State of Attack (21 page)

Two Dobermans were sitting like minor Egyptian gods a few yards in front of him. But these were no statues. They began snarling, revealing rows of lethal white teeth. If they both came for him at once, he knew he might only be able to shoot one of them before the other started to rip at his flesh. Grimacing, he felt his whole body tense. He dropped the lamp and raised the Glock.

As if reading his mind, they bolted towards him, eating up the concrete like racehorses at full gallop. Without thinking, his mind went into fighter mode, just as they both leapt for the kill. He threw himself backwards, raised the handgun and shot the first dog in the chest. Despite hitting the concrete and jarring his head, he kicked upwards with his right leg and caught the second dog between its hind legs, with the full force of his instep. A searing pain in the small of his back made him grimace and moan between gritted teeth. It felt as if he’d been jabbed there with a jagged stick.

He scrambled up and saw that the dog he’d shot was lying on the ground, with its tongue out. The second dog had yelped as he’d kicked it. The impact had sent it careering behind him. Just as he turned, he saw it leap almost half-heartedly at him again. He put up his left forearm, felt the teeth sink into his flesh, although it didn’t have the strength to reach the bone. Ignoring the pain, he yanked it up onto its hind legs and put the barrel of the HK to its left eye and shot it.

He steadied himself, knowing that the muzzle blasts, accentuated by the confined space in the corridor, would have alerted whoever else occupied this place and he only had eight .45 ACP cartridges left in the semi-automatic pistol. Full metal jacket, for sure, but only eight.

He saw a slither of moonlight beneath a wooden door about three yards up. He ran for it. The door had a rusted circular handle and, testing it, he breathed out deeply with relief as he felt it twist upwards and heard the bolt retract.

He emerged from what he could now see was an old farm building, with off-white walls and a red tiled roof. He shivered in the cold night air, the sky cloudless, and looked about like a nervous animal. The yard in front of him was paved with large slabs of stones, a crumbling brick wall ahead. There was some ancient farm machinery strewn about, a two-wheeled cart, a drag harrow like a huge gaping mouth of filed blackened teeth, and a furrow plough. An ancient pickup truck, minus its wheels, was rotting away by a tangle of barbed wire. There was a wood shack in the far corner, nailed together with what appeared to be odd pieces of wood and thin metal sheets.

Another dog started barking and Tom swivelled his head to the far left. In front of a rusted metal gate was a mastiff. It looked like a small bull, with an ugly, drooping face. As it snarled, straining on a thick chain, white froth oozed from the sides of its huge mouth. It rose up on its hind legs, evidently ravenous for blood.

The door was barged open behind Tom, propelling him forwards, the handgun escaping from his fingers as he hit the slabs, the dog becoming almost apoplectic. The huge guard, Rapper, who’d been at the tenement, stepped out, his face screwed-up with rage. Before Tom had a chance to retrieve the weapon, Rapper moved into the intervening space. He had a wrench in his hand. It was red, about two feet long.

Tom knew he should sprint for the wall. His brain was screaming at him. He was fast. It made sense. But then he thought, no, he could get shot in the back. Besides, the guy had it coming to him. He really had it coming to him.

“You just keep pumping those weights. Suits me fine,” Tom said.

Rapper moved towards him then and Tom met him halfway. He swung the wrench, missing Tom’s forehead by about an inch as Tom weaved backwards. The momentum meant that Rapper was off balance, his weight acting against him for a second, and Tom sidestepped and smashed down the heel of the shoe into the outside of Rapper’s knee, He groaned and twisted at the waist.

Tom moved deftly, grabbing the hand that held the wrench as Rapper lifted it over his head. He jerked him forwards and simultaneously drove his right knee into the Turk’s groin and hit him under the chin with his palm before he doubled over. As Rapper’s head snapped back, he jerked harder, bringing him into his chest.

As the dog barked like a machine gun, Tom said, “Just keep pumping.”

Still holding Rapper’s wrench hand, Tom pushed him out about a foot with his free hand, snapped it back and ploughed his elbow into the man’s temple. There was a sharp, sickening crack like a pickaxe hitting a wall, followed by a wheezy breath and a pitiful moan. Rapper sank to his knees, and Tom finished him off with a palm strike to the nose, glops of blood exploding over his mouth.

Stepping back, Tom let him keel over.

