The Hit List

by Chris Ryan

  The Hit List

  thousands of rounds expended - and at the end of it, after losing six guys, the Serbs came out with their hands in the air. Next stop the War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague. Fucking brilliant result!'

  Til drink to that,' said Slater, raising his mineral water. Shit, he thought, that would have been a good one to be on. The lads'll be pissing it up tonight, that's for sure. He felt a hot stab of jealousy and regret.

  'Who dares wins, eh!' said Tab Holland.

  'Yeah,' said Slater. 'I guess that's about the long and the short of it.'

  He looked around him. Precious little daring here. Precious little winning. And then he saw Grace Litvinoff, caught her eye for a second as she air-kissed Geri Halliwell, and his heart went into free-fall.

  Four hours later, after a seemingly endless dinner for twelve at the River Cafe - he and Tab Holland had been consigned to a table of their own by the door, where they picked at spaghetti carbonara and swapped war stories - Slater was walking her to the car.

  'Were you very bored?' she asked him, her voice slurring slightly.

  'I was fine,' said Slater. He dropped his voice. 'Shall I stay tonight?'

  'I haven't got you tomorrow, have I?'

  'No. I've got some Indian family to take to the zoo.'

  'Stay, then. I can't wait till Friday.'

  When they reached the Lexus, Slater climbed in front with the driver.

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  )rop you home, mate?' the driver asked when they ched Mayfair Place. The pattern on other nights been that Slater accompanied Grace Litvinoff up the flat and then the driver, who lived in Jthamstow, gave him a lift up to Highbury. iNot tonight, thanks,' answered Slater. 'I've got to j'on somewhere.'

  I'Right, mate. Sure,' the driver replied. 'See you ay, then.'

  Dm the man's faint smile, Slater could see that he . guessed the score.

  you Friday.'

  ^Expressionless, Slater walked round the silver let of the Lexus and opened the door for his icipal.

  the flat they started undressing each other the ament the heavy Banham latch clicked shut behind Item. A trail of clothes described their erratic progress the bedroom.

  1pm the next day, Slater's mood was beginning to

  f. He had arrived at the Chabbrias' Bayswater Road

  partment at nine, after an early morning dash home

  am Mayfair for a change of clothes. The idea was

  at he should accompany the three Chabbria children

  i the zoo, but by 1 lam there was no sign that this was

  ring to happen. One of the children, a pale,

  rerweight twelve-year-old named Sweetie, had

  ised to get out of her nightie until her Xena,

  Warrior Princess video was finished, eight-year-old

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  Lallu had installed himself in front of his Playstation and announced his intention to play Mortal Kombat all day, and the youngest - Chunky -- was still throwing his breakfast at the Norland nanny. None of them paid Slater the slightest attention except the nanny, a West Country girl named Alison, who managed to break away from feeding Chunky for long enough to make him a cup of tea.

  'Nice, unspoilt children,' murmured Slater.

  'Couldn't you just eat them up?' agreed Alison with a wan smile.

  Brief excitement was caused by the arrival of the post, and with it several mail-order catalogues. Sweetie put Xena on pause and Lallu halted his game and both children then placed several orders for CDs and computer games on their mobile phones. 'Are you sure you've got Mummy's Visa number right this time?' asked Alison. 'We don't want any more lost tempers, do we?'

  Mummy, bleary with sleep, made an appearance shortly after midday. Like Sweetie, she was dressed in a nightie and a quilted nylon dressing gown. Her make-up had not weathered the night well.

  'Where's the cook?' she demanded abruptly of Alison.

  'It's her day off, Mrs Chabbria. Can I get you anything?'

  'No,' she yawned. 'God, so lazy these people -- they just come and go without a care. Nightmare, this servant thing. Who's this fellow?'

