Tall Order

by Stephen Leather

  Chapter 66

  Ten Years Ago, New York

  D ean Martin took a bottle of Budweiser from his fridge and popped off the cap. He’d picked up a pizza on his way home from work and he was planning to watch a football game he had recorded on his Tivo and fall asleep on his sofa. That was more often than not how he ended his day, though he’d vary the pizza with Chinese, Thai and the occasional bucket of KFC. He took a swig of beer and flipped open the pizza box. Double pepperoni. His favourite.

  He picked up the remote but before he could press anything his doorbell rang. He frowned. He never had visitors. He padded barefoot over to the door of his apartment and peered through the security viewer. He frowned again when he saw who the visitor was. Richard Yokely. He was dressed almost the same as when they’d met at the warehouse but his blazer was now black and the blue tie was lighter and spotted with black dots. He opened the door. The shoes seemed to be the same – gleaming black leather with tassels.

  ‘Sorry about the surprise visit, Dean,’ said Yokely amiably.

  ‘No problem, sir,’ said Martin, holding the door open. ‘I was just going to eat pizza. Can I get you a beer?’

  ‘A beer would be good,’ said Yokely. Martin closed the door as Yokely walked over to the single armchair and sat down. ‘And please, drop the “sir”. Richard is fine.’

  ‘Budweiser okay?’ asked Martin, opening the fridge.

  ‘The King of Beers,’ said Yokely.

  Martin popped the cap off a bottle and handed it to Yokely. Yokely raised the bottle in salute and then took a long swig. ‘You’re welcome to share my pizza,’ said Martin.

  Yokely patted his stomach. ‘I’ve already eaten.’ He looked around the room. ‘You keep yourself tidy,’ he said.

  By ‘tidy’ Martin knew that Yokely was referring to the fact that the flat was virtually empty. Other than the sofa, the armchair, a small wooden table with two wooden chairs and an empty pine bookcase, there was nothing in the room. No pictures, no ornaments, no personal items, just the furniture that had come with the rental apartment.

  There wasn’t much more in the bedroom. A bed, a bare dressing table and a side table. If Yokely had opened the wardrobe he would have seen four uniforms, five sweatshirts and two pairs of jeans, and a drawer full of neatly folded underwear and socks. The military had taught Martin to keep his living space ordered and that had followed him into civilian life.

  ‘I’m not here much,’ said Martin, dropping down on to the sofa. ‘I’m either at work or the gym. This is just a place to sleep.’ He closed the lid of the pizza box and waited for Yokely to get to the point.

  Yokely nodded as he looked around and Martin recognised the look of a predator getting the feel of his surroundings. He kept his hands together in his lap.

  Yokely looked back at Martin and smiled, but his eyes were hard. His hand moved smoothly inside his jacket and reappeared with a Glock. His finger was on the trigger and he held the gun on the arm of the chair, the barrel pointed at the centre of Martin’s chest. It was a Glock 19, pretty much the perfect weapon for concealed carry. Fifteen 9mm rounds in the magazine and another one in the chamber. It was a second generation, which meant it was missing the accessory rail and the finger grooves, but they weren’t needed on a gun that was tucked away in a shoulder holster and used at close range.

  Martin said nothing. He knew there was nothing he could say that would change the outcome. Yokely was a professional and any decisions had already been taken.

  ‘Dean, they sent me to kill you,’ said Yokely quietly. ‘They want all the witnesses out of the picture.’

  Martin said nothing. He just stared coldly at Yokely, his right hand clenched tightly on his bottle of beer.

  ‘You understand what I’ve just said,’ said Yokely eventually.

  Martin’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the bottle. ‘What about your team? The men who were with you? What about Peter?’

  ‘They’re family,’ said Yokely. ‘And in their eyes, you’re not.’

  ‘Didn’t I prove my worth?’

  ‘Yes, you did. I told you at the time, you did well. And I meant it. But the powers-that-be, they’re worried that at some point you might talk.’

  Martin shook his head. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘They looked at your medical reports, the psych evaluations, and they think you’re unstable.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘They’re probably right.’