A second later a shot ran out, and a round hit the flagstone a couple of inches from Tom’s left foot, creating a puff of gritty dust, a hole the size of a dime. Without turning around, Tom knew there was only one way out. He ran at the wall and pulled himself up onto it, gritting his teeth. His forearms were like weaved steel, and he scaled it with relative ease, despite the state he was in, an adrenalin dump coursing through his veins to aid him. Above the din of the frantic dog, still testing the chain’s strength, he guessed, Tom heard another discharge, which pinged past his shoulder a split second before he dropped down onto the other side.

After he hit the hard-packed soil, he noticed a dirt track to the left, and a hill dotted with wind turbines to the right. Beyond the track that ran parallel to the wall were fields of tobacco and sugar beets, which might camouflage him, he thought. But before he could decide whether to go in the direction of the track or head for the hill, three men emerged from the end of the wall, brandishing machetes.

Tom knew that trying to overpower them would be useless.

Chapter 54

A dark sedan fishtailed around the corner of the track, a dust cloud half engulfing it. Tom’s mind was reeling now, but as the car got parallel to him the back passenger door swung open. The CIA analyst Jack Donaldson was shouting at him and frantically beckoning him with his hand from the driver’s seat. Tom squinted and craned forwards, just to make sure.

“Get in, Tom. They’re everywhere,” Donaldson said.

Confused, Tom ducked down and dived onto the back passenger seat just as the blade from a flung machete shattered the open door’s window. Donaldson hit the gas. Tom’s heart was pounding and thick beads of sweat ran from his forehead. Faintly above the engine, he heard a cacophony of angry curses.

“Jesus, Donaldson.”

“I have to get you out of here. Can we ring anyone?” Donaldson said.

“Anyone?”

“Anyone else? Anyone who knows and might help.”

“Only Crane. Let’s just get back to the embassy.”

“Anyone else?” Donaldson said.

“No. There’s only you and me.”

“Are you sure, Tom? It’s important. Who else?”

“What are you talking about? Phone Crane, he’ll get us out of here.”

“I will. Who else knows about all this?”

“No one. What difference does it make? What’s up with you?”

Tom saw Donaldson in the rearview mirror. He was staring at him every second or so, a frantic expression on his face.

“Just Crane? No one else you’re linking up with here?” he asked.

“No one,” Tom said, thinking of Lester, but refusing to mention him.

The car lurched as it hit a curve in the track and Tom was flung sideways, smacking his head on the door handle. He felt nauseous and blood flowed over his face.

“What about the black guy?”

Half dazed, Tom checked the rearview, more than a little perturbed that someone like Donaldson knew of Lester’s existence. Donaldson was straining into the mirror, seemingly willing him to respond.

“Quit looking back at me or we’ll never get out of here.”

“The black guy, who is he?”

“The hell’s going on? How the did you know I was here?”

Donaldson smacked the wheel with his palm. “This is your last fucking chance to keep your balls, goddamnit. Now who is he?”

“Screw you,” Tom said.

He tried to reach for Donaldson but his skull felt as if it was cracking open, and a shooting pain tore down his spine.

“Wait. What the hell are you doin’?” Tom said as he sensed that they were going back in the direction of the goons. “What’s happening?”

Donaldson didn’t flinch, but simply completed the tight three-point turn and accelerated back down the track towards the farm.

“Jack, what the hell’s happening?”

The car stopped with a jolt, making Tom’s already battered head jar. He saw the CIA man turn and point something at him that looked like an old-fashioned cellphone. It was then he felt the shocks running through his body, making him rigid and convulse.

“You…sonofabitch,” Tom said as he felt as if his blood was boiling, as if his muscles were bulging out of his skin, his eyes popping.

The car sped off again and after about ten seconds his head flopped back onto the headrest. After the rigidity, he now felt his body become flaccid, as if his bones had turned to gel. The car slowed down to a stop. Vaguely, he saw the front passenger seat open and a broad-shouldered man got in. The man turned around. In the fading yellow haze of the car’s dome light, Tom saw Rapper stare balefully at him, his disfigured face bloody. Then the back door on the other side of him swung open and a grinning thug hit the seat.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Donaldson said.

Hazily, Tom watched Rapper flick a syringe, and just about registered the short spurt of liquid from the bevel. He felt a sweat-stained gag being roughly tightened around his mouth. A sedative plus chloroform, just to be sure.

