Death Games

by Chris Simms

  CHAPTER 48

  Doku was like an automaton, a programme in his brain controlling all movement. Reduced to an observer, Elissa followed him into the boathouse where he surveyed the Rib. The tide was in. Lined up against the back wall was a row of plastic jerry cans. She could tell they were full by the way the boat rocked as he lifted them in. Then he climbed aboard and began to sort through the gear in the stowage area by the outboard engine. As he moved about, the boat nudged against the plastic painters hanging at regular intervals along the wooden walkway. She thought of a horse, tethered to a post in a frontier town as its owner hurriedly packed provisions into saddlebags.

  He looked up to see her standing there. ‘Yedu.’ He lifted a hand and bit down on an invisible piece of food, then waved towards the house.

  She nodded. As she walked round to the cottage, she could hear the workmen laughing about something. The one who’d knocked on the door earlier appeared at the top of the driveway. ‘That’s us all done for the day. Your water should be back on.’

  She stared blankly in his direction for a moment. ‘Oh. OK – thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Probably see you tomorrow.’

  She gave him a quick smile and carried on. Through the kitchen window, she could see them climbing into a white van. The engine started and the vehicle moved off down the lane. Still able to make out the blue dumper truck through the shifting leaves of the hedge, she walked to the end of the drive and checked they’d all gone. The vehicle had been backed into the open gateway of the field. The bright yellow digger was directly behind it, alongside a pile of sand bags.

  Back in the kitchen, she looked numbly about. Food. That was it. How long would the crossing take? Should she boil up the packets of couscous? Would just snacks be enough? What about after they reached land? What would happen next?

  She felt sick. Who would be waiting for them? She imagined others like Doku. Stern-faced men whose words she couldn’t understand. Where would they be taken? Where would they end up?

  She went to the fridge and removed the yoghurt pots and sliced cheese. There was a pack of pitta breads on the side. The cheese could go in them. They had muesli bars and packets of dried apricots. They would need water. She started going through the cupboards, searching for an empty bottle she could fill up. All she could find was a two-litre bottle of orange squash. She tipped it down the sink. The tap spluttered and grumbled when she turned it on. The bottle was half-full when the stream of water abruptly dwindled. She lifted the lever fully up, but it had no effect. Suddenly, it gushed again. Brown water flecked with dark flakes flooded into the bottle.

  She was emptying it out when he appeared beside her. He slapped a palm on the table. ‘Bistryei! Potoropis!’

  His footsteps thudded up the stairs. The water was coming through clear once more. She filled the bottle, dried her hands on a tea-towel then started to slice open the pitta breads.

  A minute later, he was back. He’d packed both their bags. Pausing in the doorway, something occurred to him. He dumped the bags on the floor and approached her. ‘Tyebe nuzhno budet pokritsya.’ He repeated the pointing gesture he’d used in the boathouse, a forefinger curling round the curve of the earth. ‘Kogda priyedem tuda.’

  She reached for the phone in her back pocket. Before she could take it out, he lifted the tea-towel from the table. Then he draped it over her head and pointed again. ‘Kogda priyedem tuda.’

  A hijab, she thought. He’s saying I need a hijab. The implications of it were still mushrooming in her mind as he turned round and continued outside with their bags.

  She pulled the damp square of cloth from her head, strands of hair sticking to the side of her face. He had taken all her stuff. Or had he? She climbed the stairs to check: the only things she’d taken out of her bag were the photos of her brother and parents. She’d propped them on the dressing table earlier that morning so she could look at them while brushing her hair.

  They were both still there; he’d forgotten them. The last link to her family had nearly been left in a rented property in the middle of nowhere.

  She crossed the room and swept them up. With the frames pressed tight against her chest, she sat down on the end of the bed. It was suddenly important to know what would have happened to them. In her mind, she saw whoever owned the property coming in to the check the room. Spotting two unfamiliar items and puzzling over them for a moment before realisation dawned. Would that person have handed them on to the police, evidence of who the last occupants in the property were? Probably. And what would the police have done? Shrugged and thrown them in the bin? The possessions of an enemy. Valueless, like Tarek’s life. Judged as worthless. Just like her parents’ pain. Worthless. Irrelevant. Ignored.

