The Hit List (5 page)

The nearer man froze, almost senseless with pain, and Slater jammed the half-door of the Cherokee against his back. Bellowing, the second man reared

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yards Slater, feinting with the knife. But his pelvis id sacrum had been smashed by that first, terrible 3W. Will power propelled him a further step and jen, twisting in agony, he fell to one knee. The first man, eyes dulled with shock, was ightening up in light from the back of the ^herokee now, and this time Slater saw the dull glint 'gun-metal. Half-turning, he swung his improvised ib in a scything back-hander, felt the splintering inch as it connected with the side of his attacker's

The firearm clattered to the road. Both men were down. The knifeman appeared to \ praying, the gunman's prostrate body was shaking as I in the throes of some desperate rape. Who hesitates, dies. Think detonator. Think snade.

| Slater, his system screaming with adrenaline, didn't skate. Snatching up the Smith and Wesson from the ter, he put two .45 rounds into the base of each I's skull.

i For thirty seconds, heart pounding, he stood there rith the dead men at his feet. The police would be >ng soon, he was sure - assuming, that was, that Mrs ckay had done her stuff. If necessary he could flag awn a car, although not that many cars used this road night. Apart from the school and a few farms, it Idn't really go anywhere.

Masoud, he thought. I must see what those bastards done to Masoud. He took a step towards the lerokee - and to his horror saw it begin to move

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away in a cloud of exhaust, rear doors flapping.

Sweet Jesus, thought Slater. There was a driver. But where . . . ?

He must have seen him come over the wall, he realised. Flattened himself in the front of the car. And hearing the shots had decided - entirely sensibly - to get the hell out.

With two flat tyres, however, the Cherokee wasn't going anywhere. It managed twenty yards and then came to a halt.

Running, Slater caught up with the vehicle. He waited a half-dozen yards behind it, the revolver pointing at the doors, which had swung shut on the recumbent form of Masoud.

A half-minute passed, and then a male voice, Geordie-accented, came from the rear compartment.

'I'm coming out.'

The rear doors opened once more. Against the light Slater could not see the man's features - only that he was wearing a fur cap with ear-flaps and holding a barely conscious Masoud by the collar. Condensing breath rose smokily from both figures. Was the driver armed? Slater had to assume he was, that a weapon was pressed to the small of Masoud's back.

Arms outstretched, he thumbed back the revolver's hammer and trained the inch-long barrel on the driver's head. He'd made this shot many times in training -- the shot through the chin that passed through the hostage-taker's lower skull and obliterated the cerebellum, ensuring that not even the slightest

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[reflex movement threatened the hostage's life. Out there in the dark, however, it was a desperately risky I play: the heavy Smith and Wesson was the last weapon I he would have chosen for precision shooting in low [light conditions. An inch off target and he'd blow [Masoud's head apart.

And then a faint, rhythmic pulsing at the horizon I was suddenly everywhere around them and the scene [ was flooded with light.

'Drop your weapons,' came a disembodied voice. 'I |repeat: drop your weapons.'

Dead leaves and frost particles whirled in the police | helicopter's rotor-wash. Opposite Slater, Masoud slid to the ground and the Cherokee's driver, a young lAsian in a track suit who couldn't have been more than |eighteen, slowly raised his hands. There had been no m.

Releasing the hammer with his thumb, Slater ipped the Smith and Wesson to the frozen verge. Placed his hands on his head.

Waited.

41

TWO

The custody suite at Henley-on-Thames police station, Neil Slater mused, was not designed with comfort in mind. The bedding was thin, a drunk in the next cell had alternately howled and sobbed all night, and there was an all-pervasive smell of vomit overlaid with disinfectant. Slater had been tempted to sit up replaying the events of the evening in his mind, but had opted instead to try to sleep and clear his head.

The shakes had come soon after midnight, as Slater had known that they would, along with the fatigue and depression that invariably follows the adrenaline rush of violent action. He'd ridden them out as best he was able and had finally nodded off at about 2.30. His drift into unconsciousness had been eased by the certainty that his actions, given the circumstances, had been the correct ones.

