Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  The bed sheets had been folded at the foot of the bed. The room was bare. She was gone. He stood, staring around the room. No note. Nothing.

  On the floor, a colored elastic hair band stuck out from under the bed. He picked it up and slipped it on his wrist. The window lay open as he had left it. He leaned over to the wooden frame and blew hard on the edge. No dust. The place had been wiped. Probably the first time in years. A breeze blew the thin curtain aside and he caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the baker’s doorway. White sneakers and jeans. That’s not a North African face. You ain’t no workman. A tourist?

  He looked around the apartment. There’s only one other window. Bathroom. Too small and won’t open. He ran through the apartment door, down the steps and backed up against the archway. Okay, let’s do it. Make for the Medina. If I can make it to the cover of the old market, I’ve got a chance. He slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped the Walther. If they’re out there, they’re going to get a big surprise.

  As he stepped into the alley a man emerged from the baker’s and took off his backpack, then sat down against the wall.

  Backpack. That’s the sign. Montrose shoved his hand into his pocket and flicked back the safety catch. It’s the spotter. Wherever they are, they got me now.

  The market was dead ahead. Don’t look back, just get some cover. He quickened his pace and ducked between the tented shops, straight into a maze of market stalls and tourists.

  He was immediately surrounded by young men, each trying to persuade him to let them be his guide around the Medina. Shrugging them off, he kept his head down and moved further into the crowd. The sounds and smells of the market assaulted his senses as he twisted and turned between the stalls. He dodged around baskets of pungent spices and vegetables. Traders appealed loudly, but he kept his head down. Every Westerner was a target for deals, but he knew the secret. Don’t make eye contact. Ignore them.

  Montrose batted aside a caged parakeet that was shoved in his face and made for the old city walls surrounding the Medina. There was no way they would be able to spot me in the crowds. It was hard enough to keep your feet. He forced his way into the seething mass. Unless the shooters asked a guide. Then they’d track me down, just by asking their friends. Time to turn the tables.

  To his right he saw a stall packed with long white djellaba robes. Not the real thing, but good enough for tourists. Montrose grabbed one. “Combien? How much?” he said, then instantly regretted the question. This was an Arab market. The answer could take forever.

  The trader threw his hands in the air. “You are French, monsieur? Then you know, how can you put a price on such quality?”

  Montrose took a sheaf of bills from his pocket. “It’s easy,” he said and dumped the cash on the table. He pulled the robe across his shoulders and marched off.

  The crumbling old city walls towered above him. He spotted an arched doorway leading out of the market to the back streets and the stone steps to the ramparts. Charlotte had said it was a good place for taking photos. It was, but the view over the market was even better.

  He lifted the hem of the robe and ran through the arch, turned to the left and climbed the worn stone steps to the top of the wall. His calf muscle was tight, but the pain was easing as the drugs kicked in. Crouching, he peered between the turrets, down into the market. He saw two heads moving through the crowds. Dark hair. Six foot plus. And a woman? Whatever. One marker, one shooter. And the guy’s got a limp. The shooter from Zurich? The one I hit with the car? Kessler’s personal killers. He saw the red sole of the woman’s shoes flashing out from beneath her robes. Gabrielle! Yeah, call me Gabby, and steal fibers from my coat to plant at a murder scene, you bitch. Who else in North Africa is wearing red Louboutins under native dress?

  He watched guides surround them and after a brief discussion, lead them towards the trader. Cash changed hands and Fleet and Gabrielle hurried to the arch. Montrose crouched down behind the low wall. Don’t take the stairs, you bastards, just keep going. He pulled out the Walther and held it beneath the robe.

  Glancing over the wall, he saw them striding down the street, away from the market. He was about to run down the stairs and slip into the crowd, when they stopped. They stood for a moment, then turned back to the arch.

  Montrose kept his head down and ran along the ramparts, then dived back into the turret. If they walked past they would see him. But he had the drop on them. Two shots. Aim for the body mass. His muscles tightened and the Walther started to shake in his hand. Wait. Then turn and shoot.

