Carver

78

Wentworth

The black-uniformed SAS men slipped over the walls of Malachi Zorn’s rented mansion like vengeful wraiths. Immediately before the start of the operation they had been informed that Zorn was almost certainly the mastermind behind the refinery attack that had killed the Director of Special Forces. He had been responsible for the sudden death of a man who was not only their ultimate commanding officer, but also a former colonel of the regiment. The eight men assigned to capture Zorn were grimly determined to get him by any means possible. And if he happened to get hurt in the process, so much the better.

The man on screen was a sports reporter. He spent ten months a year covering the various injuries, transfer deals, disciplinary issues and sexual shenanigans with which Premiership footballers filled their days. For two weeks in midsummer he became an instant expert on tennis, reporting on Wimbledon. But now all hell had broken loose in the streets less than a mile from the tournament, and suddenly he’d swapped thigh strains and broken strings for hard-core news reporting.

‘I don’t know if you can see behind me the burned-out remains of the Bentley limousine that is believed to have been carrying the controversial American financier Malachi Zorn,’ he was saying.

‘Yes, Barry, we can see it,’ said the newsreader in the studio. ‘But is there any more information about what actually happened here?’

‘Yes there is, Kate. This was a very public assassination attempt, carried out in front of lines of cars all stuck in a traffic jam — a jam that may even have been created as a means of trapping Zorn. From what eyewitnesses are saying, a car pulled out into the middle of the road, stopping the traffic in both directions, before suddenly driving away at high speed. Seconds later there was a huge explosion that disabled the Bentley.’

‘Was that some kind of mine, like the IEDs we’ve become so familiar with in Afghanistan?’

‘Possibly. Some witnesses, however, are describing a rocket or bazooka being fired at the car. All we know for certain is that the Bentley was disabled. Very soon after that, a man approached the stricken car on a motorbike, fired a gun into the passenger compartment and then lobbed a grenade into it. One eyewitness who saw the interior of the car is still too distressed to speak. It’s safe to say it was not a pretty sight.’

‘And what about Mr Zorn? Do we know whether he is dead or not?’

‘That’s still hard to say, Kate. Certainly it seems very unlikely that anyone could have survived this attack. But he might have had one stroke of luck. A London ambulance was nearby and rushed to the scene. Mr Zorn’s body was taken from the car and driven away within a minute or so of the incident. It’s thought that his head may have been covered by a blanket, suggesting he was already dead, but I’m getting conflicting reports on that.’

‘So where is he now?’

‘We’re not sure, Kate. There’s been no word from any of the local hospitals. Meanwhile, in another extraordinary development, rumours are sweeping the tennis world that there has been some sort of incident in the tunnels beneath Centre Court, possibly involving gunfire and multiple fatalities. I have to stress, though, that these are unconfirmed…’

With a press of a remote control the screen turned to black.

‘What do you think? Am I now officially dead?’ asked Malachi Zorn.

‘How could you not be?’ Razzaq replied. ‘Carver blew up your car, then used a gun and a grenade to carry out the actual hit.’

‘The grenade bothers me,’ Zorn said.

‘Why so?’

‘If that grenade went off inside the car, how come the ambulance men were able to put the body on a stretcher? It should have been torn to pieces by the blast.’

Razzaq frowned. ‘True, though a blast can easily be blocked or deflected. A table-leg saved Hitler from von Stauffenberg’s briefcase bomb, after all.’

‘I guess,’ said Zorn. ‘But I’ll still be happier when I see some spokesperson standing outside a hospital, saying how tragic it is that I passed away.’

The SAS team had divided into two four-man patrols, which were now approaching both the front and rear of the building. Surveillance of the property with highly sensitive parabolic microphones and thermal-imaging binoculars had detected the presence of two adult males in the room that Zorn was believed to use as an office. The two men were still in place as the troops reached the building and flattened themselves against the walls. They weren’t going in through any of the mansion’s doors. They didn’t need to. Simultaneously they placed coiled rings of explosive cord, whose blast was tamped and focused by black rubber tubes of water up against the brickwork. The moment the signal was given, the cord would be detonated. Even before the smoke had cleared, the SAS would be in the building and racing towards their quarry.

Zorn was going back over the news report in his mind, its inconsistencies nagging at him, like an itch that would not go away. ‘That ambulance… we’re supposed to believe that, what? It just happened to be down the road, with nothing better to do? No way, that’s just not possible.’

‘What are you saying here?’ asked Razzaq.

‘I’m saying maybe the whole set-up was fake. Maybe Carver double-crossed you. Either that or the Brits got to him.’

‘But that would mean that they knew it wasn’t you in that car.’

‘Not necessarily. They could have figured out the connection to Rosconway.’

‘Impossible! How?’

‘I don’t know. But if they did, they’d have plenty of reasons to come after me.’

Razzaq did not reply. He wasn’t paying attention to Zorn any more. He was looking at an image on one of Zorn’s screens. It showed security camera footage: shadowy figures in black combat fatigues and helmets placing something on a wall. There was a sudden flare of white light and then the picture disappeared in a snowy blizzard of interference.

‘They’re coming after you now,’ said Ahmad Razzaq.

Modern explosive devices combine violence and precision. The tamped detonator cord generated a combination of noise, blast and total surprise that delivered all the shock and awe any attacking force could desire. And it left a hole as neat as a laser-beam through steel. The SAS troops poured through with their guns raised and ready to fire. They took just seconds to race from their entry points to Zorn’s study, and when they got there they blew out the lock and kicked open the door so fast that they barely had to break stride.

Eight heavily-armed members of the special forces, faceless behind their balaclavas, goggles and helmets, shouting at the tops of their voices and ready to respond in an instant to any threat burst into Malachi Zorn’s study…

… and found the property’s gardener and his assistant cowering behind a leather sofa, while the latest action from Wimbledon played on a massive flatscreen placed on the opposite wall.

‘Mr Zorn said we could be here,’ the gardener pleaded, raising his hands in surrender.

‘Honest,’ said his assistant.

Zorn had watched the attack play out. ‘So now we know,’ he said. ‘They’re on to me. But Jesus, don’t these jerks know how much money I’ve made? And can’t they figure out what that means? Anyone who’s got billions in the bank, there’s a good chance they’re smart enough to see things coming. And it’s a friggin’ certainty they can afford more than one damn house.’