the garment away leaving her in her panties.
He sat beside her and cut away her shirt, unwrapping her in a way that gave him great pleasure. She wore no bra and lay there naked but for her knickers. She closed her eyes tightly in an effort to control herself. She tugged at the bindings again but it was hopeless.
Lotto turned his attention to her panties and cut one of the sides and then the other and pulled them off her. He got up from the bed and stood to admire her.
He took off his shirt, then his boots, then his trousers and he stood naked.
She expected him to climb on top of her but she was wrong. He had something else in mind. He took the heavy leather belt from his trousers and wrapped it around his fist a couple of times to leave a long tail. He cocked back his arm so that the end of the belt fell down his back. When he brought it forward, he did it with great effort.
The cutting thwack could be heard along the street. Her scream reached even further into the town. The guards outside the prison hut heard the shrill cry. One of them said something and the others laughed.
Stratton sat in the darkness of the hut, his eyes closed, but far from asleep. He couldn’t see a way out of the predicament. The girl’s screams bulldozed into his thoughts until he could only think of her and her suffering. He looked at the other prisoners. All of them could guess what was happening to the girl, more or less. He didn’t feel responsible. Not for her. But he felt utterly sympathetic. His thoughts turned to Hopper again. His partner’s position looked many times worse than his own. And it was Stratton’s fault.
He could have taken Hopper with him. It hadn’t been so import -ant for him to stay behind. Stratton knew well enough why he had gone to the ship by himself. He just preferred operating alone. He always had. He achieved his best results that way. He could easily explain it. And his bosses knew it too. One man is never afraid to push it that extra step more when he operates alone. There’s no one else to convince or debate with about choices or solutions. Instant decisions can be made, a direction can be changed without warning, and you don’t risk leaving someone behind.
But on this occasion he’d been wrong. He had left his friend exposed to a great danger. The Saudi. Who had disappeared, which had been a clear warning. Hopper had known it. He said as much to Stratton. He ignored it. Hopper was probably thinking something like that right now. As well as wondering how long he had left to live.
The girl screamed again but she sounded weaker. The fight was going out of her. Stratton looked at the bonds around his hands. He tested them again. He couldn’t stay where he was. That was impossible. He had to get going. But the bindings had been carefully tied this time. He needed an edge to rub them against. That would take a long time. He stood, walked to the wall under the window. His arms in the air, he stood on his toes and tried to scrape the bindings along the edge of the sill.
A prisoner across the room got to his feet and stepped quietly over to Stratton.
Stratton stopped to look at the man. It was the Dutchman who had made a stand on the beach when the girl was being attacked.
‘My name is Vorg,’ he said. ‘I was in the Dutch Marines. Many years ago of course. I am very concerned about your friend. He will not survive long with those fellows who have taken him. You should be concerned about yourself too.’ Stratton wanted to thank him for stating the bloody obvious. He also wanted to tell him to go away and mind his own damned business.
‘The ransom drop today was for my ship,’ Vorg went on. ‘The
It was a good idea. But getting just himself home was not a solution Stratton was open to at that moment. He had to get Hopper. The cold-hearted bastards among the Brit Secret Service would fully support Stratton getting himself out of Somalia and leaving Hopper to his fate. That was part and parcel of the job, they would say. But Stratton could not agree. Especially when it was his fault that Hopper had been left behind.
The Dutchman produced a strange-looking blade several inches long. ‘I made it out of a small sheet of metal I found on the floor when I got in here,’ he said. ‘I rolled it over and over, the same way they make Samurai swords. I sharpened the edge on a stone in the floor. It’s taken me three months. I hide it in my corner. I didn’t know what I was going to use it for. I think you might have a use for it.’
Stratton looked into the older man’s eyes and saw the sincerity in them. He turned to his side. The Dutchman sawed between his wrists. A moment later his hands parted. He removed the rest of the line from his wrists and rubbed the life back into them. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘No need,’ said the Dutchman. ‘I’m sure what you’re doing is very important and of benefit to all of us.’
Stratton glanced between the door and the window. Which one? he wondered. Neither would be easy. But he didn’t have to mask his tracks this time. One way or another, he wasn’t coming back. He gauged first light to be a couple of hours away.
The Dutchman watched as Stratton walked to the door.
Stratton moved his eyes from crack to crack in the door, the kerosene lamps outside allowing him something of a view. He could see a Somali squatting on a doorstep opposite. The man appeared to be asleep. If there was another nearby, he couldn’t see him. But he might also be asleep.
Stratton looked at the Dutchman and beckoned him over. ‘Your knife,’ he said.
The man hesitated, clearly thinking about his knife being used on another human being. It was a bad thought to a man like him, even after all the jailers had done to him and to the girl.
‘I need it to open the door,’ Stratton said, reading the man’s thoughts.
The Dutchman handed the blade to Stratton. The operative couldn’t be sure if the Dutchman decided to trust him or if he had put aside his humanitarianism for the moment. Stratton put his ear to the door. He could hear nothing. He slid the blade through a gap between the edge of the door and the frame until it touched the bolt. He pushed down and sideways on the bolt with the blade and it moved a couple of millimetres. He did it again. And again, sliding the bolt over a little each time.
It didn’t take long to draw the bolt out of its hole in the frame. The next move represented the real risk. He had to open the door without knowing what or who was on the other side, other than the sleeping guard across the street. It was the point of no return for him. If he failed here, they would cut his feet off. That alone would have been a strong incentive. But he didn’t need it.
He pushed the door open gently. It swung easily and silently for the first few inches. Then the hinge protested so he stopped, but only for a second. Anyone looking at the door would know it was no longer bolted shut. He pushed it wide open and stepped out energetically, looking left and right, searching for a target, hand gripping the knife.
A guard stood with his back against the wall to his right. So close Stratton could reach out and touch him. The man lifted his head and saw Stratton and stepped back as Stratton leaned towards him, his arm reaching out. The guard went for his rifle leaning against the wall. He bent and grabbed the barrel and lifted it up and then he saw the blade in the operative’s hand arcing towards him. And that was the last thing he ever did see. The tip of the blade went into the side of his neck and penetrated deeply into it with the force of the swing, severing both of the carotid arteries. Stratton grabbed the rifle before it fell from the dead man’s hand. Blood spurted from his throat and he dropped slowly to his knees, Stratton holding some of his weight.
Stratton’s eyes went to the sleeping Somali across the street, waiting for the slightest indication that the man was about to wake up. But he didn’t stir. He was sound asleep.
Stratton leaned the dead man against the hut wall, moved away from the door, one careful step at a time, while he searched up and down the street, looking for any other sign of movement.
Vorg stepped into the doorway and looked at the dead guard and then he looked at Stratton.
‘Back inside,’ Stratton whispered.
The Dutchman handled the guilt he felt for his part in the Somali guard’s death and did what he was told. Stratton closed the door and drew the bolt across. Then he moved around the hurricane lamp, careful not to cast a shadow over the guard, holding the weapon, ready to fire. Although he wasn’t that confident it would work. The barrel had rusted, as had the magazine and trigger housing. The wooden stock and butt had dried and cracked. He could only imagine what the working parts inside were like. But the AK-47 was, if little else, a robust piece of kit and could generally be relied upon to operate no matter its condition.
