The Operative

‘One day,’ Skender went on, ‘a year, maybe two years from now, you’re gonna be somewhere, driving along, maybe leaving a restaurant with your fat wife and you’re gonna have an accident. Hit-and-run maybe, a mugger, whatever. The point is, you’re gonna die, Hobart. That’s an Albanian promise, my friend. I want you to spend every waking minute until that day thinking about it, knowing that it’s going to happen.’

As Hobart stared up at Skender he heard a ringing sound that seemed to go on for an age. But he was so consumed by what Skender had done and said to him that he was unable to realise it was his mobile phone. Hobart had never been so physically abused in his life and nothing had prepared him for it.

Skender sneered at the pathetic figure before turning away to rest his callous stare on Cano. ‘Where is he?’ Skender asked with a malevolence that shocked even the other Albanian.

‘He got into the building somehow—’

‘I’m talking about the kid!’ Skender yelled, his face going red as he closed on Cano.

‘The floor below,’ Cano said, wondering what his reaction would be if Skender struck him too. To hit back would mean that he would have to kill Skender, for that would be his own fate if he did not.

‘You brought him here?’ Skender growled. ‘Are you completely stupid?’

‘No one would think—’

‘You’re the only one who doesn’t think around here. Where?’

‘In the janitor’s cupboard.’

Skender wanted to kill him there and then. But this was not the time to execute a man who was obsessed with killing another who was a more immediate threat. Besides, he would expect Cano to fight back and that could be problematic. He fancied his chances against Cano, even with their age difference. Cano was brutal but he lacked Skender’s experience. Nevertheless, this was not the time. ‘How does Hobart know there’s a bomb in this building?’ he asked, turning his attention to the immediate and potentially more dangerous situation.

‘I don’t know.’

‘The Englishman?’

Cano nodded.

Skender was aware of Stratton’s abilities with explosives but the truth was that he had no concern for his own life, feeling secure in such a large structure. What angered him was the thought of even a speck of damage to his beloved new building.

‘When was he here?’

‘An hour ago.’

‘Inside the building? You’re sure of that?’

‘He nearly killed one of our people in the garage.’

Skender looked away in thought. ‘This guy will have a plan.’

‘He wants the kid,’ Cano said.

That was fairly obvious, thought Skender as he stepped towards the glass doors, pausing at them. ‘Get that creep outta here,’ he said, indicating Hobart. ‘And Cano – if that guy does anything to this building, and I mean one broken window, I’m gonna kill you myself.’

The two men stared at each other. Cano did not doubt the threat for a second.

Skender walked along the corridor behind the frosted-glass wall to the emergency exit. Cano lowered his gaze to Hobart who was trying to pull himself up, using the edge of the table. But his damaged ribs, among other things, were causing him extreme pain.

Hobart persevered and pulled himself up enough to slump awk-wardly into a chair, every breath accompanied by a burning stab inside his chest. The pain was one thing but much worse was the degradation and humiliation. He had entirely miscalculated Skender’s contempt for authority and lust for brutality.

‘You know where the elevator is,’ Cano said as he walked out of the room, too much on his own mind to care what happened to Hobart.

Hobart wanted nothing more than to get out of there but at that moment he was not sure if he could get to his feet without help, let alone out of the building. His face hurt like hell, his jaw was probably broken and God only knew how bad his ribs were. He cursed himself for being so stupid and putting himself in such a situation. He should have asked the cops to accompany him but he had been too arrogant to predict for himself what he might have warned others of. And there was yet more to come when he faced his staff and superiors. They would hold him partly to blame for his stupidity in confronting Skender alone. Without a witness Hobart was helpless.

His phone rang again but he ignored it, unsure if he could actually speak properly. He made an effort to get to his feet, wobbling slightly, fixing his stare on the doorway and staggering towards it.

36

Skender stepped through the sixteenth-floor fire exit and went to the floor below his penthouse suite. One of his guards remained at the door while the other followed him along the curving corridor and stopped by the elevator. Skender continued on to the end of the corridor where there was a small kitchen with a janitor’s closet opposite. A key was in the lock. He turned it and opened the door.

Sitting on the floor in the dark, his legs and hands tied with cloth in front of him, was Josh. The boy blinked rapidly against the sudden light in an effort to focus on Skender. He had long since stopped crying even though he’d been in the cupboard since the early hours of that morning when the horrible man with the eyepatch had released him from a sack. He’d been inside that since he’d been put into the back of a car after other men had taken him from the protection centre. The eyepatch man had checked on him a couple of times and given him water and some biscuits that were still in front of him, untouched.

Josh did not know this new stranger who now looked down on him. He waited nervously for whatever was going to happen next. He knew that he was in a dangerous situation but beyond that it was all a mystery. He wanted to be back with George and Vicky and, of course, most of all, he wanted Stratton, the only link he had left with his life in England. He had hated leaving his homeland from the moment he’d boarded the plane with his mother. All that now seemed a long, long time ago.

‘How you doing?’ Skender asked in a low, calm voice as he squatted to untie Josh’s bonds. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

Josh nodded. He was frightened, mostly by the man’s strange gravelly voice. But this one did not look as angry and hateful as the eyepatch man even though there was still something scary about him.

‘Get up,’ Skender said after removing the ties.

Josh obeyed and stood stiffly, looking at him.

‘You want some juice?’ Skender asked.

Josh shook his head.

‘Something to eat?’

Josh shook his head again.

‘You scared?’

Josh wanted to say yes. But he had been brought up in the company of men who did not reveal such emotions so he shook his head.

‘That’s good,’ Skender said. Then he noticed that the boy’s trousers had a large pee stain around the crotch. ‘You wanna go to the toilet?’

Josh looked down at the stain, then back up at Skender. He clenched his jaw, embarrassed but also angry. He had not peed himself out of fear but simply because no one had thought of taking him to a toilet and he had been too embarrassed and shy to ask. Josh shook his head again.

‘How old are you?’ Skender asked.

‘Six,’ Josh said after clearing his throat.

Skender remembered his own sixth year. The images of his slaughtered village and the screams of his family being gunned down were still quite vivid. They’d replayed in his mind often throughout his life, usually without any warning or prompting, scars as indelible as the one across his throat.

‘Let’s get outta the closet, shall we?’ Skender said.

Josh stepped out of the cupboard and joined Skender in the corridor.