Candleburn

by Jack Hayes

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Oddly, that was better. Belly wounds bleed heavily but are easier to survive than high velocity rounds to other body parts.

  Now, he just needed to wait for the lights to blow.

  Before coming to the room, he’d emptied the gunpowder from a round and left it heaped under the fuse in the basement for the twentieth floor. To ignite it, and trip the switch, he’d lit a cigarette. That would act as a three to five minute fuse before the powder caught fire and melted the circuitry.

  Blake took an educated guess that Aarez’s lieutenant had left from the fact that there was no egomaniacal gloating coming from Alice’s apartment, or ham-fisted attempt at bargaining for the puzzle box.

  But he needed to be sure. Perhaps they’d booby trapped the room?

  On cue, the floor went dark.

  Blake widened the door and grasped Lameck’s shoulders. He dragged the Somali back into the stairwell. His improvised explosive in the fuse box had also taken out the lights on the higher floors of the building so he picked the man up and started to carry him downstairs.

  Whoever was left in the room was both untrained and afraid. Blake heard three random gunshots ring out. One must have caught the apartment door. There was a loud bang as it slammed shut.

  Blake descended three stories before he laid Lameck on the ground and lifted his shirt. The boy had been caught twice, both shots below the belly button, and was bleeding profusely. He removed Lameck’s tee-shirt and clasped it firmly against the wounds, applying pressure.

  The African opened his eyes.

  “What’s in the room?” Blake asked, tapping Lameck on the face lightly.

  Lameck’s pupils weren’t focusing. Blake tapped him on the cheeks again.

  “Come on,” Blake said. “Come back to me.”

  Lameck’s head rolled but he began to look more awake.

  “Is the girl alive in the room? Is Aarez in there?”

  The explosion rocked the entire building, shaking it to its core. Blake instinctively leaned over the body of the fallen Somali to protect him as plaster from the walls and ceiling tumbled down.

  Blake pulled back to see dust and flames emanating from higher up the staircase. Smoke began to film the air.

  “Well, that answers those questions,” he said. “So, if the room was empty, that means Aarez or his lieutenant is nearby watching.”

  He jumped.

  “The car!”

  He hoisted the Somali over his shoulder and began heading down the stairs.

  ***

  Oassan was becoming increasingly frustrated with the multicoloured wires dangling from the Audi’s steering column.

  “German engineering,” he moaned. “This used to be much easier before they installed all the kill switches and immobilisers.”

  He slapped the dashboard with frustration.

  “Not to worry,” he said after a few moments’ pause. “All I need is the puzzle box.”

  His eyes darted around the interior. They fell on the glove compartment.

  “Obvious, really.”

  He reached out and opened the catch. The small plastic lever clicked and the compartment sprang wide. Inside, the puzzle box sat neatly atop a collection of car manuals, insurance documents and a spare pair of sunglasses.

  Oassan grabbed the device and placed it in his backpack. Next, he took the shades and examined them.

  “Bah!” he flung them into the back. “Cheap Karama fakes.”

  Jeffrey began mowling again as the sunglasses bounced off the top of his box.

  Oassan reached over and liberated the box from the safety buckles.

  “Let’s go find a nice, deep part of the Creek for you,” he said.

  He stepped onto the pavement and checked to see who was watching. There were a few stragglers here and there, phones out, taking photos and videoing the fire. Still, even though their attention was hardly on other pedestrians, he didn’t fancy walking along the main road – a man with a cat box was just too memorable.

  In the distance he could already hear sirens charging closer. Better to take a back route and find a taxi. He walked away from the Audi through a flower bed of daffodils and into the darkness of the communal gardens.

  34

  Blake threw the airline bag containing the P90 into the boot. He then ran around to the driver’s door. Through the windows he could see Oassan’s handiwork on the steering column. He checked the back seat.

  The cat was gone.

  Immediately he looked up and down the pavement. Nothing. There were no crowds of pedestrians here; they were gawping closer to the fire. That gave him a clear view half-a-kilometre in both directions.

