by Chris Ryan
Both the children woke up. They instinctively clung to their mother, breathless and confused, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Sallum stepped towards the bed.
They are small. One bullet will be enough for each of them.
He stood next to the bed, pointed the gun, fired once, then twice. Both children were killed instantly. Their bodies slumped across the bed, still clasped to their mother. The boy was still holding a toy, and the girl had a dummy in her mouth. Neither seemed to have had any idea what was happening.
Sallum spent a moment admiring the delicate, soft purity of their skins.
For infidel robbers there can be no mercy. Not even for their children.
He walked to the window and looked towards the lawn. He could see Rami's body lying out on the grass, the man leaning over him, checking he was dead.
Sallum crept into the space behind the door, waiting. After a few seconds he heard the sound of the door slamming, then a man's footsteps on the staircase.
'Jane?' the voice rang out from the hallway. 'Jane? Are you OK?'
The man came through the door. He looked towards the bed, his eyes darting from body to body. Blood was by now dripping from the sheets, running some of the way towards the bathroom.
The man froze.
Sallum emerged silently and his hand circled the man's neck. Both men were the same height, but Sallum was slightly heavier and had more strength in his shoulders. He jabbed the silenced P7 tight into the man's neck. 'Their death is the first part of your punishment,' he said. 'The second part will follow – but I will allow you a few moments to reflect on what has happened to your wife and children before you die.'
Sallum squeezed tighter on Reid's neck, choking off the flow of air to his lungs. Reid was struggling to free himself, but Sallum's grip was tight, and without oxygen it was impossible to summon the strength to break free.
'Repeat these words,' said Sallum. 'Allahummagh firlee warr hamnee wah-dini wan zug-ni.'
'Fuck off.'
'Would you like me to translate for you?'
'Fuck off you murdering Arab pig.'
'O Allah, forgive me, have mercy on me, guide me aright and grant me sustenance,' said Sallum, his voice touched with laughter. 'It is the dua that is always taught to a new Muslim. I thought you might like to convert, seeing as you're about to meet Allah. For he is a merciful God, and is always ready to greet a sinner who repents. Even scum like you.'
The man roared in anger, jabbing his elbow backwards and catching Sallum in the chest. Sallum's hand fell free from the neck and the man started to spin on his heels, his arm swinging out to grab Sallum's hand. Sallum rocked momentarily backwards on his heels before regaining his balance. He squeezed the trigger on the P7, blowing a hole through the man's neck. Blood and skin splashed on to the floor. Sallum pulled the trigger again, hitting his enemy just below the mouth. The lower part of the jaw was blown away, the bone splintering in different directions.
The man's legs buckled and he dropped to the floor.
Sallum tucked the pistol back into his pocket, stepping away from the body. From another pocket he took out a thin painter's brush. He dipped it into the pool of blood on the floor, and started writing on the wall.
Another limb severed. Two more to go. Then my work will be done.
NINETEEN
Matt walked alone through Regent's Park. It was just after ten in the morning, and apart from a couple of mums out for a walk with their children the place was empty. Heavy clouds were hanging in the sky and some light drizzle was falling into his face as he marched along the pathway.
He had driven straight back up to London after leaving the Road Chef on the M20. He didn't want to go to his flat, and he didn't want to be seen anywhere he might be recognised. So he'd dumped the car at an Avis office, grabbed a coffee, and come for a walk.
Maybe I should just go and take the money for myself. Clear off somewhere, change my name, fix my face and start a new life. After all, it isn't as if I have Gill to worry about any more.
Matt found his thoughts returning to the past. During his six-month selection for the Regiment, after a brutal two weeks of training, he had decided he'd had enough, that he couldn't take any more. For days he had been hiking across mountains, getting shot at, sleeping in open countryside with nothing to consume apart from a few biscuits and some spring water. He went home for the weekend, and decided not to go back. It was Damien and Gill who had persuaded him to return, telling him that he had no choice but to persevere, that he would never forgive himself if he didn't.
They aren't here for me any more.
Another time, during his first tour of duty in Northern Ireland, he'd suffered from a bad bout of what the shrinks would call post-traumatic stress, and the guys in the Regiment would call an attack of the shakes. Three of them had been out on patrol in border country, when they were ambushed by a Provo hit squad. They had been pinned down for ten minutes, coming under sustained fire, before one of them volunteered to break out by rushing their attacker. Matt had been more terrified than he could have imagined possible: his guts had been heaving, he'd thrown up three times, and his fingers wouldn't stop shaking for long enough for him to load his gun.
