Desert Claw Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Glossary

  Copyright

  About the Book

  In present-day Iraq thieves roam the streets. People are being killed in broad daylight. Security is non-existent. And now, terrorists have seized a Van Gogh painting worth £25 million from one of Saddam’s palaces. They are offering it to the highest bidder …

  Mick Kilbride and his buddy ‘East End’ Eddie are ex-SAS soldiers. The British Government has promised a Kuwaiti prince it will retrieve the painting. But it doesn’t want to pay the ransom money to the terrorists. Instead, it hires Mick and his team of ex-Special Forces to get the painting back and leave no man alive. Their mission takes them into a dark and violent world where all is not as it seems. And if Mick and Eddie are going to stay alive, they’re going to have to stay one step ahead of the enemy … and their betrayers.

  About the Author

  Damien Lewis is a journalist and documentary film maker and has spent twenty years reporting from conflict zones. He has worked for the Telegraph, the Guardian and the BBC. Slave and Operation Certain Death have both been Sunday Times bestsellers. He lives in London.

  This book is dedicated to the victims and

  survivors of the 7/7 terrorist attacks on London.

  In particular my cousin, Hannah Lewis.

  Bowed but not broken.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘YOU GO IN hard. Very hard,’ said the Major. He paused and eyed the four men in the room. ‘You take down that building. You take out the enemy. And you seize that painting fast. I want it returned without a scratch on it. And one further thing. I want all the terrorists killed. All of them. Dead terrorists. No witnesses. No survivors. Is everyone clear?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Mick replied quietly.

  Major Alexander Lloyd-Barrier. Mick had first run into him ten years earlier. Back then Mick had been a young soldier in the SAS. The Major had worked for some shadowy spying outfit. The Counter Terrorism Warfare Group, or some such name. Mick hadn’t warmed to the Major back then and he liked him even less now. He leant back in his chair and tried to focus on the briefing.

  ‘Mick, you’re mission leader. You form a four-man fire team, together with Eddie, Jim and Jock.’ The Major nodded at the three other men in the room. ‘On arrival in Baghdad, you hook up with Summit Security. Mick, I understand you know Bill Berger, the director of Summit? He’s been in Baghdad since the war. Runs a big security operation out there. He’s got you eight extra men. That’s two more fire teams. They’re all British and American ex-special forces. Gives you a dozen men to do the job. Should be more than enough, don’t you think?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Mick. ‘Yep. I s’pose it is.’

  ‘Show a little enthusiasm, won’t you, Mick?’ said the Major. ‘Oh yes, I almost forgot. The codename for your mission is Desert Claw. I repeat, Desert Claw.’

  ‘It’s been used before,’ said Mick.

  ‘What?’ said the Major.

  ‘Used before,’ Mick said. ‘Years ago, by the Yanks. That fucked-up mission in Iran, to lift the embassy siege.’

  ‘You think I give a damn?’ the Major snapped. ‘As I said the codename for your mission is Desert Claw.’

  ‘Hope it goes better than the Yank mission did, then,’ Mick said.

  Five years ago Mick had left the SAS, after fifteen years in the Regiment. Since then he’d worked as a photographer in his native Manchester. Outside of the military, photography was his main passion in life. But he hadn’t made much money at it. So he’d agreed to be kept ‘in reserve’ as an old SAS hand to be called in when certain missions were required. The so-called ‘black operations’. High risk. High danger. Top secret. And highly paid. Like now, with this crazy mission to rescue some dodgy painting in Iraq.

  The meeting with the Major was being held in Hereford, but not at the regular SAS base. The Major had rented a room in some cheap hotel. It seemed a bit odd to Mick. But he presumed it was all part of the ‘black’ nature of the mission. Keeping it all unofficial and away from British Government territory.

  Mick glanced around the small, shabby hotel room. Luckily, he had his old team with him. Perched on the bed was his right-hand man, ‘East End’ Eddie. An old SAS hand, Eddie came from the rough end of London. He was hard as nails and sharp as a pin. Next to him was ‘Kiwi’ Jim, a veteran of the New Zealand SAS. A real joker and a good, honest soldier. On the far side was Matt ‘Jock’ McLane, a massive Scot. Also ex-SAS, Matt was a man of few words and a fearless warrior.

