The Black Art of Killing

by Matthew Hall

  Black took a cautious sip of tea that was predictably foul. He had never known Towers make it any other way. It was oddly reassuring. Further confirmation of who he was dealing with: a man incapable of appreciating the experience of others.

  ‘I can only thank you, Leo.’ Towers tapped his fingers abstractedly on the desk. ‘I suppose now might be an appropriate moment for us both to turn the page … We’ve delivered all that was asked of us. I think we can consider ourselves home free.’

  Black was briefly tempted by the idea to get up and walk away. To leave it all behind and let Towers be quietly put out to grass. But there was another voice aside from his demanding to be heard.

  He gave it voice. ‘Finn trusted you, Freddy … So did I.’

  Towers looked at him quizzically.

  ‘How much did you make – from selling Razia to Sabre?’

  Black waited, watching his mind whirring and calculating, searching for an exit that no longer existed.

  ‘Was it just him or were there others?’

  ‘Are you all right, Leo? You look a little pale –’

  ‘It takes its toll – killing and remaining sane.’

  Towers’ eyes flitted towards the door.

  Black held him in his gaze. ‘I’ve made a statement. It’s gone to the Committee and the International Criminal Court. I’ve copied you in. I’ll be happy to testify against you.’

  Silence.

  ‘You wouldn’t –’

  ‘It would be my pleasure. You were going to have me killed, Freddy, just as you arranged for Finn to be murdered. You served him up to Sabre on a silver platter. We were the witnesses who could have put you behind bars. The ones who could have exposed you as the grubbiest of dealers in human misery. Would you like me to spell out for you exactly what Razia was doing?’

  ‘I didn’t intend any of this, Leo. It was a mistake. A single moment of weakness in a long career. You’ve known me long enough to –’

  Towers stopped mid-sentence as his eyes fell to the Glock that Black had drawn from his pocket.

  ‘You should lock that desk of yours. Or maybe part of you wanted me to find it …? The court or a bullet. What’s it to be?’

  They were disturbed by the shrill ring of Towers’ phone. Black motioned him to answer.

  Towers picked it up and glanced at the screen. The remaining colour bled from his face. He braced himself and answered. ‘Duncan, hello. What can I do for you …? No, I wasn’t aware of that … Really …? Yes, well, let me have a read and I’ll get back to you directly. Of course.’ He rang off and lowered the phone slowly to the desk.

  Black waited, the gun trained at Towers’ head.

  ‘Would you mind if I took a moment?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Towers stood up from his chair and crossed to the French doors that opened on to the balcony. He stepped outside, pulled the doors behind him and turned his face to the cooling breeze. He stood perfectly still for a short while, then glanced in at Black and placed a hand on the railing.

  Black looked away and studied a mark on the wall while he counted to ten. When he looked back Freddy was gone.

  The bastard had left as he had lived.

  On his own terms.

  60

  The college clock struck ten. Black looked up and rolled his aching neck. After twelve hours of rewriting and proofreading, the words had started to swim in front of his eyes. Only two more pages and he would have reached the end. Three straight days handcuffed to his desk and he had finally wrestled his paper into something approaching order. He forced himself back to the task.

  He had made it only to the end of the first paragraph when there was a knock at the door. He ignored it. The caller knocked again. Black continued to pretend he hadn’t heard. Whoever it was seemed to give up. He refocused on a troublesome sentence with too many subclauses and attempted to rephrase it.

  A tap at the window behind the drawn blind prevented him.

  ‘Leo? I know you’re there. I can see you. You’ve been there since seven this morning when I went out for a run. But you didn’t see me, did you? Just like you haven’t seen anyone or anything since you came back. I could have left you alone but I thought perhaps you ought to make contact with another human being for the sake of your mental health … Oh, and I’ve got wine. Decent stuff. Eight pounds a bottle decent … Leo?’

  He opened the door to see Karen wearing a damp anorak, clutching a bottle of Rioja.

  ‘Got caught in the rain,’ she said, as if any explanation were needed. ‘I think summer gave up the ghost this year.’ She smiled, waiting for a cue that didn’t come. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course –’

  He stepped aside, aware that he had been staring at her like an idiot, and helped her off with her coat.

  ‘Sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘It’s good to see you. I was about to call it a night anyway.’

  ‘It feels like ages. Six weeks?’

  ‘Seven. My fault. I’ve been hunkered down in the country, then holed up in here.’

  He brought her inside and realized that every surface, including the chairs, sofa and much of the floor, was littered with papers. ‘Sorry. It’s got a bit out of hand.’ He started to clear a space, feeling suddenly clumsy and self-conscious.

