The Hit List (2 page)

He knew what they wanted, of course. He knew

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what they were looking for. He considered stalling playing for time, but realised that the longer the < charade lasted, the greater the danger to the rest those aboard. Any crew members up and about when' the men left the ship would be gunned down. And if one died, the rest would have to go too; there could be no witnesses. No, better to go quietly, hope it was fast, and limit the deaths to his own. The fear had gone now - all that was left was a quiet surprise that it could all end like this.

The older man glanced at his watch and out of the curtained window.

So that was how it was to be, thought Maxwell. The sea. No thumb to the jugular, no punch of silenced bullets, just the cold waters of dawn. And these two anonymous soldiers of his adopted country drawing him down to the darkness and the end of all worry.

'Mr Maxwell,' the older man said, 'before we bring this to a close, I'd like you to open your safe and give me the photographs you keep inside.'

Maxwell didn't move.

Seeing his hesitation the younger man's hand wandered towards the electric prod.

Maxwell walked heavily across the pale blue carpet, lifted down a framed Private Eye cartoon of himself as 'Cap'n Bob', and spun the dial of a small wall-safe. Taking out a sheaf of fragile-looking black-and-white photographs he handed them to the older man who placed them in the waterproof pouch.

'Close the safe. Put the picture back.'

The Hit List

he did as he was bid.

Thank you, Mr Maxwell. Now I'm going to ask N to take off your robe.' , Slowly, Maxwell obeyed. He touched the appliqued

^e 'Lady Ghislaine' on the breast pocket of the

^ssing gown, gave the ghost of a wink to the

%tograph of the two boys.

'Are you ready?'

Vlaxwell looked around him, at the walnut

jXelling, the Louis Quinze escritoire, the luxurious

fyures and fittings. He'd survived the war, he'd

, *Vived the Nazis, he'd built and lost an empire.

\w, naked, he stood before his killers.

What a story, he thought. What a front page!

He dictated his last headline.

'I'm ready,' he said.

10

ONE

The wind, a hard north-easterly from the Chilterns, picked up once again. It scoured the valley and whipped through the pines which stood guard over the 1st XV rugby pitch, flattening the players' shirts to their bodies. The light was fading; the towers and parapets of Bolingbroke's School were an indistinct grey on the skyline.

Neil Slater glanced at his watch. Another ten minutes, then he'd send the boys in for showers and high tea. They'd done well, and he had a fair idea of whom he was going to choose for Saturday's match against Wellington.

Bracing himself against the wind, Slater watched as a slight sixteen-year-old American named Reinhardt intercepted an opponent's pass, made as if to pass in his turn, dummied, wrong-footed his opposite number, and raced for the try-hne. A metre or two behind Reinhardt, a Saudi boy named al-Jubrin kept efFortless pace.

The opposing full-back moved to block Reinhardt. His pile-driving tackle drove the breath from the American's body, but by then the ball was sailing

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He did as he was bid.

'Thank you, Mr Maxwell. Now I'm going to ask you to take off your robe.'

Slowly, Maxwell obeyed. He touched the appliqued blue 'Lady Ghislaine' on the breast pocket of the dressing gown, gave the ghost of a wink to the photograph of the two boys.

'Are you ready?'

Maxwell looked around him, at the walnut panelling, the Louis Quinze escritoire, the luxurious fixtures and fittings. He'd survived the war, he'd survived the Nazis, he'd built and lost an empire. Now, naked, he stood before his killers.

What a story, he thought. What a front page!

He dictated his last headline.

'I'm ready,' he said.

10

ONE

wind, a hard north-easterly from the Chilterns, ted up once again. It scoured the valley and pped through the pines which stood guard over st XV rugby pitch, flattening the players' shirts to bodies. The light was fading; the towers and of Bolingbroke's School were an indistinct 1 on the skyline.

