was about two meters away-too far to charge him. He’d considered throwing the knife-he’d been taught how by one of the King’s bodyguards-but he knew he’d be shot before he even let the blade go. He had only one option. Bending over the gasping Albanian, he brought the knife close to his face. Then, with a sharp cry, he fell to the floor like a stone, narrowly missing the blood-drenched body.
Faik lay there, waiting for the bullet. It didn’t come. He had made sure that the knife clattered away out of his reach, reckoning that would put the killer off guard.
“Get up!” the man with the gun screamed, his voice suddenly high. “Get up!”
Faik heard rapid footsteps moving to the dresser, and then toward him. A cork was unplugged and a liquid drenched his head. The smell made him gag. It was some spirit, whisky or rum. Faik didn’t drink alcohol-his mother would have disowned him.
A hand sheathed in latex grabbed the back of his collar and he was heaved around. Now he was facing the man. He rolled his eyes, showing the whites. That should convince the bastard that he was out. The problem was, Faik couldn’t see while his eyes were like that. He waited a few seconds, then felt the cold metal of the silencer on his forehead. It was time.
Faik lashed sideways with his right arm, making contact with the gun. It flew out of the bearded man’s hand. Then he got hold of the bloodstained sports shirt and pulled the fucker down, jerking his body to the side. There was a squelching sound as the man’s face landed on the Albanian’s lacerated chest. Faik forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain from his thighs. He swung one foot back and smashed it against the side of his opponent’s head. He was only wearing training shoes, but the blow was solid enough. The bearded man fell back onto the Albanian’s body farther down.
“Fuck you!” Faik yelled, giving him another kick. Then he reached for the gun and pointed it at the man’s head.
Slowly, the face turned toward him. The beard was drenched in blood. “You don’t want to shoot me,” the killer said, his voice soft and enticing. “We can be friends.”
Faik felt a mixture of repulsion and excitement. He held the gun on him. “Take it off,” he said, breathing hard. “Take off the beard.”
The man stared at him and then smiled. “All right,” he said, struggling to his feet and standing up. He gripped the hairs at the side of his face and gently pulled. The thick covering came away.
“Ah-yeeh!” Faik said, stepping back. What he had seen when the beard had slipped before was only a hint of the full horror. The man’s upper lip was in two parts, revealing the pink of the gum beneath. There were livid, raised scars across the cheeks and the chin was irregular and swollen, the skin discolored as if it had been repeatedly punched. “What happened to you?”
The man touched the flaps of his upper lip with his tongue. Faik could now see that there were small scabs on it, as if the skin had been punctured.
“This?” He laughed softly, the sound incongruous. “Don’t you fancy me now?”
Faik gagged on the bitter liquid that had rushed up his throat. “Is that…is that why you’re doing this?” he asked, inclining his head toward the Albanian. “To make him uglier than you?”
The laugh was repeated. “You’re clever, as well as beautiful. Come on, we can have a wonderful time together.” The man raised his hands slowly and began to open the buttons of his shirt, then latched his fingers on to the collar of the T-shirt beneath and ripped it apart.
Faik watched in astonishment as the material was parted. He saw a pair of dark nipples and soft, heavy breasts.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a transsexual.” Without the beard, the woman’s smile was pitiful. “I’m yours.”
Faik Jabar let out a cry of anguish and repulsion, then staggered to the door of the flat. In a few seconds he was on the pavement, breathing in the cold night air. He jammed the pistol into the waistband of his still damp trousers. Before he started to move forward, he looked up to the top floor. The curtain was half-open and the face of the monster looked down at him. Now there was no trace of a smile. He remembered something from school about hell, fury and a scorned woman.
Pete and Andy took the train to Oxford and walked to the house. It was over a mile from the station, in what was obviously a well-heeled area. Apart from a pissed student lurching home, the place was deserted. The building was detached and about twenty meters back from the road. There was a thick and high privet hedge all around the front garden.
“Good cover,” Andy said as they approached. “And no lights. Let’s hope that means no one’s at home.”
The street was quiet, cars parked on both sides. A narrow path ran up the left side of the property to a tennis club.
“Not even lunatic Oxford professors will be playing at this time of night in March,” Pete said. “How convenient. There’s a side door.”
Andy pulled on latex gloves and took his lock-picking rods from his pocket.
“How long do you give me, Boney?” he asked.
Pete shone his torch around the door. “I can’t see an alarm. How about one minute, Slash?”
Andy succeeded, just. They went in, closing the door behind them. There was cast-iron garden furniture on a wide wooden veranda. Pete was shining his torch around the rear door.
“Yup, there it is,” he said, pointing to a small plastic box at the top of the black-painted door. “Circuit breaker.” He took out the electronic device with a pointed end that Rog had given him. “Let’s see if this thing works.” He held it toward the top of the door for five seconds. “Okay. See what you can do with the lock.”
Andy worked his rods again and there was a click. “Dammit,” he said in a loud whisper. “There’s a mortice lock, as well.”
Pete moved the electronic device around the window. “You’ll have to cut the glass.”
“Sara or her sidekicks will know we’ve been here.”
“Tough,” Pete said. “You heard Matt. Any pressure on the bitch is good news.”
Andy took a glass-knife and two rubber suckers from his backpack. After he’d attached them, Pete held them while he did the cutting. The pane was soon removed and they climbed in.
“Motion sensors,” Pete said, holding Andy back as he moved across the kitchen. He held up the device again. “Okay.”
They moved forward and made it to the hall, opening the door carefully.
“Jesus, did something die in here?” Andy said as a wave of rank air hit them.
“Very likely,” Pete said, on his knees by the alarm box. Rog had given him another device that was supposed to scramble the unit’s brains for up to half an hour.
“What is that stink?” Andy said, shining his torch around the spacious area.
“Whatever it is, it isn’t far away,” Pete said, close behind him. They came around the bottom of the wide staircase.
“You have got to be kidding,” Andy said, putting a hand over his nose and mouth.
Pete shone his torch on the swollen figure that was lying facedown inside the front door. “I’m glad we came in the back,” he said, breathing only through his mouth.
“Is it a guy?” Andy asked, peering at the head.
“Those look like suit trousers. Pinstripe. Hold on.” Pete took out his digital camera and shot a series of photographs. “That’ll keep Matt happy.”
Andy looked up at him. “We’re going to have to turn the poor bastard over.”
They took hold of the bloated shoulders and managed to get the body on to its back. Pete stepped back and took more photos. The face would scarcely have been recognized by the corpse’s best friend.
“Look at that,” Andy said, pointing. “Throat’s been cut.”
Pete nodded. “Check his pockets. Maybe there’s some ID on him.”
Andy blinked hard and then slid a hand into the trouser pocket nearest to him. He shook his head. “Zilch.”
Pete tried the pocket on the other side. “Something in here.” He brought out a rectangular card. “James Maclehose,” he said, “and a load of letters after his name. Consultant plastic surgeon. There’s an address in Harley Street.”
“He must have really got someone pissed,” Andy said, leaning over the dead man’s face. “His nose has been cut off. Christ. And his lips.”
