Killsong

by Mark Mannock

  Mark Mannock

  KILLSONG

  A Nicholas Sharp Thriller (1)

  Copyright © 2020 by Mark Mannock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  For John

  The only thing necessary for the

  triumph of evil is that good men

  do nothing…for Nicholas Sharp,

  doing nothing is not an option.

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Also by Mark Mannock

  Acknowledgement

  My heartfelt thanks and love to Sarah, Anisha and Jack for your love, tolerance and support. Lachlan, your counsel and wisdom has always been appreciated. Tony Ryan, the world’s greatest editor. Thank you so much.

  1

  The explosive roar shattered the night air. A split second later a blinding white light arced across the sky, turning night into day.

  Close your eyes and you heard a hundred jet engines. Open them and you saw twenty-five thousand people in a full-volume embrace with the moment. It was loud, it was awe-inspiring, and it was all ours.

  The crowd was erupting. I looked over at Brian Pitt, the band’s drummer; sweat was cascading down his face. We exchanged a glance before Robbie West, the late-eighties mega-star, acknowledged the musicians over the microphone. Take a bow, feel good, life gets no better. This was always a great moment in a show; you’d given your all, all energy was spent.

  It was also, by design, a long way from the world I used to know.

  I looked around, soaking in the atmosphere a little more. The Hollywood Bowl was a stunning place to play. It had history and a story to tell. Standing on that stage, in the footprints of the Beatles and the Doors, was surreal. As we moved offstage toward the stairs to our VIP band room, I felt fortunate I had found refuge in this eccentric and chaotic industry.

  Outsiders often think it must be glamorous and exciting backstage at a big show. It’s not. The mood is hectic, road crews and techs are moving gear everywhere, and you’re always stepping out of someone’s way. Musicians stand around either patting each other on the back for a great show performed or getting themselves in the zone for a great show about to be performed. Lead singers are usually just standing around patting themselves on the back.

  Among the chaos, the first person I saw was Greatrex.

  “Great show,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I was still catching my breath.

  Greatrex had been with me forever. He was my keyboard tech and closest friend. Once, we had been brothers-in-arms, literally. Jack Greatrex. There wasn’t a soul I trusted more in this world. The stage lights cast shadows over his perspiring face. People often judged him based on his shaved head, goatee and large frame. You just had to look a little harder to see the passion and intelligence behind those piercing blue eyes. We had each other’s backs, we read each other’s thoughts. It had always been that way.

  My immediate agenda involved a cool shower, a change of clothes, and an ice-cold beer. The sweat was starting to close in around me, revival was the order of the day. Robbie, our singer, had his own dressing room; after all, he was the star and we were his hired hands, so most of the publicists and record company “hangers on” were waiting for him there. In our room were those who I regarded as the more genuine part of the music industry: fellow musicians, girlfriends, friends, and occasionally some very attractive friends of friends. What can I say? It comes with the job.

  “Nicholas Sharp,” I heard my name coming from the doorway. It was Dave, the lead singer with the headlining band. Famous human.

  “Great freaking playing man. Next time we’re in the studio, come and have a play.”

  I was a little stunned, but in a good way.

  “Thanks so much, Dave. You bet I’ll be there.”

  “Cool, see ya.”

  Dave moved on to get ready for his show. He was a hero of mine. One of the nice parts of this industry was meeting heroes. I once shook Paul McCartney’s hand. A Beatle. If by any remote chance I should go to heaven when I die, I reckon God would have a hard time topping that one.

  In the nineties, Dave had been in a very successful grunge band that had taken the world by storm. It had all ended when their lead singer died a tragically early death. Music can be a tough business. It’s a mix of vulnerability and toughness not needed in many other lines of work. After a time, however, Dave had bounced back and now led his own world-beating band. Just the fact he knew my name was cool enough, but to be invited onto a session with his band was something else.

  As I walked into our band room, there were a few good-natured jibes from my friends and colleagues—“Who’s gonna be a star?” etc. I didn’t want to be a star; I just wanted to be the best musician I could be.

  The conversation was warm, the beer was cold, and the room was just starting to thin out when behind me I heard the familiar voice of Greatrex. He had just finished his keyboard tech duties upstairs.

  “Nick, I only just checked for messages. There was a call for you.” I always gave Greatrex my phone when I was onstage.

  “It was Leyla, and Nick, she said it was urgent, and she sounded worried.”

  I moved over to Greatrex so no one else could hear our conversation. “How worried?”

  “Worried,” he said.

  Suddenly, I felt cold. Leyla didn’t scare easily. “Did you call her back?” I asked.

  “I tried, but there was no answer.”

  “Pass me the phone, I’ll try now.” Greatrex did as requested. I listened to Leyla’s message and then tried the number. I tried it again. A foreboding gloom was coming over me; I told myself not to overreact. The problem was, however, that I had spent my whole life trusting my instincts, and my life had been spared several times because I had.