Those had been bad, low moments. But this was worse. This time he was alone.
Sallum collected his case from the carousel and walked swiftly towards customs. The flight from Malaga to Manchester had taken two hours, fifteen minutes, and there was not much time to lose. Assaf wanted to see him before lunch. It was eleven now. If he picked up a rental car in the next few minutes, he should be there in time.
The morning had gone well. Better than he expected.
But there is still some killing time left in the day. A truly holy man can never rest.
He walked slowly through the green customs lane towards passport control. Experience had taught him to walk slightly nervously through customs: exaggerated self-confidence was one of the signs the customs men looked out for in picking out their victims for random searches. Even then, he had little to fear. He never carried any kind of weapon on a plane – he had dumped the P7 into the Mediterranean, and always bought fresh weapons for each hit – and his false Saudi passport was perfectly in order.
The successful assassin keeps risks to an absolute minimum. That way you stay alive.
'Can we see your bag, sir?'
Sallum stopped and looked at the customs officer. His pulse skipped a beat, but he felt certain that the reaction was not visible on his face, his expression remaining calm and impassive. 'Of course,' he replied.
He put his bag down on the counter. It was a simple, black leather case with a combination lock. Sallum put the numbers in place and opened the clasp. The officer opened the bag, taking out its contents one by one: two spare shirts, a pair of Gap chinos and a pair of blue Levis, a black polo jumper, some socks, underpants, a shaving kit, and a copy of the Koran. 'Okay?' said Sallum, replacing the items in the bag.
'You'll have to follow me, sir,' said the officer.
Sallum paused. 'Can you tell me what the problem is?'
The officer looked at him. He was a man of about forty, with thick, black hair and hard, determined eyes. 'Just follow me.'
A set of screens divided the customs area from the back office. Sallum followed the officer – there was, he decided, no choice. Ever since the glorious victory in New York on 11 September 2001 – a day that would surely go down as one of the greatest in human history – every airport in the world had been teeming with armed police, and sometimes special forces soldiers. If he tried to make a break for it, he'd have half a battalion on him within five seconds. There was no other option but to do what he was told.
The officer pointed to a bank of six small rooms, each with a small, high window. From one, Sallum could hear the sound of a woman crying as she was searched. From another, the violent, rough sound of a man resisting arrest. The officer opened a door, and pointed inside. 'Just wait there, sir,' he said quietly. 'Some
one will be along to see you in a minute.'
'Why am I being held?' asked Sallum, his voice more insistent this time.
'Just wait there.'
The room measured six feet by four, with grey wallpaper and a neon strip light. There was a simple wooden table and three black plastic chairs. On the table there was a jug of water and a stack of paper cups. Sallum took a sip of water and listened. The woman was still crying, the man overwhelmed and subdued. Somewhere in the distance he could hear men talking, but could catch nothing of what they were saying. He didn't need to. He knew they were talking about him, and what they should do with him next.
Sallum took his mobile from his pocket and considered making a call. No, he told himself. Too dangerous. They are certain to be listening to every word I say.
The mobile rang four times in Matt's pocket before he answered it. He sat down on a bench and put the phone to his ear.
'That you?'
Matt recognised the voice instantly – Harry Pointer, Kazanov's sidekick back in Spain. Probably the last person he wanted to hear from. 'Yes,' he replied tersely. 'Everything OK?'
There was a pause. Matt knew what that pause meant, and he steeled himself for the answer. He had heard officers calling the wives and mothers of men who had been killed in action. They always asked if everything was OK, and they always hesitated before delivering the blow. They knew they shouldn't – the rulebook said that if you have bad news, it's always kinder to deliver it quickly – but they couldn't help themselves. Inwardly, they recoiled from the task, and wanted to postpone it as long as possible.
'Bloody hell, Matt, it's like a sodding butcher's shop in here.'
Matt remained silent. Across the park he could see a toddler hassling his mum for some sweets.
'He's dead, isn't he?'
'Of course he's bloody dead,' Pointer snorted. 'The whole bloody family is dead. The wife, the kids – there's blood all over the bedroom, and all the way down the stairs. And there's all these bloody slogans written on the walls. In blood, Matt. Written in blood.'
'What do they say?'
