149
Nigel J. Macbeth
The Author
Born in Stoke-on-Trent and educated in Sandbach, Cheshire, Nigel Macbeth taught for seventeen years in the Potteries before moving abroad to teach children of British Forces personnel in Germany and Gibraltar.
He retired in 2004 after thirty years teaching. He has been married to Trish for thirty-three years. They have one daughter, Melissa.
Previous books are: 'I'm Still Alive', and two thrillers: 'The Right Cause' and 'The Watchers'.
'149' is his third Emma Parker and Delaney thriller.
Dedication
Once more, my love and thanks go to Trish, my wife, Melissa, our daughter, and Andrew for their endless help and support. This time also for Emma and Delaney, who are now part of the family.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
© Copyright 2011
Nigel Macbeth
The right of Nigel Macbeth to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All Rights Reserved
No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and
civil claims for damage.
Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book. The information provided herein is provided "as is." The publisher makes no representation or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the content of this book and expressly disclaims any implied warranties of marketability or fitness for any particular purpose and shall in no event be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damage, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.
This book is licensed for your personal reading only. It is not permissible to copy, share or email this book to others. Please respect the copyright of the author.
ISBN-9781780690278
First Published 2009 in paperback by Vanguard Press
First Published as an e-book 2011
E-Books Publisher
17 Sedgeway Business Park
Witchford CB6 2HY
Chapter One
Finding someone who will kill for you is easy.
Finding the right person is more difficult.
Venture up any alley in any city, find some drug-addicted waster and offer them a few thousand, even a few hundred, pounds and you have your assassin. But there’s a problem. If he did not simply take your deposit and run, he would mess up at some point. A fingerprint, a hair, a thread of his coat. He would get caught. He would be left in a cell for a while till the shivers began and the craving racked his body until he would say anything on the flimsiest of promises. He would not know names, but he would give a good enough description. Your description.
So, finding the right person is worth the effort.
Anthony, the name he gave, stood two metres back from the closed window. One eye against the scope, one eye closed, he looked at the stage that had been constructed for the occasion. It was empty now, but soon it would be crowded with smiling faces and shaking hands and false welcomes.
It was when the formalities had been completed and most were sitting and one was standing that he would do his job.
He gently placed the M-21 rifle on the table. It was not yet fully set up, but even as it rested dormant on its stand, it induced a sense of awe that most would find fearful. Some might be brave enough to touch it, but it would be the briefest of contacts, the fingers immediately retreating to a safer place.
Anthony, on the other hand, found it comforting.
When the rifle was lifted from its resting place and lovingly prepared, his fingers would caress its trigger and the butt would settle into his shoulder and his cheek would rest against the handle. It would become an extension of his body. His mind would relax. His breathing would calm. His heart beat would regulate.
The combination of the two, Anthony and the M-21, would be deadly. And Anthony would feel comfortable about that.
‘One shot, one kill.’ Anthony’s motto.
He ignored the rifle for a moment and lifted a table from the corner of the room. He slid it into place by the window, its end slotting perfectly under the sill. The table had solid wooden legs and a thick surface. He sat on it and then swivelled his body so that he lay face down, elbows on the table, chest raised slightly and chin resting on the palms of his hands. He shuffled his body. The table did not move. The legs did not creak. Perfect. He jumped off.
It was no accident that the table was there. Two days before, Anthony had moved it from the room next door.
The same day, he had looked out of the small, leaded window in the attic. It was the fifth room he had tried. There was no direct sight from any of the others. But here, the view was uninterrupted from The Colony annex, Clare College, into Fellow Gardens, Magdalene College, Cambridge.
Across the road, inside Magdalene grounds, branches from centuries old trees reached towards each other, but even in the strongest of winds, they would never obscure the unobstructed view he had found. A high brick wall separated them, and the inhabitants of the college, from the world beyond. A solitary, solid gate in the wall was locked, rusted and sealed, probably for years. Traffic roared down Chesterton Lane five floors below his room, the constant drone overwhelming everyday sounds.
It was a good place from which to kill.
He was well prepared. It had been drummed into him by his instructor. “Get there early,” he had said. “Set up your position, make sure it’s well camouflaged, ensure you’re comfortable. Establish an escape route and a secondary fallback route in case of emergency. Check on all possible variables. Take your shot and get the hell out of there.”