  A thought struck him. He paced towards the road and once again checked both ways. There was very little traffic of any kind. He scanned the street for empty car parking spaces.

  There were no empty spots.

  Blake estimated he could only be one or two minutes behind the thief and his cat.

  He ran back around the car.

  “I can’t see him walking, there’s a lack of empty car spaces, implying he didn’t drive away and it doesn’t seem likely that he got the only cab on the streets,” he said.

  Blake scratched his head with irritation.

  An idea.

  “Maybe,” he thought, “just maybe, I might be lucky.”

  His pen-light torch was already between his fingers. He ran its powder-white beam through the soil of the flower beds.

  “There!”

  The unmistakeable sandal prints of a man in local dress were heavily indented in the loam.

  Blake sprinted into the unlit parkland.

  ***

  The Cassiopeia hotel bar was called “Dubrovnik’s” and was popular with only three kinds of people: industry analysts, international businessmen staying in its upscale rooms and journalists from the nearby Media City district.

  Even the prostitutes gave it a wide berth.

  Although it was certainly seedy enough and contained many of their clientele, it was universally acknowledged by some unwritten rule that this was a place of work rather than pleasure.

  “Gin and tonic for me,” Asp said, leaning over the bar with the local equivalent of a hundred dollar bill in his hand. “And a double whiskey for my friend.”

  He wouldn’t expect much in the way of change.

  “Why thank you,” Ron Casabian said.

  “Anything for an old friend,” Asp replied.

  He genuinely liked Ron, a rarity in his relationships with people. The man had the mixed air of a long-lost outdoorsman uncle and a kindly professor, with his lumberjack shirts, denim jeans and collection of leather elbow-padded jackets.

  Ron was also a walking sexual harassment lawsuit.

  Asp had always felt this was a principle part of the reason the Nashville-born, lover of an easy life had recused himself from a tenured position at Harbinger-Watford University in Memphis and moved to the Gulf. That, and a need for the kind of high-salaried, tax-free employment Dubai offered so that he could meet his many alimony payments.

  Ron had been married five times and divorced four (his third wife died in a car crash in Mexico).

  Nominally, he was a defence analyst for an international risk control specialist, a company called Fox-Knightly. He was also the world’s most cunning double bluff. So obviously a spy that he couldn’t possibly be a spy, he talked incessantly on any Middle Eastern subject from the current status of tribal rivalries in Yemen to the winners of the latest Iranian oil contracts.

  Somehow, he’d perfected an impossible art.

  He never seemed to stop speaking, yet he pulled out of you far more information than he gave. The depth of his knowledge astounded Asp every time they talked, and was probably a big part of his attraction to the man.

  Yet Asp was acutely aware of Ron’s innate brilliance. For all the talk, the bluster, the joshing and japes: Ron spoke only 2% of what he knew.

  The bartender slapped the t
wo drinks on the counter. Asp looked at Ron, who lifted his glass up in both hands and admired its facets. The barman hovered. Ron flashed him a hard stare. The barman nodded curtly and scuttled off to the far end of the establishment.

  “I presume this isn’t a social visit.” Ron said calmly. “What brings you to me?”

  His eyes never left his whiskey. He rotated it between his fingers, savouring it as though it were the finest single-malt rather than the standard Jim Beam that Dubai hotels routinely stock.

  "What do you know of Ash-Shumu’a?” Asp asked.

  “Officially?” Ron replied. “They don’t exist. They’re a hoax, a legend that superstitious mobsters in this town tell one another to make themselves feel honourable by comparison.”

  “And unofficially?”

  Ron brought the drink to his nose, sampled its aroma and downed it in a single gulp.

  “In the 1830s in London,” Ron replied. “There was a murderer-rapist who stalked the streets dressed in a cloaked costume with a devil’s mask. He could perform the most amazing physical feats – leaping tall walls in a single bound, shooting blue and green flames from his mouth.”

