by Zoe Sharp
I headed for the empty desk, moving past Docksy’s own to get there. He dived for his laptop to palm the lid shut in a way that was guaranteed to make me look at the screen, even if I hadn’t been intending to do so anyway.
Instead of any incriminating file or spreadsheet marked Ill-Gotten Gains, I caught a glimpse of a half-played hand of computer solitaire open on the desktop.
I laughed. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m hardly going to rat you out to Jamie for skiving on work’s time, am I? Besides it must be boring, all this importing and exporting stuff you do, anyway. What did you say it was, again?”
“I didn’t,” he said, stony now. He grabbed a pen from a mug on his desk and thrust it at me. I took my time putting down my stuff before I reached for it, smiling brightly to turn the snub into a more harmless gesture.
“Now then, if I can just find a tiny bit of paper . . .”
I ducked to lift the wastepaper basket, rifling through and plucking out an envelope. I scribbled a near-illegible note on a square I tore out of the back, adding a phone number that had the same phone code and first two digits as the Mosaic City Hotel but was entirely fictitious after that. I signed the note “Amanda”—with a flourish.
As I handed over both note and pen, I deliberately let go a fraction before he’d got his fingers to them.
“Oops, oh I’m so sorry, darling. How clumsy of me.”
As he bent to retrieve them, I slipped the rest of the envelope into my bag. By the time he straightened again, I was pulling out my sunglasses. I perched them on top of my head, hoping they would stay there rather than fall off and make me look even more of an airhead than I did already.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your thankless toil.” I gave him another wink. Oh God, much more of this and he was going to think I had a nervous twitch. I moved out around the desk. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you at last, Docksy,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “I’ve heard so much about you from Jamie.”
I managed to get as far as turning the handle and pulling the door open just a crack before he shouldered in and slammed it shut again.
“What’s the rush? You see, the funny thing is, darling, I’ve never known Jamie not to boast about his bits of skirt, and I’ve never heard a thing about you . . .”
FORTY
I LET GO OF THE DOOR HANDLE AND STEPPED BACK. POINTLESS to tug at it when he was leaning his full weight against the panel.
Forcing a laugh, I said, “Hardly my fault if Jamie doesn’t like to share everything, darling.”
“Oh, but he does—like to share, that is. Just my point. He really gets off on it, in fact. And I should know.”
I gave a shudder I didn’t have to fake. I knew from experience that Hackett took a vicious delight in playing to an audience. What I hadn’t realized was that rather than an aberration, it was his preference.
Docksy straightened and eased away from the door. His gaze was fixed on me, his movements predatory.
I maintained eye contact, allowing the strap of the bag to slip off my shoulder as I backed up another step.
Watching me, he smiled. “Which, darling, is how I know you are lying through your teeth. Question is, why?”
“Look, no offense, but I’m really not into all that kinky stuff.” As my bag dropped past my elbow, I still had hold of the cotton scarf, one end of it bunched in my hand. “Clearly, I’ve misinterpreted the invitation I had from him and—”
He shook his head slowly. “Uh-uh. Somehow I don’t think he ever sent you any invite. So, let’s start again, shall we? Only with you telling the truth this time, otherwise not being into ‘all that kinky stuff’ is going to be the least of your worries.”
I dropped the bag entirely, rolled the scarf in my hands as though in nervous tension.
“Of course I could just leave and we pretend this never happened?”
“Uh-uh. No way.”
“You’re really going to push this?”
“I really am.”
I sighed. “Fuck it, then.”
I flicked my eyes past his right shoulder to the closed door, telegraphing the move as much as I dared. As I darted forward, he was already reaching for me. I put my right arm out as if to fend him off and he took the bait, grabbing my forearm. He didn’t look as though he spent all his downtime in the gym, but there was an unexpected strength to him.
Instead of pulling away, I closed in fast, sweeping the hand that gripped my arm up and around behind his back. By the time he began to let go, I’d already got a lock on his hand and wrist, winding it high and tight. He went rigid from pain that drove him to his knees.
As he dropped, I looped the rolled scarf around his neck, used it to control his head. Control the head, and the body will follow. I yanked him backward, riding him down.
At the last moment he realized what I was doing and kicked out, getting a foot against one of the sofas for leverage so the pair of us went sprawling. My grip on him loosened. He wriggled free, twisted to face me, and drove his body on top of mine.
“Thought you said you didn’t like the kinky stuff, huh?” he grunted.
I wrapped one arm around his neck, dragging his head down to my shoulder in a parody of intimacy and trapping his arms close to my body so he couldn’t get the distance he needed for a decent punch. He got a couple of blows in anyway, but they were halfhearted affairs.
The scarf was still draped around his neck. I managed to squirm up far enough to get hold of it on either side of his head, then I crossed my forearms in front of his throat and heaved.
As the choke hold bit, he tried to rear up away from me, but I kept my face buried into his shoulder so he had no choice but to take me with him. His hands flailed at my body, already weakening.
Unconsciousness hit him in a little over six seconds. I made a slow mental count, just to be sure, then released the pressure and kicked him away.
