Masters of War

by Chris Ryan

  He left his M4 locked in the boot of the car. Turning up the collar of the raincoat, he walked along the street on the same side as the hotel, out of the line of sight of anybody watching from the windows. When he was alongside the entrance, he turned his back on it and crossed the street with the buzzing, flickering neon of the sign illuminating his face. Seconds later he was inside.

  The place was dimly lit and surprisingly chintzy. Strange to think you could travel half a klick from here and see mortared football stadiums and craters in the streets. There was a low throb of dance music in the air, and maybe twenty-five customers were sitting at tables dotted around the floor. Along the back wall, fifteen metres from the entrance, was a gleaming metal-topped bar with an array of optics behind it, though Danny immediately noticed that several of the bottles were empty. Two women sat on bar stools – Middle Eastern, but decked out like Western women, all tits and arse. They watched Danny as he entered, another prospective client.

  There was a table by the front window. Danny sat down and made a pretence of studying the laminated cocktail menu in front of him. In truth, his eyes were searching the windows of the hotel opposite. The flickering neon light reflected off the hotel’s windows. It made it difficult to examine them, but Danny did so, starting at the top left of the building and moving slowly to the right before starting on the floor below. The windows were all closed, and it was impossible to see into any of them, especially with the neon dazzling his eyes.

  Only when his eyes landed on the second window from the left on the first floor did he notice something odd. This window was open. Just a little – a gap of a few inches at the bottom – but definitely open. What did that tell him? It was a hot night, so why were all the others shut? Maybe they were just not occupied. Or maybe . . .

  Suddenly aware of somebody standing over him, Danny started. As a reflex, his hand reached for his Sig. But then he stopped. It was a barmaid, standing by his table with a pad and looking rather bored.

  ‘Speak English?’ Danny asked.

  She nodded.

  He pointed to the street. ‘That hotel,’ he said. ‘Does it have air-conditioning?’

  The barmaid gave him an unfriendly look and glanced back at the two girls propping up the bar. Then she nodded.

  ‘I’ll have a beer,’ he said. The barmaid went to get his order.

  Danny turned back to the hotel, and to the window that was open. If the room had air-con, you’d keep it shut on a muggy night like this. Unless, of course, you were relying on your ears as well as your eyes to tell you what was going on outside. And Taff would, without question, be doing that.

  His beer arrived. Danny took a pull on it, but he didn’t take his eyes off the window. He knew where Taff was. All he had to do now was wait.

  Three times they had poured the water over her face. Three times she had been engulfed by such panic she thought she would go mad. As the water gushed down her nose and throat for the third time, she tried to scream out that yes, she was a spy. She would say anything to make it stop. But then, just as her brain was telling her that she would surely drown if this torment continued, the water ceased and she felt the bed adjusting to its original angle.

  Her tormentor was standing at the end of the bed, looking at her curiously, as though she was a specimen he had never encountered before. One of the Syrians had left the room. The remaining one was coiling the hose back on to its holder, his feet slapping on the wet floor as he moved. Once it was tidied away, the short man spoke a few words of Arabic, then he too left the room, leaving Clara alone with the Syrian. He was leering at her with an ugly, lascivious look, and with a burning sensation in her gut, Clara knew what was coming.

  He walked round to her right side and slowly moved his vile lips towards hers. She could smell his breath – a stench of cigarettes, coffee and decay. As he pressed his mouth against hers, he tried to force his dry tongue through her lips. She gritted her teeth, but although he was unable to penetrate them, she felt his disgusting tongue massage their front before forcing its way into the hollow of her cheek. She tried to dislodge it by shaking her head, but he grabbed a clump of her hair with one hand to keep it still. She felt the other wandering down to her breasts, which he squeezed painfully, the nails digging into her flesh, before moving down across her belly to between her legs, where the painful groping continued for another half-minute.

  Suddenly he stepped back. His expression was contemptuous and hungry. The features of a man who both loathed her and wanted her. He walked round to the front of the bed and started to unbuckle his belt.

