He’d also started to piece together the monastery’s occupants. In his head he gave each monk a name. So far he had 15, with simple descriptive titles like ‘tall’, ‘short’, ‘fat’, ‘smiley’, ‘cook’. Easy to remember. Since his incident in the courtyard with Freddie, other than the 15 monks, he’d not seen anyone else. Neither Freddie nor the black man with the silver can had made an appearance.
At least now he could recognise 15 monks by an associated name.
And he hated all of them. Every one. They were all complicit. They all had opportunities to stop the madness. To save him, and themselves. He had no idea what crazed ideology was preventing them from seeing that he was an unwilling captive; a violently-beaten, unwilling captive.
They could all go to hell.
Sand. In his eyes and in his mouth.
He hated all of them.
Jakov followed Karlo away from the table. They dropped their plates and mugs at a serving-hatch in the canteen’s wall, and then walked through a new corridor and into the chapel. He furtively took note of what he saw on the way; counting steps so that he could sketch his route comparatively with his other drawings.
Locked door on my left.
The chapel was mid-sized, about as big as a family house. It was traditional, with wooden benches facing an ancient stained-glass window - dark, multi-coloured glass unlit by the outside dusk. There was an altar and, behind that, a few choir stalls. What little light there was was provided by a row of flickering candles balanced on brass holders on the walls, and a couple of ornate candlesticks on the altar.
Karlo ushered Jakov into one of the back pews.
They both sat.
As the chapel filled up - 14, 15, 16 and then 17; two new monks he couldn’t make out in the dark - his eyes adjusted to the ambient light.
I must establish who they are.
In front of him was a leather-bound book. Its cover was similar to The Bible he had in his room but, on opening it was written in a language he didn’t understand. He could read English and Croatian; the latter was technically Serbo-Croat, using the Cyrillic alphabet. Such was their distaste for each other, both Serbians and Croatians claimed the language as their own, even though they both spoke its tongue.
But the words on the page were neither English nor Serbo-Croat. The letters were almost diagrammatic - like Sanskrit. He was pretty sure it wasn’t Arabic; it didn’t have the flow and beauty of that alphabet. It was more muscular. He gently leafed through its pages looking for a clue.
Nothing.
He lifted his head. All 17 monks were seated on pews facing the altar. And all 17 had their heads bowed in prayer.
He followed suit.
Be one with the crowd. And remember everything. That was the key to getting out of there.
He rested his head on one hand and held the book in the other. It was old. Green leather. Faded pages, their edges laced with gold. There was an emblem on the front. He rested the book on his knees and, in the half-dark, traced over the badge with a finger of his free hand.
It was an off-white crucifix, but it lacked Jesus’s body. Instead the cross was decorated with something else. He couldn’t make it out in the dark. He tilted his head and moved the book so the light from the closest candle provided some illumination.
It was a plant - maybe a rose. Certainly a creeper of some kind.
Jakov shrugged and put the book on the ledge in front of him. He looked to his right at Karlo. The monk was deep in prayer. His mouth moving, but nothing broke the silence.
NE 12th Street, Winchester, Miami
Sam looked back over her shoulder and saw Ginny waving from her balcony. She returned her wave. Whilst she’d told Ginny she’d be back after she’d been to the British Consulate, she didn’t know if she believed it. Sam was prey. She was being hunted. Anyone associated with her was in danger. Ginny was far too nice a person to get mixed up in all of this. Leaving her and not returning would be for the best.
She’d slept well, well beyond 10 am. She’d woken with a sore head, a combination of her body-clock still adjusting to a five-hour time difference, a very late night, and three too many Bacardis and coke. She hadn’t noticed last night, but this morning her finger was swollen from when she’d fallen head first out of the restroom window. It was sore as hell, but probably not broken. In addition, as she showered, her stomach shouted at her. She had a stitches-scar across her belly where a large fragment of a mortar shrapnel had sliced into her when she was in Afghanistan. The doc had done a good job of putting it all back where it belonged and zipping her up. But there was no avoiding three layers of scar tissue. And they hadn’t liked being bent over the window frame last night, wrestling between freedom and red-BMW man.
Ginny had been more than a dear. She had made Sam breakfast, put her clothes through the quickest of wash/dries, and generally made her feel like she was the only person who mattered. Without her help Sam couldn’t imagine where she’d be right now. In a ditch with a bullet in her head was the most likely possibility.
Leaving Ginny had already begun to hurt. The last time she’d felt this close to a human being was Tuffy, her old army pal just before she’d flown to Liberia all those years ago. Then it was kindred souls with similar experiences that forged the bond. Now, she was less clear. Maybe it was because Ginny was a loner? Caught in a murky world between two places; in disarray. That’s where Sam was. In disarray. Neither here, nor there. Nowhere. And with no one. Ginny had spoken about her relationships, but they had all been short-lived; superficial. She was a floater. Waiting for a hook. Sam felt the same. Lost. Meandering.
Rubbish.
Ginny’s first-floor apartment was comfortable. Over their cocktails Sam had discovered that she was a web-designer, and worked from home. Money was good, but not great. And, as most of her spare cash was spent on her sex reassignment, she didn’t have much at the end of the month for furniture and accessories.