For this particular shot, the camouflage was in the noise from below and the leaves on the trees and the barrier of the wall and the panic and attention that would surround the fallen man. He would have enough time to walk from the scene.
It would be easy because those he walked past would not realise that the man in their midst had killed. They would not have heard the crack as the bullet raced from the barrel, a near tiny sonic boom, or the sound of the bullet in flight, faster than the speed of sound, before drag created by wind resistance slowed it to sub-sonic speeds. They would not have seen the target fall to the ground, the single sudden impact extinguishing life in an instant. They would laugh and walk and run to their next appointment as the killer walked free.
Anthony had it all planned.
*****
Abida Zaid looked around him.
Early evening shadows nudged their way across carefully manicured lawns. A myriad of colours escaped from the flower beds. A gentle fountain threw a single spout of clear water upwards before it turned and fell serenely onto the waiting lily pads. The timeless fingers of the courtyard clock slowly made their way to the top of the hour. Ivy meandered its way up the brick walls, beautifully trimmed around the ancient window frames. Typically English.
It was a scene that both impressed and sickened him.
It represented an age of superiority, of obscene wealth, of well bred aloofness. Rising to prominence in the time of the infamous Henry V111, Magdalene College advanced from its creation as a Benedictine abbey into one of the colleges that made the city of Cambridge the envy of the world. It was at the beginning of the rise of British dominance, the peak of which was three centuries later during the time of Queen Victoria. It was often quoted that the sun never set on the British Empire, but like all propaganda statements, the quote was misleading. The empire was not that large. It simply stretched east and west, missing out huge chunks on the way.
But, Zaid thought, the years had not treated the old lady well. Her colonies had disappeared as quickly as they had emerged. The strong was becoming weak. And the British were clinging on to their past glories in their buildings and history by the slimmest of threads. One day, it would all come to an end. Not that Zaid wanted it to. But it would.
They all did. Great empires litter the paths of history, empires that were once so glorious that it was impossible to imagine the world without them. The Egyptians, the Romans, the Greeks and the Persians. Ah yes, the Persians. His neighbours.
Foes of the Greeks, their armies strode majestically across the pages of the Old Testament, five centuries before Christ, and were still warring five centuries after he was nailed to the cross. Then along came the Arab Muslim armies and the Persian Empire came to a rapid end. During the next fifteen centuries, their armies occasionally raised their heads, but in a gesture of bravado rather than serious intent. Persia’s strength was confined to the history books. Only in 1935, in an attempt to herald the coming of a brighter future, did the Shah of Persia ask the international community to refer to his land by its present name: Iran.
Should he return in another five centuries, Zaid thought, would he gaze on the flowers and the fountain and the clock? Or would the land be wasted, its buildings razed to the ground, the only sign that a civilisation once lived here buried in the foundations in the ground. As Iran had found, it was impossible to gain respect if new regimes were built on old foundations. It required a new beginning, a cleansing of all things good and bad from previous existences. A slate wiped clean.
And now Iran, not Persia, was a rising power. A country whose leaders unnerved their more powerful foes; leaders who dared the rest of the world to question their beliefs and their internal politics; leaders who were intelligent enough to know that, without friends, they would fail and, with friends, they might succeed.
And maybe, some day, because of the help given by their friends, Iran would rise from the ashes of the old Persia.
Zaid’s eyes fixed on the gowns that flowed behind smiling professors and innocent graduates. Even there, there was a hierarchy. Different colours lined the gowns, denoting positions of authority and respect. Those you could laugh and drink with and those you threw a metaphorical bow towards. And everyone knew their place.
As it had been in his country in the past. Now everyone was vying for position in the aftermath of the invasion and no-one was getting anywhere.
“Zaid,” he heard from behind him. “It’s good to see you again.”
Zaid turned to face the man who had invited him.
Professor Michael Lowndes was enough to make any man jealous. A middle-east lecturer at Magdalene College, he most resembled a nineteenth century cowboy arrived in town after driving the cattle hundreds of miles across America, having dealt with Indians and rattlesnakes and marauding Mexican bandits along the way. Tall with rugged features, his open necked-shirt gave a hint of the muscular chest that lay beneath. Yet his voice was silky smooth, reaching out with little effort.