?il Slater glanced at his watch. Another ten s, then he'd send the boys in for showers and |$ea. They'd done well, and he had a fair idea of he was going to choose for Saturday's match ; Wellington.

ing himself against the wind, Slater watched as It sixteen-year-old American named Reinhardt sd an opponent's pass, made as if to pass in his ll^durnrnied, wrong-footed his opposite number, eed for the try-line. A metre or two behind It, a Saudi boy named al-Jubrin kept effortless

: opposing full-back moved to block Reinhardt. iving tackle drove the breath from the I's body, but by then the ball was sailing

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towards al-Jubrin. That the athletic young Saudi would pluck the ball from the air without breaking step was a foregone conclusion, as was the subsequent try. Masoud al-Jubrin was born to play rugby.

al-Jubrin dropped the pass. There was no try instead the ball spun away into touch.

'Good, Paul!' Slater called out to Reinhardt as the boy picked himself up. 'Masoud, what happened? You don't usually drop those -- you'll have to do a sight better than that if we're going to beat Wellington on Saturday.'

The Saudi pupil was silent. The wind plucked at his neatly cut hair and snatched away the pale vapour of his breath.

'What's wrong, Masoud?' asked Slater.

al-Jubrin shrugged. 'Nothing, sir.'

Slater put his hand to the boy's forehead, noted the feverish brightness of his eyes. 'You're burning up. How long have you been feeling like this?'

'Sorry, sir. Since this morning, sir.'

'Why the hell didn't you tell me?'

'Sorry, sir. Thought it would . . . go.'

And worried you'd be dropped from the team if you mentioned it, thought Slater.

'I want you in that three-quarter line on Saturday,' he told the boy. 'Now cut along and see Matron -- my guess is she'll put you in sick bay for the night. I'll look in during the evening, make sure you're OK.'

al-Jubrin looked at Slater, opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Nodding, he headed

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off towards the track suits piled on the touchline.

'And while we're at it, I'd like you to report to Matron too, Ripley. Have her take your temperature.'

Ripley, the son of a Midlands property developer, stared angrily at Slater. At six foot one, he was already two inches taller than the games master.

'I'm fine, sir. Honestly.'

'To Matron, Ripley. I'll be checking with her.'

'Sir, I can't miss this evening's prep. I've got a history project I've got to--'

'You heard me, Ripley. I want you lean and mean for Saturday.'

The boy bit his lip, nodded, and loped off. Sometimes, thought Slater, these rich kids had it hardest. Would Ripley - basically a decent lad - be ruined by the privileges that he would undoubtedly inherit? And Reinhardt, he wondered, seeing the American limping towards him. How would he be ten years from now? Would that cheerful sportsmanship survive whatever corporate hell was waiting for him?

|v 'All right Paul?' " 'Cream-crackered, sir.'

Slater smiled. If nothing else, an English education had broadened the boy's vocabulary. 'Train hard, fight easy, Paul - who said that?'

Reinhardt frowned. 'You've got me there, sir.'

'General Suvorov,' said Slater, and for a moment he saw the words painted on the adjutant's door at the old regimental HQ, smelt the gun-oil in the armoury.

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'Who was General Suvorov, sir? I'm afraid my modern history's a bit shaky.'

Slater looked at the boy, at his narrow shoulders and mud-caked knees. God, he thought, they were so young. 'Look him up, Paul,' he said gently.

Watching the rugby squad trudge back to the school, Slater wondered if he was ever going to find life at Bolingbroke's School normal rather than freakish. On paper his was a good job. Games master to a school like Bolingbroke's was not a position to be sneezed at -- on a good day the 1st XV could give Sedburgh or Ampleforth a run for their money. And the boys were good kids, for the most part. Too bloody rich and too bloody foreign, one of his colleagues had confided to Slater during his first staff tea, but Slater liked them. In many ways, he found the foreign kids - the Saudis, the Kuwaitis, the Indians easiest to get along with. Away from their overindulgent parents they had a hunger to prove themselves as individuals. They had no real understanding of the British class system, and they treated Slater exactly as they treated the other teachers: with an earnest, if at times joshing, respect.

