by Mark Burnell
She looked up from the paper at Serra. ‘A suicide?’
‘I know. It’s impossible to believe.’
‘Except that this woman saw him.’
‘She saw something but it wasn’t suicide. Mirqas wouldn’t have killed himself. It is expressly forbidden in the Qur’an.’
‘What about suicide-bombers?’
‘There is a distinction between those who die in the name of Allah and those who just elect to die.’
Serra lit a cigarette and stood up, arching his back. He ambled over to the window, parted the net curtains and gazed at the damp street below.
‘What happens now?’ Petra asked.
‘Nothing and everything. It’s too late for me to alter the plans that have been set in motion. They have a momentum of their own. As for me, I’ll just have to wait.’
‘Then why are you here?’
He looked back at her from across the room. ‘Because you are the only part of the plan that can change. The hijack will go ahead with or without you. I’m here to discover what you intend to do.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
He shrugged. ‘The plan can succeed without a sleeper. But there are still two reasons for you to go: to ensure the aircraft is destroyed and to meet Khalil in Malta. What I need to know is whether what happened yesterday has changed your mind about tomorrow.’
He was watching her, trying to read the answer in her eyes before he heard it from her mouth. Petra sensed the magnitude of the moment. Supposing she conceded to doubt, what would the consequences be?
‘No,’ she said. She thought she saw the smallest wince, a flicker of sadness in the eyes. Or maybe she’d just imagined it. ‘What are you thinking?’
Serra wandered over from the window to the table and began to examine the sandwiches on the tray. ‘I’m thinking about Mirqas. About what happened to him.’
‘You think he was killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘By?’
Serra turned round to face her. ‘I don’t know.’
* * *
This is what Serra says to me but it isn’t what he’s thinking. I see the truthful answer in his eyes, which meet mine and then look away almost immediately. He believes I killed Mirqas.
We talk some more before Serra says he wants to make love to me. It is only in this moment that I really understand the type of man that Serra is. He is no different to the men who used to pay to have sex with me in Brewer Street and I know what is happening as we go through to the bedroom.
I scan the room quickly; a large double bed, two bedside tables made of oak, a dressing table with a large gilded mirror on it, a tall mahogany wardrobe with a matching chest of drawers. I wonder where the threat will come from.
Serra asks me to strip in front of him. Of course. He wants to know that I am unarmed. There is always the possibility that I am wrong so I am compelled to continue this act, this long and painful performance. I shed my clothes slowly for him. Does he really imagine that I am unarmed when I am naked?
On the bed, he wants it all and I give everything, consoled by the fact that whatever happens, this will be the last time that I have to have sex with Marc Serra. I vow to myself he is the last man I shall ever trade for. He presses his fingers inside me, he sucks me and I suck him, and eventually he enters me with his customary lack of finesse. When I am flat on my back his whole body presses down on me, pinning me to the mattress. His fingers dig into the hard muscles of my thighs. He means to leave bruises. When I sit astride him, he holds me tightly around the waist so that he can pull me down as he thrusts up. And when he persuades me to move on to all fours—his favourite position by far; he likes to press my face down into the pillows—I become nervous because I can no longer see him. I rotate slightly, so that my head is nowhere near the pillows and so that I can catch a partial glimpse of him in the mirror on the dressing table. I resist his attempts to push my head down into the crumpled sheets. Eventually, he gives up as he becomes increasingly selfish, his grip tightening around my hips, his movement growing deeper and quicker until, finally, he comes with a shudder and groan. He sounds like he’s been winded.
We lie next to one another, not speaking. I think of Falstone and the house in which I was raised. I can see the view now, the fields of rough wind-worn grass falling away from me, the hawthorn trees on the hill that grow with their branches bent to the east courtesy of the continual winds from the west. I see Anne Mitchell in her high-rise block in Chalk Farm. She cries when she’s by herself because of her husband’s infidelity, because of the life in which she’s trapped. She once told me that she wanted to be a flight attendant so that she could see the world. All she sees now is Telecom Tower in the murky distance. I remember my first kiss, a tentative experience that left me queasy. I see a black-and-white picture of my parents. They’re standing on top of the Matterhorn. The photo used to sit on a heavy stone mantelpiece in the kitchen, above the stove. Then I think of Anne again and of the disappointment that her life has become. I try not to draw parallels for fear of coming off worse.
‘I’m hungry,’ Serra says. ‘Do you want one of the sandwiches?’
I make a sound that is neither yes nor no. Serra rises from the bed and pulls on one of the thick, white towelling dressing-gowns that the hotel provides for its guests. He leaves the room. I stay still. He returns carrying the silver tray. I feel tense but hope that I still look relaxed. He sets the tray on the bed beside me. This may be the moment. But it isn’t. He walks over to the dresser and takes a cigarette from the pack that lies on top of it. He lights it and takes a long appreciative drag from it.
He starts to stroll back towards me. I begin to think that I might have been wrong.
