State of Honour

by Gary Haynes

  He walked back into the room, ordered the two men to leave. The Pakistani grinned his toothless grin and Ripley found himself nodding back. He thought about breaking the old man’s fingers, one at a time, with the butt of his Glock. But if he were innocent, he might as well cut his hands off for all the use they would be to him afterwards.

  Ripley saw a wooden bucket half filled with water in the dimly lit corner of the room. He walked slowly over to it. Bending down, he noticed that the water was stale and speckled with dust. Hell, there was even a shredded cobweb hanging from the handle. He stood up and turned, studying the old man’s now concerned-looking face; then his hands. He asked him to remove his sandals, which he did, although it appeared to be such an effort that Ripley thought he was watching the action in slow motion. He was clean. But the water hadn’t been used for days; weeks, perhaps. Not until now, he thought.

  After the third prolonged dunking, at which point the old man appeared so breathless that his whole body went flaccid, he admitted weakly that he’d lied, just as Ripley knew he had. He’d been there for a few hours only.

  When Ripley rested the muzzle of his Glock against the old man’s temple and told him to ask Allah’s forgiveness for his sins, he wheezed a feeble response at first. But after Ripley cocked the weapon, the Pakistani become suitably compliant and, clearly fearing for his life, swore on his six children’s lives that he hadn’t lied further. He’d been given the equivalent of a year’s pay to be here and say these things by a man he had never met before.

  Lowering the Glock, Ripley believed him.

  50.

  Tom had spent the night curled up on the back seat of the Ford, putting a plan together and drifting in and out of a fretful sleep.

  Carrie rang him a little before 06:33. He squinted as the glare from the early-morning sun played on the windshield. She gave him Hassan’s/Mahmood’s address. He asked her not to mention it to anyone, not least for the next couple of days. She asked him if she could trust him, but quickly recanted, saying although he’d been an absent boyfriend, at least he’d been a loyal one. She told him to take care and disconnected the call.

  He relaxed his muscles, readying himself for the violence that would inevitably follow. But he wasn’t on a protective detail. He had no security profile to utilize. He would have to rely mostly on his intuition and wits. He glanced at his wristwatch. Thirty-one hours left, he thought.

  He entered West Cambridge, near the Charles River, thirty minutes later. He pulled over at the edge of a redbrick wall twenty metres or so from the black security gates he’d passed. Carrie had said that the address was a twelve-storey, upscale apartment complex. Tom hadn’t been surprised. It was a relatively isolated area, and he got out and walked back to the gates, the backpack over his shoulder. Knowing it was commuter time, he figured he wouldn’t have to wait long before the gates opened. He could try scaling them, he thought, but that could just bring the cops down on him.

  Ten minutes later, the gates opened and a red Porsche Cayman S nosed out. Tom pressed himself against the right-hand face of the wall, shielding his body from view behind the plain pilaster, which jutted out about ten centimetres. He hoped the car would turn left, since that was the road leading to the centre of Cambridge. He was right. Once in, he jogged along the asphalt roadway lined with grassy banks and cherry trees. After rounding a bend, the limestone block came into view, a substantial building with neo-Art Deco styling utilized on the entryways and aspects of the façade. Each apartment was set back from the outer wall, creating a placid terrace area. He guessed it cost more than a year’s salary to live in for a month.

  He crouched down by the exterior wall of the communal ground-floor garage, waiting for a car to come up the exit slope, so he could duck in. If Mahmood was going to make it to Harvard this morning, he’d have to show sooner or later. If he didn’t, Tom would risk taking him in the apartment, but that had so many drawbacks that he’d have to rely heavily on luck to pull it off.

