Resolution to Kill

by E. V. Seymour

  ‘Why are you following me?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Tallis wrenched Faghiri’s head up, plaiting his fingers through the thick black curls, and banged it back down. ‘OK. OK. I wondered what you were doing here. I was curious.’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘Visiting friends.’

  ‘In the IJO?’ The Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard.

  ‘That is ridiculous. I am a student.’

  ‘You’re a spy. Why did you flee Berlin?’ Tallis snarled.

  ‘I did not flee. I left. I work here now.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell Harry. He’s pretty pissed off. We don’t like being played, Alia.’

  ‘I did not play Mr Schwartz,’ Faghiri protested. ‘I…’

  ‘Where’s Clay?’

  ‘Who?’

  Tallis took a deep breath. The bewildered and innocent line was starting to grate. ‘The American, the guy with me in Berlin.’

  ‘Him?’ Faghiri said. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Because he came here following a lead on your Muslim brothers. What are they up to? Are they back in the hostage-taking game?’

  ‘This is crap. I know nothing,’ Faghiri said, his voice sparking with aggression.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Tallis said, grabbing Faghiri’s hair for a second time.

  ‘Indeed he is,’ a voice said as a hood was thrown over Tallis’s head and four pairs of hands seized hold of his arms and legs and dragged him to a waiting vehicle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  So far all they’d done was knock him about. Tallis took the blows, absorbed the pain. Resistance was pointless. It might get him killed. Clay had obviously stirred a stick in a very dirty pond. Tallis wondered what had happened to him. Whatever it was, association linked him to the American, and that wasn’t good. A certain sector of Islam rejoiced at the capture and killing of Westerners, especially Britons and Americans. That he was now identified as a spy made his fate even more unpredictable. There was only one guarantee: pain and then some more.

  Loud Middle Eastern music belted from the CD player. A stifling thick black hood over his head made the simple, taken-for-granted act of breathing torture. His hands were bound painfully together with flex. He guessed he was travelling in a 4x4 and had probably been in motion for fifteen minutes. He was butted up between two men and body odour hung in the air like a cloud of poisonous gas.

  Finally the vehicle pulled up. Tallis was dragged out and roughly pushed and pulled over uneven ground and into an area where his captors’ voices reverberated. A hangar, warehouse or factory, Tallis presumed, feeling deeply unhappy about the implication. It was one thing to be captured by Western security forces, another to be interrogated by people without rules and little if any respect for human rights.

  He was herded up a set of metal stairs, his heels chiming with each step. By now he had the impression that he had passed from one set of hands to another. It did nothing to allay his fear. He was effectively alone and disowned. Nobody was going to come to his rescue.

  Frogmarched down a corridor, he heard a door clank open. Shoved into another room and hauled into what he presumed was the centre, the hood was whipped from off his head. He blinked, trying to orientate himself and get his bearings.

  A man stood before him with a face that looked as if it were carved from bark. He had

  deep-set eyes and thin high cheekbones. Tall, around six four, his build was slim but no less muscular. Five others stood in a circle around him, including Alia Faghiri, his cheeks a mess of grazes, bruises and cuts. None hid their faces. Tallis took it to be a bad sign. Worse, he could not stall or play for time. There were certain things he could not lie about. They already had the shout lines in their head. They knew who he was, for whom he worked, and about his connection to Clay.

  The main man introduced himself as Kamil. He spoke perfectly accented English, his voice as smooth and strong as silk. Privately educated in England, Tallis guessed.

  ‘You have been brought here to answer our questions. It is not our intention to hurt you.’

  And the road to hell was paved with good intentions, Tallis thought grimly. He didn’t believe Kamil. These guys dealt in hurt. ‘We know that you work for British intelligence,’ Kamil continued, glancing at Faghiri appreciatively.

  ‘I don’t.’

  Kamil flashed a smile like a blade. ‘Please, do not insult me with lies.’

  ‘I’m not. I no longer work for them. I quit.’ The conviction in Tallis’s voice seemed to wrong-foot Kamil, who paused in thought.

  ‘Once a spy, always a spy,’ Faghiri burst out angrily.

  Kamil barked in his own language, roughly told Faghiri to shut up. Kamil turned his attention back to Tallis. ‘Then why are you looking for the American with whom you worked?’

  ‘Because he’s the only friend I have.’

  Kamil raised a dark eyebrow. He was getting answers, but they weren’t the answers he expected, Tallis believed.

  Kamil slipped a packet of cigarettes from his pockets, leisurely took one out, tapped it on the side and placed it between his lips. He lit it with a gold-plated lighter. Drawing and exhaling with exquisite pleasure, he said, ‘Are you on the run, Mr Tallis?’

  Tallis took a calculated gamble. ‘Yes,’ he confessed. He had no trouble mastering his voice or maintaining control of his legs or his breathing. He was speaking the truth.

  Kamil’s eyes glittered in their sockets. A bloodless smile touched his lips. ‘Then you must have a great deal of information with which to trade.’