  Like Mick, Jock, Kiwi and Eddie were all ‘reserves’. They were Mick’s A-team. They’d been on several black missions together. Without his A-team behind him, Mick would never have considered the present mission. He turned back to face the Major.

  ‘There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense, though,’ said Mick. ‘You’re saying we fight our way into the building and kill all the occupants. It’s going to be pretty bloody violent in there. So how do we do all that without damaging the bloody painting?’

  ‘Mickey’s got an effing point,’ Eddie remarked. ‘Might be a bit terminal, innit? I mean bullets and grenades on canvas ain’t a medium I’ve ’eard of before.’

  ‘We’ve thought of all that,’ the Major snapped, ignoring Eddie’s joke. ‘On arrival in Baghdad you’ll pick up several canisters of Sarin. Sarin as you know is a nerve gas. It is lethal to humans. It has no adverse effects on a painting, of course. You will be wearing full assault gear when you attack. Including gas masks. The terrorists will not.’

  ‘Effing nice one,’ said Eddie. ‘So, we’re gassing the bastards?’

  ‘Not exactly Geneva Convention stuff, is it?’ said Kiwi, quietly. ‘Sort of thing Saddam Hussein got banged up for.’

  ‘You’re not being asked to do this because you’re the Red Cross,’ the Major sneered. ‘You’re being asked because you’re ex-SAS. And you’re being paid 300,000 dollars each for your troubles; 150,000 dollars up front. The rest on delivery. Perhaps the money will square your consciences? Plus the fact that they’re terrorist scum. They need eliminating. And as I’ve made clear, this is a totally black operation. As far as Her Majesty’s Government is concerned we’ve never heard of you. Or your mission. It isn’t happening. You were never there. So any use of Sarin is nothing to do with us. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Clear as mud, mate,’ said Kiwi Jim.

  ‘We’re flying British Airways are we?’ Mick asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Major. ‘As usual, you go out on BA in civvies. Low profile. Why?’

  ‘Just wondering how we get the painting back home again. You do want it brought back, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t see the problem,’ said the Major.

  ‘Well, it’s not every day you fly BA with a dodgy painting in your hand luggage, is it?’

  ‘Does it matter? I usually fly first class. You don’t have too many questions asked when you do. You never know. A few more missions like this and you might be able to afford to do so too. Anyway, you’re clever boys. You’ll think of a way to get it out, I’m sure.’

  ‘Mind if we know the artist?’ the Kiwi asked. ‘I mean, we’re risking our lives for a picture. Be nice to know who painted it.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said the Major. ‘It’s not my department, I’m afraid. What I do know is that it’s not especially valuable.’
>
  ‘So, you don’t know who painted it,’ said Kiwi slowly. ‘But you do know it ain’t worth much. Right. Mate, I reckon that makes sense to someone, somewhere. Just not to me.’

  ‘If it ain’t worth nowt why’re us blokes risking our necks to rescue it?’ Mick added. ‘And why does HMG want it so badly?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kiwi added. ‘Bad enough to pay us a whack of dollar to go get it?’

  ‘Sorry,’ the Major snapped. ‘That’s beyond what I can tell you. It’s not your need-to-know.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ Mick replied. ‘We ain’t signed up for this one yet. And I ain’t doing nowt unless I know why I’m doing it.’

  ‘Me neither, mate,’ Kiwi added.

  ‘Jack shit’ll happen,’ Eddie confirmed.

  ‘I’m with Mickey,’ Jock growled.

  ‘All right,’ said the Major. ‘This much I will tell you. And it had better be enough. The painting was once owned by a Kuwaiti prince. In the First Gulf War Saddam’s forces invaded Kuwait and stole it. In the recent conflict, Saddam’s palaces were looted. So the painting fell into the hands of this gang of Iraqi terrorists. Hence your mission.’

  ‘If it ain’t worth nowt why not just pay ’em for it?’ said Mick. ‘Why send us in?’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ the Major replied. ‘The terrorists know it was originally looted from Kuwait. They think it’s worth a fortune and are trying to sell it for one. They’re mistaken, of course. Plus, we absolutely do not trust them.’

  ‘It still don’t make no effing sense,’ said Eddie. ‘I mean, if it ain’t worth fuck-all, why’re we bothering with it?’