  ‘So they’re worried that at some point down the line you might tell somebody.’

  ‘Who? Who would I tell?’

  ‘A journalist. Or maybe you get drunk in a bar one night and let your guard down.’

  ‘I don’t get drunk,’ said Martin. ‘And I don’t do drugs. And what I definitely don’t do is shoot off at the mouth. Stuff I saw and did in the Sandbox …’ He tapped the side of his head with his left hand. ‘Locked away in here and I never talk about it. To anyone.’

  Yokely looked at him, long and hard. ‘It’s a shitty world, sometimes.’

  ‘Most of the time,’ said Martin. He returned Yokely’s stare. ‘I could probably get to you and snap your neck before you could kill me, unless you were lucky and got me in the heart or the head.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be luck, Dean. I do this for a living,’

  Martin shrugged. ‘I could too. You could put me on your team.’ He wasn’t going to beg for his life, but it was important for Yokely to know that there were options.

  ‘I suggested that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Your psych evaluations. No one disputes your skill sets, but there’s a mental side to the job and that’s where you come up short.’

  Martin swallowed. ‘So that’s it. A bullet in the head, then disposal?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘That’s one hell of a shitty plan.’ He leaned forward slowly and placed his bottle on the coffee table, his eyes fixed on Yokely.

  Yokely smiled thinly. ‘No argument here,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Martin as he sat back. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was only trying to help. Just wanted to do what was right for my country. And for that, I get killed?’

  ‘Life isn’t fair,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Ain’t that the fucking truth.’ Martin forced a smile. ‘At least it’ll be a pro doing the job.’ Martin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He pictured Yokely aiming the gun at his heart and getting ready to pull the trigger. Martin frowned as he remembered that there hadn’t been a suppressor on the gun. There were more than twenty apartments in his block and neighbours all around him. Neighbours who would hear the shot and recognise it for what it was. Why was Yokely, a true professional, not using a suppressor? He opened his eyes. Yokely was still looking at him. The gun was still pointing at Martin’s chest. But Yokely’s finger was no longer on the trigger.

  Chapter 67

  Present Day, Surrey

  C harlotte Button rarely slept well, and hadn’t since the day that a jihadist assassin had murdered her husband and almost killed her. She still lived in the same house she’d shared with her husband; moving out would have meant leaving far too many memories, and if the memories faded then the killer would have won and she wasn’t prepared to allow that to happen. Sleep always came in short snatches, never more than a couple of hours at a time, so when her front doorbell rang she was awake instantly. She sat up. It was six o’clock in the morning, which meant it wasn’t a delivery or a meter reading, and the postman rarely appeared before nine. She picked up her TV remote and clicked several times to get a view of the front door from one of the many security cameras that had been installed in and around the house. Her eyes widened when she saw who was standing on her doorstep, grinning up at the camera and waving. Richard Yokely.

  She grabbed a robe and put it on as she padded down the stairs. His grin widened when she opened the door.

  ‘Sorry about the pre-dawn raid,’ he said. ‘The early bird and all that. How the hell are you, Charlotte?�
�

  Button frowned. ‘What’s going on, Richard?’

  He ran a hand through his short, grey hair and as his smile widened she couldn’t help but glance at his gleaming teeth, so white they were either veneers or chemically treated. ‘We need to talk and we need to do it away from prying eyes. What sort of coffee maker do you have?’

  ‘A Nespresso.’

  ‘Well, if it’s good enough for George Clooney, it’s good enough for me,’ he said. ‘Do you think I could persuade you to make me a cup, the coffee on the flight over was undrinkable.’

  She stared at him for several seconds, then opened the door wider. He stepped inside and she pointed at the kitchen door. ‘Kitchen’s down there. You make the coffee while I get dressed.’

  ‘I hear and obey,’ said Yokely. As he went by her she caught the scent of sandalwood. He was wearing a beige trench coat and he took it off as he headed for the kitchen. Under the coat he had a dark blue blazer and black slacks and his trademark black loafers with tassels. Button hurried upstairs and pulled on a pair of jeans and a floppy pink sweater. She stood looking at her reflection in the mirror, wondering if she should put on some make-up, but decided against it. It wasn’t a social visit.

