Tracers (26 page)

‘Good enough for me,’ Rik murmured. ‘Sitting round here is giving me the jitters.’ He glanced at Harry. ‘Let’s hope matey with the knife doesn’t come to the same conclusion. It could get crowded.’

‘There’s no reason why he should. He’ll probably carry on looking. We’ll have to watch our backs, though, maybe stay away from home for a while.’

He glanced at Joanne, aware that he’d spoiled the trust that had been growing between them. It had been heavy-handed, but a necessity. He hoped it wasn’t going to get in the way of what they had to talk about next.

‘I don’t know enough about the situation over there,’ he said, referring to Iraq. ‘So what I can’t figure out is why someone wants Rafa’i dead. It can’t just be sectarian; that wouldn’t involve westerners, and the locals have got enough of their own trigger-men to kill him a hundred times over. Knocking off one former cleric doesn’t change anything.’

Joanne said nothing, returning his look with a blank face.

‘It might,’ suggested Rik, to break the awkward silence, ‘if there was a danger Rafa’i could destabilize the order of things. Their parliament’s ticking over reasonably well. OK, not great, and maybe short of a minister every now and then when the insurgents get lucky. But no worse than you’d expect with the country in the state it is. Then along comes this other bloke: well respected, popular . . . even got a whiff of the cloth about him. It makes him special – Messianic, even.’ He looked at Joanne. ‘What was it you said – a big cheese among the locals? Somebody like that in the background, suddenly the politicos who’re in it for the power and money might get nervous, feel threatened.’

Still Joanne said nothing, so Harry joined in. ‘He’s right,’ he said quietly, watching her face for a reaction. ‘The politicians are used to one group or another vying for power. If they can’t work with them, they buy them off and everything goes quiet again until the next one comes along. I can’t see that they’d bother killing somebody like Rafa’i unless there was something bigger at stake.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Joanne said finally. She seemed relaxed but there was tension in the whiteness of her knuckles.

‘He was specifically targeted, wasn’t he?’ said Harry. ‘That’s why you were sent out there. There was a real and credible threat and he needed protection. Otherwise, what was the point?’

‘They could have given him a shield of Coalition troops,’ Rik pointed out, ‘if he was that important.’

‘He was important all right.’ Harry lifted his eyebrows, waiting for Joanne to comment. When she didn’t, he continued, ‘If he’s the one I remember reading about, wasn’t he the man who believed in the oil and mineral resources being controlled by the state? That must have been seen by some as a real threat.’ He paused. ‘Only it wasn’t the locals who were bothered, was it? They didn’t have so much to lose.’

‘Oh, man.’ Rik spoke softly as he saw where Harry was going.

‘Who would stand to lose most if Iraq suddenly turned round and locked everyone else out of their oil production programme? If someone new came along and turned the tables on western interests? It wouldn’t be the current politicians – they don’t have the power or the popular support.’ He tore up a handful of grass and tossed it into the air, watching the fragments fall to the ground. ‘But somebody with a wide national following would be a genuine threat. Reason enough to get rid of him and blame the insurgents.’

‘What are you saying?’ Joanne’s voice was low.

‘You know what I’m saying. The only ones with the means to do it would come from within the Coalition. Oil is money and money talks. That’s why you saw a bunch of mercs coming to the safe house. That’s why Humphries didn’t make it out of Baghdad alive. This whole business is all about oil and money, and getting rid of anyone who poses a threat to the flow of both. They’ve probably been scratching at this particular sore since the first Gulf War.’

‘You mean our
government’s
behind this?’

‘More likely a group or groups
inside
government. This current lot might be devious and untrustworthy, but I don’t see them having the nerve to put something like this together. They’d rather go in afterwards and talk their heads off about what to do next, or blame someone else.’

Rik gave a customary scowl. ‘But that would undermine the Coalition if it ever came out. Would they risk it?’

‘Yes.’ Joanne responded before Harry could answer. She looked into the distance, then turned back to them. ‘I never took much interest in all that political rubbish. I’m a squaddie and I go where they point me. But Rafa’i said something a couple of weeks before the explosion.’ She paused, her face fixed in concentration.

‘What?’ said Rik.

‘We were alone. The security squad were patrolling outside the house and he was in a bit of a mood. Thoughtful, I mean, not bad-tempered. There had been another suicide bombing an hour or so before, a few streets away. I’d made a comment about it being a bit close for comfort. To be honest, I was considering bugging out and finding somewhere safer, or maybe getting a fighting patrol to come in and cause a diversion so we could slip away.’

‘You could arrange that?’ Harry looked surprised.

‘Gordon Humphries could. When I mentioned it to Rafa’i, he laughed it off, saying it wasn’t the insurgents he was worried about. I asked him what he meant, and he said if anyone caused his death it would be elements within the Coalition. The so-called friendly forces.’ She shrugged and gave a wry smile. ‘I thought he meant the Americans might drop a bomb on the house by mistake. I told him that wouldn’t happen.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Harry.

‘He said they’d already tried it once and missed. It was only a matter of time before they tried again.’

‘He was right, then,’ said Harry sombrely. ‘Wasn’t he?’

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
Madrileña
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?

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.