  He listened for the click of the high heels on the stone of the ramparts. Nothing. They weren’t coming. They must be in the market. The muscle began to cramp in his injured calf. He ignored it then edged forward and peeked out of the turret.

  Two figures stood on the ramparts looking out over the market.

  Do it now. Aim for the upper torso. Drop them and finish them off with a head shot. He looked down at his hands. The Walther was waving around like a rag in the wind. He brought the butt up hard into his face. The pain across his nose made him gasp, but his hands stopped shaking. He wiped his wet palms on the robe, steadied the Walther, then stepped out, raising it up fast as he snapped into a firing position.

  What the hell? They were gone. He stood slack-jawed for a moment and then twisted around. Nothing. Holding the gun low, he crept forward and caught a flash of dark hair over the wall. He ran to the top of the steps and edged around. They were halfway down.

  He raised the Walther and stared at their backs for a moment, then ducked behind the ramparts and slumped against the stone. It won’t work. Tomorrow there would be more. There would always be more. Kessler’s money would make sure of that. He glanced around the edge of the stone.

  At the foot of the stairs the woman stopped, and began to turn.

  They’re coming back. He slid behind the corner. They’re too close. If I make a run for the steps they’ll just shoot me down. He scuttled along the ramparts and came to a tower at the end. He dived in and saw the narrow staircase. It’s got to go down to the market.

  The steps were worn down by a thousand years of footsteps. He kept the gun level in one hand and slapped the other off the wall, keeping himself upright as he ran down the stairs. He stopped himself before the low, stone doorway and looked out onto the street.

  The robes. The limp. It’s him. And he’s coming my way. Holy crap, they’ve split up. He checked back up the steps. If I step out of here she’ll have a clear field of fire. But she’s an easier target. He ran up the steps and knelt down at the top, sneaking a look out. Nothing. She must still be on the steps. He stood and edged towards the door. If I see her, I’ll drop her.

  He edged out of the tower just as the red sole of a Louboutin flashed in front of his face. The shoe caught him full on the bridge of the nose. He tumbled backwards into the tower and down the steps, his head thumping into a pair of boots.

  “You bastard!” screamed Fleet, holding his wounded leg. He lifted the butt of the gun high above his head. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The reek of exhaust fumes made him retch as lights flashed before his eyes. He tried to lift his hands, but couldn’t move them from behind his back. A blade of light glowed from behind him. He twisted his head around, squinting through a gap in the lid of the trunk, and saw the clouds of dust issuing from the back of the car. Where the hell am I going? Don’t matter. It won’t be pleasant.

  He strained at the bonds, but his legs and hands remained tightly jammed together. They’ll make me talk. They’ll want it all. Death will be a release.

  He thrashed around in panic and his head cracked against the trunk lid. His head swam and he slumped onto the floor and then brought up his legs towards the lid. He kicked with all his might. Open, you bitch! He heard voices from the car.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  “Stop the car!”

  His head smacked off a steel strut as the car s
lammed to a halt, throwing him to the back of the trunk. Doors opened. The car rose up on its suspension.

  Daylight blinded him as the lid opened. Fleet hauled him out by the throat. He hit the earth face first, choking on dust. He rolled over, taking in gulps of air.

  “Now, Mr. Montrose,” said Gabrielle, “We have to go through town, so you’re going to ride with me, where I can keep an eye on you. We wouldn’t want you drawing attention to yourself, would we? You really are . . . a persistent bastard. But I admire that.” She turned to Fleet. “Get him in the back.”

  Fleet picked him up by the shoulders and threw him into the rear of the car. “On the floor!”

  Gabrielle got in beside him and rested a Louboutin-shod heel on his face. “Now, if you so much as move, I will shoot you in the legs. And then the balls. And then the lungs. I’m very good at what I do, so you’ll live long enough to tell me what I need to know.”

  “Yeah, whatever. You’ll get what you need. I’m no hero.”

  “We’ll see. It’s a shame, my dear Connor. In another life we might have been more than this.” She moved the spiked heel over his throat and shifted forward in the seat. She hitched up the tight skirt to allow her to spread her legs and placed the other foot on his crotch. Her robes fell aside. She looked down. “Enjoying the view?”