  ‘Corkscrew?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  She went through to the back while Black hurried around the room gathering up bunches of handwritten notes.

  ‘God, Leo. When did you last wash up?’ Her voice travelled along the short connecting passageway.

  ‘I’ve been preoccupied.’

  ‘These dishes are going to get up by themselves and crawl away if you leave them any longer.’

  ‘I wish they would.’

  There were sounds of rummaging and a tap running and moments later she reappeared armed with a corkscrew and two clean glasses. She surveyed the heroic levels of mess from the doorway with a look of pity.

  ‘Finished the paper yet?’

  ‘Give or take the odd comma. I’m supposed to be delivering it in three days’ time.’

  ‘I suppose you’re excused, then.’ She smiled and pushed her hair back from her face. Her cheeks were flushed from running through the rain. Or perhaps they had pinked in embarrassment? Black couldn’t tell. ‘Leo, I owe you an apology – for how we left things. Or didn’t.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten all about it,’ he lied.

  ‘I haven’t. I was short with you. I had no reason to be. I know what happened to me wasn’t your fault. I was scared, that’s all.’

  He nodded, wishing he could tell her the truth. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Getting better. Joel’s even started to be reasonable. Our lawyers are due to meet to discuss a settlement.’

  ‘Good news.’

  ‘More like a miracle.’ She handed him the corkscrew and held up the glasses.

  He drew the cork and filled them.

  ‘I did try to call but your phone was never on.’

  Black sensed that this was less an observation than a question.

  ‘Patchy signal.’ The outright lie caused him a painful stab of guilt. He took a large mouthful of wine.

  Karen seemed to sense his discomfort. Black suspected that she saw straight through him. She nodded to the sofa. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They sat at opposite ends, nervous of invading the other’s space.

  ‘Were you working hard the whole time?’

  ‘Did my best.’

  ‘I’d get lonely spending that much time by myself.’

  ‘Guess I’m used to it.’

  He glanced away. The deception and half-truths that used to be second nature were demanding an effort he could no longer maintain.

  ‘You never did let me read anything you’ve written. The offer’s still open. For what it’s worth I’d be happy to give you my opinion.’

  ‘Thank you. I just need to work a few things out first … An
d how about you? Have you been busy?’

  ‘Only with the usual. Running my experiments, doing battle with the bureaucrats. We’ll get there in the end. One interesting thing happened, though –’ She met his gaze and held it. ‘Sarah Bellman – the missing biologist – she turned up. About a week ago. No official explanation, so of course the rumours have been flying around like crazy.’

  Black gave a non-committal shrug.

  ‘You haven’t heard anything?’

  ‘No.’

  Karen held his gaze. ‘The reason I ask is because all the fellows had a message from the Provost. About you. Apparently the leaks and rumours have been confirmed as malicious. You had an exemplary military record and were decorated numerous times. A shining example to us all.’

  Black glanced down at his feet. ‘My former CO. He was indignant on my behalf. Wanted to set the record straight.’

  ‘Leo, you disappeared all summer and came back twenty pounds lighter with a suntan you couldn’t get on a Welsh hillside if you were staked to the ground from May to October.’ Still she stared into his eyes and wouldn’t let them go. ‘I’m going to ask you again. Who are you, Leo Black?’

  ‘I suppose … I’m just a man who’s trying to move on.’

  ‘And can you?’

  A strange and unexpected feeling stirred inside him, as if her question had roused some delicate and previously undiscovered emotion. ‘I intend to try.’

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied that she had at last glimpsed into his soul.

  She placed a hand on top of his.

  Their fingers meshed.

  Black felt a deep warmth spread throughout his body.

  ‘Would you like to come with me to America?’ he asked.

  ‘If you’ll come with me to Canada.’

  ‘Deal.’

  Then Karen kissed him with lips like velvet.

  Black waited at the side of the stage as Colonel McIvor delivered a glowing introduction to the three hundred delegates assembled in the lecture hall; they were about to hear from the former soldier reputedly responsible for neutralizing and capturing more enemy insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan than any other. In the audience there were four-star generals, admirals and diplomats from thirty-five countries, along with assorted senior officials from the US State Department, the UK Foreign Office, NATO, and the governments of France, Russia, Turkey and China. And mingled in among them were some of the biggest hitters in the academic field of international relations and security. They had all come to the Third International Symposium on Military Strategic Planning at West Point, New York, to hear what their friends and enemies were thinking, with the sole aim of gaining an advantage, the slightest edge that might advance their respective country’s position in the world.