  Five minutes later, Tom was bent over, tying a lace by a blue cinderblock wall as he checked the interior for CCTV cameras, a search that came up blank. After a couple of banker types dressed in bespoke suits stepped out of the garage elevator, Tom saw a man who matched Khan’s description of the bodyguard. A squat man with a bearded face; eyes like black diamonds. The man’s name, Tom recalled Khan saying, was Zafar. He wore charcoal-coloured slacks and a dark-blue shirt, and was walking towards a Bentley Turbo. His biceps were so huge that Tom decided the only way he could scratch his back was on a tree like a bear. As the bodyguard scanned the area Tom grasped his chest and moaned, feigning a heart condition. He collapsed to the floor. Zafar looked over, apparently puzzled. Tom called out for help, lying on his back.

  “My pills,” he said. “Get my pills.”

  Zafar strolled over and looked down, standing by Tom’s side, his brow furrowing.

  “In my jacket pocket,” Tom said, nodding down to his left.

  As Zafar bent down to put his hand in the pocket Tom thrust a Taser, shaped like an old-fashioned cellphone, into the man’s neck. Zafar jerked, gritting his teeth, and stumbled sideways. But as he fell he managed to strike out, catching Tom on the jaw with a lazy right. Despite the imposed, half-hearted nature of the punch, Tom’s head spun under the impact, the Taser falling from his grip. Still dazed from the blow, he struggled to get up, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

  But Zafar was on all fours, a mixture of spittle and white froth spewing from his quivering lips. He managed to get off his knees and charged forward like an injured rhino, headbutting Tom in the chest with the flat of his skull. Tom felt as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer and fell backwards, the wind knocked out of him. Zafar’s momentum kept him going, and he landed heavily on top of Tom’s outstretched body. With Zafar’s great bulk pinning him to the ground, Tom groped around for the Taser on the tarmac floor. But Zafar jammed his thumb into Tom’s jugular notch at the base of his throat where it met the sternum, blocking off the airway. Applied for too long and a man would pass out and die. Tom felt as if a stone were lodged in his windpipe. He gasped for air, and started to panic, knowing that his options were limited. The pressure increased, and he saw red dots floating in front of his blinking eyes. In a few seconds, he’d fall into unconsciousness.

  With that, the tips of the fingers of his right hand touched the Taser’s plastic case. Summoning all of his waning strength, he brought up his arms like curved horns, hitting Zafar ferociously in both ears with his clenched fists. The bodyguard groaned, his hands instinctively retracting to cover the sides of his head. Tom stretched out and grabbed the Taser, and thrust it into Zafar’s kidney. The man growled, his back arching before he slumped sideways. Tom rolled over and Tasered him again in the side of the neck, only easing off when he saw Zafar’s eyes roll back.

  Feeling dizzy, Tom almost retched, the pain in his throat severe. He did his best to keep it together. The man was a colossus, he thought. But he’d be sure to check a Taser had enough juice in it if and when he had to use one again to take someone out. It had nearly cost him his life. He grabbed Zafar under the arms and dragged his disabled body to a small room at the far end of the garage – used to store the janitor’s equipment – where he’d left the backpack. The Pakistani’s body had felt as if it had lead weights strapped to it. Tom cuffed him hand and foot with flex-cuffs, and propped his limp body up against a breeze-block wall. He slumped down beside him, and focused on controlling his breathing, leaving the door open so he could keep an eye on the elevator.

  51.

  Linda was still only half awake, feeling something like a terrible hangover engulf her, which, she realized, was the after-effects of the drug. She panicked and did her best to keep her eyelids open, sensing as if she were still in the throes of the morbid nightmare that had recurred throughout her life: being buried alive. Something that had haunted her in the way some people feared death by fire or drowning.

  Then she notice
d that her nose and mouth were covered, and she moaned. Her hands had been tied, likewise her feet, such that when she pulled up with her arms the noose around her ankles tightened. She was trussed up like the proverbial chicken; the blackness swamped her, and, although she couldn’t see anything, she knew she was in a confined space. She felt as if she were having a panic attack, her deep gasps for breath taking the respirator to its limits. She tried to roll, but she just hit something like a hard cushion that had no give. She thought about screaming. But the mask was her lifeline and she was afraid of dislodging it.