  Montrose let his eyes drift up her stockinged legs. “Going commando? Good choice in this weather.”

  She began rubbing his prick with the sole of her shoe. “I might be nice to you before you die.”

  Montrose couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Yeah, a last wish for a condemned man. You’re all heart.”

  “Not really. Now, shut up, there’s a good boy.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Unless you’re naked. Oh, wait . . .”

  She let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I admire your spirit!” She leaned over him, and extended her tongue, allowing a thin line of saliva to drip on to his face. “I’m going to tie you to a chair. And yes, I’ll be naked. You’ll try to resist, but I’ll make you hard.”

  “Yeah. Just shut the fuck up,” said Fleet.

  “Oh, you’re just jealous,” replied Gabrielle. “He’s never been the same since you nearly broke his leg in Zurich. You can imagine my surprise when I looked back and saw you in the back of the limo and not Reinhard.”

  “I thought you were always glad to see me?”

  “Of course, but it was too late to stop someone shooting off too early.” She nodded towards Fleet. “As usual.”

  Fleet gripped the wheel hard to control his fury then leaned back over the seat, speaking through gritted teeth. “You’ve got some payback coming, you fucking twat! Then I’m going to find your girlfriend. The French chick.” He rolled his thumb and forefinger into a ‘O’ and thrust his hand back towards Montrose. “You think I’m saying it’ll be okay?” He waved his hand in Montrose’s face. “No.” He blew through the ‘O’ in his fingers. “That’s how big her asshole’s going to be when I’ve finished with her.”

  Montrose shook his head. “You’ll never find her.”

  Gabrielle shrugged. “Well, we found you easily enough. I hate to say it, but I’d put my money on Fleet and his massive asshole.”

  Fleet sniggered, then realized she was laughing at him.

  “Keep your eye on the traffic,” said Gabrielle. The car slowed for a junction. A policeman walked into the middle of the street and held up the traffic. Gabrielle peered down the road. “What’s with the cop?”

  Fleet sniggered. “Don’t know. Maybe they’re looking for someone.”

  “Did you turn your phone off?”

  “Hold on.” Fleet reached into his jacket. “Done. So, where are we headed? Once we get out of this shithole, I mean. You know, all that money? We could have some fun.”

  “Keep your eye on the road.”

  The car stopped in a line of traffic. Fleet pointed. “Just a copper directing the traffic.”

  “Why? The lights are working.” said Gabrielle.

  “They’re not checking cars. We’re good.”

  “Perhaps. But just in case, why don’t you sit up, Montrose? Let’s look normal, shall we?”

  Montrose felt her grab his shirt and pull him onto the seat. She’s stronger than she looks. He looked down at the Velcro handcuffs on his ankles. His hands twisted in the cuffs behind his back. This could take me all day. Where’s the policeman?

  “Now, Connor, I’m sure you’re not going to behave yourself. I’ve heard about your escapades. But I think I can arrange a little deterrent.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, green canister.

  Montrose did a double take when he saw what was in her hand. Fragmentation grenade? What the hell is she going to do with that?

  She edged towards Montrose. “These are very useful. I take most of the explosive charge out, so it’s not lethal. Then I shorten the fuse to half a second. They really are the ultimate accessory. Honestly, Gucci should make these. I might patent the design. It’s the best thing I know to cool a man’s ardor.” She smiled coyly then slid her hands across the seat and tugged at the zipper on Montrose’s pants. She slipped her hand inside and began massaging his prick. “Now, Connor, we don’t want to lose this, so be a good boy. I’ll need it later.” She held up the grenade and let the ring of the pin drop on to her bright red lips, then hooked her eyetooth around it and jerked it from the case.

  Jesus Christ, has she lost it? He looked down at her right hand, gently cupping and lifting his balls.

  She brought up her left hand and slipped the grenade through his fly. She tucked it underneath his balls and gave them a hard squeeze.

  “Christ!” Montrose involuntarily jammed his legs shut.

