the opposite wall. He whipped his gun around, left then right - scoping the room with rapid jerking movements. His aim was drawn almost instantly towards something moving near the bedroom’s window. It was a bed sheet, draped over what looked like a floor-standing lamp, the breeze was toying with it, fluttering the corners of cotton. That’s what they’d seen through the window from the front door of the Sutherlands’ house.
‘Shit!’ muttered Mike. ‘It’s clear,’ he called out.
It was obvious they’d been played with. The bastard had lured them out.
‘Blaine! Back to the fucking house! RUN!’
Mike turned on his heels to head out of the room. Out on the landing, at the top of the stairs he saw Blaine’s body, stretched out like he was taking a nap.
And that’s when he felt a vicious punch to his kidneys. There was an explosion of pain and his first thought was that the well-aimed punch had hit a vulnerable nerve-cluster. But reaching to grab his side, he felt a protruding shaft, and a wetness on his fingers.
‘Oh fuck,’ he grunted. Something had found the three-inch gap between the front and rear plates of his vest.
‘Yes,’ whispered a voice in his ear, ‘it’s fatal. You have no more than five minutes to live. If you lie still, maybe a minute or two longer.
Mike felt his legs buckle, and as he slumped down, he felt the knife come out, and a hand grabbed him under each armpit. He felt himself being gently lowered to the ground.
CHAPTER 88
11.54 p.m. GMT Shepherd’s Bush, London
Ash kneeled over him. He snapped on a torch and checked the man’s wound. The blood was jetting out in rhythmic spurts.
‘Understand,’ said Ash gently, ‘this will be a relatively easy death. The painful bit is over. Bleeding out will be relatively quick. I apologise for not making it instant,’ he said with a hint of regret.
The dying man stared up at him, expressions of bewilderment and anger flickering across his face. Ash could empathise with the anger; to be caught off guard like that . . . lured out and skewered.
‘You must be Mike, I’m guessing by deduction,’ he said. ‘Yes, just a silly trick. The sheet, over the lamp, and the help of a light breeze.’
‘Fucking shit trick,’ groaned Mike.
‘Let me ask you. Do you believe in God?’
Mike laughed defiantly and winced. ‘No I fucking don’t.’
‘Maybe now’s a good a time as any to find some faith, eh? Hedge your bets.’
‘You know . . . a friend of mine assured me . . . God accepts non-believers too . . . it’s just assholes he doesn’t let in.’
That was quite funny, he liked this American’s defiance in the face of death. It was admirable.
Mike grunted something, his voice warbling and weakening.
‘You’re asking about your other colleague in the house? Yes, I’m afraid he’s dead too. I did him first. You probably didn’t hear him drop did you? Too busy chatting away at the front.’
Mike grasped one of his hands. ‘Let the . . . family . . . go,’ he struggled between gasps to get the words out.
‘Sorry, they’re on my “to do” list,’ he replied and then smiled down at him, with a shred of sympathy it seemed, as the American struggled to draw air in. ‘We know you’ve been out there watching us for a long time - your humble agency. The funny thing is, we’ve been trying to track you down as well.’
They . . . they had known of it, and hunted for this persistent nuisance, whilst this microdot of an agency, in turn, had been doing the same; two predators blindly stalking each other over four decades, their subtle tracks imprinted on recent history.
To be fair, the agency was no real match for the people Ash kept things tidy for. The resources of a couple of dozen field and desk agents and the black budget that kept them ticking over, versus the sort of wealth, power and influence that decided world leaders, initiated and concluded wars, timed and controlled global economic cycles. No real match there, a proverbial David and Goliath.
This man’s agency though, had done well, identifying and homing in on the only weak link in their chain, the traitor . . . the son-in-law and heir-apparent to one of the highest echelon - one of the Twelve; the young man, a banker, a member of the lower order, who had suddenly got cold feet - he had given this agency just enough to zero