  “Let’s go,” I motioned to Greatrex, but he was already packing up our bags. We said our goodbyes and moved out of the room. I couldn’t help but think we got a couple of strange looks as we left, or maybe it was me who had the strange look.

  Unpredictable circumstances. Suddenly, five years ago felt like yesterday.

  Greatrex and I made our way down through the bowels of the stadium. When we reached the VIP exit, we had to wait for the luxury shuttle bus to take us back to the hotel that was our meeting place before the concert. I had left my car there; this was LA, my hometown. In LA, your car was everything. Neither Greatrex nor I said a word, each in our own world.

  It wasn’t until we were purring up the road in my stylishly unfashionable retro XJS Jaguar that we started to talk.

  “It’s probably nothing,” said Greatrex.

  “Do you believe that?” I asked.

  “No.”

  We both knew som
ething was likely wrong. Leyla had not lived the life she had by calling out for help every time some minor problem got in her way. Greatrex nodded. Honesty had always been strong between us, especially in times of stress, and we had shared too many of those.

  We didn’t say another word as the pull of the Jaguar’s V12 engine launched us along the US-101. Perhaps to distract myself, I began to reflect on Leyla, and the events of the last few years. This was something I tried to avoid. I’m usually good at avoidance, but not today.

  Just like the car we were traveling in, I seemed to be a conflicted mess of European style and the need for American muscle and power. My mother was English, a concert pianist of some note. My bent for music and performing had come from her. My father was the exact opposite; an American colonel in the United States Marines, he was a man of order, discipline, and regiment. Both my parents had instilled in me a sense of purpose and morality; it’s something they both had in bucketloads, though expressed in different ways. I had followed my father’s line of work. As it turned out, that had been a mistake.

  “Turnoff coming up,” said Greatrex, jolting me from my way too self-indulgent thoughts.

  We headed west down the 405. I turned up the music on the car stereo to keep me from thinking bad things; it didn’t work. We veered off the 405 through a series of turns until we came left onto North Venice Boulevard, by the water. I could see the Santa Monica Pier and the fun park ahead as we drove toward Venice Beach and its permanent carnival atmosphere. After too many years as a Marine Scout Sniper sitting alone on hilltops and rooftops, it suited me to be around people.

  I lived in an old stucco building in an upstairs apartment overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was not luxurious, but it was comfortable. I opened the front door. My gleaming black Yamaha grand piano sat in the corner of the lounge by the window, awaiting my next music-therapy session. Right now, I was more focused on the telephone answering service than exorcizing demons. I needed to hear Leyla’s voice telling me everything was alright, I needed to speak to her, and I needed to know she was safe. I listened for messages. There was just a repeat of Leyla’s message on my cell: “Nick, call me, it’s urgent.” It turned out I got nothing I needed.

  I looked at Greatrex; he had the same tense look on his face that I felt on mine.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “I go,” I responded.

  “We go.”

  “No, I go alone. I need you here in case Leyla makes contact or sends a message. Besides, we have commitments in the recording studio in two days’ time. Wayne will have a fit if we don’t turn up or both disappear off the map.”

  Wayne De Soto was my extremely hardworking manager. He had put a lot of work into my new career and I didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “I need you to prepare the equipment for that. Hopefully, I’ll sort out whatever the issue is and be back well before session time.”

  As it turned out, I’d never been more wrong in my life.

  2

  Again, the loud roar, but this time it was a jet engine. I was on board an Alaska Airlines 737 hurtling down the runway at LAX. I spent most of the trip regretting I’d not come here direct from the concert. It would have saved precious time. It was only three hours since the end of the show at the Bowl, but I felt a world away.

  As the plane sped into the night sky, I had no way of knowing the impact of the journey that lay ahead of me. Ignorance is bliss.

  It was a ninety-minute flight through the evening to Portland, Oregon, where Leyla now lived. The night lights of LA seemed to take forever to pass over. Everything seemed so calm and leisurely onboard the plane, but I was the opposite. I was restless, agitated, and uncertain of what lay ahead. Leyla used to joke that I was always so calm in an emergency while others around me became excited. The flip side was right here: while others around me were calm, I was bouncing out of my brain with impatience.

  As the aircraft soared through the night, I once again found myself lost in reflection.

  Leyla Salib had lived her whole life in Iraq, until a few short years ago. She and her beautiful three-year-old daughter, Amira, had lived on the outskirts of Baghdad with Leyla’s husband, Akram. In war-torn Iraq, money was hard to come by, and life was difficult. Akram had a young family to take care of, so like any responsible parent he looked for alternative forms of income.