“Has England changed since your last visit?” he asked.
“England will never change,” replied Zaid. “I could return in another five centuries and things would be as they are now.” He lied. Not seconds before, he had been reflecting on the demise of the British nation. But the end justifies the means and at that moment, the means happened to be a plethora of compliments and compliance.
Lowndes held out a hand which was received by Zaid. They fell short of holding each other. Their friendship was not yet that secure.
In truth, they had only met three times before. Once, briefly, following a middle-east evening at King’s College, Cambridge, where Zaid’s immediate superior had been the guest speaker. They had shaken hands only. The second time, Zaid had been invited as replacement speaker following the sudden death of his immediate superior. They had shared a meal afterwards. And thirdly, via satellite communication while they had been thousands of miles apart, to discuss the organisation of this day’s events. They waved their goodbyes.
They were distant acquaintances, not friends. They did not know each other. Not like Zaid knew his brother who had helped Zaid step up the political ladder. He was not his biological brother, but a brother all the same after what he had done for him. It was fitting that the up and coming Abida Zaid would step into his superior’s role.
Lowndes’ welcome was that of the polite English gentleman he was. The handshake was a greeting that had spread throughout the world, even to Zaid’s own country. He was expecting nothing less. Maybe they would part with a coming together of chests, hands clasped behind each other’s backs, as Zaid did in his own country.
Somehow, Zaid did not think so.
*****
Anthony liked to work alone.
He had been trained to work in pairs, but ever since his spotter had messed up the wind speed, he preferred to be independent. His spotter had been insistent. Anthony disagreed, but he had to go with the spotter. He had the more powerful scope, far more powerful than the one Anthony had on his rifle. He was ready to go, his finger on the trigger, his eye fixed on the target right in the middle of the crosshairs on his scope and the bastard by his side changed his mind. There was no time for discussion. He had to go with the spotter. And he missed the target. The first time. The last time.
He never fully trusted a spotter after that.
That was in his army days. Since he had gone private, he had worked alone. It was more reliable. There was only himself to blame and only himself to praise. It also gave him one hundred percent of the payout.
As Anthony lay face down on the table by the window, propped up by his elbows, he looked through the spotter scope. There was much to think about, but it all came naturally to Anthony. Things do when they are practised incessantly in the dark, in the light, in the rain, in the desert. In every condition imaginable. They had the best training and they had the best success rate in the world. It was never known how good they were. Most of the killings they could never have owned up to. The government would have had some embarrassing questions to answer if they had.
Methodically, Anthony set about his business.
He had total faith in the technology that sat by his side. He had once killed with it from one thousand yards. It had been his longest shot, but the M-21 had served him well, the bullet smashing into the back of the target between the shoulder blades. Contact with the head would have been more clinical, but at that distance, the closest he could get on that occasion, he knew that even if he did not kill, he could cause considerable damage. He need not have worried. The bullet was deflected by the vertebrae and came to rest in the target’s heart. End of target.
The technology was not a problem, but Mother Nature, as always, had her say and if Anthony ever became disrespectful of her, ever forgot the power she had, she would disrupt his plans as effectively as a bullet in a locked chamber.
Anthony checked the wind speed and direction. Today, it showed in the leaves on the trees and the flimsy dresses worn by the ladies. On other occasions, in far off lands, it had been in the sand snaking on the ground or the smoke rising from the chimney.
There was no need to concern himself over the temperature. Cold air is denser than hot air. It creates more drag on the bullet. Bullets rip through hot air as if there was no air at all. Humidity is often the partner of hot air and this can also affect the path of the bullet. But today, the humidity had stayed away and it was neither too hot nor too cold.
Gravity would play its part. In normal circumstances, despite the lightning speed of the bullet, it is dragged downwards from the moment it hits the air. By how much depends on the distance the bullet has to travel. He was higher than the target, perhaps by a good sixty feet. Overshooting had to be taken into account.
But, overall, Anthony could see no problems.
The crowd was gathering in the gardens, but Anthony’s eye now fixed on the podium on the right of the stage. It was a clear shot. The weather was perfect. There would be no mistake.
The shot was three hundred yards.
At that distance, the head would be the target.
