Brute Force (37 page)

The house was large, walled off and in the middle of nowhere, exactly where the sat nav had said it would be. Mansour had lied about needing to point it out. He'd just wanted to stall us until he could summon his black leather reinforcements.

The entire area was only accessible via rough tracks.

It looked as if we'd wandered onto a landfill site. Newspaper and old plastic bags blew around the Audi. We were surrounded by burned-out cars, old clothes, discarded mattresses and – even fifty metres from the sea – fist-sized chunks of tar. It wouldn't have picked up any golden beaches awards, but fuck it, I wasn't here for the sandcastle competition.

I left the keys in the ignition and told Lynn to take the driver's seat while I did a recce. I told him he should drive back down the dirt-road if I didn't return within an hour, turn towards Tripoli and wait for me at the ERV. I'd pointed out the spot, a
wadi
a kilometre before the turn-off. I also told him that if he had to get out, he should lock the car manually to avoid bright yellow flashes giving us away.

I got out and took a lungful of air. There was an underlying tang of petrochemicals beneath the smell of brine. I was slap in the heart of Libyan oil-country and the Great Guide clearly wasn't any closer to going carbon neutral.

The hundred-metre dirt-road we'd just driven up had no fresh track marks on it. Layla's villa was a big, single-storey affair set in a couple of acres of scrub surrounded by a three-metre-high perimeter wall. The sea beyond it glowed red as the sun dropped below the horizon.

Flares burned in the darkening sky above the refinery further along the coast. I could make out the lights of ships in the bay and the glare of the Russian oil terminal.

If you were going to put a bomb-school anywhere, then this was the place – as unobtrusive, miserable and out-of-the-way as you could imagine.

I covered the two hundred metres down to the target. No proximity lights came on as I did a 360 of the perimeter wall. A pair of rusty steel gates, padlocked from the outside, provided the only access. Through the gap between them I could see a tarmac drive, maybe fifty metres long, leading to the main entrance. The ground either side of it, as far as I could see in the starlight, was just sand, rocks and more windblown litter. The place was shuttered and seemed completely deserted.

The padlock hadn't been disturbed since the last sandstorm. I could see no white light seeping out from behind the shutters.

I moved back to the Q7, killed the interior lights and opened the boot. I double-checked the contents of my day sack. I had my passport, a bit of local currency and a good few thousand of Mansour's dollars.

I reloaded the Makarov and Lynn's .38 with the spare ammo from Mansour's study then checked the chamber on the Makarov before tucking it into my waistband. I wanted to make sure it was ready to fire when I was.

Whatever Layla's place revealed, I'd head off-road for Egypt. The 4x4 would allow us to slip across the border undetected. Once there, mingling in a world of tourism and semi-civilization, I'd plan my next step. We'd have to wait and see if Lynn was included.

I fired up the Q7 and drove, lights off, down to the villa. I tucked the passenger side against the wall and switched off the engine. I clambered out, day sack over one shoulder. As I readjusted to the silence, Lynn shuffled back into the driver's seat. 'Same as before – if I'm not back in an hour, it's the ERV.'

The crescent moon rose above the desert horizon. I jumped onto the bonnet and then onto the Q7's roof. I took a few more moments to study the villa then climbed onto the wall, checked below me and jumped.

Another few moments to assess the silence and I was on the move again.

I walked up the front steps and put my ear to the door. Nothing.

I edged around the back, giving each shutter a pull as I passed. No obvious way in there either, so I came back round to the front. I checked under the cactus pots to see if Layla had left a key for me, but she hadn't.

Only one thing for it: the roof.

The house had been built Mediterranean-style – normally there was no insulation; nothing between the roof and the room below.

I hopped onto a water-butt fed by a down pipe leading from the gutter and hauled myself up. If anybody was inside, this was the moment I'd find out. They certainly wouldn't think it was pigeons.

I started to peel off tiles and stacked them carefully alongside me. When I'd created a decent hole, I dug out the toolkit torch from the day sack and lay down on my stomach.

I was four metres or so above the marble floor of a large, open-plan lounge. I could see armchairs, a sofa, a fireplace, tables.

Grabbing a supporting beam, I lowered myself through the hole.

I checked each room. I found food in the fridge – long-life milk, salami, stuff that would keep – but the place didn't look like it had been lived in for a while. There was a light coating of sand on the floor and the bed and the furniture in the master bedroom had been covered with dust-sheets.

I found some keys hanging from a board next to the fridge. One of them unlocked the front door. The shutters opened easily from the inside. If I needed to leave in a hurry, I was spoilt for choice. I pocketed the keys and moved back into the lounge.

I didn't know what I was looking for so it was hard to know where to begin. I shone the torch around the room and its beam swept across a desk by the fireplace. I walked over and started removing the drawers. They were filled with the crap you usually find in desks: pens, paper, paperclips, rubber bands and correspondence – lots and lots of it. I flicked through the letters. Most were in Arabic, but some weren't.

I stuck the light in my mouth and pulled out anything written in a language I might understand. I found a compliments slip and an invoice in German from a clinic in Oberdorf, Switzerland, clearly addressed to a Fräulein Layla Hamdi, and a letter, in English, also to 'Ms Hamdi', from the Cancer Research Centre of the Russian Academy of Medical Science in Moscow.

Thank fuck for the international language. I checked the dates. The Swiss invoice, for treatment of some kind, had been sent in November. The letter from the Russian Academy of Medical Science was more recent and definitive – it was dated the first week of December and was confirmation of an appointment booked two weeks earlier.

The first sentence of the second paragraph jumped out at me.

