Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  Button curled her fingertips. If he stabbed with the knife she had a chance of catching his wrist but if he slashed with it he’d cut her. Of course she knew who Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed was. And his brother. And now she realised why the killer was in her house, why he’d stabbed her husband and why he was going to kill her. She’d watched in horror as Abdal Rahmaan had been burnt to death by men working for Richard Yokely. And she’d interrogated Abdal Jabbaar while he was being tortured in the basement at the American embassy in London. It hadn’t been her idea, but she had played a part and she had always thought that one day her actions might come back to haunt her. That day had come, but the man with the knife was no ghost. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The name means nothing to me.’

  ‘Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed? Abdal Rahmaan bin Othman al-Ahmed?’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  He stopped swishing the knife. ‘You’re lying,’ he said.

  ‘Why would I lie? Abdul what?’

  ‘Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed. Abdal Rahmaan. Do not lie to me.’

  Button shook her head again, more emphatically this time. ‘I don’t know why you think those names should mean something to me, but I can assure you they don’t.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Button. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about, I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m not the person you’re looking for.’

  ‘I know who you are. I have your photograph. There is no mistake.’

  Button pointed at him. ‘I know who you are, and I know why you’re here. Your name is Hassan Salih and you’re a marked man.’

  A look of confusion flashed across Salih’s face. ‘How did you …’

  Button bent down, picked up her mobile phone and threw it hard at him. It hit his shoulder and shattered against the wall. Button moved forward, ready to grab the knife, but he was too quick for her and jabbed at her hand, just missing her. She jumped back, then rushed to the desk. There was a glass paperweight, a birthday present from Zoë to her father. She grabbed it. Salih lashed out with the knife again, catching her in the shoulder, cutting through her shirt and slicing into her flesh. She screamed and hurled the paperweight at him. It smashed into his jaw, breaking two front teeth. He glared at her as blood ran down his chin and he slowly raised the knife.

  Shepherd’s feet pounded on the pavement, his breathing regular although he had run several hundred yards at full pelt. He hurtled through the gate and down the driveway towards the house. As he neared it, he heard a scream, followed by shouting. A man. He kicked at the front door, but it was solid mahogany and barely moved. He had the carbine in his hands but he knew it was only in movies that you could blow open a door with ninemillimetre rounds. The SAS used shotguns to shoot out the hinges of locked doors but the weapon he was holding was useless against the inch-thick wood. He stood back and kicked again. It barely moved.

  Shepherd swore and ran to his left, round the house. A dog was barking and there were more shouts from inside the house. The shouts were a good sign. They meant that Charlie was still alive.

  Salih stabbed at Button with the knife. She turned to the side and grabbed at his wrist with her right hand, but he was too quick for her and jerked the knife back. The blade cut into her palm and she felt blood spurt between her fingers. She screamed, more in anger than pain. Salih had killed her husband, the father of her child, but she was powerless to do anything. She wished with all her heart that she had a gun but she hadn’t been issued one by SOCA and she’d never carried a weapon when she’d worked for MI5. As blood dripped from her hand on to the carpet she looked for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

  Salih said nothing as he slashed at her with the knife. Blood was pouring from his mouth where she’d hit him with the paperweight, but the only sound he made was a gentle whistling as he breathed.

  Button glanced at the desk. There was a letter-opener that went with the paperweight, a steel blade embedded in a piece of carved crystal. It was next to the computer keyboard. She lurched towards it, but Salih anticipated her and slashed at her, screaming. The knife caught her side, slicing easily through her shirt and ripping into her flesh. The blade bit deep and she tried to twist away from the searing pain, tripped over Graham’s legs and went sprawling on her hands and knees.

  She heard Salih grunt, then fell forward as something thumped into her right shoulder, followed by a sharp pain. She realised that the blade was embedded in her shoulder. She screamed as he pulled it out and the serrated edge ripped through skin and muscle. Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t want to die like this, cut to pieces in her own home. She didn’t want to leave her daughter. She didn’t want to die on the floor. She didn’t want the man who’d killed her to defile her as she bled to death. She rolled over. He was standing over her, blood dripping down his chin. Still he said nothing, though she could feel the hatred pouring out of him.

