by Chris Ryan
Whitson looked carefully at his face, scrutinising it as if he were looking at a forged bank note. 'Who's your friend?' he asked.
'I'll tell you inside,' said Ivan. 'I'm Portrush brigade. I need some help.'
The door opened slightly wider, and Matt and Ivan stepped into the dark hallway. A single light was shining in the kitchen towards the back of the house, but otherwise the building was shrouded in darkness. The walls were covered in faded paper, with one or two damp patches evident on the ceiling. The carpet was frayed and worn, and there was a stack of old papers and magazines filling the hall. A smell of old boiled potatoes filtered through from somewhere.
Matt hesitated before stepping inside — but the man had seemed so suspicious of Ivan, it looked unlikely to be a trap.
I'll take my chances.
'I won't be offering you a cup of tea because I don't think you'll be lingering,' said Whitson, revealing a set of grey and broken teeth. 'You can state your business and then be on your way.'
'I think there's a gang after me,' said Ivan bluntly. 'The family suspects I've been disloyal, and they've sent some cousins to sort me out. If there was a nutting squad over here, you'd know about it. I need to speak with them, tell them it's a mistake, sort the whole thing out.'
'And have you been disloyal?'
Ivan shook his head. 'I have not,' he replied.
'But you would say that, wouldn't you?' Whitson said slowly. 'After all, we know what the family thinks about cousins who want to leave.'
'If you just tell me where they are, I can speak to them,' said Ivan. 'If I convince them I'm OK, they can let me go. If not, they can kill me there and then. Either way, it saves them the trouble of finding me.'
Whitson leant towards him, his jaw open. Matt could smell fried onions on his breath. 'Your name again, sonny?'
'I told you once,' said Ivan, 'I don't need to tell you again.'
'Ivan Rowe,' said Whitson, rolling the words over his tongue. 'I don't think I've heard anything about you. You can be on your way.'
Ivan's fist collided with the man's stomach, Matt, just like the victim, was surprised by the speed and force of the punch. Whitson doubled up in pain, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath. His eyes rolled up towards Ivan, and he tried to move away. Another fist collided with the back of his neck, sending him crashing to the floor, spluttering for breath. 'Tell me who's looking for me, and then I'll stop hitting you,' Ivan shouted.
'No one's looking for you, you idiot,' Whitson snarled, spitting on to the floor.
The side of Ivan's foot smashed into his ribcage. Matt could hear the sound of a bone snapping, and Whitson's face screwed up in pain. 'Tell me!' shouted Ivan.
'Fuck off! There's no one!' Whitson screamed.
'Hold him down,' said Ivan, glancing towards Matt.
Matt knelt, half his weight on Whitson's chest, pinning back both his arms. At his side, Ivan slapped the back of his hand hard against the man's face. Matt winced. He could smell the vomit rising in the man's throat. He's an old guy, he thought. There's not much punishment in him.
'Keep holding him,' Ivan said curtly.
Matt dug an elbow into Whitson's chest, crushing the air from his lungs and pinning him to the floor. He moved his hand up across the neck, and used the back of his hand to force Whitson's mouth open. He could hear him struggling for air.
'Tell me where they are!' shouted Ivan.
Whitson coughed. 'There's nobody looking for you, I swear it.'
Ivan smashed his fist into Whitson's face. Matt could feel the force of the blow trembling through the old man's body.
If that doesn't make him talk, nothing will.
'There's no fucking hit squad after you,' croaked Whitson.
'Just tell me where they are, and I'll stop hitting you,' Ivan said coldly.
'There's no one, you have to believe me.'
'Hold the fucker harder,' said Ivan, looking towards Matt.
'There's nothing,' Whitson hissed, the voice gradually trailing away to a whimper. 'There's nothing.'
'I think he might be telling the truth,' said Matt, looking up at Ivan.
But Ivan slammed his fist into the man's face once again, cutting open the skin. Whitson wriggled, then Matt could feel him falling completely still. There was no sound at all. Matt put his hand up over the man's mouth, but could feel nothing.
'Christ,' he said, looking up at Ivan. 'He's dead.'
