Darkness Visible (Michael Devlin Thriller Book 2)

by Thomas Waugh

  Devlin realised how much he missed laughing. Laughter was like a song, which he couldn’t quite remember the tune to anymore. But he could remember Holly’s laugh, sometimes reverberating like a love song but sometimes like a dirge. When she laughed, she did so with her body and soul. The sound was unaffected and infectious. She would bend over, sometimes even holding her aching belly. Tears would glisten in her joyful eyes. She loved sarcasm and silliness equally. Her laugh made him laugh. Her smile made him smile. But now Devlin felt devoid of the strength to raise both corners of his mouth that high again. The closest he came was when Violet jumped up at him after spending the day away from home.

  Devlin hacked his way through his melancholy and came to the memory of when he had proposed. Holly had laughed – and cried – simultaneously. Her first reaction was to briefly close and open her eyes – in disbelief. Or at having her faith rewarded.

  “You make me so happy. I love you so much.”

  Emma had never said those words to him. Because she didn’t feel that way – or he hadn’t given her cause to.

  Like a dream mutating into a nightmare however the image of Holly accepting his proposal eventually turned into the sight of her in the hospital, after the hit and run. Her sweet face was swollen, unrecognisable. Tubes enveloped her, like briars. Monitors beeped, dolefully. The smell of bleach – and her perfume – filled his nostrils. Devlin sat by Holly’s bedside, as she bled internally. He screwed up his face – and pressed his hands together in prayer – until they hurt. He hurt with a hurt that was more than a hurt.

  Devlin opened his eyes and the headstone, with its death date, loomed large. He wanted to kill Jamal. He wanted to kill the driver too, after all these years, even if it was a woman or priest. The afternoon sun disappeared behind a cloud and the temperature dropped. The breeze chilled the sweat on his skin. He wanted God to cut the pain out of him. But no. His grief was real. Grief equated to love. A life without despair somehow seemed fraudulent. An ersatz life.

  13.

  When Devlin returned to the apartment he went online and booked two first class tickets to Paris on the Eurostar. He also made a reservation at Astrance, just off the Rue de Passy. As well as wanting to do something nice for Emma, Devlin had experienced a change of heart, in regards to arranging the romantic break, as it would prove wise to be out of the country. Whilst away Porter would be able gauge if they had identified him as a suspect.

  Emma beamed enough for them both when Devlin told her about the Eurostar tickets and restaurant reservation. Her heart skipped a beat as she momentarily fancied that he might be planning to propose over the romantic dinner. Her sweet semblance was a picture of gratitude and anticipation.

  “I’m popping over to Samantha’s this evening to pick up the keys to the flat. Are you still heading out to dinner?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be out quite late, so don’t wait up.”

  “Have fun. But not too much fun. You’re going to need to save your strength for Paris,” Emma said, humorously and suggestively. She wondered if she had time in her schedule to buy new lingerie.

  Devlin was determined to play the doting boyfriend for the weekend. He wanted Emma to have a good time. She deserved it. But when they got back he would have to plan-out, as thoughtfully as a hit, how to end things. He couldn’t give Emma what she wanted. He no longer window shopped for engagement rings.

  If he didn’t propose or discuss their future then Emma was determined to broach the subject, either on their last night in Paris or as soon as they got back to London. She intended to tell him that she wanted to have a child. If Devlin wanted a baby too then it would mean they would get married. Neither had lapsed that much as a Catholic. If he said that he didn’t want to have a child, or get married, then Emma would at least know how he felt. And that they didn’t have a real future together.

  *

  A watched pot never boils but still Birch sat in his wheelchair by his kitchen table, glaring at his phone. Waiting for a message from Devlin. He wanted to know that things were still going ahead for tonight. He also wanted to be ready should Devlin send word that he couldn’t proceed.

  The wooden, uneven table was marked with cigarette burns and coffee stains. A half drunken bottle of beer and crunched-up empty can of Guinness flanked his phone and far from empty ashtray. The ceiling and his fingertips were the same shade of yellow. A bin, overflowing with takeaway and ready meal containers, stood in front of a damp patch, which resembled the shape of Italy. The dying light eked through browning net curtains.

