Chapter 25: Count on Carstairs

I don’t think I went out fully, but being disoriented and in pain basically has the same effect. The human body, or at least mine, can be so short-sighted when it comes to self-preservation: why would I curl up in agony in the presence of a hostile force, rather than kick at his feet or do something else to chase him off? But then, why do people hanging from windows of burning houses eventually let go of the window sill, just because their fingers hurt? They just do. In the end, we’re probably less afraid of death than of pain.

I’d been knocked out before in my life, which is a terrible experience. I’ve since learned that staying awake after a heavy blow is actually worse. Sound became a garbled mess of shouts and blood throbbing where it shouldn’t be throbbing. My eyesight, such as it was with a face full of sand, all but disappeared. The pain was searing and even in those few seconds I managed to imagine the most horrible damage. Had my ear come off? Was my jaw loose?

Then there was a sudden weight upon me, mostly on my legs. I was in enough distress as it was, so I howled and was surprised to learn I was only one in a chorus of howlers. As I clawed at the rocky ground, desperate to get away from whatever was trying to trap me, I noticed men emerging from the barrack, some walking and others on their knees. A siren began to blare, a raspy, staccato noise that seemed to come from inside the fort.

As the pain in my head withdrew enough to make some sense of the world, I realised what was trapping me was not a rock or a wardrobe or some sort of animal, but the body of the guard who had assaulted me. He had fallen on top of me, diagonally. I felt wetness, and it didn’t take much spare brain power to know this was blood. I still couldn’t see much, but he was bleeding from his neck and at the same time no part of his body had any tension to it, only weight.

Quick footfalls from sturdy boots came from the direction of the fort, with orders shouted in Korean. I know the sound of Korean, though almost none of the words, as before I lost my company I had visited the country three times on business. I hated it from the second I landed and after the third visit I decided never to go again, contracts be damned. A pair of black shoes appeared, and then a man kneeled down and looked at the bloody mess of which I was a part.

“Jug-eun,” he said. Dead. Then he raised himself up.

So I looked to be dead, even with my eyes open. Or maybe I’d missed half of what he said and he had only reported on the guard on top of me. Still, he moved away and nobody came for me. Other Korean voices sounded worried and urgent, although they always sound like that to me, and eventually they disappeared. As I considered my next move, I lost consciousness after all.

I woke up because someone was pouring water into my eyes. The weight of the dead guard was gone. I grunted, which seemed to please whoever was moistening me. Please don’t let it be piss...

“Carstairs?”

That was Amina’s voice. I could only moan in the affirmative.

“You’re alive. Thank Allah for this. Can you get up?”

“No,” I croaked, spitting out sand. And so she pulled me up. This tiny woman, maybe three-fifths my size and mass, simply took an arm and pulled me upright. That helped a lot. One eye was almost functional again. The dead body of the guard was still nearby, in fact our shoes touched.

“I saw what happened and shot him. Then I came to help you. Gerard says a few Korean guards appeared from the fort, looked at the mess and went back inside.”

“That’s nice,” I muttered, as I felt my face. My jaw still seemed attached. The other eye was full of sand, which hurt. Instinctively I grabbed the bottle from her hands and rinsed my eye. Better, though far from fine.

“What happened to them?” she asked, pointing at the barrack. Five lay dead outside. The door was open. Inside, I could see a dead body hunched over a table. There had to be more.

“Poison. I...”

After a round of terrible hacking and gobbing I managed to complete the sentence:

“I put roach poison in their food.”

“I think it worked. Can you stand by yourself?”

She let go but kept her hand near mine. I managed to stand perfectly well.

“Yes. I think I’ll live.”

Amina reached behind me and then brought her face close to mine. For one weird moment I thought she wanted to kiss me, but she just wanted to speak into the small, black microphone that protruded from my ear piece.

“He’s alive. The others have been poisoned and I think the underground base is on lockdown.”

“Copy that. You really scared us, Martin,” answered Gerard. “You were out for ten minutes or so, until Amina could get to you.”

Amina stared at me and after a few seconds asked:

“Did he get that?”

I was distracted by something near the barrack.

“Oh. Yes, he heard you. Hang on, do you have ... oh, wait...”

I reached behind my back and retrieved my Ruger. Amina’s arm was still slung around me, which helped me to stand.

