Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  Ryder: Bird of Prey is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Nicholas Pengelley

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9780553393859

  Cover design: Scott Biel

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  www.readalibi.com

  v4.0

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Nick Pengelley

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “The Israelis! They’ve taken Omar!”

  Ayesha dropped the yellowed paperback she’d been reading. She stared at the man who’d burst through the open front door of her family’s apartment. Normally fastidious in matters of toilette, Yasser Mahmoud was a wreck. His bare feet protruded from filthy jeans. A once-white T-shirt was torn and stained. His hair was wild and his face unshaved.

  Ghayda, Ayesha’s little sister, burst into tears. Omar, Mahmoud’s ten-year-old son, was her best friend. Ayesha had often teased her about the relationship, but now her heart went out to the girl. She put her arm around her shoulders.

  “What happened? Why did they take him?” Ayesha’s mother asked Mahmoud.

  “Omar was throwing stones. Yesterday. At the army patrol. The Israelis came in the middle of the night. We were all asleep. They smashed the door in. Dragged Omar out of bed. He was in his pajamas! They handcuffed him. They took him away—” Mahmoud broke down, sobbing.

  “What will they do to Omar, Ayesha?” Ghayda sniffed. “They won’t hurt him?”

  “Of course not. He’ll be home soon. You’ll see.” Ayesha didn’t believe her own words. At the age of twelve, she’d seen too much.

  —

  Ayesha Ryder blinked and rubbed her eyes. She took a swift look around the Ship. She knew everyone by sight, so she knew Zilinsky hadn’t arrived yet. She nodded to a couple of the regulars who’d come in while she’d been lost in her past. They smiled, but made no move to approach her. She appreciated the way they gave her space; never pestered her; treated her as one of their own. They’d never give out any information about her. It was one reason she’d arranged to meet Zilinsky here.

  Yasser Mahmoud and his little son Omar…It had been so long since she’d thought of them. It was soon after Omar’s arrest that Ayesha’s sister, Ghayda, had died in an Israeli air strike on Gaza—to take out a terrorist, a known bomb maker. Ghayda and five of her young friends had been waiting for a school bus to take them home, near the man’s supposed location. The Israelis hadn’t got the bomb maker, but the children were all killed.

  It was the last time Ayesha had seen her mother…normal. Her mother had lost her reason after Ghayda’s death, telling people that her daughter hadn’t really been killed; assuming that she’d be coming home. Then her mother, too, had been murdered. Ayesha had never known who was responsible. Until a year ago. When Yael Strenger—spy, diplomat, and assassin—had taunted her that he was the one; that he’d killed her mother. Ayesha shot him dead. Instantly, in a fit of rage. It was a deed she regretted. She should have let him live—until she’d dragged the whole truth from him.

  Ayesha stared at the bar, fighting the tide of memory that threatened to wash over her. Pat, the barman, looked up from pouring a pint and caught her eye. His broad grin brought her back from the brink. She smiled and raised her glass in salute. The ugly memories receded. Her mood changed; she felt almost happy. It had, she decided, been rather a good day. It had started when the British prime minister, Susannah Armstrong, had invited her to lunch at Chequers, the leader’s official country retreat, in Buckinghamshire, outside London. After lunch they’d walked in the gardens.

  “What do you think?” The prime minister had gestured to a longbow, propped against a garden table. A quiver of arrows lay on the table next to it.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ayesha told Susannah. “Yew?”

  “Yes. Six foot and made from a single piece. It’s a replica of one they found on the Mary Rose.” The prime minister referred to the flagship of Henry VIII’s navy, sunk in the Solent in 1545. The recovery of a substantial part of the wreck in 1982 had cast new light on numerous aspects of Tudor life and society. Among thousands of other artifacts, hundreds of longbows had been recovered, providing accurate information as to their dimensions and draw weight—something only guessed at previously.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “A grateful constituent. A businessman from Nottingham who’s into Robin Hood.”

  “I’d love to try it.”

  “We all will. You, too, Bebe,” Susannah said to the other woman who’d made up their luncheon trio.

  A target had been set up about sixty feet from the terrace; an easy distance. The light, on a perfect September day, was just right.

  Susannah went first, having swept up her long dark hair into a bun. The prime minister gave up after less than a minute, red-faced with exertion. “Impossible!” she gasped. “You’d need to be a weight lifter to draw this bloody thing!”

  “May I?” Bebe Daniels asked eagerly.