  Clara looked away, clamping her eyes shut. She heard the man unzip his trousers, then the shuffling sound as they dropped to the floor. She did not want to look, but somehow she couldn’t stop herself. Through half-closed eyes she saw him standing there, trousers and underpants around his ankles, his penis erect. He was shuffling towards her, at once ridiculous and terrifying. With a whimper, she shut her eyes again, but she could already feel the heat of his body and smell that foul breath.

  He was inches away.

  There was nothing she could do to stop him.

  21.30 hrs.

  Danny had been sitting here for thirty minutes and his beer was already warm. He’d drunk only three mouthfuls. As she had done all evening, the waitress was loitering, making the point that his meagre consumption didn’t warrant his prime spot by the window.

  The bar was fuller now, standing room only as Westerners and locals alike arrived to get some respite from the reality of their lives in the midst of a civil war. None of them passed the threshold without an analytical glance from Danny. He was principally on the lookout for Hector or De Fries, but none of them seemed to be anything other than punters, out for a good time. Perhaps Taff’s cronies were in the hotel room with him. Perhaps they’d found other diversions. He’d know soon enough.

  The hotel was doing a far less brisk trade than the bar. Danny had seen one person go in, at 21.05 hrs. The guy had swiped a card to open the front door. That could be a problem.

  Danny sipped his beer. By the bar, the waitress was talking to a Middle Eastern man in a suit. They were looking in his direction. Twenty seconds later the guy was walking towards him. He had shining black hair and an obsequious expression. Danny noticed a gold signet ring on one finger, and a spot of food on his tie.

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ the man said, bowing slightly. ‘This table is reserved.’

  Danny looked back out of the window. ‘Who for?’

  A pause.

  ‘Paying guests, sir.’

  Without looking at him, Danny plunged his hand into his coat and pulled out the wad of banknotes. He tossed two 100-dollar bills on to the table and continued looking across at the hotel.

  The man grabbed the money. ‘Will sir require anything else?’ he asked.

  Danny shook his head, but then an idea struck him. ‘Wait,’ he said. He looked back towards the bar where the two hookers were still sitting, waiting for a john. ‘I want some female company,’ he said. ‘Someone who speaks English.’

  The man dipped his head politely. ‘Of course.’ He walked back to the bar and spoke briefly to one of the girls, who immediately got down from her stool and tottered across to where Danny was seated.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, his attention back on the hotel.

  She sat. Halter-neck top that didn’t cover much. Plunging neckline. A necklace of cheap beads.

  A minute passed in silence. Danny could feel the heat of her stare become increasingly surly. It occurred to him that he might not smell that fresh.

  ‘I like champagne,’ she said finally.

  ‘We’ll need a room,’ Danny said. He pointed across the street. ‘There.’

  The woman shrugged. Danny laid another 100-dollar bill on the table. ‘Go and book it. Then come back here and you’ll get your champagne.’

  She scooped up the note in a way that told Danny he was vastly overpaying for the room. He didn’t care. He watched as
the woman left, walked across the street to the hotel and rang an entrance buzzer. The door clicked open. Three minutes later she returned. If Taff was watching, he’d have clocked her, but that was OK. There was nothing so anonymous as a hooker in a bar. She sat down again and gave Danny an expectant look.

  ‘Give me the key card,’ he said.

  She removed it from her clutch bag and placed it on the table. Danny took it and dropped a 100-dollar bill in its place. ‘Have the rest of the evening off?,’ he muttered.

  She didn’t move for about ten seconds. Then, with a disgruntled little snort, she took the money and strode back to the bar, seemingly offended that she’d had such an easy trick.

  Danny continued to watch.

  23.56 hrs.

  Four minutes till Taff’s RV. The bar was throbbing now, but nobody disturbed Danny. His money was good.