“CARSTAIRS! BEHIND HER!” bellowed Gerard in my ear, just as I raised the pistol and shot a man in his head. Literally the top of his head. Amina screamed and turned around as the guy dropped to the ground. A knife slid from his hand.

“FFFFFUUUUUCK!” said Gerard. “I didn’t see him on this magnification. Did you get him?”

“He’s dead now.”

“You have to press the button,” said Amina, and did it for me.

“He’s dead now,” I repeated. “You might have shot him for me, there’s no need to ask.”

“Our resident sniper is standing next to you,” said Gerard. “And anyway, I can’t crawl into that space even if I wanted to. Listen, if the base is on lockdown they’re still able to launch. We found out why it’s nine p.m.”

“Why nine?” I couldn’t help asking. Amina held her head next to my ear, close enough to hear what was being said to me.

“Because Netanyahu is addressing the Knesset at around nine p.m. That seems to be important, but now that the Koreans have discovered the base is under attack they may well move up the launch.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost half past seven. We expect reinforcements in forty minutes, give or take. Carstairs, can you still function? I mean, can you stand without Amina?”

“I guess so. I’m not ... I’m not okay. You wouldn’t have any cocaine, would you?”

“Say again?” asked Gerard. Amina didn’t have to say anything: her very surprised face was right in front of me.

“Cocaine? Have you got any?”

“No. Sorry, fresh out,” answered Gerard, with barely concealed sarcasm.

By now I could stand. My face still hurt, but my vision had returned and I was angry. Properly angry.

“Come on, let’s smoke those bastards out,” I said to Amina.

I won’t describe to you what we found in the barrack, but let’s just say that it reminded me of that terrible Monty Python sketch set in a restaurant, or the movie Guest House Paradiso. I only went into the kitchen, but Amina stuck her head around the door and gasped as she drew her pashmina in front of her mouth. I could see she was visibly shocked. From what little I had seen of the interior of the mess hall I could quite understand why. The smell was atrocious, too.

“They must have ... it must have been bad,” she whispered.

“I guess so. How many of these can you carry?”

I handed her a big bottle of bleach.

“Are you going to clean?!”

“Hardly. Here, I think you can manage four. Oh, hang on! Vinegar! Excellent. Not much, but it will do. Follow me.”

I carried six bottles in a stack of three plastic stackable trays with the vinegar on top and took her to the air inlet near the fort.

“What are you going to do?”

“This is their ventilation system. There may be more, I can’t be sure. This is how the underground base gets fresh air.”

“Are you going to throw in the bleach?”

“No. Put everything down and come with me.”

She knew not to ask questions as we walked around the villa, but when I opened the wooden shed that housed the pool filtration system and handed her a large 15 litre canister of Hy-Clor liquid chlorine, she knew enough. That didn’t stop her from asking:

“What are you going to do?!”

“I’ll mix this with the bleach and create chloramine gas. We’ll use these pool covers as well. Can you carry two of these?”

“Carstairs! Chlorine gas is ... terrible!”

“Uh-huh. Actually it’s only chloramine. Bleach and ammonia. For proper chlorine gas you need bleach and vinegar, but I’ve only got this one bottle. Okay, one for you, one for me, one for you...”

She took my arm and squeezed it, to get my attention.

“Using that is a war crime!”

“Look,” I said, and set down the container. “It’s only a war crime if you get caught. Both the CIA and your bosses can confirm that. They’re about to nuke Israel. Do you honestly think the Geneva convention still applies?”

She shook her head and looked at the bottles.

“Put this folding chair under my arm, we’ll need that too.”

A few minutes later I had arranged everything: the chair was directly in front of the grate, with three plastic trays lined up underneath. The tarp would make sure most of the gas made it into the ventilation system, but I’d left a little funnel for air so there would be no vacuum: the air would be pulled over the trays, which I had now filled with sixty litres of chlorine. All that was left was to pour in the bleach and the vinegar, pull the tarp over the whole affair and secure it with some rocks. Amina had helped me to carry it over, but hadn’t spoken much.

“Are you sure this is the only way?” she asked, as I poured out the last of the chlorine, pretty nasty stuff in and of itself.

“It’s the best way. What do you think those special forces will do, offer them a cup of tea and a magazine? Now, get back to the cave. Gerard can’t move without you.”