  Button pulled her legs up and scrabbled away from him. She could feel blood running down her hip. It wasn’t life-threatening, she knew. There were no major blood vessels there, and the knife hadn’t gone deep enough to cut any organs. The wound in the shoulder was just muscle damage. She could still feel her fingers so there was no nerve damage. She was hurt but not dead yet.

  Salih grinned. ‘Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed,’ he said. ‘And Abdal Rahmaan. You are to die hearing those names.’

  ‘Screw you!’

  Salih grunted and slashed the knife at her legs. The tip nicked her ankle, drawing blood. Button yelped and pulled her legs close to her body.

  She shuffled to the left and he moved with her, waving the knife menacingly. He lunged at her but as he did so she lashed out with her right foot and caught him in the groin with her heel. Salih grimaced and stabbed at her thigh. The blade went in deep and Button screamed. She screamed again as he pulled it out and blood spurted down her leg. She shuffled back to the wall and pushed herself up against it, then almost fell over as her injured leg gave way beneath her. She staggered along a bookcase, scattering books on the floor. She grabbed at a book and threw it at her attacker as hard as she could. It hit his forehead and spun across the room. He laughed. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ he snarled. He stabbed at her with the knife and she jumped away.

  The door was to her left, a few yards away, but Salih realised that too and took a step to the side, blocking her escape. As he moved she saw Shepherd at the window, a machine-gun in his hands. For a brief moment they had eye contact. ‘Down,’ he mouthed.

  As Shepherd raised the carbine, Button grinned at Salih. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is the best I can do,’ and she dropped to the floor.

  Shepherd brought the UMP to his shoulder as Button fell. He was firing through glass so he knew there was no guarantee that the first or second shot would hit the target. He pulled the trigger, the gun kicked in his hands and the window shattered into a thousand shards. The Arab turned, the knife raised above his head. Shepherd fired again, and saw him lurch as a bullet hit his shoulder. Glass was falling to the paved path outside the window, tinkling like wind chimes.

  The Arab’s face was contorted in a mask of rage. He yelled something in Arabic and Shepherd fired a short burst into his chest. The man fell backwards, a red rose blossoming on the front of his shirt.

  Shepherd rushed forward and leant through the window. The Arab was sitting on the floor, his back to the door, his left hand clutched to his chest, the knife still in his right hand, his mouth working. Shepherd fired twice at his head and his face imploded. He sagged forward and the knife fell to the floor.

  Shepherd used the butt of the UMP to clear the glass that was still in the window frame, then tossed the weapon on to the desk and climbed inside after it. ‘Charlie, are you okay?’ he shouted. There was no answer. He scrambled across the desk, knocking over several framed photographs. Button was on the floor, curled into a ball, not far from the dead Arab. Another man lay on his back, a bloodstain
on his shirt.

  Shepherd rolled off the desk and rushed to Button. Her shirt was sodden with blood and there were cuts on her legs, but she was breathing and her eyes were open. Shepherd checked her out, running his fingers along the length of her body, then checked for a pulse at her wrist. She’d lost a lot of blood but none appeared to be arterial and her pulse was strong and steady. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ he said.

  She didn’t appear to hear him and stared into the middle distance, eyes glassy with shock.

  ‘Charlie, you’re going to be all right,’ he said.

  Button blinked. She turned to look at her husband’s body. ‘Graham?’ she whispered.

  Shepherd knelt in front of her. ‘Charlie, come on, snap out of this.’

  Button frowned. ‘I didn’t even get to wear the underwear,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I bought underwear and he didn’t even see it.’

  Shepherd put his hands on either side of her face and stared into her eyes. ‘Charlie, stop this,’ he said. ‘I need you with me.’

