“Ha!” Murat Nagpal exclaimed in agreement. “Well, apart from keeping us fed and watered for several months.”
“He truly was a worthless piece of godless scum.”
“That, he was.”
~~~~~
Guildford, England
I’m standing, speechless, in the middle of the pavement. Grumbling pedestrians are circumnavigating my human roadblock as they struggle through the treacherous, grit-darkened snow. They’re not being particularly vocal though – it must be my formidable physique and facial expression that’s making them cautious – and it’s a good job too, because, in the mood I’m in at the moment, I’m likely to lash out.
In front of me, a huge bookstore’s windows are entirely filled with their latest promotion. There are literally hundreds of identical copies of one book cover, and my little terrorist friend is staring back at me from every one of them. He’s smiling and brandishing his clenched fist under a bold block capital title. One word. ‘ABUSED’. Then a strap-line: ‘Standing Up For The Innocent, by Khandastanian activist, Javed Omid’. Then there’s a small citation, from some no doubt money-grabbing nobody: ‘An uplifting essay on the struggles of a multicultural society’.
Abused. Yes, that just about sums this up. Surely there must be some sort of law to prevent people from profiteering on the suffering of others? Surely there must be – in any society, let alone a multicultural one? According to the window display, it’s already a bestseller. Nice. Good to see that the general public feels the same way, and are shunning this heartless, greedy propagation of evil. It’s taken me a while, but now I can understand why you used to say the things you did. I can feel the last few tenuous fragments of my old peace-loving forgiveness and human empathy being stamped out deep inside me.
My demons are not going to let the old me survive.
They’re building a new fire, and it is raging.
A very dark fire: with flames the colour of the darkest shadows, with a touch that is colder than the hardest frost, which consumes everything it touches, which doesn’t understand tolerance, and, most of all, which knows no mercy.
I’ve been following you – you little, evil, selfish bastard – for months. You can stand there in front of me, and leer, and wave your fist as much as you like: it won’t help you. I’ve seen you playacting your injuries. Seen you being brought back, head bound in swathes of bandage like Mr. Bump, by your personal taxis, to the same terrace house that Shaz and her police squads raided all those many months ago. Seen your day care nurses helping you to hobble up the path with your expensive shopping bags. Seen the various brochures for unaffordable Central London apartments being posted into your letterbox. Seen your helpers leave for the evening. Followed you as you make your daily miraculous recovery, and creep out of the back door, suddenly bandage free, and sprint like some Olympian down your back alleyway and jump into the brand new car you have parked on another street.
You are stupidly repetitious.
I’ve also followed your car.
I know the casinos you like to visit. I know the gentlemen’s clubs you like to go on to. I know you drive back in the early hours, doubtless inebriated, and most likely emptied of your flawed seed, and creep stealthily back into your den.
I could call in the Press. They’d probably enjoy berating you for a couple of days. Maybe your expensive, ambulance-chasing, legal firm would get cold feet? More likely, it’d only add to your notoriety and therefore marketability. This publishing deal is evidence of how little someone like you, with no moral scruples, would be affected by simple embarrassment.
I could call the police: but a drink-driving related prosecution isn’t going to stop you doing what you want to. The laws weren’t written for you, were they?
Well, unfortunately for you, you’re not the only one who thinks like that.
Not having seen firsthand our wonderful laws in action.
Not having had life transformed into a horribly conscious death.
Not having suffered this ongoing – true – abuse.
It would seem that the laws aren’t written for me, either.
~~~~~
London
Sentinel watched as Brigadier Crispin Greere visibly squirmed in the uncomfortable chair opposite him. The little toad doubtless had aspirations to be on his side of the desk at some point – probably soon – and if recent events hadn’t unwound so dramatically, then chances were that he would have been a good step closer than he was right now. Sentinel was determined to, quietly, enjoy making him suffer. It was a mild form of compensation for the levels of grief he was getting from the PM’s Office and other Agencies.
Greere’s mouth looked like he was sucking on something evil-tasting, “It’s true that Tin also has a history, sir.”
“Hmmm,” Major Charles thumbed through the open file on his desktop. “A very violent history, and one which includes desertion.”
“He was badly affected by the ambush in Afghanistan that wiped out his Squad. Desertion is not strictly correct. He elected to leave his post and vanish, unsupported and unaided, into the Afghan Mountains for several months. Then he returned and gave himself up.”
“A period, during which, he single-handedly tracked down and summarily executed several Afghan citizens.”
“Taliban.”
“If you say so,” Sentinel was enjoying himself. “Are you sure he wasn’t just pilfering somewhere?’
“Iron was a mistake, sir. One which I’ve already apologised for.” Greere was babbling, with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. “His story was credible. Maybe if we’d had longer to train him, before we activated?”
“Are you making excuses, Crispin?” Sentinel watched his subordinate’s cheeks redden – though whether it was from embarrassment or fury, he couldn’t tell. He knew that Greere hated being referred to by his first name. It was, after all, terribly condescending.
“No, Major.”