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  (Mi. . . I've come to take the children to the zoo,' 2r. 'Or wherever they want to go.' I see. Bodyguard, yaarT

  aat's right.'

  make yourself useful. Go out and get me a I Puppie and a Family Bucket of KFC. Any of you j>Want anything?' ue answered.

  vare Road,' mouthed Alison. 'Just up from the

  t

  4(er nodded. It was clearly going to be a long day. a newsagent's he picked up a paper for details i Karadjic snatch. Soldiers from 22 SAS, he read, ^followed the indicted war criminal from Belgrade i farm near Foca in Eastern Bosnia. There they had ; watch from the minefields on the outskirts of the until their target, accompanied by twelve ates, had ventured out under cover of darkness, ig for Montenegro. Less than two miles from the border, the Serbian cars had found their passage ted by an articulated lorry, which had apparently red in the road. Behind them, a truck had raced i a farm-track to block their exit. Karadjic's guards immediately opened fire and a fierce gun-battle ensued in which six Serbians had been killed and seriously wounded. The remainder had sur ered along with Karadjic, who according to the er had sustained a flesh-wound 'in the upper thigh'. SrThis news reflected well on the Regiment -- none of other peacekeeping nations had got close to this

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  most elusive of targets. All that was needed now was to nail General Ratko Mladic. What a left and right that would be!

  Ten minutes later he presented himself back at the flat with the fried chicken bucket and the Slush Puppie. He presented these to Mrs Chabbria, who by then had joined Sweetie on the sofa. After the cold air outside the flat seemed stiflingly hot. Electronic bleeps and Chunky's howls filled the air.

  'You know,' said Sweetie, fast-forwarding through the trailers on a new video. 'I quite fancy a Slush Puppie too. But the mint one, yaar? The green one?'

  'Sure,' said Slater, injecting as much good humour into his voice as he could muster. 'Anyone else want anything while I'm out? Last orders ladies and gents . . .'

  When he returned, there were two new arrivals - a boy and girl of around seventeen and sixteen respectively, both dressed in matt black couture-line Versace.

  'Watch out,' whispered Alison, as Slater passed her at the ironing-board.

  'Hey, Sweetie!' said the teenage boy, grabbing at the twelve-year-old's Slush Puppie. 'Give it up, yaar.'

  'Bugger off, Vinny!' Sweetie protested. 'Send the man.'

  'You!' mouthed the boy in Slater's direction. 'Get the same again. And pick up some fries, too. Bimla, you want something?'

  Bimla, the teenage girl, shook her head.

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  Jot that?' asked Vinny. : got it,' said Slater evenly.

  )K, chalo. Move!' a way, thought Slater, as the lift whirred

  iwards yet again, the last couple of months had as quite an education. He'd met some arrogant in the army - Ruperts, they were universally i as, with their braying voices and their shrieking, aney girlfriends - and he'd met some appalling

  as among Bolingbroke's parents, but they'd been

  : beginners compared to the people he'd met while ; for Minerva. People like these Chabbrias, for

  aple, for whom manners and courtesy appeared to

  it for nothing at all. People who considered that gave them a licence to behave exactly as they

  Jut perhaps it did, Slater mused. Perhaps the fact : people like him and Alison took their employers' agance on the chin sent the message that it was just to order people around like that. Perhaps the fact he didn't slam that overdressed turd Vinny up st the wall and teach him a lesson in manners it that the next employee would be treated even Drse.

  |Tough. He needed the money, so he would put up |th it. Sticks and stones, he told himself. Sticks and anes.
/>
  (tDidn't you listen?' said Vinny angrily when Slater led to the flat carrying the Slush Puppie and the ach fries. 'Simla, what did you ask for?'

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  'A smoothie,' said Bimla, yawning. 'A strawberry smoothie.'

  'I'm sorry, Vinny,' said Slater. 'I didn't hear her.'

  The boy stared at Slater. 'What did you call me?'

  'Vinny,' said Slater. 'Why, isn't that your name?'

  The boy clicked his fingers. 'Come out here.'

  Slater followed him into the hallway, giving Alison the ghost of a wink en route, and waited while Vinny lit a cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter.

  'How much does your agency pay you?' the boy began, turning the lighter between his fingers.

  Cool it, Slater told himself. Don't let this little tosser wind you up.

  'Mr Chabbria pays the agency six hundred pounds a day. I get three hundred of that.'

  'Three hundred pounds a day. Right. Well my father earns that sum in two minutes. And that's without getting out of his rucking chair. So you'll understand, butthead, that you don't call me by my family name - or even Vinod - until I invite you to, OK?'