  In time, he began work as a translator for the coalition forces. Akram was good at what he did, and after a few months the powers that be realized he was not only a gifted translator but also in a position to provide information that helped them plan successful strategies against the insurgents. Akram had access to areas and communities that no regular intelligence officer could enter. People were not afraid to talk in front of him as they would be in front of an outsider.

  As Akram’s value as an asset increased in his minder’s eyes, the information he provided became more and more important. Throughout this period, Akram was providing well for his young family.

  After a while, however, things started to go wrong. People in positions of power started noticing that the information Akram was providing was not yielding the same positive results; in fact, at times it seemed downright unreliable.

  Everything came to a head one balmy Iraqi evening when a small task force of Marine special forces was sent in to take down an insurgent leader. The information that Akram had provided turned out to be wrong, very wrong. Three of the special forces men were killed in an ambush that night, and the others barely made it out alive.

  Rumors spread that Akram had now turned, and that he was an insurgent double agent.

  At that point Akram became an enemy of the coalition. In a dark, off-the-books operation, ordered and sanctioned only by one man in the intelligence division, Akram was dealt with, permanently. His life ended in a dark alleyway as he walked home from a community meeting. Akram would never see or hold his wife and child again.

  Though this was a frustratingly sad story for the families of all involved, in the relentless battle for the freedom and hearts the Iraqi people, anguish and tragedy were not unusual. What happened next, however, was very, very unusual.

  In time, more information came to light. It appeared it was not Akram’s information that was incorrect but rather the spin that was put on it by his controlling officer, Major Giles Winter. Although it was never officially proven, it was suspected that Winter was working to his own agenda, an agenda that pursued personal financial profit over the interests of the coalition forces and the Iraqi people.

  Of course, with not enough proof at hand that would stack up in a military court, the whole situation was quietly swept under the carpet and forgotten. Major Winter was shipped back stateside, left the military, and eventually disappeared. It never came to light that Akram’s assassination was a rogue action authorized by Winter alone. Accordingly, no overtly official attempt was made to give support to Akram’s young wife, Leyla, or his daughter, Amira.

  At the time, I was posted at Camp Striker, part of the Victory Base Complex in Baghdad. It took a while for the facts to dribble down to my team. It took me even longer to realize the full role Winter had played in the situation. Although we felt bad about it, there was nothing that could be done without official cooperation.

  It was then that we received information that the local insurgent leaders had decided that Akram Salib’s family should be made an example of, to ensure no more locals would work with the coalition. A kill order was put out on Leyla and Amira Salib.

  When a group of us learned this, we decided we could not stand by and let it happen. We went to our commanding officer, Colonel Colin Devlin-Waters. Although he met with us, Devlin-Waters let us know his hands were officially tied. With no legal evidence proving otherwise, Akram was still officially a traitor who worked for the insurgency. Though everyone in the room knew this to be false, those in a position of enough power to do something about it were unable to act.

  Time was our biggest issue; we didn’t kn
ow when the insurgent strike team was going to hit the young family. Between us, our team, including Jack Greatrex and myself, had enough contacts in the transport division to get Leyla and Amira a seat on a military transport out of there. The trouble was, without the right paperwork they weren’t going anywhere.

  The next evening, after the failed meeting with our commanding officer, I arrived back at my barracks to find an envelope on my bunk. Opening it, I found passports and US travel papers for Leyla and Amira. With the papers was a note with one word scrawled: “deniable.” I suspected that our Colonel Devlin-Waters had pulled some unofficial strings and managed to arrange the papers. I had no doubt they were to some extent forged, but they would suffice to get the girls out. We should, however, expect no more help from our leaders.

  The rest was pretty straightforward, a midnight visit to Leyla’s home not only to collect the girls, but also to persuade them that they were in danger and had to leave. Our argument was helped when the insurgent strike team turned up around fifteen minutes after we arrived. A brief firefight ensued, and our well-trained team got the better of the insurgents.

  After a short trip to the coalition-held airport in the back of an informally seconded military truck, and being given two seats on a late-night military flight to the US, the girls were ready to go.

  Just before Greatrex and I put Leyla and Amira on that plane, Leyla turned to me with a questioning look. “Why are you doing this for us?” Both Greatrex and the girls looked at me expectantly, though he already knew my answer.

  Memory is a strange thing; sometimes you forget experiences that you wanted to remember, and some things you’d rather let go stay with you forever. This was a case of the latter. Sitting in the protected comfort of my seat, flying through the night to Portland, I recalled every sound, every smell, every emotion that ran through me in that long moment on the tarmac on that humid Iraqi evening.

  I remembered clearly the trust and belief emanating from Leyla’s and Amira’s frightened eyes. I recalled myself trembling in frustration as I wanted to say something to make things right but found no words. I’d just quietly guided those two shaken souls silently onto the transport plane.