Due to the urgent nature of the treatment, we suggest that you check yourself in as soon as possible
. . .

I was just too fucking late.

106

I put back the letters and closed the drawers. As I stood up, my torch beam brushed past a row of photographs on the mantelpiece. One was of a tall man with unkempt hair, dressed in jeans and a camouflage T-shirt, his left arm draped round the shoulders of a beautiful olive-skinned woman, several years older than him. A few strands of hair had been blown across her face by the wind. They were standing in front of a house – this house. It hadn't changed at all.

As I stared at Lesser's lank hair and her piercing, sea-green eyes, the years peeled back. The dock, the
Bahiti,
finning across the harbour . . . Layla disappearing down the gangway with Mansour . . . Big Ben sliced almost in half by the det cord . . .

I panned left and there he was in more familiar gear: khaki combat jacket, black beret and shades – the uniform of the Provisionals. He was out on some bog, in the middle of nowhere; low, grey clouds scudding in from the Atlantic behind him. He beamed from ear to ear, clutching an Armalite, draped in the Tricolour and flashing a victory sign at the camera.

My gaze shifted to the next frame: this time no guns, no uniform; just jeans and a T-shirt. It must have been dress-down Friday. A summer's day, outside a cottage just like Dom's. From the look of him, the cut of his hair – short – and the zips and chains on his jeans, the shot must have been taken in the late seventies, when Lesser was in his early twenties.

Next to him was a girl with a pale complexion and the same unruly hair – a little older than him; a sister maybe.

She took centre stage in the last photo. The backdrop was the same – the cottage in Ireland – but this time a smiling, olive-skinned schoolgirl was hanging off her neck. She looked about five or six, no more, but I was shit at guessing kids' ages. She had an awkward, gap-toothed smile and I had the uneasy feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before. I turned back towards the door and stopped.

Lesser and Layla. Lesser and the girl, and a kid with olive-tanned skin and jet-black hair – all on Layla's mantelpiece.

I ran down the corridor to the bedroom and yanked the dust-sheet off the nearer of the two bedside tables and there they were – the intimate shots you didn't put on public display: Layla, pale and drawn, clutching a newborn, olive-skinned baby to her chest; Layla and the baby again, this time in laces and ribbons; and then the infant with Lesser's sister . . . no sign of Layla at all.

I pulled open the drawer and found letters, tucked away in envelopes with Irish postmarks, with Layla's name and address – a PO Box in Tripoli – scrawled in big, loopy handwriting. I opened one and was confronted by the same writing and a wobbly drawing of a horse.
Dear Mummy
. . .

I opened another. Different drawing, same writing, a bit more mature. More letters, more drawings, the same story . . .

Hamdi and Lesser – they'd had a kid; and, by the look of it, given her up for adoption.

I moved round the opposite side of the bed and whipped the dust-sheet off the other table. Lesser, in a large, black and white portrait, surrounded by an ornate silver frame, stared back at me – at the time he'd met Hamdi in the desert, I guessed, every inch the young shit-stirrer, doing his best Che Guevara imitation.

And then there was a picture of Lesser standing beside the little girl, holding her hand – in the garden of the cottage again. The girl was seven or eight; Lesser now in his early thirties. It could only have been months, maybe even weeks, before he was dropped.

Another shot. The girl, in school uniform, giving the camera a self-conscious smile, braces on her teeth, the first signs she was developing into a young woman. And another. The girl on a pier or a ferry, leaning against railings, the sea behind her: teenaged, intense, angst-ridden, no smile, but more than a hint of her mother's haunting beauty. And finally, a big portrait, black and white again, like Lesser's – their girl all grown up.

And I had seen her before. I knew her. I'd
met
her.

My eyes flicked across the pictures again.

Lesser. Hamdi. The baby. The crofter's cottage. The schoolgirl. The girl on the pier or the ferry, whatever it fucking was . . .

The ferry.

Little Miss Camcorder. Mairead O'Connell.

107

I sat on the bed and looked down at the picture in my hand.

Duff had gobbed off to the press about a Brit spy hidden away on his ship . . .

Lynn's nickname became common knowledge around the highest levels of Libyan spookdom . . .

We'd killed her precious dad . . .

Fuck
. . . It wasn't the Firm cleaning house. It was this bitch.

I ran from the room, into the lounge and out through the front door. Clutching Layla's keys, I sprinted to the gate and produced the only one that would fit a large padlock. I shoved it in, gave it a twist and the chains fell away.

Lynn was already sliding back into the passenger seat. I jumped in and fired up the ignition. The engine caught. I sat there for a moment too long, air con kicking in, working everything out in my head.

Could the device have been her handiwork . . .?
Her mother would have shown her the tricks of the trade.

I registered something out of the corner of my eye – a glint, nothing more: metal catching moonlight.

Something on the move; something coming at me – fast. I hit the gas.

Too late.

As the wheels spun I heard the scream of another engine a second before it rammed the Audi side on. It cannoned into my door, catapulting me off my seat and into Lynn as Mansour's car was slammed into the wall. In the same instant the airbags exploded and the side window shattered into a thousand fragments.

Sand and dust and yelling filled the air. The airbags pinned my body back against the seat and my arms to my sides. I couldn't get to my weapon. Boots crunched on the bonnet. Somebody was trying to pull the driver's door open, but it was too buckled to move.

There were urgent, angry shouts and a crowbar crashed down against the windscreen – once, twice, again . . . The lamination crazed like a spider's web, but the glass didn't give. The boots stomped across the roof as I struggled for the weapon. My door was still being pulled at, the distorted metal screeching against the frame.

More shouts, but not in Arabic.