*****
Lowndes made the introductions. Zaid shook their hands. If asked later, he would not have remembered any of their names. They were simply guests who wanted to meet him, so that they could tell their friends, if ever Zaid came to power, that one day, when Zaid was not so well known, they had shaken his hand and spoken with him. They would exaggerate their acquaintance with Zaid. It would be a feather in their cap. Zaid knew the same people offered the same greeting to all the speakers that came. In the hope that they could later boast and feel superior at some dinner party in one of the college grounds.
Zaid did not remember their names because they were not important. What use to him was some insignificant Englishman living in the past when it was the future that mattered. Lowndes was important. He was slowly becoming his link with the important ones. It didn’t matter how many incidentals he introduced him to. He could wait till the right one came along. And the more he got to know Lowndes, the more likely that was to happen.
Maybe even on this visit.
When Zaid had shaken the final hand and they had all made their way into the gardens, Lowndes confirmed what would happen.
“We’ll let the rabble settle in their seats first. Then I’ll get on the stage and give you a rousing introduction. You know, the future President of Iraq and all that. Then on you come, looking like the man of importance, which you are. You receive the warmest applause. You give your speech. It’s well received. You take your bow and we head off back to the hotel.”
“How do you know?” asked Zaid.
“How do I know what?”
“That I will be well received.”
“Because they’ve been hand picked. They’re all on your side. They want to believe the British contribution in Iraq was successful. Still is. Because that’s what Britain is to them. The stabilising influence in a world gone mad.”
Zaid smiled. “And do you believe that, Michael?”
Lowndes slung his arm round Zaid’s shoulder and led him towards the archway that led to the welcoming crowd. “Sometimes,” he said, “we have to accept that the stabilisers have come off and the bicycle is tottering. When that happens, the stable become unstable. Unreliable. And a new bike has to be found. Perhaps, even, a different make. Because the old one let you down so badly.”
Zaid inwardly laughed at the picture. The old sturdy bicycle, steeped in historical strength, tottering under the weight of expectation placed on it. As if it could do what it was able to do in the past. He felt Lowndes’ fingers tighten around his shoulder joint. “Now,” Lowndes continued. “Don’t go telling them that Iraq is on the brink of civil war and it’s all down to the ineptitude of the British involvement. These people don’t want to hear the truth, Abida.”
They stopped beneath the stone archway covered with climbing roses. Lowndes relaxed his grip on Zaid’s shoulder and twisted a red rose from a branch. Turning to face Zaid, he took hold of his lapel and pushed the rose into Zaid’s button hole. He stepped back and looked at his guest.
“You couldn’t look more English,” he said.
Lowndes tapped him on the chest and disappeared through the archway.
‘Fool,’ thought Zaid. ‘I will let you have your little game, but when I have what I want, you will be pruned to extinction.’
Zaid smiled at his play on the English language. The pruning of the rose. Lowndes was a man whose thoughts grew in the right direction, but there was still that air of English superiority about him. He could not let it go. It was in his genes and no matter how hard his brain and heart told him where the future lay, that in-bred barrier could never be broken down.
Waiting patiently, Zaid remembered something his teacher had said in a quiet moment away from the party line he had to preach. “Britain will only be able to aspire to greatness when it realises that it is no longer great,” he had said.
It had taken his own country endless centuries to recognise that. Iraq, where civilisation began, had floundered in the shadows for too long. It was time to rise again. Of course, Saddam had that intention, but all dictators are eventually destroyed, either by their own people or by invading armies, or both.
No, his methods were badly flawed. There was only one way for Iraq to rise again.
By building friendships, not creating enemies.
*****
A door closed. The click of it echoed its way up the silent stairwell.
Then the hurried shuffling of shoes against wood. Coming closer, with the occasional pause as the shoes turned the corners on each floor.
And the singing. A girl, he thought. Growing louder, not because it was getting nearer, but because people do sing louder when they think they are alone and no-one can hear them.
It would not be a problem. There were no sleeping quarters in the attic. Just two empty rooms that were cold and damp and had been used for dumping things like tables. She would not come this far up.
But the shuffling and the singing got even louder. And the door clicked again.
Shit, this was not supposed to happen. The college should have been empty. The language students on the summer course were all out on a day trip to Stratford, to visit the land of Shakespeare. They were staying for the evening performance of Macbeth and would not return until the early hours of the morning. He had checked with the agenda and seen the list of students and counted them all on the buses as he
cleaned the windows in the college grounds.
