by Shaun Hutson
One of the three chefs who cooked for Sheikh Karim El Roustam was aware of his gaze but acknowledged it with only an indifferent glance.
'Mind your fingers,' said Doyle quietly.
The man looked at him again and returned to chopping shallots.
Doyle wandered out of the kitchen and 'towards one of the sumptuous reception rooms on the first floor. It smelt of air freshener and polish. The whole house smelt the same. As if the moment anyone touched anything, one of the hordes of cleaners descended to remove any trace of human contact.
He stood looking at one of the paintings that hung above the ornate marble fireplace then crossed to the window that looked out over Upper Brook Street.
Down below Joe Hendry was running a doth over the windscreen of the Daimler, wiping away some of the rain that had fallen during the night, ensuring that he didn't get his navy suit wet.
Hendry was thirty-seven. A tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped dark hair and bags beneath his eyes.
Over the years Doyle had convinced himself that he could perceive a person's character within thirty seconds of meeting them. Instinct, he maintained, was as important as his ability with weapons.Those instincts had rarely been wrong.
With men he looked for the strength of their handshakes. Whether they held his gaze when they spoke to him.
Hendry had met both these criteria. He also had a good sense of humour and, another plus in Doyle's book, he didn't talk too much.
'Nothing better to do?'
The voice caused him to turn.
Melissa Blake was standing in the doorway of the reception room dressed in another of the dark suits she seemed to favour.
'Sorry, was I neglecting my newly found duties?' Doyle asked.
'Prince Hassim is ready for school,' Mel smiled.
Doyle nodded and followed her down the stairs to the hall where the boy stood obediently, flanked by two servants. Both were big men with swarthy features. One, Doyle noticed, had a deep scar on his left cheek.
The boy was dressed in his dark-blue school uniform, a brown leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He eyed Doyle as he descended the stairs then made his way outside.
'Set?' said Doyle, glancing up and down the street.
Hendry nodded and slid behind the steering wheel of the Daimler.
Doyle motioned towards the two servants and they walked out on either side of the boy who walked towards the rear door of the vehicle then stood still.
'Open the door,' he said, looking up at Doyle.
His accent was faultless. It should be, Doyle reasoned, it was an eight grand a term accent.
The former counter terrorist looked down at the boy.
I said, open the door,' Hassim repeated. 'Now, you fool.'
Doyle clenched his teeth and did as he was instructed.
The boy smiled and climbed in.
Little shit Eleven years old. Want to see twelve, you little bastard?
Doyle clambered into the passenger seat while the two servants arranged themselves in the back of the Daimler, one on either side of Hassim.
'Let's go,' said Doyle.
The Daimler moved out into the traffic.
The trip to Beauchamp Place took less than twenty minutes.
Hendry brought the Daimler to a halt ten or twelve yards from the main gate of the school and looked in the rear-view mirror at Hassim and the two servants. One of them, the man with the scar, made to scramble out of the vehicle but Hassim held up a hand.
'No,' he said. 'Let him do it.' He jabbed a finger into Doyle's back.'Open the door for me,' the boy insisted.
The knot of muscles at the side of Doyle's jaw throbbed furiously but he swung himself out of the car and opened the rear door.
The boy slid out and, once more, looked up at Doyle with that supercilious grin on his face. He waited a moment longer then walked towards the gate of the school where several other children of all races and nationalities were gathered in front of a matronly looking teacher. ,
Doyle could see other cars parked around the entrance. Rollers. Jags. Land Rovers.
None of these little fuckers had to worry about waiting for buses, he mused.
He climbed back into the car and exhaled deeply. 'Fucking kid,' he murmured under his breath.
'Fancy a coffee?' said Hendry, barely able to suppress a smile.
I was hoping for something stronger,' Doyle said, through clenched teeth.
'We go back now,' said one of the servants from the back seat.
'No,' said Doyle. 'Old English tradition. Bodyguards drink coffee. You sit in the car.'
Doyle shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Hendry chuckled.
BLOCK
Four lousy pages. Ward looked at his watch. It had taken him three hours to write four pages.
Why not the outpouring of the previous night? Why not thirty pages?
He sat back and gazed at what he'd written.
A thought came unwanted into his mind. He was working on a book that no one wanted. Slaving over words that nobody would read. What was the point?
He placed both elbows on the desk and sat staring at the paper before him.
A book no one wanted to publish. The words hit him like fists. The realisation was as painful as a kick in the ribs.
He stood up and stepped away from the desk, leaving the keyboard and monitor switched on. It was 4.17 p.m.
A GATHERING STORM
The first rumble of thunder was so loud it woke Ward. He rolled over in bed and opened his eyes, looking towards the window in time to see the sky illuminated by the cold, white glow of a lightning flash.
It was followed immediately by another. A great fork that rent the clouds and stabbed towards the earth like a highly charged spear.
The thunder came again. A volley of cannon fire across the landscape.
He sat up, watching the celestial fireworks with the fascination of a child.