  Unbeknown to her, the drug that’d been administered back in Karachi had been a gift, for once it had taken effect fully her limp body had been lifted and taken up three flights of steps, where it’d been lowered into a mahogany coffin inlaid with brass. Her face was covered with a hard-plastic mask attached to breathing apparatus, a monitor strapped to her arm. After the lid had closed, the coffin had been draped with black silk.

  The coffin had been taken from the watchtower, its walls built above the Arabian Sea, and had been loaded into a private ambulance. It had been driven for five miles to Pakistani Air Force Base Masroor in the Maripur area of Karachi, the largest airbase in Asia. After an enforced stoppage, the coffin had been removed and placed onto a loader, and guided into the baggage bay of a small white plane surrounded by men holding MP5 sub-machine guns.

  As the afternoon sun had broken from a bank of cumulous cloud, the only blemish in a sky that had been otherwise the hue of blue coral, the aircraft had risen from the runway. After the undercarriage had retracted, it had headed west, its destination near Abu Dhabi, the capital city of the United Arab Emirates. A Sunni Muslim country fearful of the Shia jihad and an aggressively ambitious Iran.

  52.

  When Zafar had revived enough to be coherent, coughing up phlegm and groaning from the after-effects of the volts that had passed through his body, Tom began to speak.

  “I’ve only got one question,” he said, bending over him. “You answer it correctly, you live.”

  “Do you know who you’re dealing with?” Zafar said, his eyes blinking.

  “Brigadier Hasni, and you’re the bodyguard, Zafar. Thing is, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. So I’ll make it real easy. When the kid gets in the car, do you open the door for him or not? That’s it. But if you lie to me, I’ll come right back and put a hole in your forehead. Do we understand each other?”

  Zafar nodded, awkwardly.

  “The kid’s going with me.”

  “What will you do with him?”

  Tom figured that the bodyguard would be told anyway, so he said, “I’ll make a phone call to the Brigadier. The kid will sound distraught, but I promise you I won’t kill him, or even come close.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. But you don’t have too many options, either. So tell me and you’ll walk away from this. You can tell the Brigadier there were five of us. Deal?”

  “No deal.”

  Tom drew his SIG, forced the muzzle underneath Zafar’s lips, the metal grating across his teeth. “Don’t push it. You’ll regret it. Deal?”

  Zafar nodded, faintly. Tom removed the SIG and holstered it.

  “Here in the garage, I wait in the car with it revving. The brat is always late, so I don’t get out. Outside, I get out.”

  “Good. Keys?”

  Zafar gestured down to the right-hand pocket of his slacks. Tom took out a key ring and noted the winged Bentley logo. He gagged Zafar with silver duct tape, slung the backpack over his shoulder and closed the storeroom door. Then he walked over to the Bentley, using the remote fob to open it and turn on the ignition. The car had dark-tinted windows, the type that were opaque from the outside but allowed him a twilight view of the world, which suited him just fine.

  About ten minutes later, a young man appeared from the elevator and walked towards the car. He was lanky, almost anorexic-looking, and wore a pair of dark-blue jeans and a red sweater. He ducked down and sat in. Tom locked the doors remotely. He turned around and pointed the SIG at Mahmood’s surprisingly undaunted face.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Tom replied.

  “My father will kill you.”

  “Yeah, he might at that. But the way I see it, you’re the only one who can identify me. So if I was you, I’d be nice,” Tom said, turning back.

  “Where is Zafar?” he said, still a hint of cockiness in his voice.

  “He had to lie down in a storeroom. I shot him in both temples. Now some may say that that’s a waste, it should only take one bullet to kill a man. But I got plenty left. Whether or not I have plenty left in about a half-hour from now will depend on your father and how loud it’s necessary to make you scream.”

  Tom checked the rear-view mirror. Yeah, that did it, he thought. The kid was wide-eyed, his left hand pressed against his floppy black hair, his full mouth twitching. Terrified.

