‘A newspaper . . . called the Herald,’ Abdul blurted.
‘Why do they want to speak to the kidnappers?’ asked Hassan.
Abdul was about to reply but Hassan interrupted.
‘They want either to interview them, interview him, or they want to pay a ransom. Right?’
‘You are right.’
Hassan nodded.‘The ransom will be in the millions.’
‘I don’t know anything about the money. Not right now,’ Abdul said.
‘They sent you out looking for the American without money? You are either crazy or stupid . . . I hope you don’t think I am either.’
‘They also do not know the cost of doing this kind of business. That’s why I am here.’
Hassan studied Abdul, weighing him up. ‘I’m supposed to give you a price for my information and then you tell those you work for, and then they give me the money - is that how this is supposed to work?’
‘Does that not suit you, Hassan? If not, please guide us.’
‘Tell me something, you little shit. How did you get into this line of business? I cut your hand off and now you’re working in a business that deals in millions. It was good fortune for you. I should take a piece of your money.’
‘Can you at least tell me if you can get in touch with the men who have the American?’ Abdul asked, desperate to get Hassan on track.
‘I think you are trying to make a fool of me, little man.’ Hassan swayed a little as the drink soaked into his brain.
Abdul warned himself to be more careful. He had never seen Hassan drunk before but suspected that it made the man even more dangerous. ‘Please, Hassan. I am only the messenger. They would not trust me with more than I have discussed with you.’
‘I believe that,’ Hassan slurred, putting down his pistol and lurching around as he took another swig of Scotch. ‘It’s a dangerous errand they’ve sent you on.’
‘Perhaps I should come back another time.’
‘Is that what you would ask the lion as you stood in his cave?’
Abdul’s concern went up a notch as he gauged the distance to the front door, wondering if he could make it outside at the run before Hassan picked up his gun and shot him. Abdul reckoned he might reach the door but he feared it would be as far as he got before Hassan’s bullets cut him down. ‘Then how must this work, Hassan? Please tell me.’
‘You want information and I want money for it,’ Hassan said, draining the glass again. ‘It is a marriage of the two,’ he continued, reaching for a packet of cigarettes. ‘You have asked for the information but you do not have money. So how can it now proceed? This is the question.’
Abdul watched Hassan as he laboriously set about lighting a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you give me a price for your information? Then I will tell those I work for.’
‘Idiot,’ Hassan scoffed as he picked up the gun and somehow managed to hold on to it while he poured yet another drink.
Abdul felt his own pistol inside his jacket pocket. His advantage lay in Hassan’s drunkenness but he would be foolish to underestimate the man’s experience with violence of all kinds. Hassan was unpredictable even when he was sober. He could lose his temper at any second and put a bullet into Abdul just because he was there.
Hassan looked over the rim of the glass, fixing Abdul with his heavy-lidded stare. ‘One hundred thousand dollars,’ he declared.
The price was unimportant now. Abdul had not imagined Hassan being this difficult to deal with and his every thought was focused on getting out of the house. ‘I’ll tell them,’ Abdul said as he took a step towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Hassan said as he put down the glass and swung his gun towards Abdul, holding it level for a moment before lowering it as if it had suddenly become too heavy.
‘To tell my people your demands.’
‘You think I’m so stupid? Eh? You don’t think I know you want revenge for your arm . . . You leave and then the next people through my door are American soldiers who will torture me for the information. ’
Abdul was not prepared for such a response. ‘If that was true I would not have needed to come here,’ he said, thinking swiftly. ‘The American government does not negotiate. That is why they do not know. The newspaper is dealing with this. They would not tell the military.’
It took a while but Hassan began to see the sense in Abdul’s reasoning. ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘I will have my own hostage to make sure that you don’t cross me.’
Abdul had no idea what the man meant. He watched as Hassan tucked the pistol into his belt and reached for his jacket. ‘I don’t understand,’ Abdul said.
Hassan burped loudly as he looked at Abdul, a knowing smirk forming on his face. ‘I need a hostage to ensure I get my money . . . We’ll go to your apartment and I’ll stay with your sweet little sister until your newspaper comes up with the money.’
Abdul was horrified.‘You cannot do that,’ he gasped, unable to hide the alarm in his voice.
‘I do what I want. And if you don’t come back with the money . . . well, then you have a problem. And don’t be long. I don’t know how long I can spend in a room with your pretty little sister without showing her some affection,’ Hassan said, a grin forming on his sweaty face.
The blood pounded through Abdul’s veins and throbbed in his temples at the thought of Hassan even entering his apartment. The image of the man grabbing Tasneen grew frighteningly clear. There was no way he’d let the pig leave this house with that objective in mind. Abdul took the gun from his pocket and pointed it at Hassan.
Hassan’s brain was addled with alcohol and he’d already taken a step towards Abdul before the sight of the pistol stopped him. He swayed as he looked into Abdul’s eyes. ‘So I was right. This is what you came to do. Murder me.’
‘No,’ Abdul said.‘But now it seems like a good idea.’
‘You don’t have the guts.’