“He has help. The German and the Frenchman are with him. Are you staying here?!”

“Yes. We have no idea if this works. Now, get going. You’re more use to me as a sniper than as a potential hostage. I take it you brought a car?”

“Yes. It’s parked at the bottom of the ramp.”

“Good. Well, see you in an hour.”

“Why one hour?”

“I’ll wait here to meet our backup and pick off any stragglers that might appear. And I’ll keep an eye on our fumigation project. Just make sure they’re expecting a friendly here.”

“You should come with me now, Carstairs. You’re a mess.”

“I’ll wash myself in the kitchen and I’ll be right as rain, don’t worry about it. Now go, I don’t want to start this when you’re still around.”

Maybe she considered kissing me but was put off by the muddy, blood-spattered face. We’ll never know. But she nodded and then ran off towards the guard tower and, presumably, our Nissan.

I watched her until the darkness swallowed her, turned around and unscrewed ten bottles of bleach. I took a few deep breaths to oxygenate my lungs, and then a final one. Then I poured the bleach into the plastic trays, three at a time. It created a white foam. After the second batch I was almost out of air, so I stepped back about ten metres and breathed in again. By now my witches brew was clearly doing something, but I managed to pour in the last of it and then I pulled the pool cover over the folding chair, making sure to create a little tunnel at the far end. I probably got an unhealthy whiff of the stuff, but it was in a good cause. Then I stepped back and admired my handiwork. It could use two more rocks to secure the fabric. While placing them I felt like the soldiers at Chernobyl, each brought in to do ninety seconds of work in a hazardous environment. But then I was satisfied with the results. If there was a second vent, this might have been for nothing. But if not, I’m sure the people down there would not enjoy this.

“Carstairs to base. Over.”

“Go ahead. Over.”

“Has Amina made it back yet? Over.”

“Her car is driving up the hill as we speak. Over.”

“Great. Have her back behind that rifle as soon as you can.”

“Understood. What are you going to do now? Over.”

“I’ll find something. Out.”

I went back to the fort, picked up a rifle from a guard I found near the main gate, who had somehow chosen to die in the ‘downward dog’ yoga position, and made my way inside, sniffing the air gingerly at every step. The entrance to the underground base was supposedly at the South-West corner, so that’s where I went. But to get there, via the only door I knew to be open, I had to cross the courtyard. The tarpaulin was still in place overhead. I couldn’t imagine they’d launch right through that, so that was somehow comforting. On the other hand: the metal hatch that had been covered with sand and made to look like a fireplace was now swept clean. The remains of the fire pit had been tossed over the edge of the concrete beams and I could see a seam between the two panels. It seemed senseless and even dangerous to stand on it, and I was pressed for time anyway: I still had to find the entrance to the base.

The South-West tower had its own door to the courtyard. It was unlocked. Blueish fluorescent lights illuminated the inside of the chamber. I was pretty sure I’d killed everyone posted on the surface and I was holding that rifle ready to blast anyone I’d met, but everything was quiet.

The entrance was not as dramatic as I’d somehow expected. I thought back to the rotating discs at the underground MI6 base in Doha, which looked like they could shrug off a nuclear blast, but found only a square metal slab, sunk into the concrete floor. I accidentally stepped on it, and then the butt of my rifle slammed into the metal. That was stupid of me, but I was quite tired and the carbohydrates in the pasta were making me drowsy.

By the sound of it that hatch was rather heavy. They probably had some hydraulics on the inside to help lift it up. It was oriented towards the door, which made sense: you wouldn’t want to take a corner when bringing in pieces of furniture, equipment or other large objects if you could avoid it.

It began to stink of bleach in this room, and I heard muffled voices below my feet. Presumably the chlorine gas had been making its way through the installation. I didn’t want that hatch to open, but fortunately I saw a very simple solution to keep it closed: both the hatch and the concrete floor had a pair of padlock eyes bolted to them, that lined up perfectly. I didn’t have a padlock on me, but the wrench in my pocket fit beautifully. I slid it all the way through. There was no way anyone could move that from the inside.

