by Leigh Barker
The first insurgent ran up the last of the stairs and out through the open door. Harry shot him in the head, just for the bloody hell of it. He swung the rifle and rapped the barrel hard against the edge of the wall, no point giving these bastards a perfectly good weapon. He hoped they wouldn’t notice it was bent and one of them would try firing it, and then it would either blow his head off, or drive him nuts by missing by a mile. A small victory, but hey. He put the rifle down at his side and waited to die. And he thought about his father and mother and how they would be well pissed that he’d got himself killed when he was on medical leave.
He heard barked orders echoing from the stairs and closed his eyes. The hell with them, they’re not going to see me give a shit. He thought about whistling a tune, but couldn’t think of one, and anyway, his lips were bone dry. If he had a guitar, he could play a tune, if he could play that was. Drums, he thought, anybody can play drums, what’s hard about beating a stick on a pig’s skin? Now the piano—
“So,” a soft voice said in a perfect English accent, “you are one of the infidels who have been causing me such a headache.”
Harry opened his eyes. Okay, not dead yet, that’s a plus. He looked up at the speaker and saw a guy in a dirty dish-dash like everybody else in this country, but he was pale, almost white. So, a man who kept out of the sun, either by choice or through location. “Who’s asking?” he said, conscious that his voice was a bit strangled from the tension of waiting to be killed.
“That is not really important, is it?” the man said in that same soft voice. “I see you are a marine too, as are your American friends.” He waved a hand at Al’s body. He looked around and frowned. “Ah, we seem to be missing one.” He nodded slowly. “That would be the big American sergeant. Gone to warn the authorities, I assume.”
“Nah,” Harry said, “he’s just gone for a piss. He’ll be back in a bit.”
The man smiled to reveal perfect white teeth. Western white teeth. “No matter.” He sat down next to Harry, which was a bit of a stunner.
“Got any cigarettes?” Harry asked, mostly to mask his surprise.
“I do not smoke,” the man said.
“Nah, me neither,” Harry said, “disgusting habit and bad for your health.”
The man raised his eyebrows and then smiled. “Oh, I see. Very good.” The smile vanished. “I expect you are wondering why you are still alive.”
Harry shrugged. “Crossed my mind, but hey, it’s your party.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” The smile again. “You are alive, Sergeant, because I wish you to do something for me.”
Harry looked him in the eyes. “If you want me to end your misery,” he said with a little shrug, “then I’m your man.”
“You cope with fear well, for an infidel.”
“There you go again, calling me names. You’re going to hurt my feelings.”
The man smiled without humour. “So, Sergeant,” he said, the smile vanishing again, “I’m curious about what you are doing here in this… Godforsaken place.”
Harry shrugged. “We thought we’d do a bit of sightseeing, it’s a nice day.”
“We could torture it out of you,” the man said, but he lacked conviction, and Harry picked it up.
“I doubt that.”
“We could kill you.” The man went for option two.
Harry shrugged again. “Been there. It’s overrated.”
The man nodded, as though he actually understood, and maybe he did, there was a whole mess of killing going on.
“Do you have a name?” the man asked.
Harry fixed him with a look for a moment, to let him know what he thought of that stupid question. “Harry,” he said. What the hell?
“Well, Harry,” the man said, getting to his feet with an easy grace that made Harry feel even more like an invalid. “It’s been nice talking with you.” He walked away across the rooftop to the door and stopped.
This is it, Harry thought. Ah well, I’ve had a good innings. Which was a lie.
The man turned, and Harry expected to see a weapon, but even in the fading light, he could see his hands were empty.
“This thing I wish you to do for me,” he said and waited for a response that didn’t come. “Do you know a man named Valentin Tal? He is a Russian.”
Of course not, stupid question. “No, can’t say I do. Does he arrange sightseeing tours?”
The man laughed, but cut it off quickly, betraying that it was involuntary. “No,” he said, stepping onto the stairs. “Get to know him. You will be surprised.”
The man left. They all left. And Harry was still alive.
He sat there for half an hour, just waiting for them to come back and say, “Oops, sorry, we forgot to kill you,” but nothing, after the sound of them leaving. It made no sense.
This unknown Russian, this Valentin Tal, was the reason they hadn’t been chemicaled to death and why Harry was still alive. The soft-spoken Taliban had sacrificed all those insurgents just to say that name. Valentin Tal the Russian. Harry frowned; it still made no sense. Why was he alive? Well, you’ve got a choice here, mate. You can sit and ponder the meaning of life, now that you still have one, or you can get the hell out of this cesspit before some less forgiving mooj comes along and finishes the job.
He took option one and climbed stiffly and painfully to his feet. Pity he’d broken the rifle, though, he liked that weapon. He limped slowly across the roof and listened at the stairs, half expecting the man to jump out and shout, “Fooled you!” before blowing his head off.
The stairs hurt like hell, but it showed he wasn’t dead, which was a serious plus. Last part of the puzzle was how the hell was he going to get back to civilization? A thought popped into his tired mind. They wouldn’t, would they? He changed direction and limped up the dark street to the mosque and stood in the shattered doorway. The Humvee was still right where Al had left it. And that is what he called a result.