‘Maybe I didn’t before the night you cut off my hand.’ Abdul’s voice quivered slightly. ‘It doesn’t take courage to murder a man like this. Look at you.You’re not brave. It only takes great cruelty or hate and I have plenty enough of one of those.’
‘So. The boy thinks he is a man now. Perhaps you are ready to join us at last.’
‘Go to hell,’ Abdul said, the pistol shaking slightly in his hand as he tightened his jaw. The boom as the gun fired was the loudest sound Abdul had ever heard, or so it seemed in the small dingy airless room where even the clatter of a cockroach’s legs as it scurried up the cracked walls was amplified.
Hassan shrieked, grabbed his thigh and dropped heavily to the floor, falling onto his backside.There was no blood: the round had punctured the skin neatly and the meaty flesh closed around the entry hole.The intense pain that Hassan was feeling came from the red-hot bullet lodging inside the thick muscle and the shattered femur as his weight collapsed the limb that could no longer support him.
Abdul kept the gun aimed at Hassan. The man had not made another sound after his initial scream but his face was screwed tightly against the pain.
Hassan opened his tear-filled eyes and blinked furiously in an effort to focus on Abdul. ‘You shot me!’
Abdul was surprised by how easy it had been to fire a bullet into a man - or into this particular man, at any rate. There was something else about the experience that he had not expected. It had felt very good indeed. This chunk of metal in his hand was more than just a tool that fired a projectile. Weapons like it had made kings and brought down nations and now it had in a second reversed his vile relationship of servitude and torment with Hassan to turn Abdul into the undisputed master. But if it was to stay that way Abdul would have to finish the job. So he fired again.
This time Abdul was prepared for the explosion and he watched something red fly off Hassan’s shoulder as the bullet struck it. Hassan screamed as he brought a hand up to clutch at the new wound that, unlike the first, immediately bled heavily. The masterful feeling only increased as Abdul took
a step forward, adjusting his aim to point the muzzle at Hassan’s head. Abdul was about to pull the trigger a third time when he suddenly remembered why he was there in the first place. ‘Where is he?’ Abdul asked, his voice now cold and decisive.
Hassan looked at him through drooping eyelids, his mouth open while his head and torso moved with every heavy gasp. ‘The . . . Islamic . . . secret . . . army have him,’ he said, the effort obviously causing him more pain. ‘Black Banners.’
‘I know that. They were on the television. I want to know who I can contact.’
‘And . . . and then . . . you will . . . kill me.’
‘You are not in a position to barter.’
‘My money. You will . . . keep it for yourself . . . I have taught you well.’
‘There is no money, Hassan. Your life is at an end. You are bartering for nothing. Tell me and I will send you on your way. If you do not, then I will leave you here for the rats to finish off. Think about it.’
Hassan understood and quickly came to terms with his drastically shortened future. Death did not horrify him, not as much as it would have appalled a person who had something however small to live for. Hassan had been an unhappy boy who had grown into an unhappy man. To him, no human life had any value beyond what it would fetch in ransom money, not even his own. He had never feared dying and this stoicism had nothing to do with religion. He did not really care what Abdul did to him. Perhaps the alcohol that he’d drunk made this acceptance easier but Hassan would not admit that. He knew this moment was his last and he grinned at the irony. ‘My . . . my father told me . . . my . . . my weakness would one day kill me.’
Abdul was not interested but allowed the man to ramble on in the hope that he would eventually tell him what he wanted.
‘The others . . . they wanted . . . to kill you . . . I said no.That was . . . my weakness.The old fool . . . he was right after all.’
Abdul realised that Hassan had accepted his fate: it was time to go. Despite his earlier threat to leave the man alive for the rats to gnaw he could not risk abandoning him like this in case he stayed conscious long enough for his brother Ali or the others to find him.
Abdul was about to deliver the coup de grâce when Hassan struggled to say more. ‘Fallujah,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in hell.’ Hassan looked for his gun beside him, reached for it and wrapped his bloody fingers around the grip.
Abdul squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand, the noise making him flinch even though he had braced himself against it. Hassan’s head jerked back as blood gushed from his eye socket, his mouth gaping open. He moved no more.
Abdul walked out of the room and down the hall, opened the door without any difficulty, stepped outside and headed for his car. He tossed his pistol onto the passenger seat, dug the car key from his pocket, started the engine and accelerated down the road, tyres screeching. He passed Hassan’s house, turned the corner at the end of the road too wide, almost hitting a parked car on the other side, switched on his headlights and sped away up the road.
Twenty minutes later he came to a stop outside his apartment block, turned off the lights and engine and sat in silence while he absorbed the implications of the evening’s activities. He had achieved much more than he had ever hoped for or would have believed possible.There was no doubt that he had broken down many barriers since losing his hand but Abdul was shocked at the type and speed of the progress he had made. Then it dawned on him how he could have discovered these qualities in himself long ago had he put his mind to it. All those years of weakness could have been avoided.This night had proven how lethally competent he was when left to his own devices.
Abdul took a deep breath, pocketed his gun and made ready to head upstairs, no doubt to an interrogation by Tasneen. He would not tell her anything, of course. She would never be able to imagine how her little brother had killed a man that night.