  Her eyes were filling with tears. ‘Graham’s dead,’ she faltered.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to get you to hospital. Do you understand?’ Button nodded slowly but there was no recognition in her eyes. Shepherd shook her. ‘Come on, Charlie, stay with me. Focus.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘I’m okay.’

  Shepherd helped her into a sitting position, and pulled her back against the wall. ‘You’ve got to get to hospital,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. She took a deep breath and winced.

  Shepherd stood up and went to the desk. He picked up the phone and dialled nine-nine-nine. A woman who sounded as if she had better things to do asked him which emergency service he wanted. ‘Ambulance,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the nature of the emergency?’ asked the woman.

  ‘A heart-attack, I think,’ said Shepherd. Button frowned and he made a patting motion, telling her to relax. ‘She’s on the floor and in a lot of pain, her breathing’s ragged and she’s as white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’ll transfer you to the ambulance service,’ said the woman. She put the call through and this time it was a man. He asked Shepherd for his name and address, then the nature of the problem. Shepherd repeated what he’d told the first operator and hung up. He went to Button and knelt in front of her again.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asked.

  ‘If they know shots have been fired or knives used the paramedics will stand back until they’re sure the area’s safe. That means waiting for an armed-response vehicle, and who knows how long that’ll take? This way the paramedics will be right here and by the time they see what the damage is they’ll already be treating you.’

  ‘You know all the tricks,’ she said.

  ‘I know what the rules are, and I know how to get around them,’ he said. ‘I need towels.’

  ‘Down the hallway. First on the right, there’s a loo,’ she said.

  Shepherd hurried out and returned with three small cotton towels. He knelt down beside her. Her shirt was sodden with blood at her right hip and he pulled it gently away from her skirt and pressed a towel to the wound. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘Like I’m bleeding to death,’ she said. ‘I’ll be okay, Spider.’

  ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘My side. My shoulder. My hand. My legs. Pretty much all over, really.’

  Shepherd eased her forward and looked at her back. The shirt was soaked with blood there too. He placed a towel over the wet patch and leant her against the wall. He took her right hand and examined it. A deep cut ran right across her palm and blood was dripping from it on to the carpet. Shepherd got her to hold her hand up while he wrapped a towel round it. ‘Keep it high, if you can,’ he said. The wounds on her legs were superficial. ‘No arteries cut but you’ll have a few nice scars.’ He took the towel from her side and examined the wound there. Blood was trickling out but there was no pulsing. He replaced the towel and kept up a light pressure on it.

  ‘I’m going to have to put my hand down,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ She put her towel-wrapped hand into her lap and looked past Shepherd at the body by the desk. ‘My husband,’ she said. ‘Graham.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s so bloody unfair,’ she said. ‘He never hurt anyone in his whole life.’ Her eyes closed.

  Shepherd shook her. ‘Stay with me, Charlie, don’t sleep now. Wait until the paramedics get here.’

  ‘I’m so tired,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Open your eyes, Charlie. Come on.’

  She did as he asked. ‘He’s dead. The bastard’s dead, isn’t he?’ she whispered.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I suppose I was lucky he wanted to use a knife and not a gun,’ she said. Tears ran down her face. ‘I was so scared, Spider.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s over now.’

  She wiped away her tears with her left hand. ‘I felt so bloody helpless,’ she said.

  ‘He had a knife, Charlie,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘If it had been you, you’d have done some flashy kung-fu stuff and taken it off him,’ she said.

  ‘Not if he’d cut my throat from behind,’ said Shepherd. ‘And we never did kung-fu in the SAS.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘I was throwing books at him, for God’s sake. How pathetic is that?’

  The towel around her right hand was soaked with blood. Shepherd lifted her hand from her lap and held it at shoulder height. ‘You did medical training in the SAS?’ she asked.

  ‘The basics, but I was never a medic,’ he said. ‘My speciality was hostage rescue as part of CRW,’ he said. ‘Counter-revolutionary Warfare. I was trained for putting rounds into people rather than patching them up afterwards.’ In the distance Shepherd heard an ambulance siren. ‘Here they come,’ he said.