  ‘Look, the Kuwaiti prince wants it back,’ said the Major. ‘It’s of emotional value to him, all right? He purchased it as a wedding present for his wife. HMG has agreed to help him get it back. It’s a sort of quiet “thank you” for Kuwait’s support in the recent war. We used Kuwaiti bases to launch the invasion of Iraq, you know.’

  ‘Sounds like bullshit to me, mate,’ Kiwi growled.

  ‘Well, it isn’t,’ the Major snapped. ‘And it’s as much as I’m able to tell you. So, like it or lump it.’

  ‘Total bloody bullshit, I reckon—’

  ‘All right, mate,’ Mike remarked to Kiwi Jim. ‘Drop it, mate. Leave it.’

  Mick turned back to the Major.

  ‘I just want to know one more thing, Major. Who’s paying? I mean with the four of us, that’s over a million dollars. Plus there’s the guys in Iraq. So who’s footing the bill?’

  ‘As it happens, the Kuwaiti prince is.’

  ‘So, is HMG making a profit on the job?’ Mick asked. ‘It wouldn’t be the first bloody time.’

  ‘What if they are?’ the Major replied. ‘And what’s it to you? Look, am I wasting my time here? Just let me know, will you? If you don’t want the job there’s plenty of others who do. Now I need an answer. If you want it, I’ve got a video to play you. It’s filmed by the terrorists and shows the painting. There’s Arabic voices in the background and we’ve had them translated. But there’s no point in me showing you if you don’t want the job, is there?’

  An hour later Mick and his team were heading back down the M6 to London. They had taken the mission, of course. It had been the money that had finally swayed them. The video had shown the front and reverse of the painting. A bunch of yellow flowers in a blue vase. Or was it blue flowers in a yellow vase? Mick couldn’t really remember. He’d never been one for flowers much. Probably why his first wife had left him. He hadn’t thought a lot of the painting, either. But the video had given him a sense of its size. Which was useful when trying to work out how to get it back to the UK.

  ‘Major Wank-A-Lot,’ Mick growled, as he stared through the windscreen. His Land Rover Defender was ploughing through a rainstorm. He was concentrating hard on the driving. ‘He’s a cold, mercenary bastard if ever there was one.’

  ‘Always get the best missions with you, don’t we, mate?’ Kiwi remarked from the back. ‘Like this one, I reckon. A dodgy op to go and gas some poor bloody Iraqis.’

  ‘Put a bloody cork in it, will you, Kiwi?’ Mick replied. ‘You don’t have to be here. No one’s forcing you. And you don’t have to get paid three hundred grand, all right?’

  ‘Effing money’s all right,’ Eddie added from the passenger seat. ‘Three hundred grand in an offshore account. I’ll be able to refit me boat and take the missus touring the Caribbean for a year. Just Major Wanker there is the worry. I don’t trust that fucker one inch.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Mick agreed. ‘Weird. He don’t seem to give a damn how we get the picture back home again.’

  ‘Don’t you worry on that front, Mickey,’ Eddie replied. ‘I got a guy in London. Big into art, he is. Real gentleman thief, too. He’s smuggled this sort of shit ’arfway to hell and back. He’ll know a way.’

  ‘Should’ve known you’d know some dodgy geezer,’ Mick said. ‘Show him a copy of the video. It’ll give him a sense of the size of the thing. Bloody great frame on it too. Bit hard to get that in your luggage, ain’t it? And try and see if he knows who the artist is while you’re at it.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO DAYS LATER Eddie ducked down the stairs into the Beaujolais wine bar in Covent Garden. It wasn’t his neck of the woods really. Too many farts in suits with posh accents. He preferred the Dog and Trout back home in Essex. He glanced around the bar. Tony was sat at his usual table, a pint already in hand. Eddie made his way over to him.

  Tony looked up from his beer. ‘How are you, old boy?’ He rose unsteadily to his feet and extended a hand. Eddie shook it and took a seat.

  ‘Never been better, Tony mate.’

