‘I’m her brother,’ Raul said. ‘Raul Fuentes.’
Kazem peered at Raul, and through the dissipating fog of his terror a look of recognition dawned as he took in the physical resemblance. ‘Yes, yes, she talk about you all the time.’ Then his face fell again, etched deep with sadness. ‘I am so sorry she is gone.’
Raul looked down and said nothing.
‘How did you come to be here?’ Ben asked.
Stumbling over his English, Kazem explained that while working as a lab technician back home in Tehran, he’d been involved with a group of anti-government campaigners and been drawn into the protests of 2011 and 2012 in which social unrest had sparked off violent rioting in the city. Amid the subsequent brutal clampdown by the Iranian authorities, in which thousands of people had been arrested, beaten and even killed by police, Kazem had fled the country. Like many other political refugees from the east he’d ended up in Germany, where, managing to obtain a temporary visa and residence permit to allow him to work, he’d bummed about from one casual job to another until eventually finding suitable employment as a science lab tech at the University of Munich.
He’d been happy there, until two things had happened to shake his world. First, the expiry of his work visa, which slipped by him and also went unnoticed by the university personnel department. Second, the retirement of his kindly supervisor and his replacement with a by-the-book hardass racist bigot who’d made it his business to harass and persecute Kazem at every turn. When his hated new supervisor had discovered that Kazem had outstayed his work visa, he’d gleefully threatened to denounce him to the immigration authorities.
Terrified that he was about to be deported back to Iran, where many of his friends were still in jail, Kazem had been at a loss until Catalina Fuentes stepped in to rescue him. He explained how he’d often met her at work, and how pleasant and friendly she’d always been to him, helping him with his German and encouraging him to study towards a science degree, unlike many of the other academic staff who treated the techs like non-humans. When his visa crisis had threatened to ruin everything, Catalina had offered him private employment, for better pay, as her personal assistant and live-in caretaker out here at the observatory. He’d been only too happy to move out of his shitty digs in the city and move here, where he had his own mini-apartment in a converted outbuilding, and a peaceful life working for someone he liked.
That had been nearly eleven months ago, during which time they’d become friends. He was learning more about astronomy, maths and physics, studying German, English and even a little Spanish, and impressing her with his appetite for advancement through study. She’d bought him a motorbike to run errands on, as he didn’t drive a car. She had been a wonderful, warm, generous person.
Then it had all come crashing down.
Kazem almost wept when he talked about her suicide. He was broken-hearted over it, as well as worried about his own future. He’d taken a part-time job washing dishes in a hotel nearby, still living here in the knowledge that he couldn’t remain forever, and in fear that the immigration people would come to whisk him away in the night. Sooner or later, he knew, this would all be over.
As he talked, a large black cat appeared through the gap in the entrance door. It hovered there for a second, scrutinising the humans inside with suspicious green eyes, then stalked into the room, the tip of its tail switching to signal its displeasure.
‘That is Herschel,’ Kazem said. ‘He is kind of wild. He turn up here one day, and make this his home. Catalina name him after her favourite astronomer.’
Ignoring the three of them, the cat wandered nonchalantly through into the kitchen, hopped onto the table and started chewing at the remains of the leftover sandwich.
‘Herschel, hör auf damit, du blöde Katze,’ Kazem called after him, then jumped up and went to scoop it up in his arms and march it back to the door. The cat wriggled and twisted as Kazem put it outside and closed the door. ‘He always stealing my food,’ he explained to Ben and Raul. ‘I speak to him in German and he understand, but he never learn.’
Ben looked at Kazem Behzadi and saw a sincere, good-natured and completely guileless young guy in whom Catalina had obviously placed a great deal of trust. He felt bad about having treated him roughly before. But there was still one thing Kazem had said that perplexed him.
‘Why did you think we were here to kill you, Kazem?’ Ben asked him.
Kazem shifted uncomfortably, hesitated a moment and then replied, ‘When you tell me you are not with the BAMF, then I think you have come to steal. Is lot of expensive equipment here. Is much crime in Germany. I am sorry,’ he added. ‘I should not have run.’