  The Colonel led the applause as Black climbed the steps to the stage. Approaching the lectern, he felt like a junior infantryman caught in the open under enemy fire. He looked up at the imposing bank of braided uniforms and picked out Karen’s face at the end of a row. She smiled and gave him a thumbs up. He was certain he couldn’t have done this without her.

  He looked down at his notes. It was his moment to speak truth to power but his tongue sat like a dry stone in his mouth. He read and reread his opening remarks feeling as if the floor might give way beneath his feet. An expectant hush descended, one that became an increasingly uncomfortable and protracted silence as Black wrestled with his conscience and came to a dreadful realization.

  He had got it wrong.

  But what to say?

  He had to tell them something.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen … I was going to begin my address to you with these words –’ he paused to swallow, then forced himself on – ‘“I am a soldier who as a result of long and regrettable experience has largely ceased to believe in the ability of war to deliver peace” … Looking at those remarks now, I’m afraid I realize that I was being too much of an idealist, trying to escape my own nature perhaps, or at least part of it.’ He paused again and looked up from the lectern, deciding to abandon his text altogether. It felt like a millstone that was pulling him under. ‘I fear I was writing what I wanted to believe – that inside every man of war there lies a far better man of peace. But more truthful and very different words might be those attributed to George Orwell: People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf. I have been one of those rough men. One who in a long career perfected the art of killing – whoever, whenever I was told. People like me have always existed and will probably need to exist so long as human beings walk this earth. But we must never abandon the hope that this need not be so.

  ‘So my opening message to you should perhaps be this: each one of us in this room is, at least in part, a savage intent on domination who also happens to be capable of love for his fellow man or of being transported by a Beethoven symphony. And for every educated, civilized one of us who denies this fact, somewhere there is a young soldier who can barely write his name, defending our ideals and our delusions equally, at the end of a rifle. Life, my friends, is something that is fought for, and killing to preserve the best of it is an ugly but a necessary business. Acknowledge this horror that lies at the heart of our very existence, accept both the good and the evil in our nature, and we have taken the first step on a long path to truth.’

  The room was silent.

  They were listening.

  He was on his way.

  While Black’s audience was rising in applause, Kathleen Finn was driving home from a half-day shift at the hospital, which in reality meant six hours straight without a break. It was good to be back among friends and colleagues but it was hard, exhausting work and meant the kids spending all day in the school’s summer club. They had managed, just. In a week’s time the autumn term would be underway and they stood a chance of getting into a steady routine. Normality was what they needed most. Predictability, regular meals on the table and plenty of time with her in the evenings to share their worries.

  It was tough doing everything alone, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t got used to it as an army wife. She’d cope. The kids were all that mattered. They were young enough to recover and move on. They’d remember the good bits of their dad and gradually the pain would fade. She’d dig in until Sarah-Jane was eighteen and then see what life had left to offer her.

  She arrived home with fifteen minutes to spare before she would have to dash out again for pick-up. Just enough time to shower, change and get her head straight. Coming through the front door, she found a letter on the mat. She stooped to collect it and noticed the Oxford postmark. Inside was a photograph of her grinning husband standing next to a skinny teenage boy who was proudly holding up a cricket bat. They were in a small jungle village with young children and animals milling in the background. In a short accompanying note Leo Black wrote that it had been given to him in Venezuela and that he would come to see her the following week when he was back from the USA to explain.

  Kathleen didn’t cry. Once you started down that road you would never stop. She tucked the picture back into the envelope and took it through to the kitchen. She would put it away for now, along with Ryan’s other things, and bring it out again when she was ready.

  Acknowledgements

  Leo Black was originally a character conceived for television. I pitched a version of his story a few times and was met with the smiles and rejections that us screenwriters never get used to. But had I somehow smuggled him through to production, I have no doubt he would have emerged as a neutered and tamed or at least as a troubled and conflicted version of his true self. When you talk to the men and now women who have served in the Special Forces you soon become aware that they are a race apart: people who switch from combat to tucking up their children at night without missing a beat. They’re also intelligent, civilized, measured and unassuming. People with nothing to prove and sure of their place in the world. Now that’s interesting.

 
So, thank you to the executives who said no. For once, you were right. Leo Black belongs in print.

  Far greater thanks are due to Rowland White, my very patient editor at Penguin, and to Ariel Pakier for all her input on the story. Thanks also to my agent, Zoe Waldie; my wife, Patricia, for her incisive observations; and to Tony for giving me so much valuable inside information.

  THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

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  First published by Michael Joseph, 2020

  Copyright © Matthew Hall, 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Cover credit: © Alamy

  ISBN: 978-1-405-93090-1

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