Like Slater, the foreigners had started out as outsiders. Unlike Slater, however, they soon discovered that wealth and privilege confers its own insidership. For all the importance attached to rugby and cricket, games masters did not rank highly in Bolingbroke's pecking order. Slater was considered a cut above Jimmy McCracken - the semi-alcoholic

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'"groundsman who tended the pitches and was known to staff and pupils alike as 'Windy' on account of his I, dodgy colon - but well below any of the other i teachers, most of whom were Oxbridge graduates and p former public schoolboys. When he had first arrived at I the school Slater had wondered whether he should jpmitate them, with their leather-patched sports jackets, ftheir polished brogues and their baggy corduroys. He'd idismissed the idea immediately - he'd never get it jtiite right. To carry off that that kind of upper-class abbiness you had to be born to it. And Slater, as was regularly made clear to him, adn't been born to it. He wore civilian clothes - as >ne of the warrant-officers had memorably pointed on the first day of his undercover course -- like a juaddie on the piss. He'd never quite sorted out the vhole clothes thing. Or, for that matter, the accent ing. Or the posh restaurant and vintage wine thing it was supposed to work so well with women. Or iiy of that host of other 'things' that made for an easy jgress through life.

But he did, Slater mused ruefully as the cold dusk athered around him, have certain skills. At this ioment there was a hot shower waiting for him and ith luck a pot of tea and a plate of Jammy Dodgers in le staff room. If he ended up drinking the tea alone, irell, bollocks to the lot of them. It was a billet, and all igs considered, a comfortable one. He pulled on his sweatshirt. With a fair wind behind aem Masoud and Paul and the rest of the lads should

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punch holes through the Wellington defence on Saturday. Train hard, fight easy.

As he made his way towards the school buildings, Slater's attention was caught by a vehicle on the public road beyond the boundary wall. It was a Cherokee four-wheel drive, proceeding at about twenty miles an hour. Even given the warning signs outside the school, this seemed unnaturally slow for the road, and Slater realised that he had noticed the vehicle driving in the same direction and at the same speed earlier in the day. The Cherokee was a maroon colour, he remembered, although now in the failing light it looked almost black.

For a moment he wondered if the driver was a parent. A lot of the parents had Cherokees - it was pretty much Bolingbroke's signature vehicle - but not many went for the tinted window option. What was the point of spending all that money, after all, if no one could see who you were? And none of the parents considered themselves bound by the local speed restrictions, as this driver clearly did. Slater watched as the four-wheel drive crested a rise and passed out of sight. He had memorised the number.

Anxious to unload his misgivings and forget the incident with a clear conscience, Slater walked over to the main gate, where a white Mondeo, bearing the mailed-fist logo of a private security company, idled at the verge. The car was more of a public relations stunt than anything else, in Slater's opinion. All it served to

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was to underline the fact that the children of some

;ry rich people were in residence - a fact which the !$lue and gold school notice-board (motto: Fortitude, fTruth, Valour) made clear at a glance.

It was Bolingbroke's proximity to Heathrow -- less 'than fifty minutes in a chauffeur-driven Lexus -- which ittracted the overseas customers. Summer visits were l,Vspecially popular. Parents could fly in in the morning, 'take in a lunchtime meeting and a dash down Bond Street, and then spend a lazy couple of hours in a itieckchair pretending to understand the rules of cricket. Rather fewer of these parents, Slater had observed, volunteered for duty on the rugby touchline. In the winter months, he supposed, parents were happy for the formation of their sons' characters to proceed on trust.

But there were real security issues, as there were i wherever the children of the super-rich gathered. And 'while the school did not wish to turn itself into a high tech prison - much of its commercial appeal lay in its [traditional appearence and atmosphere -- it wished to : make clear that it took these issues seriously. Hence the white Mondeo.

And hence, Slater assumed, the chugging exhaust. What made people leave their car-engines switched on for hours at a time? He knocked on the driver's side window, which was blurred with condensation.

The driver lowered the glass, releasing a warm odour of fart and processed food, and regarded him suspiciously. Beyond the driver a second man was

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The Hit List

leafing through a pornographic magazine.

'Hi! My name's Slater. I'm the games master.'

The driver, a heavy-set man in a Barbour jacket, said nothing. A half-eaten meat pie sat in its foil dish in his lap. Pastry crumbs speckled his thighs.

'Did either of you notice a maroon Cherokee passing here a minute ago?' Slater continued.

'Why would you be concerning yourself with a maroon Cherokee, sir?'

'It's been past at least a couple of times today. Going very slowly. Looked to me as if it was scoping the place out.'