by Lee Stone
“I nearly ran Nazar over because he was playing football in the road last year, and then his parents helped me out when I needed somewhere to stay. He was wearing a shirt with your name on it. I thought it would be a nice way to say thanks if you flew out to meet him. You’d get a feel for the country that way too.”
The footballer looked at him.
“So, you want to pay me to travel halfway across the world to have a kick about with a kid who lives in the middle of the desert?”
Lockhart grinned.
“Yeah, all right then,” laughed the footballer. “I’ll do it.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Taynton Hollow, England.
“The wolves they howled for my lost soul
I fell down a deep black hole.”
– Paloma Faith, New York.
Two days after the footballer left the top of the hill, Daud arrived at the bottom. He was having second thoughts. His heart was full of anger at the man who had sent his brother to Guantanamo. Day after day he had sat quietly after morning prayers, imagining the horrors that his brother Ajmal would be facing in the camp, far away from the gaze of justice. Far from freedom or hope.
He had gone through the motions of worship, but his mind was always elsewhere. He had begun to imagine how he would finish the man called Fearless. He would have to tell him who he was and how he was avenging his brother. He had fixated on the words he would use and imagined the terror in the man’s eyes.
But not far from the surface, Daud was a good man. No matter how hard he focused on his plan, a voice in his head continued to question him. Why had Ajmal been on the roof? What explanation could there be other than the one the Americans had assumed? Was it impossible that his young brother was on the roof directing a missile to kill hundreds of men? Daud refused to believe it.
He and Ajmal had gone to Mosque together since Daud could remember. They knew each other inside out. When they had gone out to Pakistan together for the wedding, Daud had been pleased that his brother had headed off to Quetta to find the old house from the family picture, it felt like a good-hearted thing for him to do. He was looking forward to his brother returning home full of stories of the old town and the magic window through which his family’s fate had flown. How could that wholesome journey end up with Ajmal languishing in Guantanamo? How could he contemplate his brother as a terrorist? It was crazy.
Daud’s sense of duty buried his doubts, and he committed himself to revenge. But the closer he got to his target, the more obstacles Allah seemed to put in his way. The weather was bad as he headed away from Birmingham, but as he drove along the motorway, the snow had got heavier, and the flakes had got bigger. Driving had become difficult as the traffic thinned out and the slush under his tires thickened.
The cars in front slowed to a crawl, but the heavy trucks kept a threatening pace behind him. By the time he saw the turning for Woodridge he was clenching the steering wheel and peering forward into the white.
Things didn’t get better once he was off the main road. As he came to the first junction, he hit the brakes and nothing happened. The car sailed on into the merging traffic as if he hadn’t touched the brakes at all. He turned the wheel but it made no difference, and he slid out across two lanes of slow traffic. He braced for impact, but somehow nothing hit him so he tapped at the gas and got the car moving again. It was slow work as he watched the miles to Woodridge gradually count down.
He was four miles from the village when he started to notice the road getting steeper. Either side of the road the bright paintwork of recently abandoned cars stood out against the otherwise white backdrop. The owners of the cars had hurried off into the blizzard and were nowhere to be seen. Daud took the car as far as it would go, but eventually he came to a halt. Each time he pushed the gas, the spinning tires dug deeper into the now thick snow, and he was forced to bail out.
The heater had been on full blast, and the cold air hit Daud as he opened the door and stepped out into the best part of a foot of snow. It was crisp and new, and it clung to the bottom of his trousers and caked around his feet. Daud was wearing jeans and walking boots and he grabbed his thick jacket from the boot of the car. He pulled a balaclava over his head and put his hoodie on top of that. He slung his rucksack over his shoulder and started up the hill.
The cold was still biting, and Daud cursed as he realized that he had forgotten his gloves. Within minutes his hands were red raw, but he needed to keep his balance so he kept them out of his pockets.
The doubting voice in his head was getting louder. Many times during his preparations, Daud had justified his anger by grasping at signs that fate was helping him to gain revenge for Ajmal. He had learned his target’s name, found his address and obtained his weapon easily, as though some higher power knew that the injustice bestowed on Ajmal needed to be balanced out.
But now the doubting voice told him that the opposite was true. He was being beaten back by the snow and the cold. His eyes were screwed up and his face was numb. Maybe Allah wanted him to go home, think again, and show mercy.
Daud ignored the nagging voice. He had come too far now to turn back. Besides, he was a thoughtful man, and nerves were a natural response to a difficult decision. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore, and his calves were aching as he trudged uphill through the thick virgin snow. There were no cars now, and the animals seemed to have abandoned the skies and the wide-open fields. Apart from the muffled crunching of his boots, silence had descended around the solitary young man. Only his doubts grew louder.
He reached Woodridge at the top of the hill about half an hour later. There was a stone-built bus-stop on the edge of the village, and he took shelter in there from the wind. After a moment, he let the ruck sack slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor behind him. He pulled up the balaclava and looked out from the shelter.