Ben reflected for a moment and said, ‘I’m sorry too. We didn’t mean to alarm you. If I damaged your motorcycle, I’ll help you fix it up, okay?’
Raul hadn’t spoken during Kazem’s account. Now he leaned closer to the Iranian and said, ‘Let me tell you why we’re here. I believe that my sister is still alive. I came from Spain to find her. You were her friend. If you know anything, anything at all, that can help me find out what really happened and where she is, I need to know. I don’t have a lot of money but I will pay you, and help you in whatever way I can.’
Kazem stared at Raul for the longest time. Then he shook his head. ‘No, she is dead. She has driven her car into sea. Nobody survive this. She not want to survive. I think she have a sad heart.’ He pressed a hand to his own chest.
‘They never found the body,’ Raul said.
Kazem went on shaking his head and looking deeply uncomfortable. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘This is not possible she is alive. She is gone and she is not coming back. I am sorry. Like you, I miss her very much. She look after me, help me in so many ways. I think perhaps one day I can study and become something in my life. If this can happen, it will be because of your sister. She was honourable person.’ His eyes had become moist as he talked. He quickly reached up and dabbed at them.
Herschel the cat had stalked around to the window outside and jumped up onto the ledge, where it curled up with its legs tucked underneath its body and green eyes narrowed to slits.
‘Kazem, when was the last time you saw Catalina?’ Ben asked.
Kazem frowned and thought for a moment. ‘It was just some days before she kill herself. She come here to use the Lunt.’
‘The Lunt?’
‘The solar scope,’ Kazem explained, motioning towards the observatory. ‘Lunt is its name. She want to observe a solar filament she very interested in. I help her set it up. Afterwards she cook dinner for us, then she stay the night and drive back to Munich the next morning. That is last time I see her or speak to her.’
Ben didn’t bother asking what a solar filament was. ‘How did she seem to you? Considering what happened a few days later?’
Kazem shrugged. ‘She seem normal to me. I did not think anything is wrong. Her pain, she was hiding it very well.’
Ben glanced at Raul, who was staring down at the floor and chewing his lip. ‘I’d like you to think really carefully, Kazem. Did she say anything to you that made you think she was frightened?’
Kazem frowned, and shook his head slowly. ‘I cannot think. Frightened of what?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ Raul said.
‘Did she need money? Was she in trouble? Was somebody threatening her?’ Ben knew that this line of questioning was going to run out soon, and he couldn’t think of anything more to ask Kazem.
‘I do not understand,’ Kazem said, shaking his head faster. ‘What is this you are talking about?’
It looked to Ben as if they were drawing a blank here. He turned away in frustration and walked to the window. He stood there as if looking out at the view, but his gaze was turned mostly inwards as he thought hard about the situation and what to do next. The window pane had a thin layer of dust on it. The other side of the glass, the black cat was still nestled on the ledge.
Suddenly, the cat went rigid and sprang to its feet. The green eyes
flared. A ridge of hair bristled up down its spine and its tail became rigid and spiked.
The cat sensed danger.
Chapter Eighteen
The BMW Gran Coupé coasted the last few metres with its engine switched off, small stones pinging from under its tyres. It ground to a halt on the track, followed by the blue Opel, then the black Fiat van. The very top of the white observatory dome was visible over the rise, but they couldn’t be seen from the house.
Cook, Lewis, Nicholson and Hacker got out of the two cars. The back doors of the van swung open and the four gathered around. Patiently, calmly, they went back through the same motions as they had in Munich, though the equipment was different this time. With no need to conceal their light body armour under their normal clothing, each man put on a tactical vest with pouches for ammunition. And out here in the sticks where the ear-shattering noise of heavy armament wasn’t going to draw a thousand police and land them in a siege situation, they could afford to relegate their pistols to backup status and bring on board some serious firepower. Ruddock and Dean were assigned a pair of black Benelli semiautomatic shotguns, Nicholson and Lewis a brace of their tried-and-trusted workhorse MP5 submachine guns, the A3 version with the collapsible shoulder stock. Thirty-round magazines. They were old, worn but reliable weapons that had served them on assignments all over the world.
