The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  Which was why he hesitated.

  The movement was slight, but he knew that he was not alone. Someone was near him and that someone was desperately trying to be quiet. He dropped down to a crouch and swung the pistol around in a wide arc. His focus stopped on Juliet Kalver’s chest, the sights of the Browning levelling on her heart, as she knelt halfway down the stairs. She was using the bend in the staircase to take cover behind the wooden bannister.

  She took her right hand off of the Uzi’s grip, and raised it submissively in the air, emphasizing that her finger was nowhere near the trigger. “Don’t shoot!” she called softly.

  King kept the pistol trained on her, then frowned as she rose to her feet. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Backing you up!” She slung the machine pistol over her shoulder and walked down the stairs.

  “Ah! Mista English!” King turned around as he heard Akmed Faisal’s unmistakable voice boom into the foyer. “You come to help us again?” the thin Kurd walked towards the double doors, his hands held out to embrace. “We kill many insurgents again!”

  King quickly made the Browning safe and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers, returning the Kurd’s smile. He felt uncomfortable, a fraud. He had been mere seconds from taking their lives.

  Juliet Kalver stepped down the last few stairs and nodded a greeting to the two brothers, then stood aside and beckoned them into the foyer. The three men stepped in, then looked around expectantly.

  “Empty?” Akmed Faisal asked, as he stared around the reception area.

  “Deserted.” King nodded. “I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t really get time to say…”

  The Kurd shrugged. “There is much killing, much loss. It is not easy, but…” He shook his head in dismay, then motioned around the foyer, a watery glint to his eye. “I knew the owners well. Every day people leave. Only the old and the determined remain and I could not blame them if they decided to leave very soon.” He looked around the foyer, taking it in. “During the time of Saddam many Iraqis took holidays here. The owners would roast whole goats and the rest of the people living here would bring dishes and we would have a celebration each spring. Winters can be harsh here. Then with the war this place was always full of journalists. Then, after Saddam it slowly became quieter. Now the insurgents are near, no journalists take the chance being here. If they are captured they are filmed being beheaded and put on the internet. Now there is no trade for hotels.”

  Juliet Kalver started to walk up the large staircase, then turned around. “This way gentlemen, if you don’t mind?” she said curtly. “We have some matters to discuss and very little time in which to do it.”

  The three Kurds followed her closely, all eyes fixed on her shapely behind, as she led the way up the stairs. King brought up the rear. As he reached the midway point he turned and looked down at the foyer towards the double glass doors below. From his position he was unable to see the doors. He dropped down onto his haunches, a similar height to Kalver when she was kneeling. Still he could not see the doorway. He thought of Kalver and the Uzi, and what she would have seen through the sights. He suddenly felt uneasy, his mind now full of nagging doubt.

  50

  “Is that it?” Stewart studied the building and frowned. “But it’s tiny.”

  Holmwood checked the piece of paper in his hand, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s the place. Callington and Co. Solicitors,” he paused then watched, as an attractive woman walked out of the front door and unlocked a silver Mini Cooper S, parked directly outside the building. “I guess he thought that a small legal firm would be less obvious.”

  Pryce leaned between them, resting his arms somewhat annoyingly on the back of their seats. He watched the woman open the door, then hitch her tight skirt high up her shapely legs, before sliding gracefully into the driver’s seat. “I couldn't half give her one!” he said, grinning wolfishly. He glanced back at the two men, then frowned when he noticed their expressions. “What?” he asked dejectedly. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Stewart smiled. “Margaret would kill me…” he paused, then pointed to a yellow alarm cover on the side of the building. “They have some security measures, which is to be expected.” He craned his neck to see, then rested back against his seat. “Doesn’t look like much though.”

  “Don’t worry Sir, we have all the equipment we need to do a small place like this.” Holmwood started the engine, then eased the car up the slope. “We’d better park, we don’t want to look too obvious.”

  Stewart nodded. “All right, but before we take a look, we’ll stop off and have a wee bite to eat. Falmouth looks as if it has a good few pubs, one on every corner at least.”

  “Shouldn’t we do a thorough stake out instead?” Pryce suggested from the rear seat. “We could grab a Cornish pasty each, and watch from the car.”

  “You grab a bloody Cornish pasty! I'm having steak and chips, this is on expenses after all.” Stewart turned towards Holmwood, who was busy maneuvering the car around a delivery van. “Your partner has a lot to learn doesn’t he?” He chuckled loudly, then took a thick Churchill cigar from his pocket and searched himself for matches.

  Holmwood took a matchbook from his jacket and handed it across to Stewart, before glancing at Pryce in the rear-view mirror. “He certainly does Sir, he certainly does.”