  Birch was tempted to travel to Green Park. When the police arrived, he would, like others, congregate around the entrance to the hotel. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the Afghan’s corpse being wheeled out the door. But there was a chance that the police might question him. Or he could be caught on camera and, if the investigation team ran him through the system, they would discover a link to their victim. Hopefully a TV crew would reach the scene of the crime early and film things.

  Once Rameen was dead he would look to the future. He promised himself he would cut down on his drinking and get a job. There was a nearby veterans group he would sign-up to. He would also use some of the money Devlin had given him to smarten up his flat. He would buy new furniture and brighten things up with a lick of paint. He resolved to get his sense of humour back and not feel like a victim. With Rameen dead, Birch could begin to live again. He hoped that Devlin would feel equally good and free, after doing the deed.

  Birch shifted uneasily in his chair. He felt one of his pressure sores begin to bleed again. The sores, which could be easily contracted but difficult to eradicate, had formed due to Birch spending too much time, lying in one position, in bed.

  *

  Emma stood on tip-toe and gave Devlin a teasing kiss, before leaving to meet-up with Samantha. Devlin fed Violet, showered and got changed. He placed the Sig Sauer in its holster, the suppressor in his inside blazer pocket and the cap on his head.

  Night fell.

  He walked halfway down Tower Bridge Road before flagging down a black cab and driving to Oxford St. He popped into Selfridge’s, where he bought an expensive platinum necklace, with a sapphire pendant, for Emma, to give to her in Paris. At first, he was tempted to purchase a pair of diamond earrings for her, but thought better of it lest she mistook the box for containing an engagement ring. Once out of the store he slipped the slender box into his pocket, not wishing to be encumbered by any bag.

  Devlin strode down Regent St and dined alone at a restaurant in Chinatown. He ordered a pot of green tea after his meal and waited, patiently. He ran through again the different scenarios he would be faced with when he entered Rameen’s hotel suite. He also made a mental list of the artworks he wanted to see at the Louvre. And he fretted a little about leaving Violet with their neighbours for the weekend. She had been unsettled for several days afterwards when they returned from their previous holiday. At eleven fifteen Devlin received a coded message on a burner phone, from Mariner, confirming it was safe to proceed.

  It was nearly time.

  14.

  The curtains were closed but occasionally billowed out from the breeze. Plush, elegantly designed rugs lay upon the polished, parquet floor. An ice bucket, filled with an empty bottle of Cristal champagne, rested on a glass-topped table at the centre of the sitting room in the hotel suite. A French carriage clock, bronze statues of a muscular racehorse and a sinuous ballerina, a brass sextant and attractive porcelain vases sat on top of various pieces of finely crafted rosewood furniture positioned throughout the room.

  Rameen Jamal paced around and rubbed cocaine into his gums. He wore a chocolate brown silk shirt, half tucked in and out of a pair of black, leather trousers which he had recently bought the previous day at Harrod’s. He walked around barefoot. He liked the way his feet felt on the cold floor. It reminded him of being back home. His face was framed with a thin strip of beard running along his jaw and chin. His eyes were just as bloodshot as they had been duri
ng the attack in the village in Helmand. His hair was still similarly long and glossy. His teeth had been recently bleached. Rameen was slim and handsome. Narcissistic and vicious. A waspish British diplomat, not altogether inaccurately, had described the Afghan as being like a cross between George Michael and Dodi Fayed.

  Faisal Ahmadi blissfully ignored Rameen and sat, rigid, on a soft, floral patterned sofa, finishing off a coded email to a representative of one of his Saudi paymasters. He relayed that his meetings had been fruitful. Funds and instructions had been passed on to imams and other intermediaries, who were responsible for coordinating sleeper cells. Money had also been directed to pay the legal fees of certain terrorists and preachers the British government wanted to deport. Human rights lawyers don’t come cheap. But the faithless parasites were worth every penny, Ahmadi chuckled to himself (remaining sour-faced as he did so). The requisite lobbying groups had been paid too. Two Labour Party MPs, a Liberal Democrat peer and a Conservative junior minister were now unwittingly working for his Saudi employer, championing the cause of the primacy of Sharia law in a set of Midlands constituencies.