In a counter-terrorist engagement, it had been drummed into him, you didn't leave wounded members of the opposition lying around where they could reach for a concealed grenade or detonator. If he'd had some armed assistance, perhaps the men's lives might have been spared. As it was, he'd had no

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choice.

For the terrorists themselves he felt not a gram of sympathy. They'd knifed Gary Ripley in the guts when he threatened to hold them up and they'd shot the unarmed security guards without a thought. Had ..they encountered Jean Burney and Christopher BoydFarquharson after kidnapping Masoud rather than | before, the nurse and the boy would probably be dead too. No, by the time Slater had reached them, the two , men had sacrificed any right to mercy or to any benefit r of the doubt, and they'd known it.

But there was still, Slater was well aware, a price to |be paid. A couple of hours' lost sleep was not going to Ibe the end of it. There would be the flashbacks and the pnood-swings that invariably follow a face-to-face Ikilling. Alcohol took the edge off the process, but giucked you up in other ways. And there was no one, |ever, that you could talk to about any of it.

Once, as a newly badged trooper, he'd gone into a |Wine bar in Hereford in search of others from his lintake. There had been a tight knot of NCOs standing {around the bar, and a staff sergeant had called him over, Istood him a bottle of Michelob, and introduced him to |the others. Among them was a corporal with con Mcuously long hair who had just returned from a tour duty in Belfast. The group had been welcoming, |*sking how he was settling in, but then an inoffensive Joking civilian in a windcheater had brushed past the pong-haired corporal, nudging the arm that held his 5ttled beer.

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The reaction was instantaneous. Grabbing the man by the lapels, the corporal had slammed him against the bar. 'Who the fuck do you think you're pushing around?' he'd whispered, his face an inch from the terrified civilian's. The others had pulled the corporal back, pinioning his arms, and Slater had seen that he was quivering with rage, his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared like a dog's.

The incident was swiftly over. While the senior NCO apologised profusely to the shaken civilian, the others calmed down the corporal. Two men were deputed to walk him back to Sterling Lines but the corporal shook them off, insisting that he was fine, that it had been a mistake, that there would be no more trouble.

He carried on drinking -- they all did -- and the NCOs talked Slater through life in the Regiment where to find the best bars, the cheapest cars, the prettiest girls. And then the corporal, who had been standing in silence, drinking bottle after bottle of Beck's, looked Slater in the eye. 'It's shite,' he said quietly. 'The whole thing's fucking shite. The Regiment's shite, the job's shite . . .'

For a moment, the others fell silent.

'You want to know a secret?' the corporal continued in the same flat, undemonstrative tone. 'They don't die. You shoot them, you stab them, you do what you like, but they don't fucking die.'

'All right, that's it!' snapped the staff sergeant. 'Tony, Stevo, get him back to the Lines.'

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The trio swiftly disappeared and the staff sergeant shook his head. 'He's had a bit of a rough tour. He's still in the old Darkland.'

'Darkland?' Slater enquired.

The sergeant glanced at him for a long moment, expressionless, and then returned to the inspection of his drink. It became clear that no answer was forthcoming.

But Slater had remembered the expression.

Darkland.

He'd never seen the corporal again.

Breakfast was an Egg McMuffin from the high street and a mug of the desk sergeant's tea.

'Just had that headmaster of yours on the phone,' he told Slater with cheerful satisfaction.

'Pembridge,' said Slater.

'That's the one. Sounded like a very unhappy man!'

'Have you met him?'

'Once or twice, yes. A couple of years ago he tried to make the case that we should have a permanent detachment guarding the school. When the super suggested to him that he put his hand in his pocket for the privilege he ... got rather irate. Started spouting on about foreign policy by other means, invisible exports, defence sales to the Middle East - all bloody ' sorts.'

'And ended up going private,' said Slater.

The sergeant rolled his eyes but kept his opinion of ; the security arrangements to himself. At the desk the

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phone started ringing. 'No rest for the wicked,' he grumbled, retrieving Slater's empty mug.