'It says, "A thief was brought to the Prophet four times and his punishments were amputations of the right hand, the left foot, the left hand and then the right foot. On the fifth occasion the Prophet had him killed",' Pointer said, reciting the words written on the bedroom wall. 'Fuck it, Matt. These are complete sodding nutcases.'
'Al-Qaeda,' said Matt. 'Or someone dressing their actions up to look like al-Qaeda.'
Another pause. Matt glanced across the path again. The toddler appeared to have won and was sucking on a new packet of chews.
'I can't believe you're messing with those nutcases,' Pointer continued angrily. 'Mr Kazanov is not going to be pleased, Matt. Not pleased one little bit. We thought you were just hiding away from some local gangster. Not sodding al-Qaeda.'
'We're all ex-SAS, Harry,' said Matt.
'So what?' Pointer snarled, his voice rising with anger. 'Mr Kasanov is not going to be pleased, Matt. Bringing al-Qaeda into his house. He doesn't need that kind of enemy.'
'Frankly, there are so many people trying to kill me right now, you'll have to form a queue.'
'You might think it's funny, Matt, but Kazanov won't.'
'How the fuck did they get in, Harry?' Matt asked.
'Looks like a decoy,' said Pointer. 'There's a hole in the fence, and a young guy dead on the lawn.'
'Listen, just do one thing for me,' he said.
Matt could hear Pointer laughing. 'The favour jar is empty,' he said. 'Don't even ask.'
'Whoever did this, I want to catch them, and finish them,' said Matt. 'So do you.'
Pointer snorted. 'You're not winning me round.'
'Come on,' said Matt, his voice quickening. 'I just want to catch these guys and deal with them for you. Your video cameras should have recorded the whole thing. Just get me the tape of what happened.'
'What will you do with it?'
'Just get me the tape, Harry,' said Matt, his voice growing more insistent. 'I'll identify whoever is on it, then I'll kill him. And Kazanov can have his half-million back. The money's all there, so long as I can stay alive long enough to deliver it.'
'One tape, Matt, that's it,' said Harry. 'Call me back in a couple of hours.'
'Thanks, Harry.'
'Oh, and Matt, one more thing,' Pointer said. 'Give me an address for your funeral. I'd like to send a wreath.'
Matt disconnected the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. The rain was falling more heavily now, the water dripping off his hair and down the back of his neck. The first lesson he had learned in the Regiment, and maybe the most valuable one, was to curb and control his anger. To channel it in the right direction. To make sure that vengeance, when it came, was deadly, accurate and precise.
There will be time for grieving for Reid and his family later. After their killer has been dealt with.
Matt stood up from the bench and started walking. There had been five of them to start with, and now three of them were dead. In the next couple of hours he could take that down to one. It was time for some payback.
Sallum tapped his fingers against the table. The woman in the next room had been released and the row of interview cubicles had fallen silent. It was quarter past twelve according to the clock on the wall. They had kept him waiting for an hour already. There was no way he was going to make it to see Assaf before lunchtime now.
Of all the virtues the Prophet has taught his children, patience in the face of adversity is the greatest of them all.
Sallum looked up as the door opened. The man who came into the room was in his mid-thirties, with cropped blond hair and a tie loosened around his neck. His name was Ben Harper, according to the plastic name-tag slung around his neck. Without introducing himself, he sat down at the table opposite Sallum, a sheaf of papers in front of him.
'What's your name?' he asked, looking directly at Sallum.
'With respect, you know my name,' replied Sallum. 'Otherwise I wouldn't be here.'
'Nasir bin Sallum,' said Harper. 'Thirty-two, Saudi citizen, a businessman.'
This is just the warm-up act, observed Sallum. They'll send the comedian later.
'Why are you in Manchester?'
'Working.'
'What kind of work?'
'Like it says on the papers, I'm a businessman,' replied Sallum. 'Business work.'
'What business?' said Harper impatiently.
'I import football shirts to Saudi Arabia,' said Sallum. 'Manchester United, Liverpool, Newcastle. There are even some Bolton supporters in Saudi. I'm here to see some of the suppliers.'
'And in Spain?'
'Same thing,' said Sallum with a shrug. 'English football shirts. Spanish. We sell some German and French ones as well. European football is very popular in my country.'
Harper leant forward. 'It sounds like a good cover.'
'Really?' Sallum answered casually. 'To me it sounds like a good, solid business.'
Harper stood up. 'You wait here,' he said. 'A colleague will be along to question you some more later.'
'What's the charge?'
'No charges, just questioning,' said Harper.
'Then why are you holding me?'