Capture or Kill

by Tom Marcus

  Bloody hell. The idea of stopping here was to get my shit together, not start unravelling like a ball of fucking string. I shake my head like a wet dog. Drive Logan. Just drive.

  As I make it to the camp gates I grab the spare jacket in the footwell I’d use for changing the colour of my profile and chuck it on top of the book, before flashing my ID to the guard. I’m not sure if I want any of the Blindeye team to be there or not. They’re all I have at the moment, but I don’t want them to see me cracking up. I’m anxious as the roller doors slide up and I see the place is full of cars, all the vehicles we used on the operation, including Riaz’s bike. Reversing into a parking spot, I scan the building. Looks empty, the only sound a dull mechanical grinding, like a giant mixing bowl in a bakery.

  I need to get the book into my little room quickly, just in case I’m not alone in here. I must be the last one back, which gives me a chance to get showered and sorted out. Opening the door, I see my bed exactly how I left it, neatly made. Nothing else out of place here. Even in this building I’m paranoid, though I can’t explain why. Sliding the book under my bed, I grab my wash kit and spare clothes and kick off my trainers and socks. My trainers are scuffed and dirty – a reminder of what I did to those two animals in that dingy little bedsit. Get to the showers, Logan, Wash it all off.

  The familiar hardness of the metal walkway pressing into my feet is strangely comforting. It’s fast becoming a friend, this walkway. I realize the mechanical noise churning in the background is coming from the incinerator. Jesus, I’d forgotten all about that death oven.

  Stripping off inside the tiny shower room, I lean in to twist the tap, hoping it’s the right way for hot. It isn’t – it’s freezing fucking cold. But after the first shock, I don’t bother turning it the other way. Standing under the freezing deluge, the air is sucked out of my lungs and the water cuts into me like daggers of ice. My body’s shaking, but inside it feels good. Hot showers are for normal people, people who’ve done an honest day’s work, not killers like me. Once I’ve dried myself off and got dressed in fresh clothes, I decide to ditch the dirty ones in the washing machine next to the showers and grab the batteries for the radio out of my room, so I can swap them for fresh ones in Alan’s tech bay. Simple tasks to keep my mind busy. Things to do to keep the demons at bay.

  But, deep inside, I know that rattling round in this place, listening to that damned incinerator, is not going to do me any good at all.

  15

  I am sitting upright in my expensive ergonomic chair, my hands lightly clasped together on the desk in front of me. The desk, like the chair, is an absurd extravagance. An expanse of polished walnut, empty save for a phone, a laptop, a notepad, three fountain pens lined up neatly, and a box of tissues. In front of the desk are two comfortable chairs, one for the patient and one for a family member to sit in during the consultation. The tissues are there in case the news is not good.

  There are two framed prints on the walls: one a vaguely Scottish-looking landscape, the other a bunch of purple flowers in a vase, not very well executed in my opinion. I loathe them both. But I have learned to ignore them and, like the furniture, they serve their purpose, telling my patients that I am solid, reliable, respectable – perhaps even a little dull. As soon as they walk through the door, they can be confident that they are in safe hands.

  The thought makes me smile. My next patient is about to find out what a sham it all is. He has sought my help to cure his problems. Instead I will send him to hell.

  I press the intercom button to my secretary in the reception area. ‘Madeleine, are you busy, or could you do something for me?’

  ‘No, of course, Dr Khan,’ she replies brightly, but with an undertone of annoyance. I probably interrupted her filing those garish talons of hers or sending unseemly texts to her boyfriend.

  ‘Thank you. Could you please take those notes around the corner to Dr Kinsella? It slipped my mind earlier. There should be an envelope by the filing cabinet.’

  ‘No problem at all, Dr Khan. It won’t take me a minute.’

  ‘Good, good. And Madeleine, since Mrs Choudry was my last appointment of the day, you may take the rest of the afternoon off. There really is no need for you stay.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. If you’re sure, Dr Khan?’ she almost squeals in delight.

  ‘Yes, yes, absolutely. Off you go.’