'Weak heart,' said Ivan matter-of-factly. 'Common with a man of that age, particularly when they eat too much fatty food. The pain builds up the blood pressure, and the heart cuts out. Happens all the time.'
Ivan's capacity for sudden, explosive violence was one side of the man's character Matt had not expected. 'As if we weren't in enough trouble already,' he said.
Ivan stepped away, into the darkness. 'But I think he was telling the truth,' he said. 'There's nobody looking for me.'
Matt stood up. 'You killed the man — just like that?' he said.
'Once we start questioning him, he knows we think someone is looking for us,' said Ivan, looking closely at Matt. 'That means we've definitely done something. If we let him live, someone will be looking for us.' He shrugged, walking back towards the kitchen. 'Anyway, he's a Provo, you're SAS. I thought you liked killing Irishmen.'
Just as we used to say in the Regiment — once a mission starts going wrong, it keeps going wrong.
Ivan was rummaging around in the cupboard. 'Stop getting in a flap,' he continued. 'We needed to find out whether the Provos were on to us, and we've done that. And we need somewhere safe to hole up for a few days.'
'You think we should stay here?'
Ivan flicked a switch on the kettle. 'You wanted a safe house,' he said. 'Well, now you've got one.'
FIFTEEN
Matt fished the mobile out of his pocket, glancing down at the display. It was Reid. He jabbed his thumb against the answer button. 'You OK?' he said quickly.
'A bit bruised, but still breathing,' said Reid.
'What happened?'
There was a pause on the line.
Right now, anything could happen.
'Your poofy pal, Damien,' said Reid, the words twisting on his lips. 'He's buggered off.'
'What?' Matt slumped back against the wall. He was sitting on the floor of the kitchen in Cedar Road. Ivan was brewing up a pot of tea. Ahead of him, Whitson's body was lying stretched out on the floor, waiting to be disposed of.
'Tell me about it,' he said.
The story took about ten minutes to tell, interrupted by some noises in the background from the children. The two men had driven together to Reid's house in Herefordshire, collected Jane and the kids, then driven across country towards the Peak District. In total, they had been driving for about six hours: three hours from London to Herefordshire, then another three hours by the time they arrived in Derbyshire. They stopped briefly in Derby, because Damien said he wanted to rent a car so he had his own transport — after that, he had followed them in a rented Peugeot 205. Reid had been exhausted by the time they got there. Jane had put the kids to bed, then rustled up some chicken and rice for supper. Reid had reckoned they would have a couple of beers to relax, then get some sleep. 'But Damien announces that he has to go out,' Reid continued.
'And you tried to stop him?'
'Of course, I bloody did. Cooksley's already dead, and someone is after us. You said we have to stick together.'
Matt sighed. He knew Damien well enough to know that he wasn't going to put up with Reid telling him what to do. Damien had always been a man who walked along his own path. He knew nothing about teams, or how to work with them.
'He lost it, right?'
'Like a rocket with the blue fuse lit,' Reid said. 'Started telling me I couldn't tell him what to do. I argued with him, said we had to stay together, that it was only one week until we collected the money. He seemed to accept that, calmed down for an hour or so. I was just ready to turn in, when out of the upstairs window I
see him slipping out of the lodge, and heading for his car. I was about to run after him, but he'd locked the door to the bedroom and tossed away the key. By the time I got out he'd vanished.'
'No indication of where he was going?'
'Nothing,' Reid answered. 'I would have chased after him, but I didn't want to leave Jane and the kids by themselves.' He paused. 'I don't like it, Matt. I know he's a friend of yours, but that's no way for a man to behave. This is the guy who's meant to be fencing our money for us, and now it turns out we can't trust the bastard.'
'There's probably nothing to it,' said Matt.
'Fuck it, Matt — I don't like it one bit,' Reid snapped. 'I want to know where he is. And I want him back here where I can keep an eye on him. He could be buggering off to take all our money. Or he could be coming back in a black mask to kill us all.'
Matt glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten past ten, and it had already been a long and tiring day. 'I've got his mobile numbers,' said Matt. 'I'll try to track him down. In the meantime there's nothing we can do. Try to get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning.'