  ***

  Stewart had tried several pubs, but could not find what he was looking for. Many had given over to the student scene with cheap drinks and sharing platters of nachos or tapas. Others were chain pubs and Stewart took extra care not to patronise these. After almost an hour of searching both he and Holmwood had eaten an agreeable lunch at a modern bistro bar furnished with distressed wooden tables and a great deal of modern contemporary Cornish art adorning the whitewashed walls. Stewart had indeed got his steak; a ribeye served rare and topped with a bone marrow, clotted cream and goat’s cheese butter. A basket of twice cooked fries nestled beside the plate, which as was almost always the case, was not a plate at all but a plank of wood. Holmwood had opted for a double cheeseburger with the same fries, which again had arrived on another plank of wood. The cheeseburger had come in a toasted brioche bun and on a peppery rocket salad. The food had been excellent, but came at London celebrity chef prices. Stewart had no idea how the Cornish could afford to eat out these days. Pryce, who had been given the task of staying with the car and watching the law firm, had indeed got his pasty; a giant pastry wrapped affair of beef, swede, potato and onion. Stewart had given him the steaming feast and Pryce could not have seemed happier as he tucked in and Holmwood had taken over the watch. There had been no movements and nothing to report.

  Stewart ambled across the street and opened the door to the law firm’s offices. The bell above the door frame sounded a brief intermittent, chime and he glanced automatically at the electronic bell as he stepped through the doorway, then closed the door behind him.

  The alarm panel was fixed to the wall on his left and he quickly noted the set up. Key operated, with a push button panel and a digital display. No wires visible, most probably entered the panel from within the wall. He peered up the narrow staircase, then smiled when a pretty blonde secretary appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Can I help you, Sir?” she asked politely, yet with an underlying hint of concern. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Stewart walked purposefully up the stairs, and smiled. “I was wondering if I could have a word with one of your solicitors. Mister Callington perhaps?” The young woman stood aside as he stepped up the last narrow riser and entered the cramped office. “Forgive me if I don’t have an appointment,” he smiled. “But I was caught on a whim, I’ve been putting it off for years, you see.”

  The woman returned to her cluttered desk and frowned. “Putting off what?”

  “Making my will, my dear.”

  She looked at him strangely, then turned as the telephone rang. She sat down behind her desk and pointed to a comfortable looking chair near th
e window. “Err, sorry, I must get that. Would you mind taking a seat?” She picked up the receiver and put on her professional secretary’s voice. “Good afternoon, Callington and Co. Solicitors, how may I help you?”

  Stewart looked around the office and quickly scanned the walls. There was a movement sensor, or Passive Infrared (PIR), in the far right-hand comer, just behind the woman’s desk. This would be controlled from the panel below. He decided to stand up and look out of the window at the traffic in the street below. To the young woman he simply looked bored and impatient, yet Stewart was really assessing every detail. Years of training and experience was telling him what would be needed. He stretched, then glanced at the ceiling. Another movement sensor, fixed to the side of the entrance. Any intruder who defeated the first sensor with the panel below would be caught off guard by the second. This meant that the second sensor had its own power supply. Stewart glanced around the office as the secretary spoke to the person on the telephone, who judging from her answers seemed to be asking a lot of questions about probate. The young woman clearly relished the chance to answer the questions and was taking no notice as Stewart continued to survey the office.

  He paced around the room, then glanced at the three doors which obviously led to other offices. The nearest two were brass-handled with scratches around the keyholes indicating that the doors were frequently locked. The third door showed no lock, and Stewart guessed that either this was a cloak cupboard, or it led to staff amenities.

  The woman said thank you, then put down the receiver and looked up at Stewart. Her expression had hardened, and she stared at him coolly. “I’m afraid that both Mister Callington and Ms. Baker are unavailable. Mister Callington has a client with him at the moment and a consultation directly afterwards.” She glanced down at her appointment book, then looked up apparently unconcerned. “And Ms. Baker is in Truro at the court and will be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Oh dear,” Stewart shrugged haplessly. “Perhaps I can come back later?”

  “You will have to make an appointment, both Mister Callington and Ms. Baker are extremely busy people.”

  “I dare say they are,” he paused, then smiled. “I tell you what, I’ll check my diary, then telephone a little later How’s that?”

  “Fine.” The woman looked back at the paperwork on her desk, then spoke without raising her head. “Goodbye, please be good enough to close the door at the bottom.”

  Stewart walked down the staircase, apparently unhurried. When he reached the bottom, he looked over the control panel once more, then opened the door and stepped into the deserted side street. He walked casually down the quiet road, turned left at the bottom then walked over to the Vauxhall Insignia, where Pryce and Holmwood waited patiently. Stewart opened the door, and dropped into the passenger seat.

  “Any luck?” Holmwood asked, immediately starting the engine.

  “Plenty. The place is a doddle, just a few points to outline, but it should be a breeze.” He turned to Pryce and grinned. “What the hell were you asking her?”

  Pryce chuckled out loud. “I was chatting her up half the time! She’s bloody desperate, well in need of a right good seeing-to!” He reached forwards and slipped the mobile telephone into the dashboard holder. “I just asked her a few questions about inheritance tax and contesting a will, flirted a bit as well. I could hardly get away from her.”