It had been a humid, unsettled day but there had been no hint of the ferocity of the storm that was now raging. Rain hammered against the window so hard it threatened to crack the glass.
For long moments Ward lay on his back staring at the ceiling, then he finally swung himself out of bed and crossed to the window.
He looked out at the storm, stunned by its power. The lightning was tearing across the sky with ferocious regularity, illuminating everything by cold, white light.
Ward saw something moving at the bottom of his garden. A dark shape. A large, four-legged shape that
carried all its weight on its front two limbs. He blinked. The shape was still there. Then he saw another close by. A third near the door of the office.
Cats? Dogs? Too big for either. Just like the other night.
Was this a dream? Some bizarre hallucination?
The .shapes were moving. They darted about the garden with almost obscene grace, moving effortlessly.
Ward swallowed hard.
The lightning stopped. The garden was plunged into darkness once more. He cursed under his breath, wanting the light. Wanting to see those three shapes once more.
There was another flash of lightning. In the momentary glare, Ward saw them again. They had gathered together close to the door of the office.
He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face close to the glass. Through the blackness he could see six yellowish points of light. Their eyes?
They were motionless now. Ward felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he realised they were looking at him.
The lightning flashed again quickly, like a manic strobe, then faded. The darkness returned.
He continued peering in the direction of the office.
More lightning. No shapes. No strange visions. Only darkness and driving rain. Thunder rumbled menacingly.
Ward moved back from the window and sat on the edge of the bed. He glanced down at his clothes, wondering whether he should pull on the jogging bottoms and sweatshirt and venture out to the garde
n. See if he was indeed losing his mind.
There could be little other explanation for what he had seen. He was going mad. End of story.
He smiled to himself, shook his head and climbed back between the sheets.
The storm continued to rage. It was still roaring an-hour later when he drifted off to sleep.
WARNINGS
It was still dark when he woke. He felt something wet running down his face and sat up, wiping it away. His hair was drenched. So were his sheets. The dream must have been bad. The bed was sodden.
He held out one hand and saw that it too was sheathed with moisture. It was also shaking.
As he swung himself out of bed he stepped on his clothes. Both his jogging bottoms and his sweatshirt were soaking wet. As if he'd been standing, uncovered, in pouring rain.
The cafe in Sloane Street had only been open half an hour. Doyle went inside and ordered two coffees while Hendry parked the Daimler then followed him in.
The driver was constantly looking out at the vehicle. Doyle sat across from him, facing the door. He sipped his coffee and took a bite from his croissant.
'Haven't they got any sandwiches?' he said, looking disapprovingly at the pastry.
They're not cut yet,' Hendry said.
'Waiting for the fucking organic baker to arrive, are they?'
Hendry smiled then looked, once again, at the Daimler.
'Nobody's going to nick it, Joe,' Doyle said smiling. 'Not with those two twats in it.' He nodded in the direction of the servants who gazed out agitatedly from the back seat.
Hendry nodded and smiled. 'I suppose you're right,' he said.
'Anyway, even if they did, the Sheikh could run to a new one, couldn't he?' He lifted his coffee cup in salute. 'Cheers.'
Hendry chuckled and imitated the gesture.
They sat in silence for a moment then the driver spoke. 'Force of habit, is it?'
Doyle looked puzzled.
'Sitting facing the door?' Hendry elaborated.
'You could say that. Old habits die hard.'
'Why did you leave the CTU?'
'I didn't volunteer, I was invited. Didn't you know?'
'No one said anything to me but then, why should they? It's none of my business.'
'Does Mel know I was thrown out?'
'if she does she hasn't said.'
'What's the SP with her? Married? Boyfriend? You and her?'
Hendry grinned. 'Not a chance,' he said. 'We've worked together before but that's it. I don't know much about her background, except what she's told me, but I do know she's not attached. Why? You interested?'
'just asking. I'm curious by nature.'
'Another old habit?'
Doyle sipped his coffee and nodded.'So what about you?' he asked.'How did you get into this line of work?'
'I've always been in the security game. Music business mostly. I used to look after AC/DC, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden.'
'My kind of music'
'And George Michael.'
'Not much fucking difference,' Doyle snorted.'What made you give it up?'
'I got sick of the travelling. Three hundred days a year on the road, it wears you down after a bit. It's great when you're a kid starting out but after a while
it gets on your tits. It got me used to dealing with egos though. I had a spell as a chauffeur too.'
'Married?'
'No. What about you?'
Doyle shook his head. 'It's not for me,' he said.
'I'd like to get married and have kids one day. Run my own business, like Cartwright does.'
'He seems a decent enough guy.'
'He is. It's a good firm to work for. You were lucky he took you on.'
'I didn't feel very lucky this morning. That fucking kid ...' He allowed the sentence to trail off.
'He's testing you. He did it to me when we first started working for the Sheikh. Little bastard took off a five-grand Rolex, dropped it in a dustbin and said I could have it if I fished it out of the rubbish.'
'What did you do?'
'I told him I already had a watch.'
Doyle smiled.
'He knows he's got the power and he likes to use it,' Hendry continued. He looked at his watch. 'We'd better make a move,' he said.