‘We should start to consider the future,’ he tells me. ‘What we should do after you and Khalil…’
The knife appears to come out of nowhere. I have to admit, he’s craftier than I thought. It’s a switch-blade and seems to slip down his sleeve and into his right hand as an extension of the movement which propels him towards me. The cigarette discarded, Serra is lunging. The rapidity of my reaction is caught in his expression; a photo-flash of surprise. I am quick, but not quick enough. The blade slices through my left biceps. It is so sharp, I barely feel the initial contact.
I continue my roll and slither out from beneath the bulk of his body. Already, I am trailing scarlet across the white cotton sheets. Serra is rising from the bed but I am on my feet. I want to unleash an early strike but he knows this and the tip of the blade is already pointing at me. He steadies himself and we have a stand-off.
I see fear in his eyes. He knows about me. My reputation scares him. He might have the weapon but he realizes that he doesn’t have the speed. He knows—we both know—that if he doesn’t make his next move count, he will have lost all the advantage he ever had.
He tries a feint. A duck to the left and a surge to the right. It is a manoeuvre I know well. When he goes to his left, I should go to mine to avoid him, but I don’t. I go to my right and stay there. He is already committed to the thrust and, as he moves forward, I slip further right, spinning away from him. All this happens in a second. Now, he is off-balance and I am already preying on his weakness. He tries to correct the stumble and to turn left in the same instant. It’s a mistake. He needed to distance himself from me first. I spin on my left foot. My right foot is carving a broad and perfect arc through the air. Then it clatters into the side of his face, jarring the jawbone. A tremor runs through his entire body. The blow leaves him momentarily dazed but he doesn’t fall and he still clutches the switch-blade. Nevertheless, he is stunned and this brief moment of confusion is critical. I spin round again and, this time, I unleash a strike to the throat with a clenched fist.
* * *
Petra rinsed the cut with cold water, the blood reappearing from the fine line across her biceps as soon as it had been wiped clean. By the sink, there were several strips of the cotton sheet that she had torn apart. She wrapped
one of them around the wound, making sure it was tight.
Back in the bedroom, Serra was alert and was struggling against his bindings. Petra had placed him in a chair and tied his hands behind it with a leather belt. She was confident that he would be unable to loosen it. But even if he did, each leg was bound to a chair-leg by torn sheets. They were not the strongest shackles but they were quite sufficient. At the very least, they would buy time and that was all Petra needed; they both knew his struggle was more symbolic than practical.
She pulled on her underwear and the plain white T-shirt that she had been wearing beneath her sweatshirt. The cotton binding around her biceps protruded from below the truncated sleeve. A scarlet smudge was beginning to form on it.
‘You should have killed me as soon as you had the chance.’
‘I know,’ Serra said, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper that was almost as painful to listen to as it was to produce.
‘Did you know it was me before I even arrived?’
Serra shook his head.
‘But you suspected…’
He nodded.
‘And then, being the man that you are, you thought you could have it all. How typical. I’ve known men like you before. Too many, too often.’ Petra’s anger was coloured by disappointment. ‘If you’d been half the man you think you are, I’d be dead by now. But people like you, once you get a sniff of it, you can’t help yourself. You’re like a dog. Or a junkie. You knew this would be your last opportunity—I expect you knew I was going to die—so you thought you’d enjoy yourself one more time. One for the road, you might say. Hence the hotel. I mean, there’s no need for you to be in London tonight, is there?’
Serra’s silence was all the answer she needed.
‘Sex,’ sighed Petra. ‘It’s undone more men than anything else.’
It never ceased to amaze her how the bright could be so dim, how the strong could be so weak.
‘How did you know?’ she asked him.
‘It wasn’t just one thing. It was several.’
‘Like?’
‘It didn’t make sense—Mirqas and some London criminal.’
‘Mirqas was a criminal himself. In this city.’ When Serra frowned at this assertion, Petra said, ‘He murdered a journalist here last year.’
Serra said, ‘Mirqas didn’t speak English.’
‘What?’
A fragile flame of victory flickered in Serra’s eyes. ‘He only spoke Arabic and French.’
Petra was about to refute it but then stopped. She tried to remember Mirqas talking and found she couldn’t. She’d never heard him. Not once. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘So unless this London criminal was fluent in French or Arabic…’
‘Is that it?’ Petra snapped. ‘Or was there something else?’
‘No. There was also LV241.’
‘What about it?’
‘It doesn’t exist.’ Of course. That made sense. A morsel of information tossed to her as bait. She guessed what was coming next. ‘I have paid sources who provide me with information. Like if there’s anybody making enquiries about a new camp called LV241 operating in Libya. There was somebody who was interested in it, but nobody knew who it was.’
‘It could’ve been me.’
‘Possibly. But I didn’t believe that.’
‘Why not?’
Serra shrugged a little. ‘Intuition.’
‘Intuition’s a gift. You should have used it more. What else?’
‘Your decision to proceed.’
‘What about it?’