He began to recover almost at once, but was sluggish enough that I could reclaim my discarded bag and pull out the leather belts I’d bought from the tourist store across the street. I used them to secure his wrists and ankles, buckling them together behind him. The scarf covered his mouth, knotted firmly at the back. As an afterthought, I tied the ends to the belts, too, so the more he struggled, the tighter it became.
By the time I’d finished, he was back in the land of the living, writhing as he glared furiously at me over the gag. It was a bit makeshift, but it didn’t have to hold him for any longer than it would take me to get clear of the place.
I patted his cheek, not gently. He snarled at me.
“I thought you were into the kinky stuff yourself?” I murmured as I rose. “And don’t look at me like that, darling, I offered you a way out—twice.”
FORTY-ONE
THE ENVELOPE I’D RESCUED FROM THE WASTEPAPER BASKET IN Hackett’s office had his name followed by an address on the front of it, in both Arabic and English.
As the address, which didn’t match the office, turned out to be in a fairly new residential district, I was betting it might just be his home. I could have tested the theory by waving it in front of the captive Docksy, but I’d decided against doing so for a couple of reasons.
One was I hadn’t known if I was likely to be interrupted at any moment. Short of claiming I was some kind of downmarket dominatrix Docksy had hired to relieve his stress levels at work, I hadn’t seen how I could talk my way out of that one, and I hadn’t fancied being thrown out of two countries in as many days.
The second reason was that I hadn’t wanted him to know I’d found it and warn Hackett somebody knew where to find him. Better to let them both think it had been a failed fact-finding mission. So as soon as I made it back to my hotel, I called Parker and relayed the address for him to check out.
Even so, by the time the sun bled over the western horizon and the amplified call to prayer from the mosques died away, I still didn’t know for sure. The property was a large detached villa, owned by one holding
company and rented by another.
It probably explained why Madeleine had given only Hackett’s business address to Sean in the first place. Or she had been disingenuous. Either way, Parker had Bill Rendelson digging through the layers.
As we spoke, I stood by the window in my hotel room on the second floor, watching the street by the front entrance from behind the gauzy curtain. The lights in my room were off, so, unless someone was equipped with night-vision gear, I was invisible from outside.
“Docksy did say that Hackett would be back later”
“And you believed him?” Parker asked. “Besides, later today, or later this week?”
“I assumed today. And at that point in the proceedings he had no particular reason to lie.”
“Ah, so that was before you hog-tied him.” I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“What can I say—I didn’t have anything handy to shoot him with.”
“I can probably rectify that situation and have something ‘handy’ with you by midday tomorrow if you want?”
“Tempting, but I need to get to him tonight.”
Before Sean does.
Vaguely, I heard Parker speak again, but I had no idea what he said.
Down in the street, a Range Rover pulled up by the steps leading to the hotel and four men got out.
The way they moved would have rung alarm bells whatever the circumstances. They didn’t so much climb out of the vehicle as debus. Smooth and efficient, confident yet wary. It marked them as military or ex-military, even in civilian clothing. Three of the men were strangers. The fourth I recognized even from this angle.
It was the Russian Spetsnaz from Kuwait City. The one who’d had me lifted by the local cops, just to prove he could.
The one who’d warned me to give up my pursuit of Sean and go home.
I had followed neither piece of advice.
The Spetsnaz guy paused and looked around him, checking rooflines as well as street level. I resisted the urge to jerk back further into the shadows. I’d learned a long time ago that total immobility can counteract outrageous levels of exposure if your nerve will stand it.
“Charlie? I said hold off going for Hackett until you’re armed. It’s too risky otherwise. You hear me?”
The Russian continued up the steps into the hotel lobby. I became aware that I’d been holding my breath. I snatched the heavy curtains across the window and clicked on the bedside lamp.
“Yeah . . . no . . . Look, the Russians have just shown up downstairs.”
“What the—? How the hell did they find you? Were you tailed from the airport?”
“Give me some credit, Parker. Unless they were using half a dozen revolving teams, drones, or a satellite, then no, I wasn’t tailed.”
“OK, I’m sorry. My bad.”
I pulled my bag out of the wardrobe and swung it onto the bed, shoving the few things I’d unpacked back inside. “Besides, there was something a little casual about the way they just walked into the lobby.”
“Oh?”
“If you were trying to execute a covert snatch, would you arrive at the front entrance, four up, and saunter in like you had all the time in the world?”
“Why not? Last time they pulled a fake traffic stop in broad daylight.” I heard him breathe out. “No, OK. I would guess they’re either checking all the hotels in the area—”
“—or they’re checking in,” I finished for him. “Either way, I still need to vacate.”
“Just be careful, Charlie. Those Spetsnaz guys have some serious skills.”
“I’m not exactly a damsel in distress,” I said tartly.
“No, but if Sean’s called in old markers and he has got them watching his back while he makes his next move—on Hackett—you’re gonna be outnumbered as well as outgunned.”
I collected my toothbrush from the bathroom and grabbed the drinks can I’d bought earlier, which I’d washed out and left to drain on the sink. I threw both into my bag, dragged the zipper shut.