  ‘I need to make a call,’ she said.

  ‘It can wait,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No, it can’t,’ she said. ‘As soon as they see two dead bodies and the state of me they’ll call the police and we can’t have that.’ She held out her right hand. ‘Let me have my mobile.’

  Shepherd went over to it. ‘It’s broken,’ he said. ‘Use mine.’

  ‘They’ll keep a record of the call and I don’t want your name in the frame.’ She pointed to her husband’s body. ‘Give me Graham’s.’

  Her husband’s mobile was in a leather holster clipped to his belt. Shepherd pulled it out and gave it to her. She nodded at the desk. ‘Hide the gun,’ she said. She tapped out a number with her thumb, brow furrowed. Shepherd stood up and went over to get the UMP. ‘Thinking about it, Spider, it might be best if you get as far away from here as you can,’ she said.

  Shepherd took the Tube to Knightsbridge and wandered around the Harrods food hall for ten minutes to check that he wasn’t being followed, then took a circuitous route through the surrounding streets to the red-brick mansion that housed the Special Forces Club. He pushed open the door, signed in at the reception desk in the hallway and headed upstairs. Yokely was already at the bar with a vodka and tonic.

  ‘Your usual?’ asked Yokely.

  Shepherd nodded and the American ordered a Jameson’s with soda and ice, then went over to a quiet table in the window. It had been at the Special Forces Club that Shepherd had first met Yokely. Shepherd dropped into a winged leather armchair. ‘What’s so urgent that I have to be dragged out of the bowels of the American embassy?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘It’s done,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What’s done?’ asked the American.

  ‘Your man. Hassan Salih.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Very.’

  Yokely raised his glass in salute. ‘Well done you. Details?’ Shepherd told the American everything, only pausing when a white-jacketed waiter brought his whiskey. When he’d finished, Yokely was
grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘And Charlie?’

  ‘She’ll be okay. She’s in hospital. I’m going to see her after this.’

  ‘Tell her I was asking about her, will you?’

  ‘You should pop around yourself,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I was never one for flowers,’ said Yokely. ‘And, frankly, we’re not that close.’

  ‘What about her husband’s funeral? Will you go to that?’

  Yokely’s eyes narrowed. ‘Dan, I’m picking up a vibe here.’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘There’s no vibe,’ he said. ‘I just can’t help but think that if you’d warned Charlie of the danger she was in, her husband might still be alive and she wouldn’t be in hospital.’

  ‘Trust me, if we’d warned her the killer would have just bided his time and eventually killed them both.’

  ‘And maybe gone after you, too?’

  ‘I told you before, I’m very hard to get.’ He sipped his vodka and tonic. ‘What about you? Where do you go from here?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder what the world’s coming to, Dan? Down the john, that’s where we’re headed. Unless we do something about it.’

  ‘By “we”, who do you mean exactly?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘You and me,’ said Yokely. ‘And those like us. We’re the only ones who stand between what we have and anarchy.’

  ‘That’s the job of governments. I’m a civil servant, working within government guidelines.’

  ‘Do you think your government is up to the job?’

  Shepherd threw up his hands. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘I know,’ said Yokely. ‘The answer is, no, sir, they are not. You only have to read the papers to know that. You saw what happened to those sailors and marines who were taken hostage by the Iranians. Paraded in front of television cameras, saying they were sorry to have offended their Iranian hosts. Whatever happened to “Name, rank and serial number”? The Iranians are responsible for half the deaths in Iraq and they made the Brits look as if they were in the wrong. Your government’s weak and they’ve reduced your armed forces to a shadow of what they used to be. They’ve hamstrung your cops with rules and regulations and brought in so-called human-rights legislation that means terrorists and murderers can’t be deported, no matter what atrocities they’re planning to commit. I’m offering you the chance to make a difference, Dan. A real difference. To fight on the front line against the real villains in the world, and to fight on their terms.’