  Susannah’s private secretary was slightly built, not much above medium height, with sallow skin, short-cropped black hair, brown eyes flecked with gray, and soigné good looks. Lesbian, or bisexual, Ayesha guessed, aware of her prime minister’s sexual orientation. She hoped Susannah was careful. Divorced and single she might be, but there was a fair percentage of the British public who wouldn’t understand, or forgive. Susannah had come perilously close to being outed early in the summer. That experience would have been enough for most people. The prime minister had a strong streak of recklessness, though. It was what made her so successful as a politician. It could also ruin her.

  Bebe selected an arrow. Then she positioned herself and leaned her body into the bow.


  Ayesha was surprised. The woman knew what she was doing—using the weight of her body to draw the bow, not relying on the strength of her arms and shoulders. This impression was confirmed moments later, when Bebe put the arrow into the dead center of the target.

  “Well done, Bebe!” Susannah slapped her private secretary on the back. “Is there no end to your talents?” The prime minister winked at Ayesha. “Think you can match that?”

  Ayesha accepted the longbow from a smirking Bebe Daniels, and a thirty-inch arrow made of ash with an iron arrowhead from Susannah. She faced the target, her body assuming the familiar stance as if twenty years had not passed since she’d last done so, when, as a teenage member of the Palestinian fedayeen, she’d reveled in her mastery of a weapon that men twice her size had struggled with. She leaned into the bow, feeling its weight, the tension. Perfect. She laid the arrow against the left side of the bow and spread her fingers in the basic Mediterranean draw: forefinger on the string above the arrow, middle and ring finger on the string below it.

  She focused her gaze on the target, seeing the flight of the arrow in her mind’s eye. She drew back on the bow, let out her breath, and released the arrow in one fluid motion.

  “Ohmigod!” Susannah clapped her hands. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Incredible!” Bebe stared at the target. She rounded on Ayesha, her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen that done. I didn’t think it could be.”

  Ayesha handed the longbow to Susannah. She walked to the target and retrieved her arrow from the center of the bull’s-eye. Then, stooping, she picked up the shattered pieces of Bebe’s arrow. Her own arrow had split it down the middle.

  Ayesha smiled at the memory. The pub door opened and a man entered. Another regular. She checked the time, frowning. Zilinsky was late. He’d texted her when he arrived at St. Pancras International. That was nearly two hours ago. This time of night, with light traffic, he should have been here well before now. She hoped he hadn’t changed his mind. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had. She still didn’t know why he’d agreed to bring the Maltese Falcon to a London pub.

  Chapter 2

  Ayesha Ryder.

  Alone in her tiny office adjacent to the Cabinet Room inside Number 10 Downing Street, Bebe Daniels pictured the woman with the body of a ballet dancer and dark, smoldering passion in her eyes. That’s how the media described her. Bebe hated that the world had gone wild for Ryder, according her fame beyond that of most Hollywood movie stars. Bebe pressed her lips together at the memory of their archery bout. She should have won. Was sure she had won. Then that bitch had pulled her Robin Hood stunt.

  With an effort, she pushed Ryder from her thoughts. She picked up the tiny metal vial her Master had given her after his meeting with the prime minister. The meeting had not gone well. Susannah Armstrong was tired of Noel Malcolm’s badgering her on a topic she wanted nothing to do with. The deputy prime minister knew it, of course. Which is why he’d brought Philip Balfour with him. Susannah had a soft spot for the foreign secretary. He was the opposite of the deputy prime minister in every way. Educated at Eton and Cambridge, he’d served with the Brigade of Guards and had an impeccable political pedigree, being a descendant of a former British prime minister—Arthur Balfour. He was fluent in five languages. He was also movie-star handsome. Comparisons had been made with Anthony Eden, Britain’s glamorous wartime foreign minister; Churchill’s lieutenant.

  People familiar with the rough-edged, ill-educated miner’s son Noel Malcolm found it hard to understand how it was that he and Balfour were such good friends. Bebe knew why. Part of it was that the two men held such similar political views, particularly when it came to the future of an independent England. Bebe knew they also shared a deep hatred of the prime minister. The difference was that Philip Balfour hid it. They were also both from Yorkshire. That counted for a great deal. A very great deal.

  They’d been sitting at the Cabinet table for nearly twenty minutes, with Malcolm repeating the same arguments, Balfour chiming in to support his friend, and Bebe making notes, when the prime minister, who’d been doodling on a notepad, spoke. “Declaring English independence. Dissolving the union with Scotland and Northern Ireland and pulling out of the EU, NATO, and the WTO. Do you seriously mean to tell me you think the British—or I suppose you mean the English—people will support you when they understand the implications?”