'Fuck it, let's have another coffee.'
'Didn't Mel tell you? We've got another job this morning. The Sheikh's wife wants to go shopping at Harrods. If we're lucky we get to carry her bags.'
'Jesus Christ,' Doyle sighed.
'Come on, it could be worse,' said Hendry getting to his feet.
'How could it be worse?' Doyle called after him.
The driver was already outside.
BELFAST:
Declan Leary took a final drag on his cigarette and looked again at the building before him.
Number 134 Tennent Street was one of the three RUC stations in the city that housed members of the law enforcement agency's 'D' Division. The divisional headquarters was in the Antrim Road. Another sub-divisional station, like this one in Tennent Street, was located in Antrim itself, close to the banks of Lough Neagh.
A, B and E Divisions were served by divisional headquarters in Musgrave Street, Grosvenor Road and Strandtown. Each of those also had at least two sub-divisional headquarters buildings.
Like anyone fucking cares.
Leary ground out the cigarette beneath his foot and walked up the ramp that led into the main reception area of the building.
He had mixed feelings. Part of him felt uneasy. He knew he was taking a risk (albeit a necessary one) but he also felt a pleasurable frisson from the knowledge that he was in the very jaws of his enemies and, as far
as he knew, none of the uniformed men moving officiously around the building were aware of who he was.
Were they?
He moved towards the counter and nodded affably at the duty sergeant busily scribbling on a sheet of paper.
'Morning,' said Leary.
'Good morning, sir,' replied the sergeant. 'If you can just give me a minute, I'll be with you.'
Leary nodded and continued glancing around him.
'Right,' said the sergeant finally. 'What can I do for you, sir?'
'I want to report a stolen car,' Leary lied.
The sergeant sighed and rummaged around for the necessary forms. One of which he handed to Leary.
'If you could fill that out please, sir.'
'Is that it? Fill a form in and hope for the best?'
'Sir, there were over three hundred instances of car theft reported at this police station alone last year. If you multiply that by the number of other stations in the city, you're looking at over five thousand vehicles a year.'
'So you're telling me I'm not going to get my car back?'
'I'd be lying if I said it was likely, sir.'
'Could you not run it through your computer or something? It was only taken last night.'
'Sir—'
'If I give you the details, can't you just have a look? There were needles and insulin and Christ knows what else in there. You know, for medical use.'
He looked hopefully at the sergeant.
'Well, that does make it a slightly different matter,
sir. Could I have the make and registration number of the car, please.'
Leary gave them to him. Even down to the colour.
The sergeant's fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. He hit the return key and glanced at the screen.
'And your name, sir?'
'Dermot Mallen,' Leary lied.
The sergeant frowned. 'The car you've described is registered to a Mr Ivor Best. Not Dermot Mallen.'The uniformed man regarded him with narrowed eyes.
'I know,' Leary said unfazed.'He's my brother-in-law. That's why I need to get the car back as quickly as possible. He leant me the bloody thing. He'll be after going crazy when he finds out it's been stolen.'
'Who's the diabetic? Yourself or your brother-in-law?'
'What difference does it make?'
'You said the car was full of syringes. They could be taken and used for drugs and—'
Leary cut him short.'Oh, right, sure. It's my brother-in-law. He keeps them in the glove compartment. In case of emergency.'
'You'll have to fill out the form, sir,' the sergeant said, preparing to press the delete key.
'Have you got a pen there?' Leary asked.
The sergeant nodded and ducked down.
As he did, Leary looked at the screen. There was no address listed beneath the name.
Shit.
The sergeant re-emerged from beneath the counter and handed Leary a Bic.
'Actually, I'll take this form home and fill it in,' Leary said as the details disappeared from the screen. Thanks all the same.'
The sergeant nodded.
Leary turned and headed towards the exit. When he got out on to the street he balled up the form and threw it to the ground. He reached for his cigarettes and lit one.
'Ivor Best,' he said under his breath. 'Time you and I had a chat.'
He turned and headed off down the street.
Declan Leary looked at his watch and ducked back into the phone box.
Five minutes to eight.
The light inside the box was broken, making it difficult to see the features of anyone inside. That suited Leary.
He'd been there for the last ten minutes, the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder so as not to look suspicious to anyone walking past.
Leary watched the corner of the street, waiting for the arrival of the car he was sure would come.
After leaving the police station earlier that day, he'd spent some time in the library scouring the Belfast phone book for Ivor Best. He hadn't been surprised to find that there were over three hundred entries under that name. Leary had eventually given it up as a bad job. If Best wanted to talk to him then he'd turn up on the street corner as promised.
Why hunt your prey when it was willing to come to you?
If, indeed, Best was one of the men he sought. Whatever happened, he intended to find out.
He slid his hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing against the flick knife. Beneath his left arm,
tucked snugly into a shoulder holster, was the Clock 17 automatic. The pliers were in his other pocket.
Leary chewed on a matchstick, his eyes ever alert for signs of movement.
When he finally saw the car he remained motionless.
