He really should not have reached for it. It was a silly mistake. And it was his last. It fulfilled the ‘self-defence’ condition. His colleagues in the farmhouse would never receive the Russian message.
One of the soldiers by the riddled car spoke briefly to the four further down the valley.
They were also now on foot, trekking back towards the farm. Before it came in sight they disappeared into the waist-high heather.
One of the skill sets of the SRR is known as CTR, or close-target recce. It means drawing up close to a building so stealthily that the occupants never spot you outside. Using the cover of the barns and outbuildings, the six men, with darkness now closing in, reached windowsill level still unspotted.
One of the windows was broken but boarded up. There were cracks between the boards. An eye was applied.
‘Three inhabitants,’ murmured a voice into a lapel-mic. It was heard by the other five on earpieces. ‘Ground floor. Living room cum kitchen. Eating. All armed.’
Another skill is MOE, or method of entry. There was not much point in further stealth. There was going to be a firefight. One of the troopers slipped to the front door and gave an imperious knock. Then stepped aside.
The three eaters jumped to their feet with cries in Albanian. Seconds later four bullets tore through the front door from the inside. After that it was open season. Hitherto invisible troopers appeared at each glassed window. The two kidnappers still standing by the table never had a chance to fire or surrender. They were holding guns, and that was enough. At the front, the door came down and the third Albanian died in the hall.
It took seconds to clear the ground floor, which had only four small rooms. These contained a few sticks of furniture and, now, three smelly bodies leaking red stuff. The team leader raced upstairs. Two rooms, neither a bathroom. He threw open the door of one. More stink of unwashed bodies. Three smelly bedrolls. The trooper did not know for sure how many Albanians might be mounting guard over the hostage. There might be a fourth with a gun to the girl’s head. He eased open the door across the landing, MP5 at the ready.
Chapter Eleven
SHE WAS ALONE, in a chair at the far corner. The room was small and dark. A single low-wattage bulb with no shade hung on a flex from the ceiling.
Ther
e was a thin bedroll and a stinking bucket for a toilet. A food-encrusted bowl and a bottle of water from the yard. And one chair.
The single window had once looked out on rolling fields but planks had been nailed across it so that only tiny slivers of light came through the cracks between the boards. The overpowering impression for the soldier was the stench. Clearly, it had never been an elegant room, but it had become a hellhole.
Big black flies buzzed round the feeble bulb. Others crawled on the rim of the latrine bucket, gorged by its contents. The child had been forced to eat from the bowl and to lie on the stinking palliasse on the floor. Or to sit on the single chair, where she now was, still in her school uniform, unwashed, with matted hair, accustomed to the smell of the room. Her arms were clasped around her, the eyes huge saucers of trauma and fear. She said nothing.
The SRR man slowly laid down his gun and removed his black ski-mask. His sudden appearance could only have frightened her. She had had enough of that. He did not attempt to approach. Instead he slid to the floor, back against the wall. Then he said: ‘Hello.’ And he smiled.
There was no reply. She just stared.
‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for a girl called Jessica. Her daddy has asked me to bring her home.’
Her lips moved. There was a small squeak.
‘It’s me.’
He affected pleased surprise.
‘Really? Oh, that’s wonderful. I’ve found you. Your daddy is missing you. He asked me to fetch you home. Would you like that?’
She nodded. He looked around.
‘This is a horrid place. I bet your room back in London is nicer.’
She began to cry. Tears welled out of the frightened, exhausted eyes and rolled down her grimy cheeks.
‘I want to go home. I want to see Daddy.’
‘Well, that’s marvellous, Jessica. I’d like that too. I’ve got some friends downstairs and we have a helicopter. Have you ever been in one?’
She shook her head. He rose slowly and carefully and crossed the room. He held out one hand. She took it and he eased her out of the chair. She began to urinate and cried even more, in shame. The effects of profound trauma are several and none of them are pretty. He turned away and went to the door.
‘Coming down!’ he called. ‘Clear the hall.’
No need for her to see what lay there, or in the kitchen. Outside, he saw the downlights of the Dauphin and heard the growl of its twin engines. It settled in the heather beyond the barns, where there was space.