  “Support us?” Malcolm knocked back the scotch Bebe had poured for him—not the first. “Of course they’ll go for it. Once it’s made clear they’ll be a damned sight better off economically. No one’s going to be able to convince people there’s any advantage to staying in the EU, now that all their economies are going down the toilet and that Putin has a tank barrel pointed at their heads. Then there’s the immigrants. Even those who’re already here don’t want us to accept any more.

  “What the fuck do we gain from being in NATO?” Malcolm looked as if he wanted to pound the table. “It’s not as if the Russians are a threat—to the Poles maybe, but not to us. Having our lads die for the Americans in some Islamic hellhole doesn’t win any votes. If we pull out of the WTO, it’s back to the good old days of putting our own people first, not having to sacrifice our industry to support the bloody Bangladeshis.”

  “And you, Philip?” Susannah turned her gaze on her foreign secretary. Balfour had said little. He also seemed uncomfortable at the force with which his colleague propounded his argument. He’d winced noticeably more than once. “Are these your views, too?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” he answered, after a slight hesitation. “They are. I believe if the party is to have a chance at the next elections, we must take this step.” He coughed, and added, “I also believe that it would be the best thing for England.”

  “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen.” Susannah pushed back her chair. “I am the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland—servant of the peoples of our united realm. I was elected as such, and such I will remain. If it means electoral defeat, then so be it.”

  Noel Malcolm’s face flushed red and he grunted as if the breath had been knocked out of him. He opened his mouth to say something, then, catching Balfour’s eye, he closed it and stood, buttoning his coat over the bulk of his stomach. “I’ll say no more then, Prime Minister,” he growled.

  “Thank you, Malcolm. And you, too, Foreign Secretary. It’s always good to hear your views. I’ll bid you both good night.”

  Bebe’s Master waited his chance, then, as they were leaving Number 10, he clasped her hand, palming her the metal vial. “No choice now,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. “You know what to do.”

  She did know what to do. Her heart was jackhammering with excitement, both at the thought of the deed she was about to perform, and the reward she would receive from her Master. Aroused, she closed her eyes. She pictured the cellar beneath her Master’s house. His dungeon, he called it. When he’d first shown it to her she’d nearly swooned with pleasure. The rough stone walls. The iron rack. The chains that hung from the ceiling, and the walls. The whips. She put a hand beneath her skirt, between her thighs, remembering.

  Sometime later, Bebe shuddered and opened her eyes. She drew a deep breath. Standing, she picked up the metal vial and walked up the staircase to the prime minister’s apartment on the top floor of Number 10. She stood outside the door and checked her reflection in the mirror. Her sallow skin glowed with vitality. She wasn’t beautiful, like Ayesha Ryder, but men seemed to want her. She pictured Longo, Noel Malcolm’s bodyguard and hatchet man. The big Italian ex-soldier was just her type: tall, powerfully built, and mean as hell. The baldness was a plus. She fingered the slim black leather collar that her Master had placed around her neck. As long as she wore it she couldn’t give herself to another. Unless he permitted it. She imagined Longo taking her from behind while her Master looked on. Perhaps that…could be her reward.

  “Bebe.” Susannah Armstrong spoke from the sitting roo
m chesterfield where she sat, legs folded under her, dressed in blue jeans and gray sweatshirt, surrounded by official boxes. She looked so young, so desirable. Bebe was going to miss possessing her beautiful body. Being possessed by her. That, her Master had permitted. In fact he had ordered it.

  “Anything interesting?” Susannah put down the briefing paper she’d been reading.

  “Not really, Prime Minister. Chinese naval maneuvers off the Reed Bank. The usual saber rattling in response by the U.S. and the Filipinos. Another meltdown in Iraq. Crisis in Egypt.” She looked into Susannah’s eyes. Then she undid her top button.

  Susannah Armstrong shook her head. “Not tonight, Bebe. I’ve simply got to get through these papers….What about the home front?”

  Bebe suppressed a sigh of relief. Her Master’s plan didn’t call for sex with the prime minister tonight, but if she hadn’t made the offer Susannah would have wondered what was wrong. “Noel Malcolm is pissed with you.”

  “That was obvious.”

  “Not just about his England-first plan. Something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “You forgot his birthday.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “He said you didn’t send him anything.”

  “Your point being?”

  “I see.” Bebe smiled. “Can I get you something to drink, Prime Minister?” It was part of their nightly ritual. She would visit Susannah at her usual bedtime, tell her any news of interest, and fetch her a drink. Unless she was in the mood for sex. Sometimes it was hot milk, sometimes whiskey or brandy, sometimes Diet Coke, or just cold water.