“Jesus, Parker, how many times do I have to say it? We don’t know Sean killed Clay. We don’t even know the real reason he met with Lihaibi in Karbala, and we certainly don’t know he’s planning to go after Hackett and rip him limb from limb. Give the guy a fucking break, will you?”
There was a long moment of silence. I wondered briefly if I’d gone too far this time. Then he said quietly, “So why did he have Madeleine track down the current locations of those men if he wasn’t planning to do exactly that?”
FORTY-TWO
I STOOD IN THE SHADOWS OF AN EMPTY, HALF-BUILT HOUSE, watching the darkened windows of Hackett’s villa on the far side of the road. The exterior lights were on upstairs, and a flashy Audi was parked in the driveway, but there were no other signs of current occupation.
I tried to analyze the faint flicker of apprehension that wove through me. The last time I saw Hackett was outside court with his three codefendants after my disastrous civil suit. I’d been stung that our former commanding officer, Colonel Parris, had put in an appearance, as if lending an official stamp of approval to the men’s acquittal. Clearly, their legal team had advised them not to crow in victory, but they hadn’t been able to resist a few not-so-subtle sneers. At the time, I had not been so numb that I hadn’t felt every one of them like thorns in my flesh.
It took me four years to come back from it, to be able to trust in myself, and in my abilities to deal with whatever might occur. Back then, in the immediate aftermath, the ordeal had been seared so viscerally into my psyche I thought I’d bear the scars forever. Maybe I still did.
There had been many paths traveled since, some far darker than others. I had come close to death several times. Indeed, I had died once, although as it hadn’t taken, I suppose it could be described as little more than a technicality.
And I had visited death upon others.
I thought of the Russian, Kuznetsov, who’d been part of the ambush in Basra. A man I’d never met before the day he tried to kill me. Had he awoken that morning with any inkling it would be his last?
I tried to imagine him having dinner with his family, tucking his children into bed, washing his car or mowing his lawn. Anything to make him into a recognizable human being instead of simply a live-fire moving target, something to be neutralized.
Method and distance had a great deal to do with how I felt about it. Bringing a man down with an assault rifle, forty or so meters away, is a very different thing from taking their life by some means of direct contact to the body. Up close by necessity—and very, very personal. A cliché perhaps, but clichés are usually such because of the truth behind them.
I’d experienced both ways of killing. I’d been intimate enough to feel the last breath leave the chest and to see the precise moment the shine went out of the eyes. A moment of profound reality—of no return—for all concerned. For me, it caused anguish, yes, but not soul-searching, deep regret. Not as yet, anyway.
And unlike others I’d come across, it didn’t give me a thrill, either.
Again, not as yet.
What would happen when I faced Hackett once more was another matter. He was a man for whom I still carried an abiding hatred, more so than the others. He’d been the ringleader, the instigator, the one who’d urged them on when, just perhaps, they might have faltered as the sheer barbarity of what they’d been doing hit home.
But as I stood there in the dark, waiting, I recognized the underlying cause of my apprehension. It wasn’t that I feared he would once again overpower me by strength or skill alone. I’d learned some hard and painful lessons in how to fight since then—in how to kill.
It was no longer just theory.
No, what worried me this time was that if Hackett made a move on me, I might be overcome by a fatal hesitation. Not because I couldn’t bring myself to kill him but because I wanted it too much.
And I admit I was shit-scared of where that might lead.
I took a deep breath, moved out from behind the blockwork
of the unfinished house, and walked across the road, keeping it all calm and casual. I had a headscarf covering my hair and neck in the style of a hijab. In the dark, shopping bag slung over my shoulder, only the fact that I wore trousers rather than a long skirt would give away that I was not a local.
The road itself was little more than a sandy dirt track with makeshift ramps leading to the driveway of each house. Unlike in the UK, where developers tended to put the infrastructure in first and the buildings second, over here the roads were left until last. And often, it seemed, left altogether.
I listened hard as I neared the house. Dogs were not as commonly kept as pets here as in the West, but they were still used for outside guard duty. My initial recce of the house had provoked no unexpected barking. There were only three closed-circuit cameras as far as I could tell, positioned in the more obvious places to cover the approaches.
Whatever Hackett had been doing in the years since the army, it had not been working in security.
I sidestepped the front door and moved around the perimeter of the house, keeping to the shadows.
The footprint of the building was roughly square, with balconies jutting out in odd places. Practical rather than elegant in design.
The plot sloped down at the rear, providing an extra lower story at the back. I checked the windows and doors carefully, but there was nothing that would allow me easy access.
On the far side of the house, however, one of the French windows on the middle floor was open just a crack. I levered myself over the stone balustrade, still warm to the touch from a day’s absorption of the sun, and pressed close to the glass, hoping to see what lay inside.
A huge living room, from what I could tell, with overblown cream leather sofas, ornate lamps with blocky cut-glass bases, large dramatic canvases on the wall, complicated draping curtains, and yet more glass and chrome. Not hard to guess who had furnished the office.
I nudged the French window open wide enough to slip through and ducked sideways so I was not silhouetted against the glass.