  He had no intention of beating on Mahmood, let alone shooting him. But if Hasni didn’t believe he would, he wouldn’t get what he needed, and that meant making Mahmood believe he was dealing with a killer. He didn’t like it, but he felt he had no choice.

  “Take out your cellphone and drop it in the footwell. You go for it, you’ll end up the same as Zafar.”

  53.

  Tom had driven Mahmood to the remote location that Lester had arranged for him. The kid hadn’t spoken again, the interior of the car remaining as silent as a diving bell. Tom had glanced in the rear-view mirror on a couple of occasions. Mahmood had just kept staring blankly out of the tinted window, his body motionless.

  Tom parked the car in an alley dark with shadow, surrounded by derelict warehouses and industrial units. He did a last check on Mahmood before stepping out. He opened the rear passenger door.

  “You make a run for it, I’ll put a bullet in the back of your knee.”

  He took out a woollen scarf and blindfolded Mahmood.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Mahmood asked, his hands shaking.

  “Shut up, kid.”

  Tom stooped and picked up the cell from the footwell, dropped it into his jacket pocket. He patted Mahmood down just to be sure, feeling the outline of a wallet and keys.

  “Now bring your hands out in front of you. I gotta cuff ya.”

  Tom cuffed him with a pair of metal bracelets that allowed a semblance of movement. But metal was better than plastic from a psychological point of view. It conjured up images in the captive’s mind of dark basements.

  “Walk,” Tom said, putting his hands on Mahmood’s shoulder.

  Five minutes later, Mahmood was chained to a steel pole in the brick-built lock-up. Still blindfolded, he was half naked on the bare, gasoline-stained floor. A single battery-operated lamp hung from the ceiling. The place reeked like a wet dog. Tom found the whole scene repugnant, and resolved to get it over with as soon as he could.

  “There’s an old chest freezer against wall. That’s where I’ll leave you if your father doesn’t give me what I want,” Tom said, standing about two metres from his victim.

  “You’re not crazy. I believe that. If you want something from my father, he will give it to you. Please don’t hurt me. He’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Tom said.

  Tom checked the contacts on Mahmood’s cell. He thumbed the entry for “father” and put the cell on speaker. After four rings, it was picked up.

  “Mahmood, my boy, how are you?”

  “To tell the truth, he ain’t great,” Tom said.

  “Father, help me. Help me.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Your boy here is chained in a lock-up. Now you think long and hard about how you’ll live with the manner of his death if this goes wrong. You’re on speaker, so let’s be nice and businesslike.”

  “How much are we talking about?” Hasni asked, pragmatically.

  “I don’t want money.�
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  “Let’s cut the bullshit, okay. You have my attention. What is it you want?”

  He’s angry all right, Tom thought. He figured a headman in the ISI wasn’t used to a family member being a victim, let alone a son.

  “It’s not complicated, and it won’t take more than a few seconds. Then we can all go home, including your boy. Where is the United States Secretary of State, Linda Carlyle?”

  There was a pause. “How do you expect me to know that? It was the Leopards. The ransom demand and the police statements prove it.”

  “Look, we can do this any way you want,” Tom said. “Mahmood, what way do you want it done?”

  “Father, please, tell him if you know. I’m scared, Father. Please.”

  “Hassan, don’t be frightened. I won’t let anything happen to you. Be brave.”

  “That’s nice. Just be glad your boy’s not squealing like a pig in the background. But if that’s what it takes, I can start right now.”

  “Father!”

  “All right. But I am in an impossible position. I can’t tell you what I do not know.”

  “?The Messenger of Allah, Allah bless him and give him peace, said, gold and silk has been permitted for the women of my community, and forbidden for its men,‘” Tom said. “?The Messenger of Allah, Allah bless him and give him peace, said, whoever believes in Allah and the Last Day should not wear silk or gold ‘… I could go on.”