  He spotted him immediately. A young Syrian lad who carried a worn Nike sports bag and had a furtive look about him. He approached from the north end of the street, walking a little more quickly than any of the other passers-by and looking over his shoulder every few seconds. He stopped outside the hotel, bathed in the flickering neon light from the bar, and swiped a card. Two seconds later he was inside.

  Even though the clock was ticking – he still needed to get to his 01.00 RV with the ambassador – Danny didn’t stand up immediately. He gave it a full four minutes. Time enough, he estimated, for the kid to make his presence known and get to Taff’s room. Right now, Danny reckoned, Taff would be frisking him thoroughly. And that probably meant his eyes wouldn’t be on the street.

  Danny stood up and slipped out of the bar. He didn’t cross the road directly, but walked thirty metres up the street before getting to the other side and retracing his steps. Ninety seconds later he was swiping the card. The door clicked open. He entered.

  The hotel’s reception area was bland and antiseptic. Pale ceramic tiles on the floor, fake plastic pot plants, faux-leather chairs. On the counter there was a brass bell, but the receptionist was nowhere to be seen. Behind the counter, a door led to another room, where Danny could hear someone whistling. He leaned over the counter and quickly examined the contents of the desk behind it: an old computer terminal, a packet of cigarettes, an empty can of Coke and a key ring with a single swipe card attached.

  The whistling stopped. Danny heard footsteps. He grabbed the key ring and hurried to his right, where a door led to a flight of stairs going up. In a corner of his brain he wondered how long he had before the receptionist realised his card was missing. Ten minutes?

  That would be enough.

  Danny emerged on the first-floor corridor. The same ceramic tiles. Four identical doors along the right-hand side, each with a card slot. He edged silently towards the second door. Once outside, he put his ear to it, and listened.

  ‘. . . sure you’re a nice enough fella, but humour me and empty the money out on to the bed. I don’t want any nasty surprises.’

  Taff’s voice. He was in there.

  The messenger boy didn’t say anything, but there was a light shuffling sound inside the room.

  A minute passed.

  ‘OK, son. Looks like it’s all there. Be a good lad and pack it all back in while I go for a slash. Do it nicely, there’ll be a dollar or two in it for you. Hurry up before my friends come back. They’re not as generous as me.’

  Danny felt his jaw setting. The idea that Taff would disappear for a slash at a time like this was ludicrous. If he was heading into the bathroom, it was for some other reason. Danny’s instinct told him that whatever he was up to, it would end badly for the messenger.

  But Taff’s words suggested there was no Hector or De Fries. It would just be him, Taff and the Syrian kid.

  He rested the card in the slot.

  ‘Make sure it’s all packed neatly, son,’ Taff called, and Danny could hear that he had changed position.

  He slid the card down and there was a faint click.

  ‘I don’t want to have to do it again myself.’

  Danny drew his Sig, then opened the door very slowly, very quietly.

  The room was maybe eight by five metres. Garish bright orange carpet tiles on the floor. Double bed, dressing table, wardrobe. The air-con hummed gently. The window was still slightly ajar. A bedside lamp burned dimly. A door led from the left-hand wall into an en suite. There was a light on in there, and Taff’s elongated shadow stretched out from the doorway. The messenger boy was leaning over the bed, packing bundles of notes into the Nike bag.

  Distance: two metres. Danny advanced quickly but silently and slammed the butt of his Sig against the kid’s neck. He slumped into a heap, the soft bed cushioning his fall. A couple of wads of dollar bills jumped from the mattress on to the floor.

  Danny raised his Sig and aimed it firmly at the bathroom door.

  The toilet flushed. There had been no sound of piss against the porcelain. Danny knew Taff would reappear with a weapon of some sort.

  He kept his hand steady.

  The shadow started to move.

  Taff appeared in the doorway.

  He froze.

  Danny’s mentor was carrying a rope about three-quarters of a metre long. A good length for strangling someone. He had clearly intended the messenger’s death to be silent.

  Now, though, his mind was on other things.

