by Thomas Waugh
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 during 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. The
y 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.
He walked down the corridor towards the entrance to the requisite hotel suite. He could still turn back. But he didn’t. The world would be a slightly better place without Rameen Jamal, he judged. The only way he would be free, the only way he could consider honour to be satisfied, was if he fulfilled the promise he made – to God and Birch – all those years ago, in the evac-chopper.
Devlin told himself that his weapon would be reliable and shoot true. As he would. His nerve and skills would not abandon him. If the Sig Sauer somehow failed to fire he would retreat. He was brave, but not stupid. He had his escape route planned-out. His enemies might hesitate, but he wouldn’t.
Devlin reached the door. He checked his watch, a CWC chronograph. The same watch he had worn in Helmand. On the day. The professional killer then glanced, in both directions, along the corridor. He listened out for any ping of the elevator or the sound of someone turning a handle to the doors of the adjacent suites. But there was blessed silence. His heartbeat increased. But that was normal. Healthy. Fine. Devlin drew out the Sig Sauer and calmly fixed the suppressor. He then retrieved Mariner’s special key card from his trouser pocket.
Remember to count discharged rounds. Two shots each. Centre mass. If they’re close, a head shot.
Devlin quickly but quietly opened the door and, as fearless as a bushwhacker, advanced, his gun raised. He had studied the floorplan of the deluxe suite beforehand and knew he would immediately inhabit the lavish sitting room when entering.
His intention was to take out the bodyguards first. It was unlikely (though possible) that Ahmadi and Jamal would be armed. But play the odds.
The brutal-looking Basel Mourad only had time to widen his snarling eyes in surprise before a brace of bullets zipped through the air and struck his large chest. The deep pile carpet cushioned the big man’s landing. The marble-adorned walls deadened any other sounds. The Afghan’s starched white shirt began to crimson, as if someone had already placed two red roses on the corpse.
Ahmadi turned his head towards his stricken friend and bodyguard. His mouth was agape with horror, as he turned back towards the stone-faced gunman. Or perhaps the silver-tongued diplomat was opening his mouth to speak. To beg for his life. Or offer the assassin a bribe. Or threaten him. But Ahmadi would be unable to talk his way out of things this time. The words stuck in his throat, as did a copper jacketed 9mm round. Blood splattered against the embroidered sofa and antique tallboy, which stood behind the Afghani fixer.
Sadiq Tahir’s first instinct was to duck behind the back of the chair his was sitting on. His next instinct was to reach for his Glock and return fire. At no moment did Tahir think to rush and take a bullet for his boyhood friend and employer. Devlin fired the first round into the back of the upholstered armchair, striking the bodyguard’s elbow. He then raised his gun aloft to create a better angle – and fire down on his target. The second bullet took off the top of the Afghan’s head. Half his brain slapped against – and dripped down – the widescreen TV in front of where the Tahir fell to the floor.
Rameen Jamal stood, petrified, with his hands up in surrender. Mercy. He snivelled or sniffed – either from fear or his cocaine habit. The Afghan was accustomed to being the one holding the gun and having others – especially young women – beg for their life.
Devlin took a few steps forward. The cold killer neither smiled triumphantly nor vengefully. He had no desire to explain who he was or why he was here. All that mattered was to slay the villain who had killed Connelly and crippled Birch. Fulfil the contract.
The bullet travelled through Rameen’s left eye socket and chipped a piece of marble off the wall behind him.
Devlin kept his gun raised and scanned the area to check that everyone he shot was out of play. He listened for any noises coming from the adjoining bedrooms and bathrooms. Blessed silence. But just as Devlin was beginning to think the room was clear he saw movement out the corner of his eye. A mirror, hung up in a hallway, picked up the reflection of an arm – and a Hi-Power Browning pistol – moving along a corridor.
Nil desperandum. Instinct, training and experience kicked-in. Muscle memory. Kill or be killed. Devlin darted forwards and - before his opponent could come out from around the corner - created a line of fire. He shot off three rounds. The first spat into the wall but the rest struck their target. The familiar odour of cordite warmed Devlin’s nostrils, like the smell of freshly baked bread.
Charles Tyerman lay dead. The Hi-Power Browning pistol was still in his hand, his finger curled around the trigger. A York Security tiepin glinted in the light of the ornate chandelier, hanging from the ceiling. The blood drained from Devlin’s face, as if he were a corpse too. He thought the ground might swallow him. Or he wanted it too. His hand and aim had remained rock-steady whilst firing his weapon. But as he reached down to forlornly check Tyerman’s neck for a pulse his hand trembled. His stony features cracked.
Devlin gazed around, despairingly. The professional killer in him knew he had to leave immediately. But he was rooted to the spot. Confused. Anguished. Tyerman was supposed to be away in Cyprus. Had MI5 called him in to spy on Ahmadi, using the cover of his personal security company? Was Tyerman looking to get Rameen in
his sights and avenge Connelly himself? Or, as he had mentioned at lunch, was Tyerman just covering a security shift himself? The CEO of the company would not want to lose an important government contract. Devlin only had questions. Not answers. If he had known who it was about to shoot he would never have fired his own weapon. But how could he have known? He told himself he was innocent, but unconvincingly.
Devlin remained disorientated. Angry. Guilty. The light seemed to now scorch the back of his retinas. The last time he felt similar to this was when he received the call about Holly’s accident. The husband and would-be felt that God was playing a cruel joke on him. He wanted to kill himself. It was the right thing to do. Tears welled in the former paratrooper’s eyes but, as well as a debilitating sorrow, the killer experienced a surge of envy as he watched the carpet soak up Tyerman’s blood, as it oozed out from the wound in his stomach. He envied him, because he was dead. Whilst Devlin was as far away as ever from finding some peace.
He noticed his watch. It still contained a grain of sand, underneath the glass, that had somehow got trapped there during his time in Helmand. Sometimes it seemed to disappear but sometimes it rattled around in the bold, black and white face of the timepiece. Emma had asked him what he had brought back from Afghanistan. Perhaps it was more than just a grain of sand, he gloomily thought.
Devlin finally took possession of himself, before something took possession of him. He managed to get to his feet and reach the lift. The walls to the elevator felt like they were closing in on him. He couldn’t look at himself in the reflective panels. But he knew that a determined expression had turned into a haunted one. Devlin gasped for air when he freed himself from the hotel, like a drowning man breaking through from the skin of the sea. Veering from his plan he headed left into Green Park. He found a quiet corner and leaned against a tree. A passer-by mistook his silhouette for a drunk, about to be sick. Devlin heard the distant sound of police sirens as he exited the rear of the park. He felt light-headed. His stomach churned, like a man in need of a meal or one too full. Devlin flagged down a black taxi. The dour cab driver thought he was just picking up a late-night reveller, a little worse for wear. Still he blended in.