  Slater took a deep breath. 'Fine,' he said. 'What do I call you?'

  'Mr Chabbria will do.'

  'Mr Chabbria it is, then. Shall I go and buy Miss Chabbria her smoothie now, Mr Chabbria?'

  In the end, no one went to the zoo or even left the flat. Slater went backwards and forwards collecting snacks and DVDs, and the Chabbrias lounged about, eating

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  atching the flickering screens. Slater's elaborate seemed to infuriate Vinod Chabbria even than his easygoing approach had, and the boy ad to smoke several joints to calm himself down, awhile Bimla, altogether a nicer piece of work her brother although no less spoilt, had been

  ; thoughtful glances in Slater's direction, an't even think about it, he told himself. Don't rucking think about it. He was in deep enough f. Why on earth had he told Grace Litvinoff that oved her - a statement that he'd never made to any woman? Grace was amazingly stylish, certainly, i,by far the most beautiful woman he'd ever slept but how could he say that he loved her? He and -'occupied different worlds. They could spend a ic together and not begin to understand each

  one of his sorties to the Edgware Road he eked his text messages: 'd karan thur ham'. iie knew that he was free but had told him that she i spending the day with a friend. The arrangement been that they would see each other on Friday, he was officially booked to look after her. Still, i'would meet her in Donna Karan tomorrow if that's she wanted. His heart quickened at the thought r, was wrenched at the frustration of not being s to see her tonight. She was going to an opera gala |Covent Garden with her husband, and one of the ler Minerva bodyguards had been booked to Company them.

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  In the end, before returning to the Chabbrias' flat for the last time, he rang Tab Holland and arranged to meet him for a drink. The ex-RMP was working in South Kensington and they agreed to meet in a pub near the tube station.

  Holland had spent the day at the French Lycee, guarding the daughter of a French publisher who had received death threats from Algerian terrorists.

  'At least you were doing something valuable,' said Slater, downing the best part of a pint of Guinness in a single, desperate swallow. 'I tell you, another hour and I would have ended up chinning that fucking Vinod. And the worst of it is, I reckon, that by taking his shit rather than sorting him out I've made him worse. I've made myself at least partly responsible for the bad time he gives the next guy.'

  'You can't think like that,' said Holland. 'You've just got to walk away from arseholes like that and forget them. Life's too short.'

  'How long have you been in the bodyguarding game, Tab?' Slater asked, beckoning to the barmaid to refill their glasses.

  'Too bloody long,' said Holland. 'Eight years odd.'

  'And in all that time, have you ever broken the rules? I mean have you ever . . .'

  'Hit a client? No.'

  'No, I didn't mean that as much as . . .'

  'Get involved with a client's wife?'

  'Yeah. Have you ever done that?'

  Holland paused. He was older, Slater saw, than he

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  . originally seemed. feet's just say that it happens, OK? But let me give i word of advice. If it ever happens to you . . .' He ied Slater meaningfully. 'Don't tell your leagues. You're not in a regiment now, and there's '.mates' code of honour to protect you. One of the ^er BGs'll grass you up to Duckworth and that'll be ;,end of it. No work, no mortgage payments, no Star

  stickers for the kids.' |*Should such a situation ever arise,' Slater said wryly,

  ; remember what you said.' ffjDo that,' said Holland.

  /hat would you do if you weren't BGing?' Slater 1 him.

  The dream's to start a little gardening consultancy |the Chichester area,' said Tab. 'Installing fountains

  water-features and that. Statuary.' B*So when's that going to happen?' |*I told the wife it'd be this year. Trouble is, the icy for BGing is just too good. There's always just more job you can't turn down. And then one of ar kids asks for the new Man U strip and you have Conversation with the bank manager and that job

  into one more season you can't turn down . . .' |He drained his glass and pushed it towards the iinness tap. 'What I'd really like, to be honest, is a sd war. Nine months or so of total fucking &yhem. If I could just have that, and survive, I'd eerfully install precast concrete sundials for the rest Pmy life.'

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  Slater laughed. ' Vive la mort, vive la guerre . . .' 'Vive le sacre mercenaire!' they roared in unison.

