going back over earlier preparations and discounting one by one the various errors that might have been made. For a while, he was back in a meadow outside Armagh or in a hovel of a B amp;B in the back streets of Belfast, listening to the traffic, wondering if the vehicle slowing nearby had come for him.
It was oddly calming being here in London, listening to the sounds of the street, of late cabs cruising for fares, of night cleaners going about their work. He felt himself beginning to drift and smiled, enjoying the sensation of gradually letting go.
After Rafa’i, Dog knew there was nothing to keep him here. This was the end of the road for him, and probably the end of his work. He’d had a bad feeling about Jennings right from the start, though; he should have listened to his instincts. The man was a cheapskate, interested solely in his own future. After tomorrow morning, though, when he’d complete his final job, he’d be done for good.
The truth was, he was relieved it was over. There was only so long a man could go on doing this kind of work, and he’d been at it longer than most, lasted far longer than his contemporaries. The odds of continuing unscathed were not in his favour. It was time to move on. To disappear. Dog was good at disappearing for long periods.
This time it would have to be for good.
As his eyes began to close under the pull of sleep and his breathing began to settle to a steady rhythm, he wondered vaguely about the absence of the night porter. The man had always been as quick as a rat down a drainpipe before to intercept arrivals. He should have been there, street crime being what it was in the area. You couldn’t trust anyone these days-
He heard a faint rasp of noise close by.
Dog kept his eyes closed and his breathing unchanged. He lowered his hand slowly to the floor, reaching for the gun. Whoever was in here was going to regret it: they had invaded his space. Probably some bloody crack head looking for an easy score. He’d have a sharp word with the night porter in the morning.
He located movement over by the door; recognized the shift of fabric, the brush of a shoe on the scrappy carpet. He smiled. Careless. The intruder had betrayed his location as surely as if he’d struck a match.
Dog swung his feet to the floor and stood up in one fluid motion, bringing the gun to bear on the door. In the glow of a neon display from the hostel sign just outside his window, he saw the room as clearly as day. In the same moment, he saw a patch of darkness — but it wasn’t where he’d expected.
The intruder was standing against the wall by the wardrobe, tucked into the corner.
A truck rattled by outside, its engine roaring. In the same instant, a light flared, the white flash painful to the eyes. Dog heard a sharp crack, almost drowned by the noise of the truck, and something punched him with unbelievable force in the chest. He staggered back, shocked and breathless.
He fought to regain his balance, dragging his weapon round to bear on the other person and trying to pull the trigger.
Then, in the sweeping lights of traffic flushing across the front of the hostel, he saw the face of his opponent. He experienced a bitter sense of fury. And pain.
It started in his chest, blossoming out and invading his whole body. It was like nothing he’d experienced before — and Dog was no stranger to pain. His body told him he needed to lie down, but his mind rebelled, unwilling to let go. Then he could no longer control the physical functions as the motor system governing his body began to shut down. He moved backwards, and the edge of the bed hit the back of his legs and tipped him off-balance.
His gun dropped and bounced away in the gloom, no longer of any use to him.
FIFTY-THREE
Rafa’i was early again. This time he approached the park from the Mall, skittering along the pavement as if his feet were on fire. It was just gone nine thirty. He looked uneasy, huddled in the same long, dark coat Harry and Rik had seen him with on the airport cameras.
After a fitful few hours’ sleep in a backstreet hotel near Marylebone following their discovery of Jennings’ body, they had breakfasted in a coffee shop and discussed tactics. If Rafa’i failed to show, they were back to square one, in which case they might as well contact Ballatyne and wait to see what happened next. On the positive side, if the cleric did show, everything that followed would depend on his reaction to their presence. Without Joanne, they might have a problem talking him round. It would depend on how highly he rated his chances of surviving alone without help.
Before driving here, Harry had gone to the boot of his car and forced open the hot box. He’d taken out two semi-automatics and handed one to Rik.
‘This is strictly last-resort use,’ he said sombrely. ‘If you take this out, it’s because you intend to use it. You intend to kill. Right?’
‘Right.’ Rik had nodded, any argument about the box and its contents forgotten. He’d checked the gun and put it away under his jacket, apparently calm. But Harry could tell he was nervous. Nerves were OK, though; nerves would get him through this and make sure he reacted with caution rather than haste.
Then they had set off for the park.
They were in luck. Joanne was standing by the railings around the lake.
Rik was unimpressed. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Take it easy,’ said Harry calmly, and walked across to her. He was careful not to spook her, and made a show of being relaxed, unthreatening. She watched them approach, her face tight, but no longer with the haunted look they’d seen before. She had one strap of her rucksack slung over her shoulder, but was clutching the bulk of it to her front. One hand was visible, Harry noted, resting on the railing. The other was tucked inside the rucksack.
He stopped alongside her and turned to watch the area by the Mall. Rik moved away without acknowledging her, heading towards the path to watch their flanks.
‘What happened to you?’ Harry asked quietly.
‘I needed space,’ she replied. ‘It all got too much, especially seeing Marshall and talking about what happened.’
‘No problem. You OK now?’
‘I don’t know.’ She turned away, chin dropping. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’
Harry saw Rafa’i emerge from under the trees. He stood looking shakily around him, his nervousness obvious and out of place, like a crack head in a tea room. Rik was thirty feet away, being tapped for money by an old woman in a scruffy coat, but still alert. He looked up and nodded, signalling that he’d seen the Iraqi, too. His gaze dwelt for a long while on Joanne, and he shook his head.
Harry ignored him. He was waiting to see what Rafa’i would do. If they approached him, he might run for good. Better to let him come to them once he felt safe. He rechecked the area. If Dog was going to make his move, he would do it any time now. Then he’d make his getaway. This was the window of maximum danger.
‘It seems,’ Harry said casually, ‘that there are some question marks against your Mr Rafa’i.’
‘You’ve just discovered that?’ Her reply was acid, resentful, the words as sharp as carpet tacks.
He glanced at her, surprised by the venom in her voice. She was shaking her head as if Rafa’i being questionable was a given. It was in odd contrast to the way she had talked about him before, when she had expressed almost a closeness in their working relationship.
‘Come again?’
‘I used to think he was the whole shilling,’ she explained flatly. ‘But there were things he said. . people he met that made me wonder. He said a couple of times that he wanted Iraq free of the outside world. I took that to be the Coalition, especially the Americans.’
‘Well, nobody could argue with that. We’re hardly welcome guests, are we?’
‘He meant everyone: advisors, aid workers, army, engineers, contractors, the lot. All out. Even people like me. Especially people like me.’