23
Jimmy Detroit came from Chicago. Which could have just been a quirk or a bit clever, but his choice of professional name wasn’t smart-ass, he needed a handle for secure communications with his clients and never overlooked an opportunity for misdirection, even if it lacked true finesse. What is it they say about there not being such a thing as an old bold hit man? Whatever, but Jimmy would have taken exception to two things: first off, he wasn’t a hit man, he was a cleaner, and second, he wasn’t old — okay not a wet-behind-the-ears kid, but not old; these days fifty is the new thirty, all the magazines say that. And okay, third, who says he wasn’t bold?
He wheeled his suitcase out through the ground floor doors of Heathrow’s terminal five and looked around for a taxi. There was a bunch of them at the taxi rank, which seemed reasonable. It was almost nine o’clock, dark — as it should be — and cold, but not as bitterly cold as it had been in New York that morning, but somehow it was depressing, though that was probably coloured by his opinion of this God-awful country. Warm beer, bad teeth, and driving on the wrong side of the road — whose dumb idea was that? Okay, he was going to be here for a few weeks, so suck it up. Yeah, like that was going to happen. First thing was to get to the hotel, take a long shower, and order some room service and bourbon, a whole lot of bourbon. Hell, he could do this, easy. God, he hated this place, and he hadn’t even arrived yet.
He climbed into the taxi and waited for the driver to get his luggage, climbed out again, and put his case on the back seat. “Radisson Edwardian. You know that one?”
The taxi driver said something unintelligible, maybe in a foreign accent, but everybody here was going to have a foreign accent. Shit, doesn’t anybody speak American?
He spent the hour’s travel time going over the details of the contract. First, it was short notice, much shorter than he would usually have accepted. He always returned to Chicago after a gig, to pull his life out of the gutter that was his working day. Listen to good music, dine on fine food, and practice Taoism with Master Chen to continue his search
for enlightenment and immortality of his soul — until he was ready to go and kill somebody else.
This contract was different, so he forwent his usual period of respite. This was to be his last, his swansong, after which he would buy the boat and head on down to Hawaii and just… He hadn’t got past that point yet.
Part of him hoped this gig was going to be something special, something to remember as the last and the best. Sometimes wishes have wings.
24
Ethan saw the Humvee coming up the dirt road, but then a Humvee isn’t the sort of profile that’s easy to disguise, but he stayed down behind the boulders, with all those creepy, bitey things that live under boulders, and watched it approach. It struck him as suicidally nuts that the insurgents would take the vehicle because any passing A10 Thunderbolt was going to turn it to scrap metal as soon as word got out that it was no longer in friendly hands. He squinted and tried to look past the headlights, and when he saw the Brit as the vehicle drew level with his position, he jumped up and ran to the road.
Harry had seen him hiding behind the boulders, mostly, it’s true, because he expected him to have made it about this far and be skulking in the rocks. He smiled and watched him through the rear-view as he ran into the road and waved his arms about like a demented orang-utan. He let him curse and jump up and down a bit and then brought the Humvee to a gentle stop.
Ethan ran the fifty yards or so Harry had covered since he’d seen him and climbed in through the passenger door.
“Lucky you jumped out into the road and did that rain dance,” Harry said, chuckling.
“You knew I was there, you bastard,” Ethan said, but his voice betrayed his relief at not having to walk fifty miles through bandit territory back to Camp Bastion. Okay, he could have done it, but not by choice. He watched Harry for a while before he asked the question that hung in the air like the punch line to a crappy joke. “They let you go?”
Harry shook his head. “Nah, fought my way out using a mooj’s severed limb.” He swaggered his shoulders. “It was a mighty fight, but they were outgunned.”
Ethan continued to watch him without a flicker of expression. At some point the prick would tell him what the hell happened, but when that point would come was anybody’s guess.
The silence did what silence does. “This Taliban guy, who by the way, spoke English better than I do, just sat on the roof with me and passed the time of day talking about politics and the weather, like we were friends sitting in the park. Then he got up and left, saying I was free to go. Maybe he took a shine to me.” Harry shrugged. “People do, you know, I’m a nice bloke.” Before Ethan could make the obvious comment, he continued, “Then he asked me about this Russian.”
Ethan glanced at him. “What Russian?”
Harry shook his head. “He said a name, but I’m buggered if I can remember it,” he lied. “I was bricking it at the time,” he lied again.
Ethan shook his head. The Brit was speaking a sort of English, but he wasn’t getting it. “Why would this Taliban guy just talk and then walk, why not kill you?”
“Don’t know,” Harry said, “but I’m not sorry.”
“No, I can see how you’d feel that way.” Ethan rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes. Half an hour later, he opened his eyes and sat up. “Russian!”
“Where?” Harry said, startled out of a little zombie driving.
“No, not where,” Ethan said, “who?”
“Oh, okay, that clears that up, mate.”
“Think about it,” Ethan said, his voice animated. “What’s the only reason this Taliban would let you live?”
“Maybe he had the hots for me?”
“No,” Ethan said, “well, maybe, but that’s not it.”