Shoes again. This time bounding the stairs two at a time.
“Hola!” A boy’s voice. “Dónde estás?” – ‘Where are you?’
There was a moment of silence before the reply came, “Estoy aquí. Ven a buscarme!” – ‘I’m here. Come and find me!’
And the shuffling and bounding of feet began again. The girl began to giggle uncontrollably. In anticipation of what was to come. Away from home. Without the invasive constraints of family.
How the hell had they managed to get out of the trip? The last thing Anthony wanted was two sex-driven foreign students gate-crashing his assassination. Even if they did not come this far up the building, it would be impossible to fire his rifle with them in ear shot. Outside the building, the noise of the traffic would conceal the crack from the barrel, but within the confines of the upper storeys of the building, it would resonate through the empty rooms.
Anthony slid from the table and stood behind the half-open door. The giggling was no longer drifting up the stairwell. It was on the landing outside. And then it stopped.
He could hear the breathing. Sharp, shallow. The girl could perhaps glimpse the rifle. Or enough of it to get her curious. He could hear the feet of the boy, getting closer. Two would be more difficult than one. He had to take the girl now.
Quickly, he pulled the door back and stepped around it. The girl had her hands to her face. Her eyes shifted from the rifle on the table to the man who had come into view. It had to be fast and effective. Anthony pushed her hands tighter over her mouth, turned her body so that she looked towards the stairs, pulled her backwards off her feet and dragged her into the room.
She knew nothing else. The knife slashed across her windpipe. The blood gushed out from her neck. Her body was laid on the floor. There had not been a sound.
Anthony closed the door and stood behind it with the bloodied knife in his hand. The boy’s heavy breathing was close. Anthony heard the turning of a door knob and the sudden opening of a door. The other attic room. When he found she was not there, he would try this one.
“Dónde estás, mi querida?” asked the boy. ‘Where are you, my love?’
Anthony’s eyes were fixed on the handle. Slowly it turned, then the door was flung open. Anthony was expecting it. The boy had followed the same routine as in the room before. But this time, he had no time to look around the room. No time to see the rifle on the table. No time to see the blood drenched body of the girl.
Anthony knew the boy would be stronger than the girl. He had heard the pounding of his feet on the stairs and the depth of his voice as he called after his girlfriend. Surprise had to be taken advantage of. As Anthony lunged forward, he was aware that the boy was taller than him. And heavier. But height and weight do not matter when the blade of a knife is plunged into the throat and the mouth is covered so that the screams are not heard.
The boy fell backwards under the surge of attack. Anthony clung on to him, wriggling the knife deeper into the throat until the blade had disappeared and only the handle could be seen. As they hit the floor, the boy was still alive and beginning to realise what was happening.
He would die. There was no doubt about that. But he had to die quickly before he could raise the alarm or before Anthony’s target had left the stage. The mission was paramount.
The boy raised his hand between them, forcing the palm of his hand under Anthony’s chin, pushing it back. The boy was fighting for his life. And he knew how to fight. It was not the first time the boy had been attacked. He knew how to respond. This would be tougher than Anthony had thought.
He rammed his forearm across the boy’s throat, pressing it downwards. A river of red rushed through the open wound, covering his hand that held onto the handle. He moved the knife in and out, slicing more flesh like a butcher, increasing the size of the hole, exposing more muscle and tissue to the outside air. But still the boy held on, gasping for breath, his lungs rasping with each contraction.
Quickly, Anthony withdrew the knife from the throat, leaned away from the boy, pushed down on his chest and thrust the blade upwards between the ribs and towards the heart. There was a sudden halt. The ribs had deflected the blade so that only an inch penetrated the body. He yanked it out and tried again, this time more frantically.
This was not his terrain. Give him a target from one thousand yards and the target was dead. For the last twenty years, that was what all his training had been about. But he had only the basic hand-to-hand combat training. This boy was a street fighter. And now in the space of five seconds, Anthony knew, the element of surprise had gone. It was a fight on level terms.