  I hear her putting on her coat, then there’s a pause, and the click of her handbag opening as she no doubt rummages for a mirror to check that her make-up is applied thickly enough. Then, finally, the sound of the street door closing behind her.

  I spend the next ten minutes calmly checking that everything I need is in place, then settle back in my chair to wait. After a while, I look at my watch. Three minutes past the hour. It’s unlike him to be late, but then again, it’s not always easy for him to arrange these visits discreetly. It may be he has had some difficulty concocting the necessary lies. No matter. I will be patient, even though the next twenty minutes will perhaps be the most important of my life. I note that my hands are relaxed and steady, without the faintest sign of a tremor, and my heart rate is normal – somewhat slower than normal, in fact. When I first began my medical studies, I was always fascinated by how people’s bodies betrayed them, showing their weakness. Under the smallest amount of stress their hearts would race, their blood pressure would surge. Whereas I was able to control my breathing and heart rate at will, a well-practised discipline.

  There were many things I learned in the camps, but that was a skill I had from birth, and it meant that however long I had to wait, I would remain calm and focused – ready to do the will of the almighty at the appointed time.

  The intercom buzzes, and I press the button to open the street door. Another half-minute, and my patient raps lightly on the door to my consulting room and walks in.

  He is dressed in a sober, dark-blue suit, subtly tailored to obscure the signs of his mostly sedentary occupation, with some sort of regimental tie firmly knotted over a crisp white shirt and Oxford brogues polished to a military standard – every inch the confident, powerful member of this country’s ruling elite. But his face, as I stand and gesture warmly for him to seat himself, tells another story. There is a twitch at the corner of one eye, his skin glistens with an unhealthy pallor, and his tongue nervously plays over his thin lips.

  Like me, he is a man with a secret.

  I have already made my diagnosis before he has settled himself in the chair, but it’s important to maintain the formalities. I want him to be at ease. ‘Mr Day,’ I say, in a voice oozing with feigned concern, ‘how are you feeling?’

  ‘Actually –’ he pauses to wipe his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief – ‘I’m not doing terribly well.’

  I nod sympathetically, as if drug addiction was an unfortunate accident that could befall the most virtuous citizen, rather than the sign of a weak and corrupted personality.

  ‘The truth is, since our last appointment . . . well, I . . . the first couple of weeks went pretty well. Those tablets you gave me really seemed to be working. I wasn’t having the cravings. At least not so I couldn’t get through them. I hit the port a little hard at times, I’ll admit. You know, just to get through a sticky patch. The pressure of the job, I don’t need to tell you.’

  I purse my lips and nod, leaning forward slightly over my steepled fingers as I maintain eye contact, the very model of a concerned physician. But inside I feel like vomiting. The pressure of the job. Bombing innocent women and children, you mean. And now you want my sympathy. You want my help. I feel my anger rising, like smoke, then breathe out and let it drift away.

  ‘All right, Mr Day, of course, I understand. Let’s start by talking through exactly what has been happening.’

  ‘Please, call me Philip,’ he says, as if he is granting me some generous permission. Even when they are desperate for your help, these people can’t help acting as if they are the ones doing you a favour. No matter. He is about to di
scover how fragile his hold on power really is, for all his sense of entitlement.

  ‘Thank you, Philip. I’m very glad you feel you can put your trust in me. Now, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but did you come here alone today, or is there a gentleman waiting outside – one of those young men with the short haircuts and the big shoulders?’ I smile conspiratorially. ‘I only ask because I have cleared my diary for this afternoon, so we can have as much time as we need, and I wouldn’t want your, err . . . guardian, to become concerned.’

  He chuckles mirthlessly. ‘No, I’ve managed to give them the slip today. They’re solid chaps on the whole, pretty reliable. But you know I simply can’t let a whiff of this get out, what you’ve been doing for me, or it would be the end of my career. You know what the media are like. Bloody vultures. Anything to boost their circulation and damn the national interest.’