Just in case those weren’t enough, Cook had something extra. Unzipping a padded gun slip he pulled out an HK 417 battle rifle in sniper configuration, set up by him personally with the twenty-inch accurized barrel and telescopic sight and accurate at eight hundred metres. He slapped in a magazine loaded with twenty gleaming bottlenecked 7.62mm NATO rounds, racked the bolt and set the selector lever to safe. Flipped open his scope lens covers. Ready to rock.
Between them, they had enough hardware to take on a platoon. Nobody was leaving anything to chance. This wasn’t some fatboy Mafia hood or drug-addled Somali militiaman they were going up against today.
The six donned their black ski-masks and then fitted their earbud headsets with miniature condenser mikes that would keep them in touch by phone. Cook had already notified the Boss of their arrival, and the Boss was listening and waiting in anticipation of a rapidly and successfully executed mission.
They left the vehicles blocking the track and stalked up towards the house on foot. As the roofline came into view, they split up and spread out, moving cautiously and keeping their heads low so as not to be spotted. The silver Kia was parked thirty yards from the house. They were bang on target. No other vehicles were in sight. It was probably just Hope and Fuentes in the place. If there was someone else inside, then too bad for them.
Nicholson, Ruddock and Lewis took a wide, circuitous route around the right side of the property while the other three cut around the left. Hacker and Dean positioned themselves prone in the long grass beyond the fence overlooking the front of the house and awaited their orders. Short minutes later, Nicholson’s whisper in their earpieces told them that the three were successfully infiltrated among the outbuildings to the rear.
The Boss was eagerly listening in. The six could sense his presence there, silent and commanding and full of expectation.
Cook split himself off from the others and made his way slowly and carefully up and around behind the rocky rise, unseen from the windows, to a point on the hillside where he was roughly level with the roofline of the house, with a perfect view of the yard and front entrance. Finding a spot between two rocks, he laid himself prone behind his rifle. Planted the HK’s bipod legs on the uneven ground and steadied the gun so that it was solidly mounted against the triangular support of his shoulder and his elbows. The left arm crooked with his hand resting loosely on his right bicep. His right hand not too tight on the pistol grip of the weapon’s synthetic stock. His body at a slight angle behind the rifle, legs splayed, the right knee cocked for maximum stability. The classic sniper position that he’d been taught over twenty years earlier in the British army. His right cheek was pressed against the stock, with exactly the correct amount of eye relief for the scope. The optics mounted on the gun were Swiss, top quality and worth twice as much as the rifle itself. The magnified image was pin-sharp, overlaid by the tactical mil-dot reticle of the crosshairs. The dots looked like tiny black beads threaded on a silk strand. Their purpose was to offer different aiming points to compensate for the bullet’s trajectory at long range, when the inevitable forces of gravity began to suck it towards the earth.
At this distance, though, no compensation was necessary. He aligned the exact centre of the crosshairs on target. The scope’s inbuilt laser rangefinder told him the house was eighty-two yards away from his firing position. Eighty-two yards was like point blank range for a rifleman of his experience, armed with a high-velocity precision tool like the HK.
‘Cook, in position,’ he said into his headset microphone, and imagined the Boss smiling to himself and thinking this was already in the bag. Six on two, no witnesses, no distractions, nowhere to run.
Easy.
Cook lingered on the front entrance, then slowly panned a few degrees right, the rifle muzzle moving imperceptibly as he scanned his target. Seeing nothing in the window on the right side of the entrance, he swivelled the rifle gently in the other direction. His reticle flashed by the image of the doorway and found the window to its left.
The glass was dusty, but there was no mistaking the figure of a man standing at the window gazing out. Five-eleven, blond hair. His features were easily clear enough through the optics for rapid identification.