Just as I turned to leave the room, I heard footfalls on a metal staircase underneath the hatch. Someone grunted. The wrench didn’t move. Panicked voices mumbled at each other. They sounded muffled. Presumably those inside were covering their faces with wet towels or whatever. Someone started to pound the hatch on the inside. My eyes began to sting, so I left the room. Either the wrench would stop them or it wouldn’t, but I wouldn’t be around to find out.

For a second I considered getting on my bike and leaving. After all, it looked like I had bought the special forces, whoever they were, some extra time to get here. Inside the base they probably had other things on their mind right now, as toxic gas filled every corner and the exit was blocked. Perhaps opening the launch bay door would help them, but you’d think they would have done that by now.

I stopped for a second, standing inside that courtyard. I was in pain. I was dirty, covered in dust, sand and someone else’s blood. My head hurt, so much in fact I doubted I was good to drive. I had sand in my mouth, but wasn’t even producing enough saliva to get rid of it. What I needed above all else was a shower and a change of clothes, neither of which I would find at the cave. Time for one last stop.

I headed towards the villa and opened the gate at the back. It was probably empty now, because all the guards ate in the mess hall. Still, I was ready for any surprises. I had my Ruger in one hand and my newly acquired rifle slung over my back.

The pool was perfectly still. Some bugs danced around the spotlight on the roof, mounted a few feet to the left of the camera. The ground floor of the building consisted of a large, glass facade, but it was set back at least two metres so that the sun wouldn’t reach inside the house. That created a patio, which was probably lovely to sit in right now.

Thick, dark curtains were drawn shut. I could see light underneath them, as they didn’t quite reach the floor. I opened a side door, which was kind enough not to creak. It was unlocked. Good thing too, because I’d have had my work cut out bashing through the heavy double glazing I spotted on the inside of the frame. You know what’s good for that? FUCKING BREACHING CHARGES, Mr. Butterfingers! But luck was on my side so far.

Inside it was nice and cool, so much so that I shivered for a second. Then I smelled something odd: my own sauce! Had someone brought my food into this house? If so, was there a dead guard here somewhere? But then I saw a plastic container covered with aluminium foil on a countertop. Was this uneaten? Had the guard not liked pasta? I slaved over that sauce! He might at least have given it a try!

The marble floor was not only nice and cool, but also very quiet to walk on. I turned left, into the actual kitchen. Where I had come in had just been an extra workspace, a scullery if you will. I wouldn’t mind one of those in my house. What with the pasta machine, the bread maker, the standing mixer, the toaster, the coffee machine and the kettle, I didn’t have any space left over for an air fryer. And I so very much wanted an air fryer...

The kitchen was dark, illuminated only by the bright digital clocks of two ovens. Two ovens! Wouldn’t that be a thing! I’d love to have two ovens. In fact, I suggested sacrificing the dish washer for an extra one and some more shelf space several times, but the girls weren’t having it. ‘Why does anyone need two ovens?’ they’d ask. Well, you don’t if you only ever heat up freezer meals or order take-out! But if you’re a proper chef, like wot I am, a second oven is practically essential!

I opened another door and was surprised to hear the following conversation:

“The horses are restless. And the men are ... quiet?”

“They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain.”

“That road there ... Where does that lead?”

“It is the road to the Dimholt. The door under the mountain.”

Bloody hell! Was someone watching Lord of the Rings? I don’t particularly care for those movies, but it might explain why someone posted here might be unaware of whatever had been going on outside. Guarding this villa while your colleagues walked around in the heat must be the best assignment you could get! Who could resist settling in with a good movie? The volume had been turned up rather loud and when I carefully stuck my head around a corner I saw the back of two heads resting against a very large sofa. They were watching the largest flatscreen I have ever seen in a private residence. The audio sounded amazing, too. Full Dolby surround, I reckon.

“None who venture there ever return. That mountain is evil...” said a chap with a silver helmet and the gayest moustache I ever saw.

“Eat?” asked one of the guards.

“Yes. Pause?” asked the other one.

“Is okay. Talk talk talk. I do.”

I quickly moved to a different side of the door, which led to a staircase. If that guy was headed to the kitchen I didn’t want him to find me there. And so I pressed myself against the wall and waited for him to pass. He was no Arab, but a Korean. That explained why they were speaking to each other in pigeon English: that was the lingua franca between a group of Arab terrorists and a bunch of vagabonds.