  The anger was like a spot of crimson. Like the glow of the dying sun through the window. When she walked into the boathouse, her bag was on the walkway, ready for loading into the Rib. She picked it up and waited for him to look at her before she spoke. ‘I don’t want to come with you.’

  CHAPTER 49

  On reaching the humpback bridge, Jon dropped their speed right down. ‘I can’t believe we were here earlier on.’

  Now the road beyond the bridge was clear: in the entrance to the field on their right was the yellow digger and other bits and pieces. No sign of the white van. ‘Packed up and gone home for the day,’ he murmured.

  To their left was the holiday home’s driveway. As they passed it, Iona’s elbow was resting on the ledge of the door, hand up at the side of her face. She peeped between the gaps in her fingers. ‘No sign of a car. A light in the main house is on.’

  Then it was hedgerow once again.

  ‘Let’s continue back to the main road,’ Jon said, voice tight with excitement. ‘We can loop back round and approach it again from the same direction. I reckon we dump the car before that little bridge and access the field from there.’

  ‘Not just turn round and drive back?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘I don’t want to pass the property a second time.’

  Five minutes later, they were on the stretch of road that led to the stone bridge. Iona looked uneasily at the countryside bordering the lane. ‘It’s still light enough for us to be seen.’

  ‘We’ve got the hedgerow as cover, and I can see a dry-stone wall in the field. We’ll find a decent spot.’

  When they’d called base, Weir had said nothing at first. Iona could picture him, head bowed as he tried to accommodate this new piece of information. In the background, the low rumble of voices went on. Their senior officer came back on the line. ‘Stay put, I’ll call you back.’

  Then came a ten minute wait. During it, the ragged cloud bank on the horizon continued to grow. If it doesn’t get too big, there was going to be a spectacular sunset, Iona thought.

  Her phone lit up with Weir’s name. ‘DC Khan, the only asset close by is the SBS team at Wylfa. We’ll get them there as fast as we can. The police on Anglesey are being made aware of the situation: roadblocks will go up. But, for the time being, you two are on your own. We need eyes on that property. Find yourself an observation point and keep us informed. Understood?’

  ‘Here,’ said Jon, pulling into the passing point on their left. ‘Let’s see what toys we can use in the back.’

  As they jumped out of the car, Jon popped the boot.

  ‘Wife’s date-of-birth?’ Iona asked as he keyed in the four digit combination of the weapons’ box.

  ‘Fifth of November. Means I’ve never forgotten it yet.’ He flashed her a grin as he slid the tray back and lifted the lid. ‘OK, the only optic I’ve got is the scope for the MCX. By the way, what sort of firearms training have you completed?’

  ‘Just the initial course.’

  Not enough to be carrying a weapon in a public place, Jon thought. ‘OK, you take this.’ He prised the telescopic sights out from its niche in the foam lining and handed it over. ‘What else?’

  ‘Identification clothing?’ Iona pointed to the black baseb
all caps and bibs marked with white letters that spelled POLICE. ‘I don’t want those SBS guys mistaking us for the baddies.’

  ‘Good point.’ Jon lifted them out and handed them over. ‘Trauma packs?’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’ Jon removed one of the square green medical kits, along with two pairs of fabric handcuffs. He then took out the belt and holster for the Glock and slipped his arms through it. Once the holster was positioned beneath his left armpit, he lifted the weapon itself from the tray. Pointing it away from them both, he checked the magazine was full. Satisfied everything was in order, he slid the weapon into the holster and secured the fastening clip. After relocking the box and the boot, he turned to her. ‘All good?’

