Candleburn (2 page)

4

The metal gateway squealed with protest as Asp pushed it open and entered his garden from the street. Although Dubai was virtually crime free, most of the houses in its upscale districts had thick, high walls and heavy steel gates. He made a mental note to have someone examine those rusted hinges later.

The
sprinklers rotated noisily, quenching the thirst of the scrubby, cropped clumps that passed for a lawn. It was hard to find grass that, even when watered three times daily, could stand the relentless Gulf sun.

At
five feet, seven and a half inches, Asp was short by modern standards. His shoes, still shining as brightly as if they were patent leather, clicked sharply as he crossed the meandering concrete path to the front door. He looked down at them. If his feet were a clock, they’d been stuck at ten minutes to two since he’d been eight years old.

One
summer, a rather over-ambitious aunt had tried to straighten his gait – “you walk like a milk maid!” she’d yelled. Asp was quick to please other people and amended his posture until she left. Then, the clock slowly unwound and his toes returned to their original position.

They’d stayed there ever since.

The front door was unlocked and he pushed through into the lounge. His suitcase, a hangover from his days as a banker in London, clattered as he dropped it to the floor.

Asp
exhaled loudly and collapsed onto the ivory sofa.

He
closed his eyes and leaned his head back until the bones in his neck cricked into place. He liked the feeling of the leather against the razor-short hair that ran in a narrow band around the back of his head.

He’d
been bald since he was thirty and had soon grown proud of it. It seemed fitting that a man who had one degree in Anglo Saxon history and another in astrophysics from Cambridge should have a cranium with little time for fripperies such as hair.

In
the intervening years, he’d grown a Van Dyke half-beard to compensate.

A noise of giggling from upstairs.

He opened his heavy lids and grinned. The girls were up.

His
daughters bounded down the steps, one was chasing the other with a pathetically small water pistol that wheezed water asthmatically when the trigger depressed.

“Daddy!
Daddy!” the youngest shouted and leapt into his arms.

“Hello
my beautiful Pepper!”

The
girl lifted a palm and rubbed it across her father’s cheek, still twitching with joy.

“Ginny
was chasing me with a gun!” she laughed as she drew quick breaths.

The
second girl hopped from foot to foot, the plastic pistol now hidden behind her back.

“Come
here my other gorgeous lady!” Asp called.

He
scooped them up, one in each arm. His thin frame strained under the weight – they were almost beyond his strength to carry at the same time. A momentary frown flashed across his features.

“I’ve told you before not to call them that,” Alexandria said. “They’re not babies anymore. We agreed to call them by their proper names once they started school.”

Asp
kissed his children once again and lowered them slowly to the floor.

“Quite
right, my wonderful wife,” Asp replied. “Persephone and Guinevere you know quite well that we only use proper names in this house. Please listen to your mother.”

He
winked at them. The kids giggled.

“Now
grab your swimming kit, or we’ll be late,” their mother said sternly.

The
children ran back up to their rooms.

“No
school today?” he asked.

She
sighed deeply.

“Don’t
you listen to anything that goes on in this house?” she said. “It’s half term. We’re off to the beach for the morning.”

Asp
watched his wife, elegant and detached, glide down the stairs. Her auburn exquisiteness, after all these years still captivated him. Even in jeans and a loose fitting shirt she was flawless. Her father was the third Viscount Darenth, the owner of thousands of acres of land including a huge country mansion just outside Sevenoaks in Kent.

She
had cast a spell on him the moment they first met punting on the Cam. He’d seen her from the banks of the river and called out in greeting. She’d lost the grip of her pole and slipped on the wet wooden boarding trying to regain it. She plunged into the river.

Without
hesitation, he dived in to save her. As she splashed and shrieked, he pulled her to the water’s edge and dragged her onto the bank. Dripping, sodden on the grass, he gazed into her eyes and said:

“Are
you okay?”

She
slapped him across the face and stormed off.

Now
he looked deep into her features once more.

Cold.
Brooding. Stunning.

“How’ve
you been?” he asked.

“You’re
late,” Alexandria replied.

“It
was a difficult one. We lost Jim.”

“Lost?
As in...”

He
nodded.

She
stopped. The ice melted. A softness returned to her; Asp hadn’t seen that in months, since before he’d been banished to one of the guest bedrooms.

Alexandria
placed her hand on his cheek, the same way her daughter had moments before. He closed his eyes and smelt the rose petals of her perfume – she always placed two dabs on each wrist after she showered.

“Was
it the same as before?” She hesitated as she spoke. “With the torture, I mean?”

Again,
Asp nodded and lifted his own hand to hers, holding her delicate fingertips next to his skin. She withdrew.

As
she walked away, she looked over her shoulder back at him.

Asp
knew this move. She did it before every row or bombshell of bad news, almost as if she couldn’t face him and speak – as though the disappointment in his eyes was unbearable to watch.

“I
suppose now is not the best time, then,” she began.

“No,
Alex, now would not be the best time for one of your little histrionic games.”

Asp
surprised himself. Perhaps it was the tiredness talking.