  She slipped her hands out of his fly and pressed his thighs together. “Perfect. Stay just like that. Remember, half a second delay. All I have to do is open your legs. I’ll be fine, but any funny business with the policeman and you’ll be wearing your testicles as earrings.”

  Montrose sat stock still. Mother of God. She’s a psycho.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” said Fleet, staring up at the red light.

  The thudding of techno music made Montrose turn his head to the right, where a car full of youths had pulled up alongside them. The music was turned up so loud he could feel the car reverberate with the beat. One of the youths in the car looked over then turned to his friends and pointed at Gabrielle. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and began pumping the skin, showing her exactly what he wanted.

  “How irritating,” she sighed. “I wish I’d saved the grenade for them.”

  Montrose felt the muscles in his leg begin to tighten; his calf was on the verge of a cramp.

  Fleet glared at the youths through his sunglasses. The youth in the front passenger seat let down his window. The music became even louder.

  “Hey, mec!” shouted the youth, leaning out towards Fleet and tapping his window. “Mec! How much to fuck her?”

  The youths in the car began to fall about laughing. Montrose turned to see that the youth beside her was now licking the window, to the delight of his friends.

  “Hey, mec!” He rapped his knuckles on Fleet’s window. “Do you want to watch? Maybe you’ll learn something!”

  Fleet looked around for the button to lower the window.

  “Fleet! Keep your mind on the job! The traffic will move in a moment.”

  “Hey, mec!” He waggled his little finger at Fleet. “Did she turn you down?”

  “I’m going to rip his fucking tongue out!” Fleet jabbed the button, and reached out of the window, but the youth pulled a Taser from below the door and fired into Fleet’s face. The electrodes pierced deep into his cheek and neck and he convulsed as 50,000 volts wracked his body.

  Gabrielle went for her gun, but the rear window of the car exploded in a storm of glass. Two hands appeared either side of her head and grabbed her shoulders, hauling her up and backwards. Her nose smashed into the top edge of the window, crushing the carti
lage as shards of glass lanced her face. Montrose twisted round and saw her bounce on the trunk before she was slammed onto the road. The breath exploded out of her lungs as one of the youths dropped his knees onto her chest.

  The youth stood and casually fixed a red armband to his jacket. Police.

  Montrose’s door opened, and a tall, dark figure regarded him with interest. “A friend sent me.”

  “Please, my hands.” Montrose slowly bent forward and hauled his hands up his back. The man ripped off the Velcro cuffs and Montrose let his hands drift to his side and then gently pushed a hand into his pants. Don’t get this wrong. Just don’t. He slipped his fingers past the wet skin of his thigh and found the firing lever. Curling his fingers around into a fist, he opened his legs and pulled the grenade from his pants. He held it out in front of him.

  The tall man laughed. “Well, that’s a trick I’ve never seen before. Can you do rabbits too?”

  “It’s armed. Half second delay.”

  The man’s eyebrows raised.

  Montrose stepped from the back seat and walked to the rear of the car. A policeman hauled Fleet up against the trunk. He watched Fleet’s eyes come into focus when he saw the grenade in front of his face.

  Montrose chopped his hand into Fleet’s throat. He gasped and Montrose stuffed the grenade into his mouth then clamped Fleet’s jaw shut. Holding his thumb and forefinger together in an ‘O’, Montrose slowly brought up his hand and held it in front of Fleet’s face, then pinged his fingers apart.

  The tall figure placed a hand on Montrose’s shoulder. “Walk away, my friend.”

  He stared at the bleeding figure of Gabrielle, handcuffed to a stretcher.

  “Just walk away.”

  Montrose stepped up onto the sidewalk. On the far side of the road, a small man, in a tight button-down collar and thick glasses gave Montrose an almost imperceptible nod then melted into the crowd.

  CHAPTER 36

  The fading murals were a storey high, each painted with the forlorn face of a soldier, surrounded by roses and butterflies to show that they were now in paradise. At the street corners, where Coca-Cola posters once filled the advertising boards, the stern faces of the Ayatollahs looked down.