“Oh, shame.”
“It can only be that he hates this Russian guy—”
Harry knew he was waiting for him to remember, but found an obstacle in the road to hold his attention.
Ethan decided he didn’t know his name, or he would have told him. Why not? “He hates this… Russian guy, more than you.”
“Stop it. I’m getting all teary eyed.”
Ethan smiled, finally starting to warm to this weird Brit. “Russians were here first, right?”
“Not really,” Harry said. “Persians invaded first, then the Greeks, then Huns, then the Arabs, then Mongols—”
“Yeah, okay,” Ethan said a little irritably.
“Then the British for the first time. Got our asses kicked good and proper.”
“Not much changing, then,” Ethan said. “Point is the Soviets beat this place up pretty bad. Killed and imprisoned a lot of ordinary people.”
“Mostly just killed them,” Harry added.
“That’s it, then,” Ethan said, resting his head back against the seat.
“What is?”
Ethan opened his eyes. “This Taliban commander wants you to kill the Russian, that’s why he spared your life.”
“Tough titty,” Harry said. “He wants him dead, let him do it his bloody self.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, closing his eyes again, “I don’t get it, makes no kinda sense.”
Harry nodded. “That’s what I said, but hey, nothing in this stinkin’ country makes any sense.” But he was talking to a sleeping man.
It was three a.m. when Harry stopped the Humvee at the gates of Camp Bastion, and the shit storm commenced.
25
Shaun walked back into the interview room and leaned on the table, and Tweetie Pie leaned back, the chair creaking and threatening to tip. “I want to meet Curly Sue,” Shaun said flatly.
Tweetie jumped, and the chair lost its battle with gravity, dumping the birdie onto the dirty floor. He screamed, clutched his arm, and rolled over so that his face was scant inches from the scuffed vinyl with non-specific stains. He looked at the dried bits, cried out again, and scrambled to his feet, finally standing in front of the chair Danny was holding for him, as a gentleman would for a lady. Tweetie smiled at him. Danny rammed the chair into his legs, and he sat down with a yelp.
Shaun was still leaning on the table, watching the performance with little interest, and Tweetie watched him back for several seconds before the wheels started whirring and he remembered why he’d been on the floor, the one with all that… stuff. “No way!” he said at last, raising both his hands as if to ward off evil. “No way. Are you crazy?” He thought about it for a moment and then lightened up as he deduced the big plan. “I could tell you where she is, and you go and see her.” He looked on hopefully.
“That would be rude,” Shaun said, dashing his hopes. “I need you to introduce us, all formal like.”
Tweetie’s jaw dropped. “But she’ll rip my bloody balls off!” Okay, man up. “No. And you can’t make me do it.” So there.
Shaun stood up. “You’re choice. They’ll love a pretty boy like you inside.” He frowned at Danny. “Do we have guys named Bubba in our prisons?”
“Big hairy blokes who like to play mommies and daddies?” Danny nodded. “Yeah.”
“Wait! Wait!” Tweetie was having trouble breathing. Oh God, it was a nightmare. “All right, all right,” he said at last, his voice fading to a whisper.
“There’s a good boy,” Shaun said. “Sit. Stay!” he ordered and left the room.
Danny caught up with him as he strode down the corridor. “By the book, man, remember?”
Shaun looked at him steadily for a few seconds, then nodded. “By the book. Yeah, that’ll work, this being an illegal op. But yeah, okay, but if the book gets in the way…”
“Deal,” Danny said, “Now let’s get the Tweetie out of his cage.”
The custody sergeant examined their identification for the third time. “So you think that you can just waltz in here and take one of my prisoners?”
Danny nodded and even managed a friendly smile. “It’s a perk of being the Serious Organised Crime Agency,” he said slowly, enjoying the sergeant’s look of annoyance.
The
custody sergeant looked at the IDs again, just in case they were bogus. “Prima donnas,” he said under his breath. “I’ll have to speak to my superior,” he added pompously.
Danny shrugged and glanced at Shaun, but he was in a world of his own, and from his grey expression, a world of pain.
The sergeant put down the phone. “Okay, you can have him.”
Danny turned to leave, but the sergeant rapped his pen on his desk.
“Not so fast.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of forms. “Paperwork first.”
He’s loving it, the dickhead. Danny took the forms, wrote ‘SOCA’ on every page, signed the last one, handed them back to the scowling sergeant, and went to fetch Tweetie.
Shaun stood by the door, staring out into the street, but seeing a sitting room with worn furniture and an old man’s crumpled body.
26
Margaret tossed the black dress onto the bed to join the others in a heap. She didn’t remember it being this hard to get ready for a date… no, of course it wasn’t a date, it was just a meal and pleasant conversation with a dear friend.
Okay, if that makes you feel better.
She rummaged in the over-stuffed wardrobe and pulled out a pearl silk strappy dress and held it up. She’d worn this at Rebecca and Steve’s dinner on the Strand, with Harvey. She sighed and ran her hand over the material. You know, it hadn’t been so bad then. Why did he have to go with that—
“So, does Dad know you’re out on the tiles tonight?”