Wallace jerked his neck towards the door which lead to the offices of some of Ashton’s finest detectives.
‘This is the Metropolitan Police, Ervi—’ Wallace flashed her an angry glance. ‘—General.’
Ashton sighed, ashamed that she’d lost her first name privileges. Wallace stood up, straightening his tie.
‘Then police it,’ he commanded. ‘If the public begin to think we are not here for their safety, then we lose even more trust. It’s not just me they’re looking at, is it. Howell? Mayer? Soon, they’ll start looking higher up the chain.’
‘Okay. Okay,’ Ashton said fitfully. ‘I’ll get someone to speak to him.’
‘Send Pearce,’ Wallace said coldly. ‘He claims he has no links to Pope, so make him clean up this mess.’
Ashton licked her lips nervously. Detective Inspector Adrian Pearce had been the first person to suspect Sam Pope of walking the wrong side of the thin blue line, way back when Sam worked in their archive department. Respected for his diligence but shunned for his work leading the Department of Professional Standards, rumours swirled that Pearce not only agreed with Pope’s mission but was actively helping him.
They had tried everything to get him to crack.
Countless interviews.
Busy work.
Hell, they even moved him to a broom cupboard.
But the man was unflappable, almost to the point that Ashton questioned whether he really did know anything. But the glimmer of delight in Wallace’s eye made up her mind.
‘Consider it done,’ she said firmly, standing herself and buttoning her tunic. She’d made sure to wear her smartest uniform when she’d been informed Wallace was on his way to see her.
Wallace nodded calmly.
‘And Singh? Is she still a problem?’
Ashton shook her head. DI Amara Singh had been the bright spark of the Met for a few years. Her rapid rise through the ranks had as much to do with her credentials as it did with her filling a necessary diversity quota. Despite her diminutive size, she packed a punch and excelled as an Armed Response Officer. Putting her in charge of the Sam Pope Task Force had at one time seemed like a master stroke.
Now it could end up being Ashton’s undoing.
They had suspended Singh for her perceived aiding and abetting of Pope, which was soon disproven. It may have driven a wedge in the blossoming union between her and Pearce, but Singh was soon back at her desk.
Ashton had reduced her to nothing more than a highly paid, highly skilled administrator, but the woman was as strong as she was.
She would not break.
There was a steeliness to Singh that Ashton admired, but now, with the General wanting blood, it was something Ashton feared may make her even more of a target.
‘Singh is no longer a problem.’ Ashton smiled. ‘Unless she blocks the photocopier again.’
The joke fell on deaf ears and Wallace sighed. He turned and marched towards the door of Ashton’s office, pulling it with such force that it shook the frame. He turned his head, locking his eyes on her once more.
‘This needs to be controlled, Ruth.’ His words were laced with menace. ‘Wild accusations may just rile the wrong people. People who may not be as patient as I am.’
With that, Wallace stepped through the door and into the office which fell deathly silent as he entered. The door slammed shut behind him and he stomped purposefully across the walkway towards the door, straight back and broad shoulders.
To the watching world, he was a man in complete control.
A man to be feared.
But in reality, Wallace was feeling the walls closing in and the inevitability of making a phone call that he’d made personal assurances, would never be made.
For the first time in a long time, the man to be feared was feeling that very same emotion.
Chapter Three
The unrelenting heat from the sun bore down on the metal factory, weighing down the oxygen in the room. Outside, the derelict road that lead into the abandoned building was covered with dust and gravel.
No one ventured out.
No one at all.
Just over a mile away, the historic town of Hasankeyf stood. One of Turkey’s most ancient towns, its incredible architecture was surrounded by derelict cliffs, riddled with caverns where the natives once lived. Now, situated near the Tigris River, the city was marked for death, the inevitable flooding due to the construction of the Ilisu Dam. Despite the objections of the habitants and the nationalists, the city was not long for the world.
Neither was the man strapped to the chair in the warehouse.
Abdul Qadir could feel the blood pouring from the gaping wound above his eyebrow, the outcome of a vicious strike by the man stood before him.
Despite the exhaustive heat, the large man wore a plastic apron strapped to his bulky body, the muscles slightly laxing into a slight gut due to Father Time. His dark eyes were locked onto him like a wolf ready to make the kill. Thinning black hair swept across his head, the sweat trickling down the side of his bearded face.
His meaty forearms bore sinister scars which were evident behind the thick hair.
Qadir had long since given up the idea of survival.
He had been a journalist, investigating the Afghanistan Military’s involvement in a recent assassination of a prominent rebellion leader in Syria. The man had been found stripped naked, castrated, and hung from a bridge.
A message had been stapled to his naked torso.
Talin.
Relent.
As he wept for the wife and young child he would be leaving behind, Qadir knew he should have listened.
His torturer slowly lowered the metal chain from the harness he had affixed to the metal beam of the roof, pulling the chain link down hand over fist.
The man’s reputation proceeded him.
Ahmad Farukh.
Aljulad bin Baghdad.
The Hangman of Baghdad.
Farukh had been one of the Taliban’s greatest generals, leading a series of brutal missions throughout the organisation’s reign of terror on the country. His bloodlust had seen even his own superiors question his motives, but the ruthlessness of his work kept them at bay.
If they had a