  Ron spoke in hushed tones as though telling a scary campfire story. Asp leaned back on his bar stool and sipped his drink.

  “Spring-heeled Jack,” Asp said. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “He, like Ash-Shumu’a, was never caught,” Ron continued. “He became a legend. Newspaper reports put him in Manchester, Leeds, London, Sheffield. He was everywhere. There was no evidence, beyond the first hand reports of victims who managed to escape with their lives.”

  “Still not seeing the connection,” Asp replied.

  “Was he one man?” Ron said. “Was he many? Did he exist – or was he also a myth? It didn’t matter. Spring-heeled Jack was arguably the precursor that inspired Jack the Ripper. Also, at the other end of the scale, Zorro and Batman.”

  “So you don’t think Ash-Shumu’a are real?”

  “I’m telling you it’s irrelevant if they’re real or not,” Ron stated. “Stories are dangerous. They have consequences beyond whether or not they are true. These tales of a new terrorist cell devoted to no specific cause, that makes no sense, will have a ripple through effect – even if only discussions like the one you and I are having.”

  Ron’s pocket began buzzing. He tapped his jacket down and pulled his mobile out.

  “Interesting,” he mumbled.

  He typed a few buttons and sent a text. The phone went dark and he placed it next to the cardboard coaster that supported his drink.

  “That in itself costs time, money and resources, even if we have no hard evidence that the reports are true,” Ron said. “It also acts as inspiration for others to follow suit. If we don’t have a group acting like Ash-Shumu’a already, the mere talk of the existence of one, will lead to it popping into reality. It’s inevitable.”

  Asp sighed.

  He put his drink back on the wooden counter, picked up a thin, plastic straw from the dispensers spaced at intervals along the bar and stirred the ice vigorously with annoyance.

  “I’d hoped for more than a lesson from history,” he said.

  Ron’s phone lit up again.

  Another text appeared. Nate couldn’t read the contents from where he sat. Ron frowned. Pudgy fingers began typing out a quick reply.

  “Do you have any hard information on them?” Asp asked.

  “I think you need to be a little less cryptic,” Ron said, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. “What’s really going on?”

  “What I’m going to tell you is more than I would under ideal circumstances,” Asp replied. “I’m in trouble – a lot of trouble. A little over two weeks ago, Chrome was employed by a contact in UK intelligence to start tracking a parcel that they believed was being couriered through Dubai. I don’t know why they farmed it out to us. The price was right and we had a good relationship with the contact, the person who took it didn’t ask for details.”

  “Wow. Big mistake,” Ron said. “What was in the package?”

  “We weren’t told,” Nate said.

  Ron held his hands up in horror.

  “Jesus Asp,” Ron exclaimed. “How stupid do you have to be? You know what a backstabbing bunch of bitchy little girls UK Intel are. They’d kill everyone involved in an op if a manager on the programme thought it would help him get a promotion. The least you can say of all the other agencies is that they look after their own, unless there’s a total screw up.”

  “I was not the idiot that took the contract,” Asp said. “I was on holiday in Sri Lanka. I was up against a wall – the wife threatened me with divorce unless we took a two week vacation and I cut myself off from the office completely.”

  “Been there, done that,” Ron said, ordering two more drinks. “Take it from a far more experienced man than yourself that divorce is the easier option. By the time you get to the spot you’re in, it’s merely a question of ‘when’ not ‘if’. Bite the bullet.”

  A third time, Ron’s mobile began to vibrate. He looked more troubled. He swiped the screen to remove the message from view.

  The smokey air of the bar was beginning to scrape on the back of Asp’s throat. He finished his gin and crunched on an ice cube to soothe it as he took in the rest of the room.

  Two young secretaries were dancing provocatively with bar regulars on a table by the stairs. Everyone else, suited men, ties pulled loose from their necks, were in deep conversations in huddled groups.

  Crucially, no-one was listening to him and Ron.