'He better be bloody sorry,' said Reid, his tone starting to calm down. 'How are you, anyway?'
Matt glanced across at the body stretched out in the hallway. 'I've had better days,' he replied slowly. 'I'll be pleased when we've collected our money and put this whole thing behind us.'
* * *
Sallum looked down at the man at the door and handed across a ten pound note. The man was maybe twenty-five years old, with cropped dark hair, a black T-shirt and a single metal stud hanging from his left ear. He smiled upwards as he folded the money into the till. 'You're new here, aren't you?'
Sallum nodded.
'Down the stairs,' said the man. 'The showers and changing rooms are on the right. You'll find gowns and towels down there. Just grab one.' He looked closer at Sallum's face, as if he were examining him for something. 'Have fun.'
The Penthouse Sauna was on Tariff Street on the outskirts of Manchester. Sallum had followed the target from the moment he'd left the lodge, and was still waiting for the right moment to strike. He hadn't wanted to take him out on the road — car chases are fine for Hollywood films, but a professional assassin knows they are too dangerous and too unpredictable. Only an idiot would attack a man in a car.
He'd followed at a discreet distance from the Peugeot. It was dark, and that always made it harder for a driver to spot when he was being followed. Sallum had waited for ten minutes after Damien had pulled into the roadside and disappeared into the building. From the posters on its façade, he could tell that it was a gay club: there were pictures of men embracing, and of men dressed in leather and tight jeans.
There is no level of depravity that the infidel will not sink to.
Sallum walked down the stairs. It was dark and humid within the club. The temperature was turned up to eighty degrees, and soft, purple-tinted halogen lights kept the rooms in semi-darkness. He turned right into the changing room, nodded to the man just emerging from the showers, and started to strip off. He tucked his clothes into the locker, and stepped into the shower, turning the water on to hot.
I need something to cleanse my body already.
Wrapping the red gown around his body, he slipped a four-inch double-bladed surgical knife from his clothes locker into the pocket, and started to walk through the building. The first room was a bar serving beer and soft drinks, in which a huge plasma screen was showing gay porn films. There could have been ten or a dozen men in there, it was hard for Sallum to tell in the near darkness.
He walked on. There was a steam sauna and a fifteen-foot Jacuzzi, but both were empty. He saw a pair of men disappearing upstairs, and followed them. There was a series of doors on the landing, and from inside the rooms Sallum could hear the sounds of men having sex. Towards the back of the landing there was a fire door. He snapped open the metal lock, shoved the door aside, and a blast of cold night air hit him in the face. He looked outside. A small, dark alleyway — illuminated only by the distant neon sign of a Kentucky Fried Chicken bar — led out on to the main street.
My escape route.
Downstairs, Sallum counted nine men in the bar. He asked for a Diet Coke, and took a seat on one of the couches fining the wall. He could see the victim just across the room, sitting back, a beer in his hand, watching the television. Sallum waited until the man caught his eye, then smiled in his direction. The man smiled back, then nodded. He stood up, walking towards the staircase, glancing backwards. Sallum stood up, following in his footsteps, watching as he started to climb the stairs.
Inside the pocket of his gown, he ran his finger along the edge of the blade.
The sound of a man dying is not so different to the sound of a man having sex. No one will suspect a thing.
It was dark in the corridor. 'Wait,' said Damien, his hand reaching out and ruffling through Sallum's hair. 'I just need to wash.'
Sallum paused. Two men brushed past him, then another man, by himself this time. 'Here,' said a voice from the third bedroom. Sallum walked in to the darkness. The man reached out a hand and pulled him inwards. He could feel his gown being unwrapped and a pair of hands running through the hairs on his chest. He took the blade from the pocket, holding it squarely in his right hand, and jabbed it forwards — stabbing it straight into the heart, and pulling the blade roughly upwards to make sure the main arteries in the heart were severed. The victim gasped twice, then fell forwards into Sallum's arms.