‘It doesn’t make sense. Not for someone like you. To be honest, I was suspicious as soon as you accepted the role of sleeper.’
‘Why did you offer it to me, then? Simply as a test?’
‘No. Because Kamal Ibrahim Karim insisted upon it. And he is the one with the money. He has always insisted upon you. As soon as I informed him that I had made contact with you, he was determined that you should work on his behalf, no matter what the cost.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of your reputation.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘To me, his behaviour was more like an adolescent crush.’
‘What about Khalil? What does he think?’
‘Karim is the one with the money.’
‘I know. But what about Khalil?’
A weary smile spread slowly across his face. ‘That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?’
Petra said nothing.
‘That is the reason you accepted the role of sleeper in the first place. A woman like you—the great Petra Reuter—acting as a sleeper with only the promise of a rendezvous at the end? No. Not unless there was an agenda. And for someone like you—a terrorist turned highly-paid assassin—what other agenda could there realistically be?’
‘If that’s what you thought, why didn’t you warn Khalil? Or Karim? Why risk involving me at all?’
‘Firstly, because there is no risk. The hijack will succeed. You cannot prevent it. Secondly, because I have no personal interest in this business. Clients come and go. It doesn’t matter to me who they are, just that they pay me.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘And I don’t care what you believe.’ Serra coughed and each contraction of his bruised throat expressed itself in his face. There were tears in his eyes. He swallowed gingerly before speaking again. ‘It is now clear to me that your interest was in Khalil right from the start and not in the money that he was offering you. I expect somebody else is paying you even more to terminate him. I imagine Giler was merely a sacrificial pawn. A pawn worth a million dollars to you, for sure, but a pawn nevertheless. How much are you getting for Khalil? Two million dollars? Five? Ten? I believe the American government has let it be known that they’ll pay up to five for Khalil.’
‘As you say, clients come and go. It doesn’t matter to me who they are, just that they pay me.’ Petra picked up the switch-blade from the bed. ‘And if you have no personal interest in this business, you might as well tell me where I can find Khalil.’
Serra’s half-smile persisted. ‘I thought so.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’ll tell me sooner or later.’
‘I may tell you something but it won’t be where you can find Khalil. Or what he looks like. Or who knows him. Or anything about him. And do you want to know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because Khalil doesn’t exist. He’s not real. He is—how would you say it?—a flag of convenience. A ghost, a legend without substance.’
* * *
Had she been someone else—anyone else—Petra supposed she would have dismissed Serra’s answer with contempt. But she was the one person who could not do that. She stared at Serra and he realized that there was more to her reaction than simple incredulity.
‘What about the Sons of Sabah? Are they ghosts too?’
The name sent a jolt through Serra and his response was too feeble and too slow. ‘Who?’
‘The Sons of Sabah, Marc. The ones who are going to hijack fight BA283. Are they ghosts?’
‘Who are you? BKA?’
‘Come on.’
‘CIA? Mossad?’
‘What does it matter? We know about the Sons of Sabah.’
‘You know nothing.’
‘You’re forgetting that I’ve seen them.’
‘You’ve seen some of them. That’s all.’
Petra was dismissive. ‘Right.’
‘Do you think I would have let you near the hijack if that’s all there was?’
‘I’m wondering why you let me near it at all.’
‘Because I had to have something to offer you. Something legitimate.’
‘Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer?’
‘Something like that.’
The coldness spread through her. ‘I’m not buying this.’
Petra saw panic forming when Serra said, �
�Whether BA283 leaves the ground or not, the Sons of Sabah will not be denied. You can’t stop them. I can’t stop them.’
‘So why the hijack?’
‘To create an impression.’
‘What impression?’
‘You’ll see.’
Petra held the switch-blade in her right hand and began to tap the tip on the edge of the silver tray. Serra’s eyes were glued to the steel, not to her. She said, ‘Are the Sons of Sabah a creation of Karim’s?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘To me? Yes.’
‘Yes, they are.’
‘And this hijack—is that also his idea?’
‘He paid me to organize it but the concept was his.’
‘And was it his idea to place a bomb on board North Eastern flight NE027?’
For Serra, the question came out of nowhere. He stopped looking at the blade and turned to Petra. ‘What?’
She repeated the question for him. ‘Was it his idea?’
Serra was trying to calculate where this line of questioning was leading. The anxiety on his face told Petra what he tried to avoid saying directly. ‘It was … something different.’
‘Was Karim behind it?’
‘Yes, he was.’
A sharp pain ran through her. Sadness quickly followed by anger, then exhaustion. The circle was complete. She wished Proctor was at her side to hear the answers. She said, ‘And the man who carried it out was Basit. Am I right?’
Each question was a secret exposed and with each revelation, Petra watched a man whose world was collapsing. He struggled pathetically against the leather belt. ‘Who are you?’
‘Do you remember how you once told me that you thought Khalil and I were similar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well you were right.’
‘What?’
‘Except that we’re not similar. We’re the same.’
Serra was sweating. ‘I don’t understand.’