  When she got to the kitchen Yokely had two coffees ready and waiting.

  ‘I did a cappuccino and an Americano. You can choose.’

  ‘Americano for the American makes sense,’ said Button, taking the cappuccino and sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. ‘Richard, much as I enjoy the company, what the hell do you want?’

  He sat on the stool next to her and sipped his coffee before answering. ‘I’m here about Saladin,’ he said, watching her carefully to see her reaction.

  She kept her face impassive. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘I thought you might think so.’

  ‘But as you know I’m in the private sector these days. Any information on Saladin really needs to go to MI5.’

  ‘Well, that’s where the request for intel on Saladin came from, of course. Courtesy of the lovely Patsy Ellis.’

  ‘So I suppose it’s Patsy you really should be talking to about this.’

  ‘She was a mentor of yours, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Mentor is a bit strong, Richard. She’s always been ahead of me on the career curve and we’ve always got along well.’

  Yokely raised one eyebrow. ‘Birds of a feather, I always thought.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Button.

  ‘It was meant as one,’ said the American. ‘I’ve always had the greatest respect for Ms Ellis. Though of course we never had the same connection that I’ve always felt you and I enjoyed.’

  ‘Will you be getting to the point anytime soon, Richard?’ asked Button.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Yokely. He took a packet of small cigars from his jacket pocket and gestured at the door. ‘Would you mind if we took this outside?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Button, standing up. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’ She nodded at his cigars. ‘Which means you staying downwind of me, of course. I was never a fan of cigars.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Yokely.

  They went outside into the back garden. The sun was coming up, reddening the horizon. Yokely lit a cigar and blew smoke up at the sky contentedly.

  ‘Did Patsy really think she could do what she did without anyone finding out?’ he asked, not looking at her.

  ‘Richard, knowing how good you are at playing your cards close to your chest, I’m reluctant to say too much until I know exactly what’s in your hand.’

  Yokely smiled. ‘You think I’d bluff you?’

  ‘I think you’ll try to bluff anyone, Richard. It’s in your nature.’

  He chuckled drily. ‘Well let me tell you what I know,’ he said. He moved his head closer to hers and lowered his voice, even though there was no one within earshot. ‘I know that a number of people have died, all of them connected to that nasty shit who blew himself up at the football stadium last week. His uncle. And the uncle’s family – though that did strike me as overkill, literally. Then another Syrian refugee was killed in Birmingham. Tortured before he died, I believe. And then another Asian was killed in London. Battered to death. It looks like a racist incident but the fact that all of the deaths are connected to the stadium bomber leads me to an inescapable conclusion.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He turned to look at her. ‘Why, that someone is out for revenge, Charlotte. It’s as plain as the pretty nose on your face.’ He took another drag on his cigar and blew smoke. ‘It isn’t generally known that Patsy’s goddaughter was one of the victims of the stadium bombing, is it?’

  ‘I think she wanted to keep it low-profile.’

  ‘Understandably,’ said Yokely. ‘The media these days – vultures. Whatever happened to journalism as an honourable profession?’

  ‘I don’t think it ever was, really.’

  ‘Well, it’s a thousand times worse these days. Opinion masquerading as fact, putting people’s grief out for everyone to wallow in. I can see why she would want it kept out of the papers.’

  ‘And she is acting head of MI5,’ said Button. ‘Announcing that her goddaughter was killed in a terrorist attack would be handing the terrorists a major propaganda coup.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Yokely. He took a long drag on his cigar and blew smoke up at the clouds before continuing. ‘So, we’re looking at seven killings all connected to the bomber. Seven that I know about. Yet there appears to be no official sanction for a government operation to that effect.’

  ‘As you know, Richard, I am no longer a civil servant.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the American. ‘Very much at arm’s length these days. How is the Pool?’

  Button smiled thinly and ignored the question.