Apart from his own, Daud could see no other footprints around the bus-stop, and in fact there were none along the road at all. His own were already being erased by the rough wind and fresh flakes. He knew that there would be no car tracks; the road he had just ascended would have been lethal even for the sturdiest vehicles. He sat down at the back of the shelter and rummaged through his bag. First, he pulled out a can of coke, which he opened and gulped down. The sugar was good.
Next, he removed a towel from his bag, and from beneath it he pulled the ancient revolver and a small box of bullets. His eyes flicked back to the road for a moment, and then he unlatched the chamber and opened the box. His raw hands shook violently as he tried to control their movement, the tips of the bullets scratching across the revolver before eventually slotting into their holes.
Then he folded the towel back around the gun, and put it back at the top of his rucksack, and buckled up.
From his shelter on the edge of the village, Daud could make out the grand pub on the main road. Its windows were warm and welcoming and there was the muffled sound of music coming from within. The snow had masked the white lines on the car park tarmac, and the cars were parked in a free-for-all. Most looked grateful to have made it off the road, and their drivers had clearly headed into the bar for a hot coffee or a warming whiskey.
According to the electoral register, Charlie Lockhart lived in the oldest house in the village which was called Woodridge Lodge. Daud found it almost directly opposite the pub which was unfortunate because the rest of the village seemed deserted. Still, it was unlikely that anyone would be heading out into the storm now, and even if they did, their heads would be bowed against the swirling flakes and they wouldn’t pay much attention to a passing stranger.
The place looked impressive. The rest of the village seemed to consist of the stone barns at the back of the Lodge, and the main house imposed itself on everything around it. The windows were mostly dark although there was a glow coming from a doorway in one of the rooms, and Daud could smell the smoke coming from the chimney even before he saw it. Charlie Lockhart was at home.
Chapter Fifty-Four
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The Crown and Cricket, Woodridge.
“In the shithouse a shotgun, praying hands hold me down.
Only the hunter was hunting in this tin can town”
– U2, Silver and Gold
Tyler was happy enough. He could sense that he was getting closer to the ever elusive Fearless, and he had taken the time to prepare. He felt fresh from flying first class into Heathrow. The food had been good and he had slept well, so by the time he arrived in London he was ready to act.
He hired a right-hand drive Audi Q7, a luxury SUV, on the recommendation of the salesman. He was going to choose a powerful BMW, but the salesman was insistent that most of the country would be under snow by the end of the day, so Tyler had taken his advice and gone for the Audi. It had been the right decision, but now the snow had arrived he wasn’t sure that anything was going to be getting through the storm in a hurry.
He followed the SUV’s built in navigation to a small village in the middle of the country. It wasn’t much more than a pile of stones at the top of an impressive hill. There was a pub opposite the address he had typed into the sat nav, and he had pulled in there and swung the Audi around so that it was facing the house on the other side of the road.
The snow had proved ideal cover as his car had been gradually consumed by white camouflage. He was used to waiting, and he had grabbed plenty of supplies at a sportsman’s store on his way. He had water, warm clothes, a new burner phone and some night goggles.
It was next to impossible to buy a firearm in England. He had considered waiting until nightfall and raiding the nearest farmhouse, but knew he’d only find a decrepit shotgun and an annoying dog to deal with. And there was no guarantee of a kill with a shotgun. If Fearless ran, Tyler wanted to be sure to put him down.
So, he had bought a crossbow and bolt. Hardly his weapon of choice, but he was calm and steady enough to kill with it, even when the red mist descended. It also made him think of the old English stories of Robin Hood, running through the ancient stone village with a bow and arrow in his hand. Stealing from the rich and giving to the soon-to-be richer.
Every fifteen minutes he turned the engine, blew the heaters, and ran the wipers. It was just enough to allow him to keep an eye on the house without anyone noticing him staring. When darkness fell, he would grab his goggles and the crossbow and break into the manor house over the road. Fearless would probably have stashed the cash there. Once Fearless led him to wherever the dollars were stashed, or told him the account codes, Tyler would silently put a boot on his throat and a bolt through his eye and have the rest of the night to quietly head off into the anonymity of the snow.
It was about four PM. Tyler noticed an Asian guy out in the street, looking furtive. He was smart enough to know that normal people didn’t hang about in biting cold snow, so he couldn’t be up to much good. When the guy slunk into the gloom of the bus shelter, Tyler grabbed his night goggles, and switched them on. He turned up the magnification and pointed them at the shelter. The mysterious stranger was pulling a weapon out of his rucksack and loading it. By the way his hand was shaking, he wasn’t exactly a pro.
Tyler smiled. This place looked like it hadn’t changed for a thousand years; the last place you’d find a hit man. What were the odds? Clearly Fearless had built up a few enemies along the way. Tyler pulled on his jacket and pulled his kit together. The guy was heading out of the bus shelter and straight for the house that he had been watching. Tyler couldn’t take the chance that someone would silence Fearless before he’d found out where the money was stashed.
As Tyler got out of the SUV, the cold air hit him, but he sucked it in. Luxury cars and first-class flights had helped him get where he needed to be, but he was a warrior, and he liked the feeling of the cold on his skin. His eyes were alert and his strides were long as he headed out of the car park and crunched over the road, following Daud’s footprints towards the back of Woodridge Lodge.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Woodridge, England.
“Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown”
– The Verve, The Drugs Don’t Work.
Lockhart was moving around his tiny cottage like a wasp in a jar. It was nearly a year since David Barr had asked him to drive the Mastiff from Kandahar to Herat, and it was nearly a week since David Barr had been killed.
Lockhart missed the road. He missed not knowing what would happen next. When he was traveling, every day was a new adventure. For the last few months he’d been standing still, and it was boring. Now he knew Tyler was coming, and he couldn’t wait for it to be over. He remembered the story that the ferrymen had told him. He was as ready now as he would ever be.
The fire was roaring in the oversized hearth and Lockhart watched it for a moment, the licking flames transfixing him. For a few seconds he thought about nothing but the way they rose and fell like fall leaves caught in the wind. Then suddenly questions crashed back into his mind and he began pacing again. What had happened to Rachel White after the police had taken her away from Tyler? Part of him wanted to get on a plane and head for Pine Bluff to find her and talk to her. Check she was okay. He wanted to ask her about David Barr and his family too. He felt that he owed them.
He turned from the fire, frustrated. There was no point going to Pine Bluff when Tyler would soon be arriving in Woodridge. Lockhart had to hold his nerve and wait. As he felt the warmth of the fire on his back, he paced over to the window, resting his clenched fists on the cold stone of its frame. He imagined Rachel’s fear back in Lucky Bar. What kind of man could lock a woman in a freezer?
Lockhart’s cottage was simple. The solid front door opened straight onto the main room of the house with its huge stone hearth. There was a sofa and a couple of chairs gathered around the fireplace, and a wooden staircase on the back wall which led to the only bedroom and a bathroom upstairs. It was all he needed. He hadn’t planned on staying so long. Below the staircase was a wooden door beyond which was the kitchen. Lockhart walked through and turned on the kettle, absent mindedly.
There was a MacBook on the kitchen table, which he used to check his emails and to do his banking. He felt guilty every time he checked the Baku account. The interest kept stacking up at an astonishing rate. Over the year, the three hundred million dollars had grown by another twelve million. This meant nothing to Lockhart at all. Just numbers on a page. The money should be spent, building schools and hospitals, helping kids like Nazar and his family.
But there was nothing he could do until Tyler was dealt with. If the money paid for a school on the other side of the world, Tyler would find out and raze it to the ground. So, Lockhart would wait for Tyler, and then he would deal with the money. The kettle clicked off as the kitchen filled with steam. Lockhart ignored it and paced back through to the fire.
As he looked out of the picture window, Lockhart could see the distant glow of the lights in the pub on the main road. The wind had blown fresh snow over the main path. The tire tracks from the footballer’s car had disappeared. Nothing stirred in the garden or the street beyond. Lockhart was alone.
*
Opposite the Crown and Cricket, the journalist was walking purposefully through Woodridge Lodge. Although it was grand from the outside, the inside of the house was like a museum. Since he had arrived in the village, the journalist had done very little to make the place his own. The curtains were half velvet and half dust; the ceilings were high and the rooms were light, but the place felt musty and unloved.
The village had proven to be the perfect place to hide while his Iranian story was published. It was going to make him famous, and probably rich as well. The downside was that the Iranian secret police and Spanish special forces would probably be trying to track him down to silence him. Maybe even to kill him. Once his whole story was published, and the glare of the media spotlight was on him, they wouldn’t dare attack him, but until then he was staying out of sight in Woodridge.
He had been smart to latch on to Charlie Lockhart. After a rocky start
, they seemed to have worked each other out. Lockhart wasn’t a bad guy. He had given the journalist his name and opened a bank account for him.
Now everyone in the village believed that his name was Charlie Lockhart. None of his neighbors knew his real name, and neither did the banks or the people who sent him bills. They all thought he was Charlie Lockhart, and he felt safer than he had done for a long time. Life had been calm, with him bolted up in the big house and the real Lockhart living quietly in the small cottage next door.
Now though, someone was ringing on his ancient doorbell, which was worrying. He had been careful not to make friends, and he never invited anyone to visit. True, he was on the main road, and there was a snowstorm, but there was no reason for anyone to be stranded, needing help, at the top of the hill.
The journalist had worked on explosive stories and made enemies before. He had been taught to be cautious. So now, as he strode through the farmhouse kitchen, he grabbed a knife from the block as he passed. He held it firmly in his hand behind his back as he reached the strong oak door. Why didn’t it have a spyhole?
He part opened the door and was met by a young guy with his hood up. He looked Asian rather than Spanish or Iranian. Probably a good sign. The journalist said nothing, in case his accent gave him away. He stared at the stranger, waiting for him to speak.
“My car is stuck on the hill,’ Daud said. ‘Can I use your phone?”
The accent was not one which the journalist recognized, but he sounded fluent enough in English to be native. He kept his grip on the knife, but opened the door wider, and invited the man in. Daud walked through the door, focused on the job ahead of him. The time for questioning was over, and the time for doing was upon him.
Daud had reasoned the argument through a hundred times, weighed the consequences again and again, but now he had chosen his path.