“So how confident are you, that this remaining, ex-military Agent isn’t concealing another dangerous rogue tendency? There are limits. Even if we tend to ignore most of them.”
Greere knew that his boss was referring to the Berlin-debacle. “I also accept that Steel was psychologically disturbed, sir. Again, I can only apologise. His condition wasn’t obvious during training. He did a very good job of concealing it.” Greere’s ugly forehead was moist with sweat; presumably it was the stress of watching his career aspirations sliding away into the distance. “We do know that Tin did an excellent job in Spain and Poland. He’s waiting quietly for further instructions.” Greere hurried on. “Berlin was, I accept, messy but one of the cell has been eliminated, we have disrupted their communications, and planted tracking devices so that we can home in on the others, when it’s appropriate to recommence. The brother, Sergei Ebrahimi, continues to make a circuitous route across Europe. We’re waiting for him to go static. He will, most likely, be with the others when he does.”
“A predetermined rendezvous?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re counting on them waiting for the youngster to turn up?”
“Yes, sir. A message was left on the younger boy’s cellphone earlier today,” Greere continued to babble on excitedly. “A one word message: Icarus. We presume that this is an extraction call-sign, intended to advise the boy to break camp and reconvene with the main group. Unfortunately, the call was too brief to trace. Background noise suggested a random pay-phone was used. Somewhere in Central Europe is the consensus...”
“What a good job,” Sentinel interrupted him, “that I managed, at some great personal inconvenience, to persuade so many agencies to keep a lid on that whole German fuck up!”
“Yes, sir.” Greere sounded utterly deflated. Even his bug-eyes seemed to have receded slightly.
“Tin is one man. I’m not sure that’s enough.” The Bull twisted the knife. “Your credibility is in tatters, Brigadier. Anything less than a complete success, after the last two disasters, wel
l....” He let his sentence trail off ominously.
Brigadier Crispin Greere sat silent. Defeated. His experiment was in shreds. He’d lost two agents already. One agent would not be enough to complete the mission.
Sentinel sat forwards, time had come to hand his minion the glimmer of a lifeline. He snapped the file closed so that the brown manilla cover once again shrouded the uppermost pages, which had been filled with photographs of Jack Vittalle. But there were more pages in this file. Tucked away underneath the top ones. Some of them describing a vehicle recently dredged from a nondescript Sussex reservoir. “Greere,” he said. “Flawed as your execution has been, there may still be merit in your idea. The highly distributed and loosely coupled nature of modern terrorism doesn’t lend itself to traditional prosecution. Sometimes the only way to fight fire is with fire.”
The toad nodded obediently.
Sentinel hoped the man had picked up on his deliberate repetition of their earlier discussion, when Greere had made his original proposal to him. Sentinel wanted to make sure Greere knew that he hadn’t forgotten whose idea this had been. “You’d better hope your man, Ebrahimi, continues to take his time wandering around Europe,” he continued.
“Why, sir?”
“Because I might have someone for you.” Sentinel didn’t continue with the remainder of his sentence: someone ultrahigh risk that I can make you take responsibility for, but who might, just, add enough extra firepower to save this mission from failure. “You can go now.” He picked up his cellphone, stood, turned to his windows, and watched with satisfaction as the reflection of his subordinate scurried out of his office. ‘It’ll be some time before I’m giving up this desk to you, or anyone else, you little weasel,’ he thought to himself. ‘Watch and learn.’
~~~~~
Barfold
I stand, with the handset lead stretching from my shoulder, and wait for Shaz to answer her phone. Whilst I listen to the recurrent ringtone I casually slip my narrow switchblades, one at a time, down out of their holster. It’s another of my own little creations and straps snugly around either bicep. With merely a jerking motion, and a flex of my powerful muscle, I can release one shuttered blade at a time. They slide down under my sleeve and into my palm, where I trigger their mechanisms with my thumb, and then toss them into the dartboard I’ve got fixed to the distant wall.
Double top...
Triple top...
Bullseye.
A satisfied smile teases the edges of my lips.
“Nick,” Shaz’s voice catches my attention. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I grunt. “I’m gonna be away for a while. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Oh, okay...,” she sounds distracted. “Anywhere nice?”
“Cheap rental cottage. South Wales. Need to get away.”
“Yeah, good idea. A change of scenery, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“How long will you be away?” I can hear a man’s voice in the background, asking if she’d like her wineglass topped up. Seems I might be interrupting something. I hear the rustle of a palm being pressed over the handset, and then a muffled but clearly enthusiastic, “Yes, please.”
“I’ve rented it for a month,” I rumble, blinking away the sudden stabbing feeling of loss and loneliness which washes over me. “You’re busy. I’ll not take up any more of your time.”
I sense her sitting up, dragging her attention toward me and away from her companion. “It’s okay, Nick. No problem. We can talk now, if you want to. I’m here for you. Whenever you need me.”
“Thanks,” I say and hang up.
~~~~~
London
“Problems?” asked the man, as he sipped at his wine.
“Nick’s going away for a while. Maybe it’ll do some good? The fixation with Omid has been becoming worse. That publishing deal, and all the renewed media coverage, haven’t helped.” Shaz Manjeethra got up from her armchair and wandered back over to the sofa.