Abdul climbed out of the car and took a moment to consider his likely fate from now on. The suspicion that he was on a great journey was even stronger now and that he was developing the skills to complete it. Fate had removed one of his hands but he was now more powerful than when he’d had them both.
Abdul looked to the sky as if he was staring into the face of Allah. ‘Allah akbar,’ he said softly. Then he walked to the entrance of his apartment.
11
Plans Within Plans
Stanza removed his headset, got up from in front of the computer, poured himself a cup of coffee and looked through the closed balcony windows over the city. He took a sip of the hot black liquid, enjoying just about the only reminder of home in this God-awful place while pondering the hour-long conversation he’d just had with Patterson. It was early in the morning in Milwaukee and the foreign editor had not appreciated being woken up by his bedside phone to hear Stanza on the other end of the line telling him to get to his computer for an important conversation.
When Patterson came online, though, he was in a better mood and immediately pressured Stanza for the story so far. When Stanza began by describing the immediate problems that faced them it was as if Patterson had not heard him. The man launched into a plethora of thematic suggestions of his own, based on the premise of a young heir to a fortune who fled a stifling future in the family business in search of love and adventure. Stanza asked if old man Stanmore would appreciate the monstrous-father inference but Patterson brushed the question aside. He said that every good plot and subplot had a protagonist and antagonist and that this piece was not simply news. It was an epic.
Patterson went on to impress upon Stanza the need to be prepared for several possible scenarios, at which Stanza rolled his eyes. The first and most ideal was young Stanmore’s imminent release into Stanza’s hands after the payment of a ransom. This would read like a hero’s triumphant return to his family after escaping death at the hands of vile Islamic insurgents.The Herald would, of course, enjoy the acclaim for their pivotal role in securing the young man’s release. Then there was the tragic scenario: young Stanmore getting his head cut off. That would read like a eulogy for a young life prematurely extinguished while in pursuit of love and adventure. Patterson suggested it should be written in the first person: ‘I did this’ and ‘I did that’, ‘I went here to speak to these people’, ‘I was approached’, ‘I investigated further.’ Stanza had no objections to this idea. Neither did he think Patterson had gone too far when he expressed a belief that the piece would have the potential for a Pulitzer Prize nomination.
Stanza eventually steered the conversation back to his main concerns: the need to find the people who were holding young Stanmore and open up a line of communication with them. To Stanza’s utter amazement Patterson said that he thought Stanza was already involved in that stage. Stanza’s frustration grew with every revelation of Patterson’s ignorance of the realities of Iraq. Finally, unable to contain himself, he burst out exclaiming that it was not a case of simply picking up the phone, calling directory enquiries and asking for insurgency headquarters and the offices of the Black Banner Brigade. Patterson did not appreciate the sarcasm.
When Stanza introduced the subject of money Patterson was not so responsive and simply made excuses about why there was no progress to report in that area. Stanza’s mood turned ice-cold at this point and he warned Patterson in no uncertain terms that the success of the story depended on hard cash. Stanza did not allow Patterson to interrupt and went into detail based on Abdul’s suggestions. The summing-up was simple: no money, no story. It was the first time that he had experienced Patterson unable to deliver a tirade in defence of an indefensible position. When Patterson finally asked how much money he needed Stanza held on to the first figure that came into his head, doubled it and then doubled it again. ‘One hundred thousand,’ he said.
Patterson went quiet for several seconds but then calmly said he would get as much of it as he could to Baghdad as soon as he found a quick way of doing it.
‘And the ransom amount?’ Stanza asked.
‘It’s being discussed.’
‘I need a ballpark figure at least.’
‘We don’t have one yet.’
Stanza felt it was safe to assume that no one at head office had been willing to start such a discussion.‘Fine,’ Stanza said. ‘My advice is to be prepared to part with five to ten million.’
Patterson was stunned.
‘Those are the figures the French and Italians are rumoured to have paid,’ Stanza said. ‘I’m afraid they’ve set a tough precedent for high-profile kidnapping payments.’
Patterson had little more to say after that and assured Stanza that he would get back to him as soon as he had talked with the publisher and old man Stanmore.
Stanza was satisfied by the way the conversation had gone and felt that his stock with the Herald’s management had greatly improved. It was now up to him to produce the goods. The only scenario Stanza wanted to see unfold was one where he made contact with the kidnappers and eventually negotiated young Stanmore’s release. But for the moment the chances of that appeared to be hanging on the abilities of one young disabled fixer and somewhere between the previous afternoon and that morning Stanza had for some reason lost confidence in Abdul. He began to doubt that he would ever hear from the man again: he’d sent him on an errand that was clearly out of his league. The question was who he could contact next. Mallory was his only source at present but having come up with that one-handed Arab youngster in the first place it reflected badly on him.
A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. He put down his coffee and went to answer it. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Abdul.’
Stanza was surprised. Suddenly he hoped he was wrong about the young Arab. He would learn soon enough, he reckoned, and opened the door to see Abdul standing back politely. ‘Come in,’ Stanza said.
The Protector Page 27