  Tallis fought the urge to protest. Essentially, he’d walked straight into Kamil’s trap. Added to this, he was stateless. Nobody knew or cared where he was. His captors could do with him as they wished. His predicament was not dissimilar to prisoners held in judicial limbo in Bagram, Afghanistan, or those held without charge in prisons across the world.

  ‘Not any more.’ Tallis smiled.

  ‘That’s for me to decide.’ Kamil looked to Faghiri, who, with two steps, moved forward and punched Tallis hard on the jaw. Tallis rocked, felt a trickle of warm blood course down his chin. ‘I apologise, but it was necessary for Alia,’ Kamil said, knifing Tallis with another of his smiles.

  ‘No worries,’ Tallis muttered, forcing his jaw to work. He felt dizzy.

  Kamil took another drag of his cigarette like a man who has all the time in the world. ‘Bruce Fitz,’ he said.

  Tallis glanced at Alia Faghiri. Denial was pointless. ‘What of him?’

  Kamil smiled. ‘He is a spy like you.’

  ‘He’s dead. That’s all I know.’

  ‘This is pleasing. He was an enemy of Iran. What was your business with him?’

  Tallis suddenly realised that Fitz was more important to Clay than he’d let on. ‘I had no business with him. He went missing. I was trying to locate him.’

  Kamil gave a slow nod. ‘On what were you working here?’

  Keep it simple, Tallis thought. ‘I was sent to monitor the situation.’

  ‘The oppression of my people.’

  ‘The oppression of all people. Seems like Bosnia is sliding back into ethnic rivalry.’

  ‘For which the Serbs, aided by the Russians, are to blame,’ Kamil said, as though it were a matter of record. ‘And you thought you’d come and spy on the enemy?’

  ‘That wasn’t in my remit.’

  ‘Then what was?’

  Tallis fell back on what could best be described as the politician’s response: answering a more general question. ‘If Bosnia becomes a flashpoint, there’s every chance it could precipitate a conflict on a larger scale.’

  ‘East clashes with West?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d go that far.’

  ‘The start of the Third World War?’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘As an Englishman, you will appreciate irony,’ Kamil said. ‘Is it not ironic that Western powers concentrate on Afghanistan and Pakistan, disrupting
both countries with their troops, killing Muslims, and yet they send only two men to Bosnia?’

  Against his will, he felt his cheeks chill and pale. Kamil would be thinking special mission, black operation. Again, his thoughts turned to Clay. Had they already picked him up? If so, had he confessed? What the hell might he have told them about Fitz? Setting Clay aside, no way was Kamil going to buy his story even though his tale of cutting loose was true.

  ‘Tell me,’ Kamil said with a sly smile. ‘Whose side will you be on when the time comes?’

  ‘My side,’ Tallis said, defiant.

  Kamil turned on his heel, paced the room, the others following his every move. Tallis thought of Josif and his acolytes, thought how little difference there was between the two opposing groups. Their grievances were the same. Their hatred was the same. Never ceased to amaze him that it took only a few radicals to stir up trouble and violence.

  ‘You know what is happening out there?’ Kamil said, spreading one elegant hand towards the door. ‘The holding centres have already been secretly built in eastern and northern Bosnia. You think we are going to sit back and allow mass slaughter of our brothers and sisters again?’ he said, voice rising, losing its mellifluous quality.

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Tallis said, more in hope than belief. Was the place really about to kick off? Had the Iranians suspected all along, or had they played a part in stoking the situation for their own ends? He wondered about the kidnappings again. Maybe Clay had been right all along: nothing to do with vengeful women and everything connected to destabilisation.

  Kamil stopped pacing, leant towards him, nose to nose. ‘It will, and you and your American friends are powerless to stop it because you are part of the problem.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Kamil’s voice was like a lion’s roar in his ear.

  Tallis repeated the same answer. This time Kamil did not hold back his men. The gloves were off. All five piled in. Tallis believed he was a dead man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He came to slowly, like a diver coming up for air from deep water. Myriad images flashed through his mind: the girl with sad eyes; Bilal; Beckett; Clay. As he surfaced, a clear memory snapped into place of being hauled across a factory floor. Probably accounted for the oil on his clothing. There had been rolls of coiled metal, steel strips and machinery and unfamiliar tools. They’d hoisted him on to a hook hanging on a length of wire from the ceiling and beaten him until, bruised and bleeding, he’d blacked out.

  He was in a small, windowless room, an electric strip-light giving off a stale yellow glare. He wasn’t tied up. No need. He wasn’t going anywhere. He had a thirst on him like a donkey’s in the desert. His bones ached. He was in pain. He suspected that two of his lower ribs were cracked. Blood oozed from his left ear, rendering him partially deaf. And he was cold, bloody cold. As for his mental state, he was still in play. He’d worked out who was who with regard to his captors. It seemed that Alia and a young guy called Samir were regarded as high up the pecking order. Each had what could best be described as psychopathic tendencies. The one to watch was Kamil. Underneath that reasonable and rational façade lurked a fruitcake.