The man laughed briefly as she sat down next to him. “Sorry,” he explained. “You just reminded me of the complete rubbish that the little turd wrote about you in that book.”
Manjeethra smiled, but he noticed that she took a large slug of her wine. “It’s not right,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed, suddenly serious. “It’s not right.” He changed the subject, “So tell me, what constitutes ‘fixation’ then?”
“Well, I already told you about Nick’s discovery of the little worm’s nightly drinking and debauchery, didn’t I?” The man nodded. “So on top of mastering tailing a suspect, there’s the relentless study of unarmed combat techniques and, on top of all that, becoming something of a lethal knife thrower too.”
“Knife thrower?”
“Yep. That’s why I’ve got a smaller target hanging in the kitchen. Nick is already faster and more accurate than me – it must be a hand-eye thing – and you should see the switchblades.”
He sat up next to her. “Switchblades?”
“Handmade. Custom. Not large; they’re less than ten centimetres long. With really narrow blades and razor sharp. Nick keeps them in some rig that straps on your arm. You can put three knives into it, then slip them one at a time into the palm of your hand.” Shaz shook her arm out in demonstration. “A quick flick of the blade release, and then throw. They’re brilliantly balanced. Nick says they’re no more difficult to make than a mechanised arrow; you know what I mean by that?” He nodded as she continued, “The ones where the tip changes shape on impact. Crazy stuff, huh?”
Her lover raised his wine glass to her. “That makes two of you then.”
“Three of us,” she laughed, and nestled her head onto his broad shoulder.
~~~~~
Javed Omid looked carefully out of the same back-bedroom sash window he’d used, unsuccessfully, as an exit a few months ago. Nothing moved in the garden or back alleyways.
It had been the same for several days.
Perhaps, whoever it had been, had stopped spying on him? Not that he cared too much. It was probably some stupid paparazzi, trying to get pictures. The glimpses he’d seen were just that: glimpses.
Some big bloke.
Dressed in dark clothes.
Once or twice someone had followed him in the car too, but there had been no approaches, and nothing in the papers...
~~~~~
The Gower Peninsular, South Wales
The tiny cottage stands on its own on the promontory. It’s a sturdy little property, made of roughhewn Welsh bedrock and looks out proudly from the cliffs, which provide fantastic views down onto the dramatic Gower coastline. It’s so isolated that it’s taken me ages to find it, even with directions.
I stand on the doorstep, drinking in the views.
Perfect.
There are no neighbours.
No-one around for miles.
I grab one of my holdalls, go inside and start to search for lamps to fit the timers onto. The rest of my kit will go into my backpack. I’ll be hiking back to town. The car can stay here while I’m away.
~~~~~
Tidworth, England
Jack stood nervously in front of the chipped green-painted front door. This simple terraced house was one of a hundred identical cubes. Each with its own unkempt handkerchief of sparse muddy grass and plain slab pathway in front of it. Each looking as run down as the next.
Eventually he could hear a chain being fastened and the door opened a fraction.
“Dominic? Is that you?” A woman’s voice asked from behind it.
He nodded. “Hi Julie,” he said. “Sorry I haven’t been around. I’ve been working abroad for a while.”
“I can see from the tan,” she said. “And the long hair. I nearly didn’t recognise you.” The door closed again and he heard the chain being removed. When it opened properly he could see she was looking tired and drawn. “Come in,” she said wearily. “I warn you though, the place is a mess.”
He smiled,
stepped inside and made to slip his shoes off.
“No need,” the woman said. “This way.”
She led him through the small hallway, past a large photo of her and Mike – smiling happily through fluttering confetti – which was hanging on the wall. Jack glanced at the picture.
‘From another lifetime,’ he thought sadly as he followed her into the sitting room.
A child’s toys were scattered all over the floor.
“Where’s Junior?” Jack asked, seating himself respectfully at one end of the solitary, small sofa.
“Upstairs having his afternoon sleep. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be nice,” he said, and she nodded and left the room.
He looked around. The place was clean and well kept, despite what she’d said, but he could tell things must be tough. The pension would be reasonable, but it didn’t seem to be stretching too much past the basics. A little, battered, portable television sat on Mike’s large TV cabinet in the corner. It looked tiny on such a large piece of furniture. “What happened to the plasma?” he called quietly through to the kitchen.
“Broke.” Came the hushed reply.
He’d seen a dish on the front of the house but couldn’t see any satellite box.
Mike had always loved his television. So had Julie, as far as he could remember. Back in that other life. When the two of them would welcome him regularly into a happy home. When they would have sat there, the three of them together, sprawled variously on the floor or chairs, supping beers, laughing. “We live for our telly,” she had told him, on more than one occasion. “I don’t know what I’d do without it, while he’s away.”
He was away for good now.
Jack got up and had a look behind the cabinet. Twin coax cables were coiled up, redundant, on the floor. A cheap digital convertor was leaning untidily against the wall amongst the usual mess of hidden dust and cobwebs.
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