth. The little ones by the side of their mother’s bed in their see-through Perspex cots. As good a place as any for an enforced stay in hospital, he supposed, as there was lots of hustle and bustle to watch and new born babies to coo over.

  As Crane entered the ward Tina caught sight of him. Her smile held all the warmth and encouragement he needed. Reassurance that she understood it was difficult for him to visit at any other time. No trace of petulance marred her features.
He noticed that someone must had helped her wash her hair as it was hanging long and lustrous around her shoulders and she had put on a touch of makeup. Crane tried to remember a small gift each time he came to visit and so placed a mother and baby magazine in her outstretched hands.

  “Oh thank you, Tom. Just what I wanted,” she enthused. “The newspaper trolley only holds trashy celebrity magazines.”

  Crane smiled at the praise and mentally thanked Kim for her suggestion and earlier purchase of the magazine.

  Leaning in to kiss his wife, Crane then settled into a nearby chair, taking off his jacket and tie. He reached down to untie his shoe laces, before remembering where he was. He would love to remove his shoes and slip into a comfy pair of slippers. If only he was at home. He yearned for the stability it brought to his life. Home, with Tina waiting for him. An oasis of calm after the swirling molasses of work. Realising he was starting to view his domestic life through rose tinted glasses, he focused on the here and now. On his wife lying in a hospital bed.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Tom, I feel fine. I don’t really feel ill you know. But they won’t let me out. I keep asking, but…” Tina played with the edge of the sheet covering her swollen stomach.

  “Don’t fret about it, love. Just try and enjoy the rest.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

  “Everyone? Who’s everyone?”

  “Oh, you know the staff, mum, hospital visitors.”

  “Hospital visitors? Who are they?” Tom feigned interest, to keep the conversation going, afraid he would fall asleep in the chair.

  “Well, the hospital chaplain for one. Although as I’m not seriously ill he didn’t really have much to say to me. My soul doesn’t need saving before my imminent death does it?” Her laughter played a merry tune.

  “No, I guess not.” Crane didn’t like the turn of the conversation, so quickly moved on. “Who else?”