  “Not that you tried,” Holmwood interjected.

  Stewart settled back into the seat and smiled at the jovial banter. It had been a while since he had worked in the field and he was starting to enjoy it once more.

  51

  Alex King closed the door, then paced over to the window. He peered out, waiting for the three men to reappear below. The sun hung low in the clear sky, and a sudden chill was starting to bite at his bare arms. He bent to pick up the military jacket and pulled it on, as he watched the street for any sign of the three Kurds.

  “Do you think they’ll go for it?” Juliet Kalver walked across the room and stood at his shoulder, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “You don’t think it sounds too suspicious, do you?”

  King watched Rocky walk out of the foyer and pause on the wooden veranda, as Akhim and Shameel jostled playfully to be the first in line for the wooden steps. The three men laughed, then walked across the square towards a large house by what used to be a fountain, now a mere pile of rubble towards the corner of the square. He watched the two men, knowing they had buried much of their family these past few months, their younger brother last week.

  King kept his eyes on the men and shook his head. “No,” he paused, then glared at her contemptuously. “They’re loyal men, why should they suspect a thing?”

  There was an atmosphere between the two of them, and tension filled the air. Neither mentioned what had happened before, but it was more than that. King couldn’t help thinking about Kalver taking up her firing position on the stairs. The arc of fire made no sense. The thought of her there with the Uzi made him shiver. He glanced at the luminous dials of his Rolex in the dull light. His eyes were accustomed to the gloom, he had been in darkness ever since sunset. The old hotel was still structurally intact, but the electricity had been terminated for some time. He looked over at Juliet Kalver as he bent down and picked up the Galil ARM rifle. “Just getting some air, I won’t be long.”

  “Air?” she frowned. “It’s as cold as a witch’s tit in here, what do you want air for? Just wait, we go in just over an hour.”

  King shook his head. “Okay, let me put it another way…” he paused. “In approximately an hour’s time, two four-wheel-drive vehicles are going to go charging out of this village. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for someone to check that half the Iraqi army aren’t nearby or that ISIS aren’t circling for a raid.”

  Kalver nodded from her chair. “All right, go

  for it.” She watched him walk towards her, then suddenly raised both legs, resting her feet on the bed, blocking his passage. “On second thoughts, why don’t you stay? The Faisal brothers reported no soldiers in the region and their intelligence is rarely incorrect.” She crossed her legs elegantly, then smiled at him, her white teeth clearly visible through the darkness. “We could always do something else together, we have enough time.”

  King smiled at her. “I thought you were recently widowed?”

  Her expression hardened, and for a second, King saw a hatred and anger that threatened to cut through him, sending a shiver down his spine. She seemed to realise what he thought and her expression softened, albeit ever so slightly. “What has that got to do with it? My husband died and left me all on my own,” she paused, took her feet off the bed and rose to her feet. “I love him and miss him every day. If he was alive I wouldn’t look at you twice. But he’s not and I have needs. I was only suggesting sex, what’s the big deal? It didn’t bother you before…” She cocked her head to one side and smiled.

  King thought her an anomaly. When she smiled she was attractive, maybe even beautiful. When she was angered, she sneered and became ugly. He looked at her, found himself wanting her again. He wavered, but thought of the arc of fire… the Uzi… “I don’t think so,” he said. “We need clear heads now. I’m going to do a quick security sweep. Get yourself ready. We’ll leave when I get back.”

  “Fine!” she got out of the chair so quickly that it shifted backwards across the wooden floorboards. She strode towards the bathroom and spoke over her shoulder. “You’re not half the fuck my husband was anyway…”

  52

  The night-chill was biting and the stillness in the cold air was unsettling. Only the thinnest slice of moon lit the dark sky, and the hard ground made far too much noise for King’s liking. He continued to run all the same; there wasn’t time to survey the whole perimeter of the village without breaking into a sweat. He covered the ground quickly, running a hundred metres at a time, then pausing behind pieces of natural cover to gaze into the night. He would naturally have preferred som
e night vision equipment, but he would have to do with the next best thing, besides, his eyes were well accustomed to the dark and the terrain around the village of Kalsagir was largely flat, with only the odd hillock to break the monotony.

  He listened intently, slowing his breathing as he strained for any sound that might be out of keeping with the desert night. His vigil caught only the faintest sound, unrecognisable, but nevertheless he was convinced that it belonged to an animal. He waited, then heard it again. Most definitely an animal’s call. There was no way that any soldiers could be nearby, desert wildlife tends to be the most sensitive and almost always nocturnal. Convinced that Kalsagir was not under any threat from Iraqi troops or ISIS insurgents, King walked along the rear of a row of empty shops, then turned down a narrow side street and made his way back to the edge of the square. As he walked along the hard, dusty ground, he heard a sound to his right, a sound which suddenly carried on the night air. He paused for a moment, straining to see in the dark, then cautiously made his way towards it. Again he heard it. This time, he recognised the source – the booming voice of Shameel.