Nevertheless, she’d done a pretty good job. There was a lounge, decorated in big colours with functional furniture and a large TV. The kitchen/diner did what it said. But it was her bedroom/bathroom that was her special place. It was sumptuously done with brown silk, cream satin and leopard skin. Wall-to-wall white wardrobes with gold handles, a queen-sized bed and a ceiling plastered with mirrors finished off the effect. A hidden boudoir in American suburbia.
Over bacon on muffins Sam chatted through with Ginny about how to get to the British Consulate. Frank had been in touch earlier - Sam could visit the Consulate at any time. There was a duty officer who would be briefed to expect her if she arrived after 5 pm.
‘Just across the road. Take the 38 bus, on Busway, to Dadeland South Metrorail Station. Then it’s a short walk to the Dadeland rail link - that will take you into Downtown Miami. The 38 runs every hour. I reckon it’s probably a 90-minute journey, all told.’ Ginny smiled.
Sam had checked her watch. It was 11.50.
‘When’s the next bus.’
‘Half-past the hour.’
That would get her to the Consulate before it closed. She’d need a couple of hours to do the photofitting: the skier who’d chased her in Alpbach; snakeskin-belt man; and red-BMW man. Hopefully something useful would pop up out of all that.
She and Frank had only spoken for a minute or so. He and Wolfgang were making progress, but there was nothing yet of real note to report. They’d have more later in the day. Hopefully, now Wolfgang had SIS resources behind him, piecing together The Church of the White Cross’s jigsaw would be a much speedier affair.
Hopefully.
Sam arrived at the bus stop as it pulled up. She paid the driver and found a seat towards the back. An hour and a half of travelling. Time to reflect. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want the opportunity to go over last night. How, with almost no information at all, they had found her. And by some madness they had a lunatic on call driving a red BMW to search her out.
White mountain-man was obviously looking out for Müller’
s/Wilder’s card. He had seen it in Sam’s hand and then reported it to someone. Someone who had either come for her, or had sent someone else. How did that happen so quickly? Two hours? Maybe two and a half. Did they own the club? How many clubs did they own? In every city?
How big was The Church of the White Cross?
Who was red-BMW man?
Flash.
What?
On the opposite carriageway.
Heading back the way they’d come.
A red BMW.
Sam instinctively turned her head. She caught the briefest of glimpse of the Beemer’s registration.
Was it the same?
Yes? No?
Could she take a chance?
She was on her feet. She pressed the small red ‘Next Stop’ button that was on a pole that grew out of the end of one of the seats down from her. A light went on at the front of the bus. She saw the driver look at it and shake his head.
‘Next stop’s not for another mile or so, lady,’ was the call from the front.
That wasn’t good enough. Sam moved forward quickly. Shouting as she did.
‘You’ve got to stop. It may be a matter of life or death!’
The driver weaved the bus past a slow-moving truck. Sam was at the front now, in the driver’s personal space. She looked down at the speedo. Thirty miles an hour. The driver was concentrating.
‘No can do. It’s illegal to stop the bus on a highway.’ He glanced up at Sam and grimaced. ‘Please sit down. You’re endangering the other passengers.’ He pointed to an official sign that hung under his mirror. Do not engage the driver or step forward of the yellow line while the bus is in motion.
Sam checked; she had crossed the line - in more ways than one.
That’s not good enough!
Something snapped. It happened - there was no controlling it.
Her peripheral vision went. Her ears filled with an unspecified fluid; the quickening beat of her heart filled her chest and resonated around her head.
She looked up and found the main door’s emergency-open button. She smashed it with the flat of her hand. The double glass door opened with a jerky movement.
‘Hey, what the …?’ The bus swerved, and then righted itself as the driver regained his composure.
Sam stepped down onto the plate, wind filling the cab.
She was just about to jump when the driver braked hard. Sam was thrown against a waist-height ledge under the windscreen; the air was taken from her.
‘You can’t do that!’ The driver yelled.
But the driver’s words stayed with the bus, lost among the metal and glass - deadened by the rushing blood that was taking a massive surge of adrenalin to every extremity of Sam’s body.
She regained her composure, jumped out of the bus and ran.
She knew where she was. She’d followed the route. So, she knew how to get back to Ginny’s apartment. That’s the way it worked.
How far? Five, maybe five and a half klicks.
Twenty-five minutes? She was a 20-minute, 5-kilometre runner. In her shorts. On a cool day. Without obstacles. No rucksack. It was her benchmark.
The last time she had run that distance was at the gym in the hotel in Alpbach.
19.57. She’d clocked it on the running machine’s LED. She’d remembered it.
How long did the Beemer have on her? Twenty-five minutes?
Was it the same car?
Yes.
I’m sure?
She had no choice.
I have no choice.
Twenty-five minutes to get to the apartment. Not enough time.
She ran.
And ran.
And ran.
Sweat poured off her. Her rucksack wearing a blister in her side.
She darted across the carriageway, looking for the next way-point. Tick.
Run!
She paced herself. She’d be on her knees when she got there - she’d need to compensate for that. It was a balance. Speed versus fitness of arrival. She knew that. Military training.