  ‘Need to know?’ said Yokely, and he chuckled again. ‘So, we have seven or more dead Muslims, none of them any great loss it has to be said. And what evidence there is suggests that right-wing racist groups or drug dealers are responsible. According to the papers, anyway.’

  ‘And you can’t believe them these days, can you? Not with all that fake news around,’ she said.

  ‘Fake news? Exactly what I was thinking. Some very clever misdirection is what it looks like to me. But then nobody seems interested in my opinions so I keep them to myself these days.’

  ‘But you are happy to share your opinions with me, of course.’

  He smiled, clearly enjoying the banter. ‘Of course. We go back a long way, you and I, Charlotte. We have a rapport. An understanding.’ He sighed. ‘Listen. If someone I loved was murdered by a terrorist – or anyone for that matter – I’d be taking matters into my own hands. No question. There’s nothing wrong with revenge, Charlotte. Never has been and never will be. And I know you understand that more than anyone, after what happened to your husband and all. It was revenge that got you to where you are now.’

  ‘I think we’re done, Richard,’ said Button, turning to go.

  ‘I’m not here to criticise or interfere, I’m here to help,’ he said quietly. ‘Walk away if you want, but you’ll be turning down a golden opportunity.’

  ‘An opportunity?’

  ‘You’re looking for the man who facilitated the explosion at the football match,’ said Yokely. ‘The bastard that groomed the bomber and set him up with the explosives and logistics. Hakeem Khaled. AKA Saladin. Present whereabouts, unknown.’

  ‘You have his name?’ Button’s heart was pounding but she forced herself to stay calm. Yokely clearly knew everything. But if he had wanted to make life difficult for her then there would be no need for the early morning wake-up call. He had something else in mind and she had no choice other than to hear him out. She folded her arms.

  ‘Charlotte, we’re on the same side here,’ said Yokely. ‘Trust me, I’m here to help. If MI5 is on the ball – and it usually is – I’m assuming they are trying to locate Khaled, though they only know him as Saladin. What
is holding you back is that you don’t know what he looks like. But I have an asset who has seen him, face to face. An asset who can identify him for you.’

  Button frowned. ‘But no one has seen him. Or at least those that have seen him are now dead.’

  ‘My asset was on his trail ten years ago,’ said Yokely. He held up his hand, thumb and first finger pressed together. ‘And he was this close. Then it all turned to shit and my asset went off the grid.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ten years ago? What happened and how did it turn to shit?’

  Yokely sighed. ‘I was caught up in a situation not too dissimilar to the one you find yourself in. The wife and son of the then Defense Secretary were on the flight that was shot down leaving JFK. He lost it and wanted revenge. I was brought in. I was told that what was happening had the approval of the President and that turned out not to be the case.’ He shrugged. ‘It almost cost me everything, Charlotte. But I managed to get back on the right track and here I am today, trying to stop you and Patsy Ellis making the same mistake I made.’

  ‘I’m not admitting anything, Richard.’

  ‘And this isn’t on the record, it’s just a chat between friends. Ten years ago Hakeem Khaled was behind the shooting down of that plane. We missed him then but we have a second chance now.’

  Button frowned. ‘Al-Qaeda claimed the credit for bringing down that plane.’

  ‘Yes, they did. And they made a small fortune shorting aviation shares.’

  ‘Then it can’t be the same person because the stadium bombing was carried out by ISIS. Al-Qaeda and ISIS hate each other.’

  ‘Hakeem Khaled doesn’t care who he works for, he just hates the West,’ said Yokely. ‘Hates us with a vengeance. If eskimos ever turned to terrorising the West he’d be showing them how to blow up igloos. ISIS, Al-Qaeda, the Taliban, Al-Shabaab, he doesn’t care. He’ll work for anyone. It’s definitely him, Charlotte. But I have to say up front that Hakeem Khaled might not be his real name. He’s a Palestinian, and you Brits in your wisdom gave him citizenship about fifteen years ago. He claims that his family were killed by the Israelis and he fled to the UK. You clearly didn’t do due diligence because I can tell you that he was a master bombmaker even back then.’