  Danny could see in Taff’s face the many minute calculations he would be making. Where were his exits? Could he draw his own weapon before Danny had the opportunity to fire? Was the messenger truly out cold, or might he wake up and cause a distraction? All these mental processes occurred without him taking his eyes off Danny.

  ‘Good to see you, kiddo,’ Taff said eventually, his voice breaking slightly. His nose was still flattened from their previous tussle.

  Danny didn’t respond.

  ‘Fuck me, son, put the gun down. We’ve been through this. You’re not going to use it.’

  ‘That was then,’ Danny said. ‘This is now.’

  ‘So what’s changed?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Danny.

  Then a strange thing happened. Taff’s brow creased and Danny saw something in his expression that he’d never seen before. Doubt. And weariness too. Taff looked old. His skin looked grey in the flickering neon. Deeply lined. Careworn.

  He bowed his head. ‘You know?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The Firm.’

  Taff was making no attempt to deny it. He sounded almost relieved.

  It was true.

  ‘I always knew you’d find out,’ said Taff. ‘One day.’ He looked around. ‘I didn’t think it would be in a place like this.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I did what I could to make it up to you, Danny. So finish it quickly. You owe me that.’

  ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

  Silence. Ten seconds passed. Taff opened his eyes again.

  ‘Why?’ Danny asked.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters to me.’

  Taff stared blankly. ‘Money,’ he said. ‘I told you already: it always comes down to that.’ For a moment he looked as if that was all the explanation he was going to give. But Danny didn’t move, and after thirty seconds he continued to speak. ‘Back in the Province,’ he said, ‘the Regiment had access to good intel on the whereabouts of high-value IRA targets. There was money to be made selling that intel to loyalist paramilitaries. I took advantage of that. End result was the same. One behind the ear. What did it matter if it was the Regiment nailed those scumbags, or some Michael Stone wannabe?’

  ‘Dead’s dead?’

  Taff managed a sneer. ‘You’re the same as your dad.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He found out what I was doing. Threatened to shop me. Couldn’t let it happen, kiddo. Simple as that. When I heard your mum was giving birth in Dundonald, I knew where to find him. Dressed myself as a hospital orderly, got into their room. Piece of piss
.’

  A glazed look passed over his face. A pained look.

  ‘I didn’t want to do it, kiddo, but your dad gave me no choice. It was only ever meant to be him, though. Not your mum. Never your mum.’

  The neon flickered. Taff’s eyes looked watery in his grizzled face.

  ‘She threw herself at me. Knocked my aim. The round grazed your dad’s skull. When we hit the ground the weapon went off by accident. She died quickly.’ There was something about the way he said it that made Danny feel he was trying to persuade himself on that count. ‘I lost my head,’ Taff continued. ‘Escaped through the window, dumped the scrubs under a bush. Then I returned to the hospital.’

  ‘To finish the job?’ Danny asked.

  ‘I don’t know, kiddo. I was in a state of shock. But when the doctors told me that your dad was likely to lose his memory, I knew I didn’t have to . . . to finish what I started.’ He closed his eyes again and drew a deep breath. ‘I never meant anything to happen to your mum. I loved her.’

  ‘You had a strange way of showing it.’

  ‘I did what I could,’ Taff snapped. ‘I looked after you, didn’t I? Kept my eye on you. Taught you things. You think you’d be where you are now if I’d left you to your fucking vegetable of a father? Jesus, kiddo – I was your father, or as good as.’

  Danny felt his brow creasing. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You weren’t.’

  Taff winced at this.

  ‘Was it worth it, Taff ? To shoot your friend for money?’

  ‘We all shoot people for the money,’ Taff spat. ‘You as well as me.’

  Danny shook his head. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said.

  ‘Bullshit.’ Taff nodded at the bundles of banknotes on the bed. ‘Try and tell me you won’t pocket that lot when you leave here tonight.’

  Danny didn’t look at the money. He kept his gun arm straight, his gaze firmly fixed on Taff.