  ‘All good.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They went to where the dry-stone wall that traversed the field reached the hedge. Jon started bending and snapping branches to create an opening. Nettles stung his hands and wrists. Funny how adrenaline masks pain, he thought, checking the field beyond. The wall ran straight across the strip of grass to the far side where it appeared to merge with a line of rocks that formed a barrier between land and sea. Looking to the other side of the wall, the field stretched for about forty metres before ending at a high hedge at the edge of the holiday home’s garden. The building itself was completely obscured from view.

  Staying below the height of the wall, Jon slipped into the field and beckoned to Iona. Once she was beside him, he pointed. ‘We advance along the wall to the other side. Those rocks running along at the water’s edge? I reckon we can use them as cover to get a heck of a lot closer to the house.’

  Bent double, they scuttled along the base of the wall. By the time they reached the far side, a sharp throbbing had set into the muscles of Jon’s lower back. He dropped gratefully to his knees and assessed things again. As he suspected, the end of the dry-stone wall had been constructed to merge with the dark grey rock that broke through the thick turf. Peering momentarily over the wall, he could see the hedge that formed the perimeter of the garden also ended at the field’s edge. Beyond that, the curve of the coast meant only the end of a jetty was visible. ‘We’ll need to get closer for any view of the house.’

  He patted the jagged rock. The surface was coarse and the edges of the deep groves running across it felt sharp enough to open up flesh if you slipped. Keeping low, he moved cautiously across to look over the edge. There was a drop of about two metres, then a thin expanse of grainy sand that would be hidden from anyone in the house. Dotted with items of washed-up litter, the strip of beach led round in a gentle arc to an outcrop of rock that was markedly higher than that surrounding it. Jon nodded in its direction. ‘That’s where we need to be. Tucked in to the side of that.’ He jumped down, feet sinking into the soft surface. Iona appeared a second later and he reached out to guide her foot onto a decent sized ledge.

  She landed beside him and examined her palms. ‘Talk about abrasive.’

  Jon was looking at the water. ‘Can’t figure if the tide is coming in or out.’ Gentle ripples were carrying a mass of milky bubbles into shallow depressions in the sand. Jon watched the water as it inched its way along an S shaped groove. ‘In, I think.’

  ‘Me too,’ Iona whispered back.

  Keeping close to the rock, they stepped round the many buttresses that branched out from its base. Barnacles and small snails lined the crevices. At high tide, Jon thought, this will all be underwater. The far side of the narrow inlet was bathed in a peachy wash of light. The whiteness of the boats out on the water seemed to sing out in the gloom. At the modest promontory, they climbed up to a cleft in the rock and looked through.

  The front of the property was now revealed.

  It was an old building with small, deeply recessed windows. A stone path hugged the side of the house that was furthest from them. A few steps led down to a wooden structure whose open-ended front had already been flooded by the encroaching tide. A light was on inside and the prow of a boat was just visible. The wooden walkway continued across the sloping lawn to a jetty, the legs of which were partially submerged.

  Iona raised the telescopic sights and swept the house.

  ‘Anything?’ Jon asked.

  ‘No. I’d say the lit room in the house is a living area. There are framed pictures on the walls and bookshelves.’

  ‘No movement in there?’

  ‘None.’ She shifted the sights to the left and examined the boat house more closely. ‘Just saw movement! A shadow on the far wall. That’s definitely from a person! In there fiddling about with something.’

  ‘Male? Female?’ Jon asked, removing his phone.

  ‘Can’t say. It’s just a shadow being projected onto the far wall. Hang on, they’re straightening up. Moving, definitely moving – ’

  The side door opened and the silhouette of a male was framed for a second in the bright light. Then he stepped out onto the path, trotted up the steps and vanished round the side of the house.

  ‘Was it him?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Male, early thirties maybe, dark hair cut short. That’s all I got.’

  ‘Was it him, though?’

  ‘Probably, but I couldn’t say for sure.’

  Jon sank down out of sight and made the call. ‘Sir? We’re in position with a good sight line to the property. Probable sighting of Doku Zakayev.’

  Weir cut in. ‘Probable?’ He sounded like he was on a car phone.