  I shake my head sadly, suppressing a smile. I’m still astonished that he thinks he is safe confessing his problems to me, as if the rules of doctor–patient confidentiality are unbreachable. Perhaps he thinks he is still back at public school, where one boy telling on another to a prefect would be unthinkable. Well, at least he’s right that I won’t go running to the tabloids.

  ‘Indeed, indeed. Well, let’s start by taking a look at you.’ I take a blood-pressure sleeve out of a drawer in my desk. ‘If you wouldn’t mind just slipping your shirt off, we’ll get this out of the way and then we can see what’s been going on.’

  He takes off his shirt, and I put the pressure cuff around his left bicep. As I start to pump it up, I pause to reflect on everything that has led to this moment. It was four months ago that the Foreign Secretary first came to my clinic here in Harley Street, and I’ll admit that at first I didn’t recognize him. He had made the appointment under an assumed name, of course, and was dressed quite shabbily. But I think what fooled me initially was that this man was quite clearly ill, whereas whenever I had seen the Foreign Secretary on television, he almost glowed with self-importance, as solid and shining as one of the pompous statues along Whitehall. Well, perhaps there was something to say for the ruling class’s stiff upper lip after all. He had certainly managed to mask his addiction so far. But he’d realized that if he didn’t do something about it soon, the declining state of his health would become apparent. He had heard about my speciality – a speciality, I might add, that I had pursued precisely with this end in mind: to ensnare individuals in positions of influence – and threw himself on my mercy. I’ve tried all the usual methods, he told me, but nothing has worked. A friend told me about you, about this new treatment you were developing, so I thought what the hell, let’s give it a try. It was in that moment, when he assumed once more the casual arrogance of his public persona, that I recognized him. And I realized that a fly – bigger and fatter than I could have hoped for – had blundered into my web. I now had the chance to hold accountable the very person who was responsible for sending planes and soldiers into our countries to kill our people. And in a way that this country and its corrupt rulers would never forget.

  As he puts his shirt back on, I walk across my windowless room to the drugs cabinet. ‘Are the tremors getting worse, Philip?’

  ‘Yes, I can normally feel them about to come on, and I’ve just been popping one of those tablets. But they’ve stopped really having much effect – even when I take a couple.’

  I frown, a schoolmaster disappointed with a favourite pupil.

  ‘Look, I know you said don’t take more than the one, but I was desperate. I am desperate. I need something else to help me get control of this thing.’

  I pat him on the shoulder. His shirt is unpleasantly damp to the touch. ‘Don’t worry, Philip. There is something we can try. Something much stronger. It has to be injected, though. Once every four or five days, maybe less frequently, depending on how your body reacts to it.’

  ‘Could you do it now?’ he asks in a pleading voice.

  I pretend to hesitate. ‘Well, it’s somewhat experimental at the moment. We really ought to do one or two more tests.’

  He grabs my sleeve. ‘Please, Dr Khan. I’m willing to try anything, to do whatever it takes.’

  He’s babbling pathetically now, and I’m almost tempted to take a scalpel and gut him like a pig, right here in my office. Instead, I put my hand over his and give him my most reassuring smile, before turning back to the drugs cabinet.

  ‘If you’re happy for me to do it, then I think I may have . . . yes! Here we are.’ I remove a syringe from its protective wrapping and insert the needle into an ampoule of colourless liquid. I draw the liquid out carefully, filling the syringe until a drop spurts from the end, then flick it with a fingernail to check for air bubbles. I lean over him and rub the inside of his elbow joint with an antiseptic wipe. Not that I care if he gets an infection, but the ritual keeps him calm, safe in the knowledge that this wise doctor is doing everything he can for him.

  ‘OK, here we go, small scratch.’ Watching the needle pierce the white skin and sink deep into a vein, I gently push the syringe and watch the solution disappear into his arm. I give a silent thanks to God. Removing the needle, I ask him to place some cotton wool over the injection site, maintaining the charade right to the end. Then I watch as his eyes close. His mouth opens, releasing a thin stream of drool, and his head falls forward.