Then he blacked out.

Chapter 55

The little girl, baba Maroof’s three-year-old granddaughter, was wearing a flora dress and black patent shoes. She tottered behind his every move like a dependent puppy, her floppy curls parted in the middle and reaching down to her nape. Her mouth was full and prettily curved, her eyes as pure and deep as a salmon pool. When he was with her he thought that it was the closest to heaven that he’d get. He’d never truly loved anything or anyone in his life, but he loved little Asya.

Maroof was wearing white linen overalls and a wide-brimmed hat, with a circular veil. His hands were bare, with protruding veins and deep semi-circular wrinkles like fish scales. His spacious villa was ten miles from Ankara, a secluded spot next to an elongated lake, bordered by Oriental Hornbeam and Rize Birch. It had terracotta roof tiles, a glass conservatory, and was surrounded by a high, redbrick wall. The sky was a dusty blue, the wind sporadic. It was just after daybreak.

He was standing in the back garden, an immaculate lawn, framed by beds of indigenous wild flowers: scarlet snapdragon, wild basil and butter-coloured St John’s wort. In front of him were six apex-roofed, rectangular beehives. They were made from cypress wood, the old-fashioned way, rather than dense polystyrene.

With Asya positioned behind his legs, he used a smoker to produce wafts of grey smoke. It looked like a coffee pot, with bellows attached to it. The smoke was generated from slow-burning pine needles and hessian. It masked the alarm pheromones released by the vigilant guard bees. Asya began to cough and sniffle.

“It won’t hurt you, my angel,” he said. “I would never let anything hurt you.”

“Mama spanked me,” she said.

“Ah. Now stay here awhile. Grandfather is going to collect the honey. You like grandfather’s honey, don’t you angel?”

“Like grandfather’s honey,” she said.

Smiling, and after removing a wooden frame, he strolled about thirty feet to a metal table. On top was a honey extractor surrounded by glass jars. He used an electronic hot knife to cut off the cap wax before placing the frame into the extractor. Then he created a few more wafts of smoke and took off his protective hat, hearing a conversation behind him.

“Hello, little Asya.”

“Hello,” she said.

He knew the voice and turned and saw Arnaud, his Corsican bodyguard, walking down the lawn. He was wearing a dark brown suit and a cream, open-necked shirt. Arnaud was about the same height as him, but had a broad, muscular physique and a bloated head. His grey-black hair was shaved close to his skull, his nose badly misshapen, his eyes pig-like. He’d done twelve years in the French Foreign Legion, the 2nd Rep, the elite paratrooper unit. He’d had to change his nationality to another French-speaking country in order to comply with the declared identity rule, and had left a
sergent chef
, a senior sergeant.

“Tell me,” Maroof said, sucking some honey from his thumb.

“The American we picked up is called Tom Dupree, a special agent in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. He’s been kept in Ankara overnight, but is on his way now.”

“Walk with me,” the baba said, shuffling off. “The bees are attracted to your breath. A sting to the face is most painful.”

The villa was swept for surveillance bugs, both audio and visual, on a daily basis, although not one had ever been found. Given their unofficial relationship with the highest echelons of MIT, the various forms of aerial surveillance were deemed to be so remote that Maroof had stopped worrying about it years ago. Consequently it was deemed safe to discuss anything here.

He stopped beside a muslin sack lying on the grass. “Donaldson?”

“Did as we asked. He was waiting on the track. He would have feigned saving Tom Dupree in just an hour’s time as planned. He was radioed when Dupree made his own escape. He feigned saving him just the same, then turned the car around and brought him back. But Dupree would not give up the name of the black.”

Maroof turned around and motioned with his hand towards the villa. “Go inside now, Asya. Grandmother has made fresh pomegranate juice for breakfast.”

“Yum yum,” she said, rubbing her stomach.

He watched her turn around and run with precarious-looking steps towards the backdoor, her tiny hands acting like stabilizers by her sides. She loved pomegranate juice.

Turning back, he said, “Hand me that.” Maroof pointed his finger at the sack.

He watched Arnaud flinch. The contents of the sack had moved as soon as his bodyguard had touched it. Taking it from him, Maroof undid the knotted string and felt around inside. He pulled out a hare, holding it by the scruff of its neck. Its hind legs kicked out in a mechanical fashion, although they were tied together with thin plasticuffs.