‘I don’t know,’ Fariba replied. ‘I think you and Xavier had left by the time I went to Alford.’
Neither of the two houses Kite had mentioned were situated anywhere near the music schools. Either Fariba wasn’t concentrating on what Kite was saying or he was lying.
‘Your tutor. Who were you up to?’
Kite had again employed arcane language specific to the school which only an old Alfordian would recognise. Fariba visibly faltered before answering, like a sudden and unexpected glitch in a well-oiled machine.
‘Tutor?’ he said. ‘Are you one of those English public schoolboys who likes to talk about Alford all the time, Lachlan?’ He took out his mobile phone and waved Kite’s questions away as he began to tap out a message. ‘The truth is, I don’t remember. It was all so long ago. Do you want to know my date of birth? My mother’s maiden name?’
They were passing the Intercontinental, the driver indicating into the left lane as a motorbike overtook him on the opposite side. Like the itch at the back of the throat which foretells a period of sickness, Kite knew that he was in grave danger.
‘Could you pull over for a second?’ he said.
‘But we’re almost there.’
The driver turned off Piccadilly onto Old Park Lane, passing the Hard Rock Cafe. He spoke to Fariba in Farsi. Fariba gave a clipped, aggressive reply. Kite could feel their apprehension as the Jaguar passed the Playboy Casino and made an immediate right turn onto Cheshire Street. Rather than looping back towards the Intercontinental, they were heading east, deeper into Mayfair.
‘You’re going in the wrong direction,’ Kite said as a car sounded its horn in the street behind him. ‘The restaurant is the other way.’
‘It’s quite all right, Lachlan.’ There was a forced nonchalance to Fariba’s reply. ‘We have a car park here that I prefer to use.’
Kite knew what was coming. It was an Iranian speciality. Fariba’s team would have control of the car park and would likely switch him to a second vehicle as soon as they’d stripped him of his clothes and mobile. Kite was intensely angry with himself for letting his guard down at the funeral but had no time to mourn his mistake. The chauffeur had turned off Cheshire Street and was heading towards a barrier at the entrance to an underground car park. A man in a dark suit raised the barrier then lowered it as soon as the Jaguar had passed. The car nosed down a steep ramp towards an ill-lit basement where two more men waited in the shadows. Kite knew that if he tried to open the back door it would be locked. So it proved.
He was cramped for space and had only seconds to make his move. Disconnecting his seat belt, Kite raised his hips so that his weight was pitched forward onto his legs. In the same movement he twisted quickly left, then right, using the momentum to slam his elbow into the side of Fariba’s throat. Fariba gasped as Kite struck him a second time, but he had not made a clean connection with the carotid artery. Speed was critical. Grabbing a fistful of Fariba’s hair, Kite now turned and drove his left knee up into the Iranian’s face, but the chauffeur hit the brakes at the moment of impact and Kite was unbalanced, managing only to slam Fariba’s head against the window as he fell backwards. With the Iranian momentarily dazed, Kite reached forward and grabbed a loose section of the driver’s seat belt, twisting it tightly around his neck in an effort to choke him. He had to get into the passenger seat and leave the car by the front door, taking his chances with the men outside. But his grip on the belt was poor and the driver tipped back his chair to loosen the strain on his neck, pulling at the joints on Kite’s hand so that he was forced to release the belt.
Fariba had now recovered. Calling out to the driver in Farsi he threw several punches into Kite’s kidneys and snatched at his trailing foot in an effort to restrain him. Kite kicked back, striking Fariba in the face, then pushed forward into the front section of the car, pulled sideways by the driver as he tried to reach for the passenger door. Leaning forward, Fariba put his arms around Kite’s waist and pulled him towards the back seat with astonishing strength. Kite freed his right hand and used it to gouge the driver’s eyes. He could feel the softness of the eyeballs beneath his fingers and pushed harder, the driver yelping like a wounded animal. Fariba saw what was happening and chopped down on Kite’s arm. The joint in his elbow screamed in pain. Then the door behind him opened and a third man entered the car. Fariba shouted at him as he slammed the door.
Kite was wedged between the two men and unable to move. The third man pinned his arms behind his back and seized Kite’s neck in a headlock. The driver straightened his seat and moved the Jaguar down the ramp, rubbing one eye and swearing under his breath. Kite thought of Isobel, of their unborn child. Whatever ordeal was planned for him, he could now do nothing to stop it.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ he said, struggling to break free of the headlock.
Fariba smiled, shaking off the adrenaline of the fight.
‘You did well,’ he said, nodding towards the driver who was still muttering in Farsi. He was a large man, ponderous and cruel, and Kite knew that he had made an enemy of him. ‘I thought everything was going so smoothly. Xavier said you were the best of the best.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Kite, fearing what his friend had told them.
Fariba exchanged a look with one of the men outside the car. He lowered the window and took a syringe from him, indicating to the man holding Kite that he should squeeze more tightly around his neck.
‘It