  I feel a rush of joy, knowing that he is finally in my power. But I can’t relax yet. We need to get him out of here while the window of opportunity remains open. Switching my computer monitor over to the feed from the security camera outside, I deactivate the locking mechanism for the rear entrance of the clinic. I can see the black private ambulance waiting already. Two men exit it the moment they hear the door unlock.

  Leaving the Foreign Secretary slumped in his chair, I go to the corner of the office and unfold a light wheelchair, along with a blanket, hat and scarf. I position the wheelchair next to his limp body and put on the brakes. The office door opens and two young men, dressed smartly in black trousers and long-sleeved shirts, walk in.

  ‘Masood, Hamza, As-Salam-u-Alaikum.’

  I embrace Masood first, while his younger brother Hamza stares at the unconscious body in the chair, like a hyena presented with a fresh carcass. He turns to me, grinning, and embraces me. I can feel the power in his grip, the aggression he is barely keeping under control. He might be physically smaller than his brother, but he makes up for it with sheer force of will. God has chosen his servants well, I think.

  Masood places his hands directly under Philip Day’s armpits and hauls him onto the wheelchair, while Hamza swings his legs into position and places his feet on the pads, before settling the blanket over him. Masood places the large black woollen hat over the sagging head, then wraps a bulky scarf about his neck. No one would recognize him now. Just another unfortunate sufferer from a debilitating disease being taken from a consultant’s clinic to some private hospital a few streets away.

  Picking the Foreign Secretary’s phone up off the floor, I usher the brothers out with their precious cargo. ‘Remember what I have told you. Move slowly. Let God guide you.’

  As they wheel him towards their ambulance, I look again at the phone. An iPhone with passcode. No matter, I just need to disable it so it can’t be tracked to this location. I drop the phone into my sink and fill it with water while glancing at my computer screen. The feed from the security cameras shows the black private ambulance pulling away and disappearing down the alley.

  It is done. Our day is finally here.

  16

  Down at Alan’s tech bay, he’s left all the fresh batteries out for us in their charging docks. Just as I start to think of what else I can do, my phone rings, blocked user ID as normal.

  ‘Yeah, Logan.’

  ‘Mate, it’s Alex, I’m ringing round everyone to see if they fancy a drink tonight. We’re stood down until tomorrow night. You up for it?’

  I try not to sound too desperate. ‘Sure. Who else is coming?’
r />   ‘Riaz and Claire might not because they’ve been away from home for a while, but I think everyone else will be there.’

  Funny, I assumed everyone else would vanish back into their normal lives as soon as we were stood down, but I guess we’re really a team now, and like any team, there’s a need to loosen up and download over a few drinks.

  ‘Sounds good. Where do we meet?’

  ‘There’s a town five miles west of the camp. Fancy wine bar near the town hall called Chancers. Know the one?’

  ‘I’ll find it. See you there. What’s our cover?’ There’s no reason to think anyone’s going to be curious about a group of people letting their hair down in a bar, as long as they don’t act too loud or stand out in any way, but we’re playing close to home and it’s possible there could be guards or other personnel from the camp who recognize us.

  ‘Yeah, thought of that. We’ve met our monthly target of untaxed vehicles for the DVLA, so we’re out celebrating. Sound OK?’

  ‘Perfect. See you soon.’

  I make my way to the bar in a little Ford Fiesta – once I’d made sure there was no operational kit left lying around. I don’t want to give Leyton-Hughes any extra leverage over me. The green waves of moorland on the horizon are fading into darkness as I follow the parking signs in the town. I see what has to be the wine bar in a row of shops and trendy-looking cafe-bistro-type places. The outside is painted a glossy black and the inside is bright and cheerful. Not exactly my kind of place, but I guess if you work for the DVLA it might look inviting.

  Walking in, I scan the space. There’s a long bar area and elevated levels, one step higher, with some tables. Bare light bulbs showing large filaments hang from the industrial steel above, illuminating a crowd of well-dressed punters, laughing and joking over expensive-looking drinks. No sign of the team, so I decide to use the toilets and check the fire exit at the back while I have time. Again, we’re not on an op, so there’s no reason to think we might have to leave this place in a hurry, but I feel better just covering the bases.