  Ahmadi possessed sharp features and an even sharper brain. He was willing to work with anyone who was useful, or paid well – Sunni or Shia. His agents in Helmand had provided intelligence for the Taliban to deploy against the British and vice-versa. The real enemy was the decadent and heretical West. And Jews. Ahmadi judged that one was either a son of Dost Muhammed or a son of Shah Shuja. One was either a servant of the West, or it’s enemy. Wickedness was justified, in the name of righteousness. Ahmadi had amassed a substantial personal fortune over the years but wealth was not his (sole) motivation. What mattered was the will of God, especially when it coincided with his own pecuniary interests. The diplomat wore a grey, Saville Row suit. The colour matched the tufts of hair on his temples. Hooded eyes were perched over a hawkish nose. A thin, cruel mouth was buried within a wiry beard which tapered into a blade-like point.

  Ahmadi signed-off on his report by writing that he hoped to send similar good news after his imminent trip to Washington. The Afghan was starting to miss his home and creature comforts in Kabul however. He missed reading and drinking coffee in his garden. He missed the company of his serving boys. Especially Temur, his new favourite. Ahmadi had liked Temur for his innocence at the beginning. But now - thanks to his master - the twelve-year-old knew how to pleasure him.

  He was keen to leave London behind. The city was a den of iniquity. Noisy. Smelly. Too many of the women were nothing but brazen whores. Allah would disapprove of their behaviour. Perhaps more importantly, Faisal Ahmadi disapproved of their behaviour. Children disrespected their elders. Nothing was sacred to the infidel. He sneered, internally, recalling how the British had included a Jew in their trade delegation, when they met. He suspected that his kaffir hosts had done so deliberately, to test or goad him. But Ahmadi swallowed his pride – and disgust – by grinning and shaking the hand of the filth. He pictured his grin as being in the shape of a scimitar however. The wily Afghan would have the last laugh.

  They underestimate me. Let them.

  When Ahmadi was a child he used to pray to Al Alim (God the All Knowing) and Al Qaabid (God the Restrainer). But now the erstwhile agent for Islamic State prayed to Al Hakam (God the Judge) and Al Muntaqim (God the Avenger).

  Basel Mourad, Ahmadi’s personal bodyguard, dutifully stood behind his employer. The former wrestling champion was square-headed, flat-faced and thick-lipped. A perpetual look of fierceness and disdain shaped his craggy features. The soldier left Karzai’s puppet army, after being witness to too many corrupt and dishonourable practises. He considered the British and Americans to be an occupying force. Unwanted guests. Ahmadi provided him with a home and cause. And Ahmadi also paid the ardent son of Dost Muhammed more in a month than he had earned in a year. After proving his loyalty, Mourad was allowed into the agent’s confidence. The bodyguard was often granted the privilege and pleasure of interrogating his master’s enemies.

  The second bodyguard in the room, charged with Rameen’s close protection, was Sadiq Tahir. His build was squat and muscular but his face was round and chubby. His dark eyes were glazed over, with tiredness, drink or drugs. Or all three. Tahir had grown-up within Hakim Jamal’s household. The two boys had prayed and studied together, from an early age. Sadiq loved Rameen like a brother – and not just because Rameen paid his wages and supplied him with drugs and women. He had acted as his friend’s protector, for as long as he could remember - and had served as Rameen’s driver and bodyguard since the days of his “rape parties” in Helmand.

  The football-loving Afghan was sprawled out on an armchair, watching Sky Sports (with the volume turned down, lest Ahmadi gave him the evil eye and instructed him to turn the television off). A pair of Bulgari sunglasses (Rameen’s cast offs) were on the table in front of him, as were several empty boxes of Macdonald’s food which he had sent out for. He stared, with glowing contentment, at the new gold watch on his wrist. It was a Rolex. A gift from his employer. Tahir enjoyed being in London, away from his frigid shrew of a wife. He felt he could get used to expensive hotel suites and equally expensive blonde, blue-eyed hookers – who would do things to him that his wife wouldn’t even dream of doing. The West wasn’t all that bad, Tahir thought to himself, as he poured himself another Jack Daniels and finished off the remaining fries.