  “Go on,” Ron said, still looking at the phone even after it went black.

  “Long story short,” Asp continued. “I’d left Jim Howell in charge.”

  “Good man,” Ron gestured with approval. “He’s capable – a little callow, but capable. Okay, I can see how you’d think he’d be able to hold the fort for two weeks.”

  “By all accounts, it was a simple job,” Asp said. “Jim sent a colleague, Dan, to distract an Algerian United Nations peacekeeper coming back through Fujairah Airport from Kabul. Then, he had to steal a package from his pockets or his kit bag – wherever it was hidden. It was to be handed to the British Intelligence contact and that was it. Simple task, high pay off.”

  “So what happened?” Ron asked. “This Dan bungled the lift?”

  “Nope,” Asp replied. “By all accounts, it went without a hitch. Dan took the package, he got in his car and drove back to Dubai. No-one else got a look at it except him.”

  “Where was the problem?” Ron asked.

  “The next time anyone saw him, he was a naked corpse in a bathtub with his fingers and toes burned off.”

  “That’s a big problem,” Ron said flatly.

  35

  Blake watched Oassan from behind the ornately pruned hedges in the communal grounds. The Arab was walking slowly along the jogging path that ran alongside one of the large ponds. He could see Oassan talking quietly, either to himself or to the cat box he held in his hand.

  Blake tried to make out what the man was saying but couldn’t hear over the thumping of his heart in his chest. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. They still hadn’t fully adjusted to the darkness of the park from the bright road. He focused his concentration on slowing his breathing and listening.

  “And until the 1800s in Turkey,” Oassan said to the box, “an adulterous woman was tied in a sack with a cat and then tossed into the sea. Ah, good times. We will see that they return.”

  Blake edged his way to a gap between the shrubs. Oassan drew closer and stopped to face the lake.

  “Unfortunately for you,” Oassan said in deep, husky tones to Jeffrey, “I cannot promise you that honourable fate. It is simply too conspicuous for me to keep walking around the city with you. So, my friend, here we shall part ways.”

  He began to swing the cat carrier gently underarm.

  Blake rushed from the gap towards his foe, rugby tackling Oassan about the midriff. Oassan fell
hard on the pebbles of the shore. The cat began to scrabble as the box toppled towards the water.

  Blake stood. Bruises and scratches from his earlier fights stung his arms and torso. He kicked the Palestinian in the ribs. Oassan rolled away. Blake went in for a second strike. He lashed out with a boot. It was caught before he could make contact and twisted.

  He fell.

  In a second, Blake was back to his feet. Oassan was already up. The two men were face to face.

  “You must be Blake,” Oassan smirked. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person. I must say, I am impressed. I don’t know how you survived the fate of your journalist friend – but not to worry, you will be joining her soon.”

  Before today, it had been more than a decade since Blake had been in a fight for his life against another human being. He was much older now than he was then. His skills, honed to instinct, would return, of that he was sure.

  But his muscles were older.

  They still ached from his battle with the Russians and from crawling around elevator shafts. He was less flexible. His reflexes were slower.

  All those disadvantages could easily mean death.

  Still, there were pluses.

  Blake wore trainers and jeans. Oassan – while younger and a third larger – was in local dress. His legs were restricted by the tight bell of material as the dishdasha swept to the ground.

  Blake’s left foot swept out. A crescent moon kick. Once, in a former life, his boot would have struck his opponent clear in the face, toppling him. Now it barely reached his shoulder. Oassan shrugged the attack away.

  “Interesting,” the Arab said. “You are deeply out of shape. And if you thought this fight would be one-sided because of my clothing, think again.”

  Oassan flicked his sandals to the side. His bear like paws went to the buttons at his neck. He ripped the material. Underneath was another outfit: a tee-shirt and trousers.

  Blake was a bolt of lightning. He darted in to strike Oassan before he lost his one main advantage.

  Oassan was faster.

  A juggernaut of a fist pounded Blake’s temple.