  In the murky world of Middle Eastern politics there were lots of lies and double-dealings, but it was a matter of record that Iran specialised in state-sponsored terrorism. For every high-profile kidnap, every downed airliner, every American embassy bombing, an Iranian fingerprint could usually be found. Bruce Fitz had rattled the Iranians’ cage. In Kamil’s eyes, by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Tallis was connected.

  He turned slowly and painfully away from the cold brick wall against which he’d been dumped, and faced the door. Right now he would have welcomed the sight of Saul’s vapid features. How stupid and premature to cast himself adrift, Tallis thought, issuing a slow ironic smile. Not that the cavalry was ever coming to the rescue. For the past three years he’d worked off the books, his lone status what the security services most valued. Individuals had tactical and flexible advantages over a team. They were lethal to an enemy. One only had to look at the lone suicide bomber to work that one out. And that’s why his latest dealings with his paymasters made no sense. Notwithstanding a change in government, a different approach to security, he’d never been dragged into an office environment before. He’d always been briefed, usually somewhere else, and sent out into the field. For the first time he questioned whether his earlier confinement was part of a deliberate strategy of lock him up, let him go, see where he runs.

  The sound of footsteps forced him to sit up straight. Mental muscles were all. After a while, bruise upon bruise, even the pain blotted out. His main objective was to survive. The door burst open. Alia and another of Kamil’s henchmen exploded into the room like wild animals let loose into the wild after a period of enforced captivity. They dragged him out, yanked him into another room, stripped him naked and hosed him down with icy water. With nowhere to run or hide, he finally curled into a heap on the floor and tried to stop himself from drowning. They left him after that. No more questions. He guessed this was an attempt to soften him up.

  Back in his cell, he tried to rub his arms and legs to blend some warmth back into his broken body. He didn’t know what was worse, the cold or the pain. Eventually, probably hours later, they came for him again. He was given back his clothes and offered a bowl of thin, lukewarm soup. Tallis greedily tipped the bowl to his lips. It had a sour, rancid taste, but food was food and he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in a couple of days. Afterwards he was taken for more interrogation. The questions were the same. His answers were the same with superfluous, rambling, meaningless additions calculated to waste time. Kamil was not an easy man to kid. He never laid a finger on Tallis, never raised his voice, but Tallis never underestimated Kamil’s ruthless determination to pick his brains.

  ‘For how long have you been working with Clay?’ Kamil said, the first time he’d actually mentioned the American by name. Was that significant? Tallis wondered.

  ‘Weeks,’ Tallis said, thinking, give the man something.

  ‘What was your brief?’

  He repeated what he’d told Kamil before, to monitor the situation and any developments in Bosnia.

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Above my pay grade to ask.’

  ‘How long have you worked for the security services?’

  ‘I don’t work for them.’

  ‘How long did you work for the security services?’

  Tallis suppressed a smile. If you were smart, a question could tell you a lot about how much knowledge your opponent really had. Kamil, it seemed, had nothing of value. ‘A year.’

  ‘You lie.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘And they send you here?’ Kamil’s tone was disparaging.

  ‘I speak the language.’

  ‘A man of many talents. You also speak Farsi, according to Alia. As you yourself said, you are aware of our presence in the area. You have come to spy on us. Isn’t that right, Mr Tallis?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I ask again: why are you here?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘No, you told me what you wanted me to believe,’ Kamil said, eyeball to eyeball. ‘You asked Alia about hostage-taking. What did you mean?’

  ‘I was referring to Fitz.’

  Kamil inclined his head, like a dog responding to its master’s voice. ‘Fitz was taken hostage?’

  Kamil’s apparent interest told Tallis that Clay had kept his mouth shut. ‘It was considered a possibility,’ he backtracked.

  ‘You have no proof?’

  ‘None.’

  Kamil’s face darkened. ‘You test my patience at your peril.’

  After that they cut him off from sight and sound. A tightly fitting pair of goggles, the lenses blacked out, was forced over his eyes, and defenders over his ears. At first it was a welcome release from Kamil, his questions and the threat of ensuing violence. W
ith no other stimuli, Tallis felt dampened down, overcome by lethargy. He fell asleep. When he awOKe the nightmare began.

  He came to with a start. He had no sense of time, for how long he’d slept, whether it was day or night. His brain felt fuzzy, as if his thoughts were in slow motion, as if he’d been drugged or out on a bender. Determined to kick-start his thinking, he tried to move, swinging his arms, forcing his feet forward. His sense of touch was so out of kilter he stumbled about as if the pathways to his brain had been interfered with and disconnected. Dismayed, he tried to take command of what for him would represent the next fragment of time, then the next after that, the same technique he employed to survive torture. In his blacked-out world he did his best to create his own sense of space, to engage in his own private universe and become master of it.

  But he couldn’t.

  Conversation burbled, unbidden, through his mind. Charlie’s face emerged through the gloom, swiftly followed by his mother’s; her face superimposed upon Belle’s, his first and only true love. The women in his life talked as a single voice so that he couldn’t distinguish one from another. The babble grew louder and louder and he wanted to scream, tell them to shut the fuck up and go to hell. Part of his mind recognised that he was hallucinating, the other that this was for real.