She ran.
Her Jesus sandals were wearing now. Her right heel. Another blister. Maybe two. She didn’t stop. She ignored the emerging pain.
She ran.
And ran.
Turn left here.
How far was that?
Three klicks. She knew.
She was breathing hard. But steady. People stared. Someone pointed. She ignored them.
And ran.
One klick to go.
What do I do when I get there? I need a weapon.
She glanced left and right.
As she ran.
Then it was in sight. Ginny’s apartment. A block of six. Set back to the right.
Four hundred metres.
A weapon?
She didn’t get chance to answer that question. There was a blur of red BMW backing out of the car park in front of Ginny’s condo.
A bush - left. Cover. She dived left. It wasn’t much, but there was no time. She crouched. Turned. Looked.
It was there. And then it was gone.
A red BMW 320. The same registration as the car from last night. A driver - the same man as in the club? No passengers.
It had been to Ginny’s apartment. Maybe there for 15 minutes? And it was gone. That’s not long if you want to interrogate someone. Is it?
Fuck.
No!
Sam didn’t ask herself the question that she should have. The car had been - and gone. The driver had been and gone. An experienced SIS case officer would have asked the obvious supplementary: ‘Was there a passenger in the car when it arrived?’
Even if Sam had followed that logic - that there could still be someone in the flat with Ginny - she would have ignored it. She had to get to Ginny. As soon as she could. If Ginny had the slightest chance of being alive, Sam wanted to do everything in her power to make it remain that way.
Speed was essential.
She was at the bottom of the apartment block seconds later. She looked up. The balcony door was still ajar. And, No!, the front door was open, its lock smashed.
Sam leapt up the concrete steps to the first floor in five bounds. She turned left and then burst into the apartment.
‘Ginny!’ She screamed.
She didn’t wait for a reply.
Look.
The lounge was as she’d left it. Kitchen/diner - the same.
The bedroom.
The door was slightly open.
Sam stopped herself. It was just instinct. She stood - poised. Every sinew on fire. Her hands trembling.
She took deliberate steps to the bedroom door, a thin gap of natural light announced that it was open.
‘Ginny?’
She had no idea why she was whispering. It was though Ginny was asleep and she didn’t want to wake her.
But Sam knew that wasn’t the case. She knew what to expect.
She steeled herself.
And pushed the door.
Even so ...
… Sam was stunned by the sight. Overwhelmed by the blood. At a loss as to what to do. Shattered at seeing Ginny’s naked body knelt on her bed facing the bedstead, her hands tied behind her back with a pair of nylons - her back bent with her head forward, between her knees, her face on the cream satin sheet, soaking with blood.
The blood decorated the bedroom wall in front of Ginny - splattered as if it had been sprayed through a hose. The trail led down over the bedstead, onto the pillows and finished where Ginny’s head met the sheet.
Sam had seen it before.
Ritual execution.
In Oazi; Helmand Province. She’d not been on the ground at the time. No one had. It was in the town’s market square. A reconnaissance platoon had set up a remote camera, high on one of the buildings with a decent panorama of the square. Among other things, Sam’s job was to analyse non-routine activity that the camera recorded. Looking specifically for HVTs (high value targets).
That morning she’d found one.
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In a clearing in the market square he was standing next to an informant of theirs. Holding a .45 Colt Service Ace - larger than the NATO standard 9mm. Enough to blow the front of a man’s face off, and some.
Their informant was on his knees, hands tied behind his back with rope. The HVT had one hand on the man’s shoulder and the other on the pistol grip of the gun. He took the weapon to the back the man’s head, just below the bottom of the skull. He pointed the barrel up in the direction of the forehead, looked up at the camera and smiled.
And pulled the trigger.
A soundless ‘clump’.
Sam had watched the video through twice. She needed to identify the HVT.
Which she had.
She knew who it was immediately; she didn’t really need the second viewing. She remembered a previous still image of a meeting of elders, a Loya Jirga, in the next-but-one village. The photo had been taken as the group celebrated their gathering. The fact that the image appeared later on an obscure Facebook page that Sam was also monitoring was fortunate. That she had seen the photo among 500 others - once, for no longer than 15 seconds - was all she needed to be certain.
The HVT had attended the Loya Jirga. Tick.
Her military intelligence company knew all the attendees. It was their job to know.
Now the same HVT had made an appearance in the Oazi’s market square. With a .45 Colt Service Ace. And an executed informant.
The intel regarding the HVT had been passed to the local patrols’ battalion a few minutes later. He’d been picked up the next day and was now serving a very long sentence in a Kabul jail.
Their informant had been executed in front of Sam’s eyes. The top of the man’s head had opened like an exploding can of soda. The spray had shot out for a good couple of metres. Its footprint a splodge of dark red splattered on the sand of the square. A trail of blood and other material led back to the slumped body. The man still on his knees. What was left of his face on the floor, as if it were stuck to stone and sand by a meniscus of blood.
Ginny’s blood and bits hadn’t got as far as the informant’s. It had been stopped by the bedroom wall. But the process was one and the same.
For Good Men to Do Nothing Page 26