  By the time the pint glasses had each been refilled four times over, Slater was feeling a bit more like a warrior and a bit less like a domestic servant. He and Tab Holland had worked out how, for an investment of less than .�100,000, they could kidnap the radical Islamic leader Osama bin Laden from Kabul in Afghanistan and claim the $5 million reward supposedly on offer.

  After a couple of large drams each of Jameson's Irish whiskey, the barman had somehow been recruited into the scheme. When trying to remember the details later - details which had appeared watertight at the time - Slater would be able to remember only that a scuba kit and a plastic dustbin were involved.

  'You're not driving are you, gents?' the barman had asked them at the point at which they'd switched to brandy.

  'No mate, public transport!' Slater had replied. For some reason it had seemed the saddest, funniest answer in the world.

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  woke to a bad hangover - the worst since New

  '$ Day - and the insistent ringing of the Motorola, sorry if I woke you, Mr Slater. It's Lark here,

  . the Treasury Solicitors' office.'

  a,e hangover was immediately overlaid by dread.

  .didn't wake me,' Slater lied. 'What's up?'

  fell I won't beat around the bush. There have i' a number of developments in the Bolingbroke's

  >1 case and I'm afraid it looks as if there's going to

  . inquiry, at the very least.'

  Iter's stomach churned. 'What exactly does that

  i?' he asked. the first instance it means that you and I should

  t How are you fixed for, say, tomorrow?' Tomorrow was Friday. He was booked to look after

  i. 'Would Monday be too late?'

  Jo, Monday would be ... fine. Shall we say ten

  ck here at Northumberland Avenue?'

  ater pressed the off button and flipped the little

  le on to the bed. This was seriously bad news. For ten minutes, mind and body screaming, he >d under a cold shower. Trust in Lark, he told

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  himself. Lark had always come good in the past. But he wasn't inside the system any more, and something distant in Lark'
s tone told Slater that this made a difference.

  Pulling on a track suit and trainers, pocketing his keys, he went out for a run. He felt terrible, but experience told him that exercise and fresh air were the only effective counter to a hangover. Soon he was sweating, lengthening his stride as he pushed himself round the cheerless perimeter of Finsbury Park. His head pounded, but he ignored it.

  A second shower -- hot this time -- and he was beginning to feel human again. The worry about the inquiry had receded to the point where he could think about it clearly, rather than in a state of sick panic. They had to bale him out, he told himself. They bloody well had to. But of course he was being childish. They didn't have to do anything. If it suited them, and if more serious considerations than his own well-being were at stake, they'd bang him up without hesitation. He made a decision. If he went down for murder, or even for a long manslaughter stretch, he'd top himself. Open a fucking vein. He wasn't rotting away in a cell for anyone.

  After arriving at this decision, and imagining for a morbid minute or two his blood flowing darkly and secretly into a prison mattress, Slater felt better. Dressing himself in off-duty clothing - jeans, a sweatshirt and his old leather jacket - he left the flat in

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  ch of a full English breakfast. ; eleven o'clock, as requested, he presented himself )onna Karan in Bond Street. A glance inside the showed no sign of Grace Litvinoff, nor was the er Lexus anywhere in sight, an I help you?'

  las Mrs Litvinoff been in today?' Che male assistant consulted a pad. 'Are you Mr

  Slater?' Je nodded.

  > Litvinoff isn't coming in today, but she's left us instructions. We're to provide you with some Srthes.'

  ater gaped. 'Provide me?'

  je assistant smiled. 'Let me get Alexia, who spoke iMrs Litvinoff.' Slater waited, and a minute later a svelte figure in

  i-fitting grey was shaking his hand. "You're Neil, right? Grace gave me a list of what needed. And she asked me to tell you that there Ifsome other bits and pieces to be collected from ..." : consulted her list - 'Prada. OK?' ^Dazzled by her smile, Slater could only nod his iffent.

  |, 'Do you have the prices on that list?' he asked her llcertainly.

  fnAlexia laughed. 'Grace said you weren't to be given ^y prices. She said you'd only make a fuss.' I Slater stared about him in disbelief, digesting the airy indeur of the place. Not long ago he'd have felt