  ‘Same appearance and likely age, but he was only in view briefly. It appears he could be preparing a motorboat. It’s mostly hidden within a structure at the side of the cottage.’

  ‘OK. The SBS team are in two vessels. They’re five minutes away.’

  ‘They’re coming by sea?’

  ‘Yes. This is a containment job only; once all means of escape are blocked off, we’ll make ourselves known. The SBS team have been instructed not to enter the inlet.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘In case anything happens, what’s your position?’

  ‘Facing the property from the sea, we are about fifty metres to its right, at the water’s edge. We’re tucked in behind a section of rock that is slightly higher than what’s on either side. And we’re wearing police vests and caps.’

  ‘OK, we stand no chance of being there for another hour. Anglesey police have blocked either end of the lane leading to the property and a dog unit is on the way from Bangor. They’re going nowhere, Jon. Just sit tight and keep watch. You’re doing great.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  He adjusted his feet so he could turn to Iona. ‘They’ve got the area contained. We just keep eyes on the property.’

  ‘I’m happy doing that.’

  Jon looked along the narrow stretch of water towards the open sea. Two units from the SBS would be lurking there in no time. Jon couldn’t help smile: part of his training to become a Specialist Firearms Officer involved a session with Special Forces guys on Armed Interception. The soldiers just referred to it as ambush work, but language like that wasn’t deemed acceptable for law enforcement. At one point, one of the soldiers jokingly referred to the police trainees as Pepsis. Jon had asked why. You’re learning bits of what we do, came the reply. But you’ll never be The Real Thing.

  With every second that passed, dusk deepened. The boats out on the water had now lost their glow. On the opposite shore, only the upper third of the trees were still lit by the sun. The peace was only broken by the sea as it tickled its way across the bumpy sand, stranded bubbles fizzing and popping as the water felt its way closer to the rocks. How long, Jon wondered, before it would be lapping at their feet?

  ‘He’s coming back out.’ Iona announced in a small voice.

  Jon twisted his torso round and straightened his legs so he could see through the gap. The figure was on the stone steps. At the bottom one, he paused, attention on something in his hand. Suddenly, his face was lit by a murky glow that shone up from his palm.

&nbs
p; ‘It’s him, I’m certain,’ Iona hissed.

  ‘What’s he holding?’

  ‘Too chunky to be a phone. And the screen: the back light is green.’

  ‘GPS,’ Jon replied, reaching for his phone. ‘Sir, definite ID on Zakayev. No sign of Elissa Yared as yet. He’s just re-entered the boathouse with, I think, a GPS device in his hand. I believe he’s preparing to leave. Iona? Any more?’

  ‘I can see his shadow against the wall. He’s moving around again, coming towards the front of the boat. It looks like – ’

  A motor started up, its throaty growl shattering the quiet. The revs fell away and the vessel began to ease its way forward out of the boathouse.

  ‘It’s him!’ Iona said. ‘He’s wearing a red life-jacket, steering the boat.’

  ‘Hang on, Sir.’ Keeping the phone at waist height, Jon peeped over the rock then ducked back down. ‘It’s a Rib, I’d say over twenty-five feet long. Single engine at the back. Iona, anything else?’

  ‘White lettering on the engine says Mariner 200. Doesn’t appear to be anyone else – hang on, I can see another life-jacket. Could be a second person at the back.’

  ‘Is it Elissa Yared?’

  ‘Can’t say. Whoever they are, they’re lying down, by the looks of it. Now the boat’s swinging round...’

  Jon took another look. The light was too dim: Zakayev was only visible because he was on a raised seat behind the driver’s console. In the shadow pooled at the back end of the boat was a variety of objects, none of them clear. The revs increased and the boat picked up speed, a rippling wake spreading out behind it. ‘Sir, he’s on the move.’

  He could hear Weir relaying the information to someone else as the boat’s engine began to roar and its front end lifted clear of the water. Shielding the phone’s glow with his hands, Jon said, ‘He’s gone, Sir, heading for the open sea!’