“They’re
not histrionic. I’m unhappy. I’ve followed you here to the ends of the earth – put my career on hold. I’ve thought long and hard about it. I want to go home, Asp. I want to go back to England.”

This
was not the first time they’d had the conversation. He adored her and yet now, sleep-deprived and still somewhat in shock from seeing his colleague’s cadaver, he found himself speechless.

There
was so much he could say: why England? She was never happy there either. Why now? Every month the reason changed. What career? Despite being one of the brightest people he’d ever met, she’d dropped out of university two months into her third year. If she’d stuck it out for barely another six, she’d have graduated.

But
no, Alexandria wanted to drop out, and that’s what she did.

She
became a pole-dancer.

She
lasted four months.

There
had been more than a trace of parental rebellion in the move. When he finally convinced her to go out with him and reconsider her life, she’d tried five different lines of work – from legal aide to mortgage broker and finally, upon their move to Dubai, she’d become a talent scout for a modelling agency. She stuck at that job almost two years.

Dubai.

It was the unofficial capital of the Middle East and certainly not the ‘ends of the Earth’.

“I’m
serious, this time,” she said. “I’ve talked to Daddy. He’s buying the children and me a house near Tonbridge.”

Asp
could feel the heat of anger well through his body. His blood vessels tightened, his neck reddened. He was overwrought and this was not the time for a fight. His mind was empty, his mouth dry.

What
to say? How to respond?

The
buzzing from the lounge table stopped him. He looked down to see his mobile humming as it vibrated its way across the marble surface.

Mehr
Zain.

“Don’t
do anything rash,” he said gently. “I must take this. Work. You understand. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

***

Asp ran through the front door and down to the street. Mehr was already waiting in his car, engine revving, as he stared through the open passenger door for his boss.

“Why
the big hurry?” Asp asked as he jumped in.

“Police
scanner says they’ve found a dead hooker, body stuffed in the boot of a car at a supermarket near the Creek.”

“Shit,”
Asp replied. “There goes that lead. Any word on the nationality?”

“As
you thought: Filipino.”

“Chaiwat
Singuptra,” Asp said. “Well, at least we’ve a good rapport with him. You drive. I’ll put in some calls and get us a meeting.”

“Yeah,”
Mehr said sceptically. “Best of luck with that.”

5

Aarez pulled his hand across his beard to the bottom of his chin, then flicked his arm to the side. Sweat flew from the tips of his fingers and spattered on the wood-plank walls of the shack.

In
front of him, patterned with tiger stripes as the sunlight strained through the sides of the barn, a naked Thai man was duct-taped to a chair. Chaiwat Singuptra: full time second-in-command of the East Asian mafia in the country – part-time sell-out for Britain’s MI6.

Cuts
and bruises lined his body.

Of
course, his status as mole was not widely known outside a very select group of people. Unfortunately for Chaiwat, Aarez had recently become one of the few.

“Now,
let’s try this again,” Aarez said.

His
voice was barely a whisper.

“Where
is it?”

The
Thai man whimpered. His face screwed like a baby’s in mid tantrum as he shook it violently. The chair rocked unsteadily on the sand floor.

Four
other men circled the victim.

Three
were Somalis in loose-fitting cotton trousers and dung-stained tee-shirts that matched their encrusted hair. Nominally, they’d been brought to the United Arab Emirates by Aarez’s father to work on his camel farm as hired hands. In practice Aarez had scoured the lawless, wayward villages of Azania and recruited the disaffected to join his cause.

The
fourth man was Aarez’s childhood friend, Oassan. A hulking beast of a man, with muscles and fists to match, he was curiously fine-featured for one so large. He was the second generation of his family to be born in the UAE and yet, by itself, that was not enough for him to be afforded citizenship. Disavowed by the country of his birth, he instead survived on a Jordanian passport – as did many whose parental heritage could be traced to Palestine.

A
black and white keffiyeh was pulled tight across Oassan’s nose and mouth to keep out the blistering stink of faeces and rotting straw that wafted in from the gurning camels outside.

“Still
no answer?” Aarez spat.

Oassan
uncoiled a bullwhip and sent a gentle ripple along its length. Chaiwat grimaced in anticipation.

Aarez
nodded.

With
a grunt and almighty swing of his full torso, Oassan lashed his victim’s back.

Blood
mixed with sweat to form a fine mist as the whip flayed Chaiwat’s skin.

Outside,
the camels, disturbed by the cries of agony, began an empathetic chorus – a loud undulating harmony partway between a lion’s roar and a human scream.

The
whipping stopped.

Dark
red trickles ran down the Chaiwat’s legs and arms. Beneath the chair, sand slowly coagulated in blackening clumps.

Aarez
watched Oassan pant slowly and smile as he admired his handiwork.

“Now,”
Aarez continued, “once more, if you please. Where is it?”

Chaiwat
stared resolutely at the floor.

“Do
you know who we are?” Aarez asked mockingly.

The
Thai man snorted. Whether it was a resigned attempt at a laugh or simply a huffed effort at clearing the mucus that dripped from his nose, Aarez could not be sure.