Except that the boy was spouting blood like a waterfall. If Anthony could only hang on, the boy would weaken and then maybe only one of them would die. He had wanted the fight over quickly. Now he was fighting for his life, he wanted the battle to last for as long as possible. But if he could weaken him some more…
The knife cut the boy’s flesh time after time, Anthony’s arm working like a frenzied metronome. Around his torso. Across his face. Against his ears and eyes. The boy turned his attention from attack into defence, his arms thrashing around wildly in an attempt to stop the knife’s intended route. Occasionally, he succeeded. But more often than not, the knife punctured more holes in the boy’s flesh.
Each drop, each rush of blood brought Anthony time until he slowly felt the strength leave the body beneath him. The struggle subsided until there was futile resistance. As one last deliberate slash lacerated the boy’s throat, the boy looked into Anthony’s eyes and breathed his final agonising breath.
The two bodies lay side by side. It was somehow fitting that they should end their lives in the same way.
He pushed himself from the boy’s lifeless body and half ran to the table. He picked up the spotter scope, made a few adjustments and saw a man at the podium. It was not his man. And he knew his man was the last to speak. He had time.
Looking towards his two victims, just in case there was a hint of life, he walked to the sink in the corner of the room. Sticky fingers on triggers are not recommended. He scrubbed his hands clean and gave his face a wash, rubbing his fingers into his ears where some of the boy’s blood had rested. His coat was soaked in blood, but that was no matter. He never intended to leave the college in the same clothes in which he had entered.
Another glance through the scope. Still there was time. From his rucksack, he pulled out clothes, a rolled hockey stick bag and a plastic bag. He carefully placed the clothes on the table: tracksuit, round neck sports top and old training shoes. He stripped to his underwear, wrapped his discarded clothes into a ball and pushed them into the plastic bag. He pressed the bag into the rucksack.
He took a look in the mirror. No blood on him or his underwear. He took a long breath, returned to the table and looked through the scope.
His man was at the podium.
*****
Lowndes had done well. A well chosen audience.
It was the fifth ovation Zaid had received. He noticed each applause had come after he had praised, in one way or another, the esteem in which his country and the rest of the world held the calm and enduring manner with which Britain bridged the gap between America and those that sought to destroy them.
How they dissuaded America from over-zealous reactions. How they convinced successive foreign governments that there was always, in the end, a peaceful solution. How America was being gently persuaded to take on Britain’s approach to diffuse local tensions. How hearts and minds were more powerful than brute force.
“What would America be,” asked Zaid, “without the stabilising influence of the United Kingdom?” He glanced across at Lowndes as he reiterated his own ‘stabilising’ word from beneath the courtyard clock. Lowndes returned a smile through applauding hands.
He had almost finished, his performance drawing to a close. As the applause died down, he looked beyond Lowndes to the dignitaries sitting in a perfectly straight line at the back of the stage. Professors in gowns, wives in hats, the occasional female professor sitting proud, each one of them smiling their support for the words he spoke.
The bodyguard provided by MI5 fitted in admirably. He too wore a gown and sat closest to him. For the brief moment Zaid watched him, he noticed his unobtrusive eyes were everywhere, scanning those nearby, searching the back rows for signs of disagreement, for any possible dissenter who might present a danger. They were good. MI5. Very good. They had their share of bad press, but they were the best and sometimes people get accustomed to the best and wish the best could give them more. More. In an imperfect world, people always wanted more. His country could learn a lot from MI5. If they did, Zaid thought, he might live a longer and healthier life.
*****
Anthony slipped on the tracksuit. He reached down and tied the laces on the training shoes. He sat on the table and swivelled his body into a prostrate position. He shuffled a few more inches until he was alongside the rifle. Just a few more minor adjustments and his cheek lay against the handle and the butt sat neatly into his shoulder. He looked through the scope on the rifle. It was not as powerful as the spotter scope, but the rifle scope was good enough.
He could see the target as if he was thirty metres away.
After the frantic activity of the last few minutes, his body had quickly returned to normality. It always did when he came into contact with his friend. Heart rate was normal. Breathing regular. No nervous twitches that might instigate unwanted reactions.
He was completely relaxed.
Before the lovers’ intrusion, Anthony had prepared the rifle. He gave everything one more check and settled into his final position.
Ideally, Anthony would have liked the point of aim to be the same as the point of impact. All that was required then was the target to be in the centre and the trigger to be squeezed. But taking the variables into account, especially the height from which he was shooting, he had to make fine adjustments to the scope. He was satisfied.