  Both bodyguards wore black suits, their jackets covering up Glock pistols. Both bodyguards had tortured and killed before. Both bodyguards considered themselves “good Muslims.”

  “You work too hard, Faisal. Let’s celebrate. Have a drink. Allah will forgive you, this one time. The deal is all but signed,” Rameen remarked, his voice as smooth as caramel. “I don’t want to waste this high.”

  Ahmadi scowled, baring his sharp front teeth. Not only was he annoyed with the younger man for using the Prophet’s name in vain but he had warned Rameen countless times about being indiscrete, in regards to the deal (and other issues). He only suffered the cur out of deference and respect for his father. Hakim Jamal was a lion, wise and merciless. His son dishonoured his name.

  “Lower your voice. Or better still, keep quiet. Have you forgotten that we have a guest in the other room?” Ahmadi advised, making reference to the British close protection officer, who was taking a call in one of the bedrooms. Ahmadi was suspicious that the last-minute replacement to their security detail could be an agent of M15. A careless word could compromise their negotiating position. He briefed everyone each morning to keep their phones in their possession at all times. They should also act as if the suite had been bugged by the security services. He would bug the British if the roles were reversed. The keen student of history recalled a book he had recently read - about how Stalin had planted listening devices in the rooms of his allies, during the conference at Yalta. He had gained an advantage of knowing more about his enemies than they knew about him. Although a kaffir, Ahmadi couldn’t help but admire Stalin – as well as Lenin, Castro and Martin McGuinness. They were “good” kaffirs. They knew that sheep needed shepherds - and wolves.

  “For all your intellect, Faisal, you still need to learn how to enjoy yourself. I’ll celebrate for the both of us, if I have to. But live a little.”

  15.

  The Ritz. 111 rooms. 23 suites. Opened in 1906. A grand hotel. The décor was opulent and elegant – an amalgamation of neo-classical, art deco and Louis XVI design. The Ritz was the hotel of choice for statesmen, royalty, socialites and the stars. Noel Coward, Douglas Fairbanks and Charlie Chaplin had regularly dined or stayed at the hotel. Winston Churchill and Eisenhower had held operational meetings over lunch in its restaurant.

  Devlin walked through the gilded lobby, neither too hastily or too slowly. The thick carpet felt spongy beneath his feet, in stark contrast to the hard pavement he had been pounding most of the night. The assassin neither looked anyone directly in the eye nor overtly avoided anyone’s gaze. His heartbeat and breathing were regular, his
palms dry. He was just another guest, returning to his room after an evening out in London. The well-dressed, confident figure blended in and belonged.

  Just before they were married Devlin had taken Holly for afternoon tea at The Ritz. It had been criminally expensive – but worth it. Unfortunately, he was unable to spot Noel Coward in the restaurant. But Holly pointed out someone called Cat Deeley. The following week he had taken her to M.Manze, the pie mash shop in Tower Bridge Road. They enjoyed themselves at both venues. Holly, having come from a photoshoot, had been treated like a movie star at the latter. She turned heads. And the staff adored her all the more – thinking her sweet, funny and modest – after chatting to her.

  Polished marble, gilded bronze fixtures, mirrors, crystal chandeliers and mega-watt lamps gleamed throughout the lobby. Devlin squinted a little, his eyes aching from the light.

  Mobile phones rang constantly and were often succeeded by squealing, inane conversations in half a dozen languages. The air was soup-thick with costly perfumes and colognes. Several guests, often wearing gaudy pieces of jewellery, found it difficult to walk past a mirror without checking out their appearances. Hair was tousled, fringes swept away, skirts were smoothed and ties adjusted. Staff slalomed through the preening guests, wearing fixed, Formica smiles. Devlin fancied that he could be carrying his gun in his hand and people would still be too self-absorbed to notice.

  Devlin pretended to read a message on his phone as he stood back and allowed a group of Japanese tourists to enter the lift without him. Once alone he pressed the button to call the elevator with his knuckle, not wishing to leave a fingerprint. The devil is in the detail. The lift was empty as he travelled up to the fourth floor. Perhaps his prayers had been listened to and God was on his side. Before exiting the elevator, Devlin slipped on a pair of latex gloves.