Tracers

FORTY-TWO

A child complained loudly a few yards away from where they were sitting, and a party of schoolgirls in uniform giggled at two young male joggers. The sounds seemed magnified as Harry and Rik took in what Joanne had said, the normal activities contrasting sharply with their not so normal discussion.

‘But surely,’ Harry mused, ‘that would point right at the West. The Coalition would lose all support from the local politicians; it’d be like showboating their absolute control, saying they were able to do away with anyone they didn’t like the look of.’

‘They’ve got that already,’ said Rik. ‘You saying the Coalition aren’t still pulling all the strings out there?’

‘Only while they can use locals to do their dirty work. Going in as blatant as that, though, is different.’ He looked at Joanne. ‘Unless. .’

Her look was challenging. ‘Unless what?’

‘Unless they had a rock-solid reason for taking him out — one that would get them support from all quarters, no questions asked.’

Her face showed scepticism. ‘What reason could accomplish that? It’s too risky. The whole of the Middle East would be up in arms at the idea of the West killing Rafa’i — along with half the outside world. It’s bad enough they blame us for Saddam’s execution. I told you, Rafa’i is too important to the Coalition to lose.’

‘They need him more than he needs them?’ He looked doubtful. ‘I wonder.’

Her look was withering. ‘And of course, you’ve got a reason for saying that.’

‘I don’t, actually. I just haven’t got there yet. But I will.’

Rik got to his feet, brushing grass fragments off the seat of his pants. ‘Well, let me know when you work it out,’ he murmured, and glanced at his watch. ‘All that running made me hungry. Anybody for lunch?’

Barely ten minutes’ drive from where they were sitting, a young, fresh-faced man named Allen Bentley was slumped in a Ford saloon, wishing he was in bed — preferably not alone. After a number of energetic assignations with his latest girlfriend, a second-year medical student from Madrid with an eager taste for all that London had to offer, he was dismayed at having copped a last-minute tour of surveillance duty which threatened to disrupt further activities.

He rubbed his eyes and checked his wing mirror as a trio of girls — Australians, he guessed, all golden tans and long legs — emerged from a small backpackers’ hostel and wandered laughing along the street. The building was just behind Victoria Station, convenient for casual travellers needing a place to doss for a night or two.

Allen felt his anger dwindle at the thought. The place was probably stocked with female talent, all thousands of miles away from controlling parents and desperate for some action. His orders were to stay well away and not go inside, which was a pity. He might need a replacement if the Madrilena blew him out for not being there when she needed him, courtesy of his sodding duty officer.

He made a note in his duty log and slid it back beneath the seat. His target had just jogged along the street and entered the hostel. The only thing Bentley had been told about the man was that he was highly dangerous and all contact was to be avoided. He was to go nowhere near him and under no circumstances to blow his cover. Merely watch and report. And stay alert.

Bentley yawned and stretched both arms behind him. If he’d known this job was going to be so dull or that he was going to be kept in the dark like a bloody mushroom, he’d have joined the police force. Eight months of what he’d been assured would be fast-track training and what had he seen so far? Endless assessments and paperwork, with several specialized courses and an occasional stint of surveillance followed by more paperwork and meetings. Now this pointless bloody caper. Carlisle, his predecessor on this job, must have had some internal pull to have been able to dump this in his lap. Just wait until he caught up with him.

He watched a taxi pull in to the kerb across the street, double-parking close to a delivery van. The rear offside door of the cab opened and a tall, rangy blonde stepped out. She wore calf-length boots and a short skirt, and as she slid her feet to the ground, she showed a long expanse of smooth thigh. She caught Bentley looking and smiled.

Bloody hell, he thought, sitting up. Maybe pulling this stint wasn’t so bad after all. .

As Bentley was fantasizing about his chances with the tall blonde, the man named Dog took the stairs down to the basement washroom. He was breathing easily, even though he had jogged nearly all the way after the encounter with the two men in St James’s Park. His face was flushed, and not from the exertions; he was feeling an unaccustomed burn of anger at the way things had turned out.

He kicked the washroom door back, causing a tall, cadaverous Somali cleaner to scuttle out without looking back.

It was Jennings’ fault, Dog decided. Him and the idiots pulling his strings. Just a few more paces, that’s all he’d needed. If it hadn’t been for the two former spooks Jennings had hired, he’d have been home and dry, another contract in the bag.

He splashed cold water over his face, a trigger to calm his nerves. If he’d used a handgun back in the park, the outcome would have been very different. But waving a firearm in central London was a ticket to assisted suicide, and he’d been confident of achieving the same ends with a blade. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He gulped some water and spat it out. He shouldn’t have scared the cleaner; it wasn’t his fault, and kicking off like that only attracted attention. It was time to reassess his options and adapt. It was what he’d been trained to do, and you never ignored the training; you changed your plans to move with the circumstances. The first thing to do was get some transport. Something easy to move and conceal. Something nobody would look twice at. Another motorbike would do; they were easy to pick up and practically invisible.

He scrubbed his face with a paper towel and tossed it on the floor, then walked back upstairs to the lobby. Instead of going up to his room on the third floor, he went outside. The stuff in the room was minimal and disposable; he’d got spare kit stashed in another room he’d rented at a hostel near Euston. It spread the risk and gave him options in case things blew up on him and he had to leave this place — a habit he’d learned the hard way. Best he didn’t hang around here too long in case the cleaner had called the cops.

As Dog turned out of the hostel and headed along the street towards the station, he noticed a figure in a car parked on a yellow line fifty yards away. Nothing unusual in that; just another motorist among many in a busy street.

Yet a deep-seated instinct made him stop, his heart picking up a beat.

The vehicle was facing away from him, dusty and unremarkable, a couple of years old. The driver was staring at a blonde girl legging it along the opposite pavement. He was young and looked as if he was waiting for someone.

But Dog didn’t think so. He took three steps and slid into a doorway that put him in the man’s blind spot, and waited. Two minutes later, after the driver made a brief, one-sided phone call, he knew he’d been right: the driver wasn’t waiting — he was a watcher.

Dog stepped out of the doorway and walked towards the car. He slipped his hand into his pocket. He hugged the shadows, head down but watching the car’s wing mirror, where he could see the pale oval of the driver’s face. The man was still eyeing the blonde. Silly sod. The lack of professionalism made Dog angry. Not that he gave a stuff about the man himself, but the sheer disregard for the rules of the game was an insult.

He gripped the knife against his leg.

He’d been told to expect this, that sooner or later he’d pop up on someone’s radar. He’d been doing this job a long time, and that made him noticeable. But that wasn’t what annoyed him. Was this what they really thought of him — sending some junior, pasty-faced prick fresh out of the training centre to watch his every move?

Well, for that, he’d have to teach them a lesson.

He snicked open the blade. Stopped by the driver’s window and tapped lightly on the glass. Glanced each way to check the immediate area. There was nobody close by, which gave him a small window of opportunity. He’d had worse.

The driver lowered the window instinctively and looked up just as Dog stepped in close and took his hand out of his pocket. The knife had a narrow blade, a souvenir of his last tour in Kosovo, and clearly had one purpose: it was a killing tool.

The driver’s eyes fastened on it instantly, his face draining of colour as he realized his mistake. Hardly more than mid-twenties, thought Dog. Probably a university intake on his first observation. He smiled, pleased that his instincts were still sound.

‘Should have kept your eyes off the girls, kid,’ Dog said softly. ‘That’s sloppy tradecraft.’

He inserted the point of the knife into the man’s ear, and with a sharp pump of his arm, rammed it all the way home.

He smiled.

The day hadn’t been a complete waste.