All he had to do was wait for the right moment.
The target was all but dead.
*****
“Times have been difficult for my country,” said Zaid. “But we knew it would be. How long did Germany take to recover from the events of the twentieth century? Economically, it already has, but the terrible actions of a fanatical dictator will forever be associated with the country and the people. There will always be the question of why the people did not take action to stop the rise of Adolf Hitler. And there will always be the same question levelled at the people of Iraq. Why did the people watch while Saddam took control?”
Zaid paused. When he continued, his voice was racked with emotion.
“Forget the oil which lies beneath the sands of Iraq. That is not important. It is the people that matter. I am privileged to know that Britain – Great Britain – understands that. And that is why it ignores the jibes and the accusations of self-interest. Your government knows – you know – that without your country’s input, Iraq would dissolve into civil war that would destabilise the entire region.”
Spontaneous applause rushed from the seated audience. Some even stood and cheered as if Zaid had finished. But the time was not yet right. He had more to say.
“I know,” Zaid continued, “that we can rely on your continued support. I know that your tradition for fairness and democracy will reach out towards us. Your influence will not simply be in the number of troops that you provide or the training they give or the companies that help our fledgling businesses. It will be in the association my country has with the world’s greatest nation: the bedrock on which the present century was built. Thank you.”
And with those two words, the audience knew he had finished. They rose as one, raising their hands in rapturous applause. Smiling faces, every one of them.
He had given them what they wanted to hear. He smiled back, stepped from behind the podium, lifted one hand in the air and leaned his body forward into a long, elegant bow.
If it had not been for the noise of the traffic and the cover of the trees and the applause of the audience, Abida Zaid would have known that the bullet had left the barrel.
*****
For the briefest of moments, Anthony had seen the head lurch back and the red rim beginning to form around the hole above the eyes. But that was it.
He did not wait to see the body hit the floor or the disbelief that ran, domino fashion, across the gowns that sat on the stage. He did not hear the continued applause from the assembled, unaware that a dead body lay on the stage with his skull cascaded and his brain emerging from within.
His movements had been well rehearsed. Before the gowns had reacted, he had closed the window. He rolled from the table, picked up the M-21 and slid it into the long, narrow hockey bag. Throwing the strap diagonally across his chest, he lifted the rucksack from the floor, pressed a golf cap on his head and made his way to the door.
He threw a disinterested glance at the two bodies on the floor and looked for anything that could be traced back to him. He knew there was not, but he checked out of habit. There was no reason to return the table to its place in the corner. They would soon find out from where the shot had been made and they would seal the room and the building and the tooth comb would be out and they would find all they could.
And when they had finished clawing their way over the room and its inhabitants, someone would draw the short straw and make a telephone call to distraught parents in Spain.
Anthony skipped down the stairs and left the building. He joined the mass of tourists on Chesterton Lane for a short time before turning right past St. Giles church and up the slope that was Castle Street.
He was away from the scene before anyone had time to fully comprehend what had happened.
Within five minutes, he had reached his car. Pulling further away from the mayhem he had left behind, he reflected. Target dead, job done.
He was satisfied. Another twenty-five thousand pounds in his bank account to go with the fifty thousand that was already there. Another seventy-five thousand soon and then the shot he would have to make for nothing.
Total – one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. A lot of money.But he was worth it.
George Mitchell sat in the chair once occupied by his predecessor. It had been nine months since the Prime Minister had asked him to take charge of the unit, a select group of watchers who were assigned tasks that MI5 felt to be on the periphery of their investigations.
From that bland statement, the unit – small letters so as not to draw attention to itself – would appear to play second fiddle to MI5. A place to throw the crumbs that MI5 just could not be bothered with. In truth, it is how MI5 once regarded them.
But things had changed. Phillip Beaumont, the unit’s previous leader, had raised its profile with a series of successful operations. Some were successful because the suspect would be followed, sometimes for weeks on end, and found to be unimportant. MI5 could remove them from their radar. Occasionally, its success lay in contradicting their more illustrious partners: those that MI5 had cast aside believing them to be of no threat, only for the unit to find a web of contacts, all desperate to blow their adopted country to bits.