'Oh, I don't know about that!' murmured Slater, stretching out on his mattress.

He was not feeling as bullish as he sounded. Two dead men, considered in the cold light of day, meant some very serious aggravation. No one would have blamed him if he had merely dialled 999 from the Matron's phone and left it at that -- technically speaking, in fact, that was precisely what he should have done. But whether Masoud would have survived if he'd done so was another matter. By the time marksmen and a hostage rescue unit had been activated, the snatch team would have been long gone. And even if they'd located them, the Arabs hadn't looked like men who'd come out with their hands up -- no matter how politely they'd been asked.

How would the school view the incident? Badly, that was for sure. When Slater had joined Bolingbroke's staff six months earlier he'd told Pembridge that he'd spent the majority of his service career with the SAS, and indeed had played rugby for the Regiment, but had requested that these details were kept quiet. Pembridge had agreed, and the story was put about that Slater had been a physical training instructor with the Royal Engineers - his parent regiment.

If an inquest on the dead men revealed Slater's true identity to the press, there were going to be some very angry faces on Bolingbroke's Board of Governors. Any

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overage would be damaging enough; an SAS jnnection would punt the story straight to the front age and keep it there.

The Regiment themselves, he guessed, would

abably be understanding. Not happy -- the SAS

4ted seeing their name in print in any connection --

jt understanding. They would know that whatever

ater was, they had made him.

It was for this reason that he had rung Lark as soon he'd arrived at the station in the early hours of the iorning.

Lark was a clean-up man, a conjuror in pinstripes

10 made things disappear. If some chopping had to

done - as it had had to be done in Gibraltar and on

frveral less-publicised occasions - then Lark was the

San who smoothed out the rough edges afterwards.

!e was a Treasury Solicitor, one of a highly secretive

lite working out of the Metropole building on

Jorthumberland Avenue, where a small band of high

pers concerned themselves with the legal interests of

he Ministry of Defence. In the last two decades he had

presented the difference between jail and freedom to

'. least a dozen SAS soldiers and other security services

Jeratives. If Lee Clegg and his mates from 3 Para had

ad access to Lark after gunning down a joyrider at a

elfast check-point, Slater mused, they wouldn't have

ided up being banged up.

Lark presented himself in the HenleyonThames

astody suite at precisely 9am, carrying a Thermos of

sh coffee and a folded copy of the Daily Telegraph --

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details which Slater appreciated. As usual Lark was impeccably dressed. His tie was that of one of the older civil service rowing clubs.

'Mr Slater,' he began, extended a well-manicured hand, 'I hadn't expected to see you again . . . quite so soon.'

'We do have to stop meeting like this,' Slater agreed wryly, running his hand over his chin. The lawyer's immaculate grooming made him feel like a roughneck. His mouth tasted sour and he needed a shave.

Lark smiled - or at least the corner of his mouth momentarily flickered - as he loosened the lid of the flask. 'Usual drill, Mr Slater,' he said. 'Tell me everything. And I mean everything.'

Savouring the coffee, Slater started at the beginning; Lark made notes.

When Slater had finished, the Treasury Solicitor steepled his fingers. Til tell you the bits I don't like,' he said thoughtfully, wrinkling his nose as if tasting a mediocre sherry. 'For a start I don't like the chair-leg

-- it argues premeditation of assault, I think ... I think that what you actually took from that room was a torch

- a big fifteen-inch Maglite, perhaps. A torch would have been an entirely prudent thing to take outside with you. If you were later taken by surprise and forced to defend yourself with it, well, that's something else - do you take my point?'

Slater indicated that he did.

'I think it's possible that a friend might drop in with just such a torch later today and that you might have a

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i look at it - handling and fingerprinting it fairly r�xtensively in the process.'

Slater nodded. Relief flooded through him. They twere going to give him the full five-star service - lexactly as if he'd still been 'in'.

'It won't be found at first, of course. We'll give it a light or two. And I rather think that someone's going have to have a quiet word with Matron about that lair. Any feelings about what line we should take srith her?'