His uniform was olive green, with red epaulettes. I had no idea of his rank, because the weaker the army the more ornate the symbols of rank (and the size of the hats), but it was a pretty safe bet only the most senior officers on both sides had taken on the vital role of securing the air-conditioned villa with the Jumbotron and the movie collection.

I watched him entering the kitchen, where he turned on the light and started unwrapping the pasta. For a second I thought: ‘Why not let them eat it?’ But they might start looking for places to throw up and I wanted a quiet shower.

Just as the man reached for a kitchen cabinet, presumably looking for plates, the door swung closed of its own accord. Not because of any closing mechanism, but because most doors simply do. Especially doors hung by Pakistani tradesmen in a Saudi villa.

Figuring he’d be busy with the microwave for a minute or two and also as I didn’t fancy my chances of taking him out in a brightly lit room, I turned my attention to the sofa. On screen I saw unshaved men with lots of facial hair having discussions in tents. How people ever make it to the end of those awful movies is beyond me. I’ve read the books, of course, but found myself skipping longer and longer sections. Anything in italics was right out for a start, and any anecdotes about battles that happened a long time ago would be a signal to skip at least ten pages. Why all this filler? Who gives a shit? I like short, poignant stories that get straight to the point. I don’t need to hear how someone takes off his trousers and who owned the trousers and how they got them and then some funny anecdote about trousers, do I? Get to the fucking point!

I no longer had my wrench on me, so knocking him out was not an option. Neither was shooting him, because that might cause the Korean to rush in. I really didn’t have the energy to strangle him, which also might have caused a ruckus. And so that was a bit of a problem, but fate intervened: the guy moaned, farted, and then got up! He was about my age, so I had a fair idea where he was going. One does not simply watch a Lord of the Rings marathon without taking a piss every hour or so. I stayed put and watched him trot off to another corner of the house. I had no idea of the lay-out, but the place felt rather dead to me, as if the owner had seen it in a video game or a movie and said: ‘Just build this.’ One thing you learn in the Arab world (and in the UK, if I’m honest) is that bathrooms and toilets can be found in the most unexpected corners.

Figuring this was my chance I followed him, which wasn’t hard as I had to cut across a deep, fluffy carpet. I found him at the end of a narrow hallway, where he stood wide-legged, pissing into a toilet, perfectly illuminated by a light above him. One problem: he was facing a mirror. Judging from the rapidly diminishing stream he was nearing the end, though in my case that still gives you a minute to attack me before the last droplets have come out. I assumed the same was true for him and I snuck towards him, keeping low to stay out of sight. Just as I was behind him he farted, almost in my face!

“Nasty habitses,” I growled, as I rose up and smashed his head to the left, into the wall. He went limp almost at once, so I grabbed his neck and pushed his head into the toilet bowl. It was an American model, with a wasteful amount of water in it. (I shouldn’t complain: Dutch toilets have an ‘inspection shelf’, which foreigners are rightfully disgusted by. Not only does your kaka spend way too much time giving off odours, but you also need to use the toilet brush after almost every bowel movement. Plus, it’s impossible to drown someone in them.)

The guy hadn’t been fully knocked out by the sideways blow, so he began putting up a struggle with his face in the yellowish water. In fact, he splashed and sploshed quite a bit while he clawed behind him with his hands and tried to raise himself up. This might actually not have been a very good idea, if only because I was now covered in diluted piss. But fortunately after about ten seconds he began to run out of steam, and a nasty gurgle told me water had begun to enter his lungs. After that it soon became quiet, although a few spastic movements did freak me out. Mental note: do not do this again.

I held him there for a while, very afraid he was play-acting and I had somehow managed to find the Saudi static apnea champion. I couldn’t stay here too long or chef Boyardee out there might come looking. I counted to thirty in my head, which can’t have taken more than twenty seconds because I felt rushed, and let him go. He stayed put. I was drenched. And that Goddamned fart STILL lingered...

I took a spray can of flower scented air freshener from a shelf, which then gave me an idea for dealing with the other guy: as I rushed back to the living room I retrieved the lighter I had been ehm ... given as a present by one of the guards I had met, and positioned myself to the side of the kitchen door. A few seconds later it opened and the Korean came out, holding a plate of my hot pasta and sauce in each hand. He’d opened the door with his foot.

“FOOD READY!” he yelled.