Chaiwat
raised his head.

“Yes,
I know,” he croaked. “Ash-Shumu’a. You are ‘The Candle’.”

Aarez
grinned.

Good
– knowledge of them was on the rise. It was a tricky balance to maintain; enough recognition that they remained an enigma, a murky rumour – yet not so much that they had risen to the radar of the world’s security forces.

At
least until now.

“Then
you know we’ll get what we want,” Aarez hissed.

“I
am dead whatever happens.”

“Not
so,” Aarez replied, “with no survivors, there would be no-one to talk of our mercy. End this now. We have much experience in getting what we want. If you make us continue, I’m afraid my offer of clemency will be rescinded.”

Chaiwat
coughed. Blood bubbled between his lips. He retched. Vomit oozed through his teeth. He spat on the floor and regained his composure.

“Do
what you want with me. When I don’t report in, others will follow.”

Aarez
laughed and clicked his fingers at the Somalis who ran outside.

“I’ve
spent five years building Ash-Shumu’a,” he said. “I’ve planned its operation and networks. Oassan and I have bred paranoia through our converts. No electronic communications, so nothing to trip your Echelon or PRISM. I assure you, no-one has been compromised. We have assumed at every turn that you and others like you have been watching.”

The
Somalis returned with two small metal boxes. Opening them, one contained candles; the other, lighter fluids and variety of full hypodermic needles.

“The truth is far more prosaic,” Aarez continued. “The fact is that none of you even know we exist. Not British Intelligence, not the Americans – not even, bless them, the Central Bureau of Intelligence for this dear UAE. Everyone that comes close, we kill. The nearest neighbour to this farm is twenty miles away. Your screams will not be heard. No-one is coming to your rescue and there will be no-one who follows your trail – at least, not until it’s far too late.”

Aarez
studied the candles and selected one. He lit it with a plastic lighter.

“And
now, you will understand why we are called ‘the Candle’. Not only will Ash-Shumu’a light the way for the rest of our people – but also we burn those who block the path. First we will start with your toes. Then your fingers. Then your feet and knees and calves. Talk or not, we will find what we seek.”

Oassan
removed a canister of liquid butane from the box.

“One
final thought,” Aarez said, “don’t worry that you will pass out and miss all the fun. We’re well versed in this now.”

He
gestured at the syringes.

“We
can keep you awake and in anguish for days until you’re ready to end it. And remember – all it takes is telling us where it is.”

Oassan
began singing a children’s song while squirting lighter fluid very precisely over the Thai man’s left big toe.

“The
foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone...”

***

Blake turned the puzzle box over in his palm as he parked his car in front of the Journal’s office. He dared not risk taking it inside. He opened the glove compartment and placed it inside. He then lowered each car window by an inch. Without such a precaution he feared the box’s contents would be damaged; a vehicle with closed windows in Dubai would reach oven temperature in barely twenty minutes.

Born
in London to an American father and a French mother, Blake had moved back to the US aged 11 and had to toughen up quickly. Even in the internationally diverse Washington Beltway, a kid with a British accent was a target for bullying. He’d stayed in the US for university, graduated and worked in Virginia. While on a business trip to London he met Cathy.

Blake
smirked as he walked into the office elevator, thinking about his wife.

Brunette,
Irish; she’d captured his heart at a party in Richmond. She changed everything. He quit his government job and became a journalist. He moved back to Britain. Everything was going well until the Journal reposted him to Dubai.

Blake
closed his eyes and blanked his mind. He had to clear his thoughts before he entered the daily battle of the office. If he went in angry, Alice had already won.

He
took a deep breath and walked in.

Inside,
Alice was standing like a meerkat, forward, weight on her hands as she leaned conspiratorially over the fibreboard desk-divides, gossiping. Opposite her Blake’s other journalist colleague – a man from Portland called Duncan – listened intently.

Duncan
laughed loudly. Alice flashed him a warning look as Blake came through the door and she stopped talking.

Blake
said nothing beyond a perfunctory “Good morning” and set his computer out on his desk.

“Thank
you very much for joining us,” Alice said with a sarcastic tone and theatrically bowing.

The
office didn’t really keep normal hours – the nature of reporting dictated that when a story occurred you worked as long as required. Sixteen-hour days were a weekly occurrence. Thirty-six hour runs happened once a month.

Flexibility
was key, particularly given that the Gulf weekend ran from Friday to Saturday, creating a frequent conflict with the Journal’s main editors in New York. They refused to understand that Fridays in the UAE were, for religious reasons, a difficult time to disturb government and business sources.

Usually,
the journalists ended up on the losing side of the ‘flexible time’ arrangement but it was commonly expected that if you put in extra hours, you got a small portion back. The only ‘rule’ was that everyone had to be present by 10am on a Sunday morning for the editorial meeting on how the week’s work would be divided.

Blake
checked his watch.

“It’s
09:24. I thought we start on Sundays at 10:00? We have done for the last eighteen months,” he said cautiously.

Alice
raised an eyebrow. Her eyelids fluttered vigorously.

“Well,
everyone else is already in – so you figure it out.”