  For years, Eddie’s dad and Tony had been as thick as thieves. In fact, they had been art thieves together. But Eddie hadn’t met his dad until his mid-twenties. He’d been abandoned at birth at a local hospital, then brought up by foster parents. He’d messed around at school and joined the Paras at sixteen; at twenty-two he was in the SAS. By the time Eddie finally met his dad he was dying. Alcohol had done for his liver. Eddie reckoned Tony was almost an alcoholic, too. He’d stay sober most mornings, but by lunchtime he’d have started hitting the beers.

  As Tony ordered a round, Eddie scanned the room. No obvious faces jumped out at him. No one he recognised. No one was paying them any attention, and no one had followed him in either. He relaxed a little and made some small talk. As he did so he could see the excitement burning in Tony’s eyes. Eddie had spoken to Tony over the phone that afternoon. He knew that he was itching to talk about the painting.

  ‘All right, old boy,’ Tony began, dropping his voice to a mumble. He leaned forward and tucked his club tie into his belt. ‘I’ve looked over the video you sent me. And you know what? I am excited. Bloody excited. Shocked. A little scared even. Have you any idea what this is?’

  ‘Not an effing clue, mate. That’s why I’m here seeing you, innit?’

  ‘Well, if I’m not mistaken it’s a Van Gogh. An original.’

  ‘Never ‘eard of him. Only van I ever ’eard of is a Transit.’

  ‘Sooner or later you might begin to wish you hadn’t,’ Tony replied. ‘It’s far bigger than anything I’ve ever handled before. People get killed for a fraction of the value of this painting.’

  ‘What’s it worth, then?’ Eddie asked excitedly.

  ‘Well, the video starts with a pan across the front of the painting. I managed to pause the image. Luckily, I’ve got the complete guide to Van Gogh’s work at home and there’s little doubt which it is. It’s Vase with Irises Against a Yellow Background.’

  Tony produced a photocopy of a page from his Van Gogh guide. He passed it across to Eddie.

  ‘Yeah. That’s it. Bunch of flowers in a vase, mate.’

  ‘See the signature?’ Tony pointed to a black scrawl at the bottom left of the painting.

  ‘V-I-N-C-E-N-T,’ Eddie spelled out. ‘Even I can read that.’

  ‘Quite. That’s how Van Gogh signed most of hi
s works. Just his first name – Vincent.’

  ‘So, what’s the damage, Tony?’ Eddie pressed.

  ‘Patience, dear boy,’ Tony replied, with a beery grin. ‘After the view of the front, the video shows the reverse. There’s an export certificate glued to the back. I made a note of it.’

  Tony passed another piece of paper across the table to Eddie.

  ‘Never was one for puzzles much,’ Eddie said, ignoring the paper. ‘Just tell me what it’s worth, mate.’

  ‘See that?’ Tony continued. ‘That’s the unique export code that any valuable painting is given. I checked with some people I know. It’s the right number for this painting. For Vase with Irises Against a Yellow Background. Very few people would know that number. And certainly not a bunch of Iraqi terrorists. That tells me it’s genuine. That, and the look of the thing.’

  ‘All right, mate. But what’s it effing worth?’

  ‘See the number below the export code? It reads “1982-25m/US”. That’s the key. It means it was sold in 1982 for twenty-five million dollars. And twenty-five million dollars back in 1982! That’s over twenty years ago, Eddie. Its value now is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Jesus effing Christ.’ Eddie let out a low whistle. Like Tony, his eyes were burning with excitement now. He’d suspected something dodgy was going down with Major Wank-A-Lot. But never this dodgy.

  ‘Listen, Eddie, no painting’s worth getting killed over,’ Tony said. ‘No matter what it’s worth.’

  ‘I don’t plan on gettin’ killed,’ Eddie growled. ‘I intend to be doing the killin’.’

  ‘I don’t really want to know too much—’

  ‘An’ I ain’t tellin’ you, neither,’ Eddie cut in.

  ‘Less you know, less danger you’re in.’

  ‘So, why exactly did you want me to look at it?’

  ‘Let’s just say we’re on a mission and someone wants us to steal it. And kill a lot of nasty fuckers in the process. And you, Tony, have been in this art business for donkey’s. Nicking, faking, forging, confidence tricking. You’ve done the lot. What I need to know is this. How the hell do we get this thing out of Iraq on a normal BA flight? That’s without getting rumbled. Got to be a way, ain’t there?’