Hope.
Cook felt the familiar stab of satisfaction. Ping. Target acquired.
He eased the selector switch to fire. His finger stayed off the trigger, resting against the curve of the trigger guard.
He muttered into his mike, ‘Cook. I have a clear shot at Number Two. Awaiting instruction.’
That was directed not at the other team members, but at the Boss himself.
The Boss replied immediately, ‘Take the shot.’
Cook moved his finger to the trigger. The target remained steady in his crosshairs. He slowed his breathing to settle his heartbeat. Drew in a breath, let it half out. Felt the trigger mechanism break like a glass rod under the pressure of his finger.
The gun boomed and recoiled against his shoulder.
Chapter Nineteen
The cat is a wild predator. Fundamentally untameable, a force of nature, governed by a feral instinct informed by a million generations of wild predators before it. And Ben Hope was as close as it was possible to get to that in human form. He’d spent so much of his life so close to violence, come within a whisker of sudden violent death on so many occasions, that it took only the tiniest stimulus to instantly strip away the veneer of the ordinary man and reveal the primordial creature hiding under his skin.
In the split-second the cat reacted to whatever unseen danger it had sensed, Ben reacted too. Why he flinched away from the window at that precise moment was not an impulse that ever reached his conscious mind. Pure instinct. He simply was, and he simply acted, without thought, without hesitation.
In the next instant, the window exploded.
Ben spun back into the corner as the storm of broken glass blew into the house. His conscious mind was still disengaged. He didn’t have time to think about what was happening, or why. He didn’t have time to be surprised.
There was a momentary pause, just long for him to make eye contact with the frozen, aghast faces of Raul and Kazem and yell ‘Get down!’
Then they were under heavy fire from both sides at once. The other front window burst into a million shards and splintered holes punched through the door, while the kitchen windows shattered and more bullets hammered into the walls from the opposite direction. Ben could tell that the crossfire was angled and calculated by an unseen enemy who had a pretty good idea of what they were doing, firing from both sides without endangering one another. Who they were, and what they were doing here, were question
s that could be addressed later.
Raul had thrown himself to the floor as bullets zipped overhead and smacked into the walls. A table lamp blew apart, showering him with china fragments. The chair Kazem had been taped to caught a violent impact that split its backrest and toppled it over.
Kazem didn’t move. He stood pinned to the spot, paralysed by shock at the suddenness of the attack.
From where he was pressed into the angle of the thick walls, Ben shouted ‘DOWN!’ Kazem stared at him with huge bewildered eyes. Then his shirt seemed to ripple and pucker and a spray of red flowered from his neck, below the corner of his right jaw. He staggered a half-turn and his knees buckled under him and he hit the floor, hard. He lay there on his belly, his face turned towards Ben. His mouth was opening and closing, like a landed fish. His eyes were distant and glassy. The blood was pumping fast from his neck and chest wounds and spreading over the floor.
The gunfire continued in sporadic bursts. Ben chanced a glimpse out of the shattered window next to him and saw two men in black ski-masks and tactical vests strafing the silver Kia with submachine guns. Its screen and windows blew in and silver-ringed holes patterned its bodywork. The men dumped their magazines and slammed in fresh ones as they ran onwards from the car to the house.
Ben reckoned on at least three more round the back. Five men, not counting the sniper who’d come pretty damn near to tagging him at the window.
Kazem looked in a bad way. And Ben and Raul were seconds from joining him, if they didn’t do something. Ben scrambled from the corner. Kept his head down and crossed the floor in a half-bounding, half-crawling gait that took him through the blood pool in the middle of the room. Raul was pressed down tight behind the side table, as if flimsy wooden legs could protect him from a bullet. The moment the attackers invaded, they’d shoot him where he cowered. They’d finish Kazem off with a shot to the head, and then they’d do the same to Ben. No questions, no mercy. Simple execution. These men were here to do business, and it was not a situation in which Ben liked to be unarmed and utterly defenceless.