Sallum held his left hand tight over the man's mouth, stifling the scream that was about to erupt from his lips. With his right hand he twisted the blade, and he could feel the life ebbing away. He paused, counting to twenty, making sure his victim was dead, then laid him out on the bed. Using the knife he cut into the bone and flesh, sawing away at the man's right wrist until the hand was free from the body. He removed the locker key from the stump, and walked out into the corridor. In the next room, he could hear the sounds of three men having sex together, and was grateful for the covering noise.
Sallum walked to the back of the corridor, opened the fire door, and dropped the severed hand into the alleyway. Turning back into the sauna, Sallum walked back down to the changing rooms, which were mercifully still empty. There was still some blood on his hands, but it washed away easily. One of the best things about blood, Sallum reflected. It never stains. He used the key he had just ripped from the man's wrist to open the locker, and, reaching inside, he took the wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, opening his own locker, he retrieved his clothes and dressed.
He combed his hair, checked himself in the mirror, then walked back up to the entrance. The man at the desk nodded towards him, asked him if he'd had a good time, but Sallum just smiled and walked on without replying.
He walked a few yards, and turned the corner into the alleyway. The hand was where he had left it. He picked it up, held it underneath his coat, and headed back towards the car. He swung open the car door, deposited the hand on the passenger seat, and fired up the engine.
Another perfect kill. The honour of the Prophet is satisfied.
* * *
Matt dialled the number impatiently. He held the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing tone. Nothing. Damien wasn't answering.
He jabbed the off button, then pressed redial. The mobile took a few seconds to locate the number, then started to ring again. Matt waited, counting ten rings. 'Welcome to the T-Mobile answering service,' started up the mechanised voice on the line. 'The person you are calling is not available.'
'Damn him,' muttered Matt, putting the phone down.
'Where's he gone?' Ivan handed down a cup of coffee.
'I haven't a clue,' Matt snapped angrily.
'I don't like it,' said Ivan thoughtfully. 'Your team is coming apart at the seams.'
Matt looked up at the window, and stared into the darkness.
Damien, where the hell are you?
* * *
It was
now four in the morning, and Sallum wanted his work to be completed by sunrise. Assassins are like owls, he reflected to himself. We are night creatures.
He looked down at the hand, nodding his head and whispering as if in prayer. 'In the book of Sunan Abu Dawud, it is written: a thief was brought to the Apostle of Allah — may peace be upon him — and his hand was cut off. Thereafter he commanded for it, and it was hung on his neck.'
Sallum smiled to himself, drawing quiet, professional satisfaction from the way the execution had gone. An assassin, he reflected, should always act within the commandments laid down by the Prophet. A hand has many uses. Even a dead one.
From his coat, he pulled out the wallet he had taken from the locker. Two credit cards, one bank card, and three different types of reward card. All in the name of Damien Walters.
It's close to dawn. I must act quickly.
He turned the ignition on the car and pulled out of the lay-by on to the open road, turning the heat up high to fight back the cold. He hated winters, and at moments like this longed to be back in Saudi. As a boy he had grown up in a small village in the Ar Rub' al Khali Desert, the vast, desolate space that dominates the centre of the country and stretches down to the coast of Oman. Translated, 'Khali' means the empty quarter — and that was the way he remembered it: he could travel for days with his father and not encounter a single living soul or even a blade of grass. It was completely pure.
Just as soon as my work is done I will be back there.
The lodge from which he had seen the target emerge this morning was five miles away. He drove slowly, careful not to draw any attention from the few cars on the road. As he saw the rough, low-built building on the horizon, he pulled in to the side of the road.
From the glove compartment he took a pad of paper and a pen, ripping free one page, 'THIS IS THE SECOND SEVERED LIMB, THREE MORE TO GO,' he marked out in neat, block letters, 'GIVE US OUR MONEY BACK, OR I WILL KILL ALL YOUR FAMILIES AS WELL.'
Sallum wrapped the paper into a neat square, then got out of the car, taking the severed hand with him. He prised open the fingers — for a man who had only been dead for an hour, the joints were surprisingly stiff. Sallum pulled hard, forcing the hand open. He placed the note inside it, plus one of the credit cards he had taken out of the wallet, then snapped the fingers shut, making sure they were holding on tight.