I flicked open the lighter and sprayed at him over the top of the flame.

“Well, get it while it’s hot, then,” I said, as I set the dude’s torso on fire. I simply didn’t have it in me to aim for his head. Perhaps if he’d been an imam I would have, but Koreans are still people to me, in a way. Alcoholic people with disgusting table manners, who are entirely too pleased with their own culture, but people nonetheless.

The plates predictably fell to the floor as the guy turned into a human torch and ... legged it! I thought he’d retreat into the kitchen, where I would finish him off with a knife, but instead he ran straight into the scullery, opened the outside door and hopped in the pool! Quick thinking, Yobo! I followed him, obviously, and reached for my Ruger.

Next to the pool stood a white recliner so I had a sit down while he splashed about, cursing. He seemed to think his colleague had played a really bad prank on him. As he had been on fire for about five to seven seconds his hair was singed and I could tell his neck had sustained a nasty burn.

After he had stopped dunking himself he waded to a section of the pool where he could stand upright, clearly livid. He was about to give me both barrels when he realised I wasn’t his Arabic film night date.

“WHO YOU?” he asked, stunned and dripping. I smiled and waved at him with my pistol

“Hello, my name is Reginald and I’m with MI6. I wonder if this is a convenient time for you to answer a few short questions? I’m doing a survey, you see.”

He just stood there, gasping.

“Won’t take more than a few minutes, I promise,” I said, still smiling. Was my English beyond him? He’d just been watching Return of the King without subtitles!

“WHO YOU?” he finally repeated. “YOU BURN ME! ABDUL! ABDULLAH!”

“I’m afraid Abdul is taking a comfort break right now. Hang on, let me see if this still works...”

I checked the safety, aimed just to his left and squeezed the trigger. The Ruger isn’t much to look at, but gave a satisfying crack all the same. Not that I expected a professional soldier to immediately wet his pants because of a paltry .38, but at this range I had a better than average chance of killing him and he probably knew that.

“WHAT YOU WANT?” he yelled. Actually, Koreans sound like they’re yelling all the time. He may simply have been asking politely.

“What time is the launch?”

He was smart enough not to ask what I meant.

“Nine o’ clock. Half hour.”

“Then what?”

“Then? We go home. Tomorrow morning.”

“What is the target?”

He shrugged, but not in a disinterested way: instead it was very theatrical, to indicate that was above his pay grade.

“Only Dr. Hyun-mi know. And Colonel Hei. But we think Iran, we think Iran! They hate Iran. Or maybe American base north of Yemen. Drone base. I don’t now, I swear!”

He was referring to a somewhat infamous US drone base near Al Kharkir in the deep south of Saudi Arabia, where the US was, as always, merrily interfering with a terrible war without actually helping. ///incidentally.upholding.thanksgiving if you’re interested. (I did not make up those words. That’s just serendipity.) It’s pretending to be an airport nowadays. Not very convincingly, though.

“Opinion is divided on the subject,” I agreed. “So, are they ready for launch?”

“Yes. They has been fuel. Full of fuel. Today, truck comes.”

“And how many people are in the underground base?”

“Sixty. Maybe sixty-five.”

Oh, right. He was lying now. I might have done the same, but it was clear that he thought he could get away with it and I had neither the time not the inclination to start up an interrogation.

“Okay, out you get. Come on.”

“Out?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. I don’t really want to kill you. North-Koreans are a bit pathetic, really. You’re all brainwashed into believing terrible nonsense, your family will get it if you fall out of line ... That’s just sad. Let’s see if I can’t lock you up somewhere safe.”

On the second floor I found what I suspected: a ‘woman’s room’, or in other words: a cell. The key was actually in the lock, so I pushed the guy inside, made him tear a few strips of fabric from the bed sheets and used those to tie him up. He seemed VERY pleased with that, because he was blissfully unaware I used to own a boat and I can tie you up with anything from a necktie to a washing line: you will not get loose and that is the Van de Casteele guarantee. (OH LOOK I REMEMBERED MY OWN NAME THERE!) And even if he did get loose, he’d have to kick down that door to escape, as the window was barred so the female occupant couldn’t sneak out.

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The Protocols of Carstairs

Ron Dudderie

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The Protocols of Carstairs

Ron Dudderie

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