Opening Shot

Chapter 1

Algiers - London

He boarded a Lufthansa flight from Algiers to Frankfurt. There were no problems at Algiers airport, but then he did not expect any. He chose the 03.25 flight, as he reasoned the officials at the airport would be sleepy at that time. Sleepy officials would make things easier for him, it meant less to worry about. Not that he worried much about anything.

He was an Algerian but he was travelling under a German passport in the name of Hamir Akhmed. Nothing unusual about that. There were lots of Arabs and people of Middle Eastern descent living in Germany, and many of them were German citizens. The visa in his passport showed that he entered Algeria three days ago, on business.

My business here is now finished, he explained to the immigration official at the airport.

The official nodded, understanding and not questioning further. Why should he? The man was clearly a visitor to Algeria, a businessman. He was dressed like a businessman. He carried a business man’s travel bag, the large kind with wheels that carried clothes and a laptop computer. He also carried a business class air ticket. He was now returning home to Germany, on a German flight, and his Algerian visa was all in order. So his passport was duly stamped as ‘departed’ and he was allowed to proceed to the airside of the airport. The official was tired, as he had expected.

He could easily afford a first class ticket but business class suited him fine. Businessmen travelled business class, so that was what he was doing. No need to draw attention to himself. And he was travelling on business after all. Of sorts.

He had two seats to himself. That was one of the things he liked about flying Lufthansa business class, they left the seat next to you vacant. The flight took only 2 hours 40 minutes and was uneventful. It seemed that no sooner had they levelled off at their cruising altitude than the captain announced they would be descending shortly. Just enough time to enjoy an in-flight meal and some light refreshments. He drank only water and tea. No alcohol. His faith forbade him to drink alcohol. He flirted a little with a cute blond stewardess. But not too much, just enough to fit in.

It was early in the morning when the plane landed at Frankfurt, just after 6 a.m. That suited him too. The officials would be changing shifts, the night shift just finishing and the morning shift just starting. People would be thinking about going home or they would be wondering what the day held in store for them. They would not be totally focussed on their work. There was a further passport check as he departed the plane. He noticed the official had stubble starting to grow on his face and seemed a little bleary eyed, tired. He correctly assumed the official was coming to the end of his shift. The official gave the passport a cursory look, doing little more than glance at the photograph and then at the man. It was a good likeness and the official handed him back his passport. A German passport holder returning to Germany. No questions asked.

There were two hours to kill before his connecting flight so he made his way to the business class lounge. He got himself a cup of tea then, once seated in the lounge, he removed his laptop from his travel bag and logged onto the internet. To anyone watching his behaviour was no different to that of any other businessman. All looked normal and he blended into the scenery. That was how he wanted it.

On the internet he went straight to one of his many e-mail accounts. The one he needed to use was a hotmail account. He sent an email; just one email. He had never met Areef Shareef, the person who had recently contracted his services. His message to Areef was brief, On your marks.

The agreed coded message. It confirmed to Areef they had a deal, the down payment was received, and he was on his way to carry out his work. After returning his laptop to his bag he finished his tea, glanced through one of the newspapers and then left the lounge. He made his way to the gate for his connecting flight. There was nothing about his behaviour to arouse interest or suspicion.

His flight to London left on time and arrived on time. German efficiency. It was 08.30 a.m. and the start of the working day when he arrived at London Heathrow. There were other businessmen on the same flight, all heading to London meetings, or returning to London from Frankfurt meetings that finished late the previous day. It was easy to assume he too was one of those businessmen. He looked the part. At immigration and passport control he joined the channel for passengers arriving from the EU and carrying EU passports. He was still travelling under the German passport and, with it, it was a formality. Again there were no questions. Just a quick look at his passport and a glance to compare his appearance with the passport photograph.

Welcome to the UK Mr Akhmed, said the immigration official.

The Algerian had arrived. His work could start.

Chapter 2

Kabul

There was a little ‘click’ as he replaced the telephone handset. It was a modern digital model, its sound very different to the old fashioned dial telephones inherited from the Soviets. Slowly they were getting rid of the Soviet cast-offs, and not just the telephones. For the Afghan Minister of the Interior it was another small sign of how things were improving.

Throughout history his country’s story was of one occupation followed by another. Persians, Muslim Arabs, Turks, Mongols, and the British had all occupied his country. Then there was the Soviet interference, and the Taliban government that followed. It had all left his country one of the poorest and most under developed in the world. When the Taliban had finished their work Kabul, the capital, was left with little modern infrastructure. It was a drab city with nothing to show for its long life. There were no architectural wonders, impressive follies or shows of wealth, and no world famous works of art. Its museum had been ransacked and its zoo closed. To those who were not of Kabul it appeared, in those days, an unwelcoming place with little to recommend it.

He did not understand the attraction of his country to all these other nations. And now it was the turn of the United States of America and their allies to occupy his country. That meant the British were back too. But this time he knew it was different. After the Americans arrived he saw things start to change.

With the Americans came an inflow of billions of dollars in foreign aid and investment. Slowly the infrastructure was being rebuilt. Kabul now had a functioning international airport, roads, a good electricity and water supply, and hotels. Modern shopping centres were arriving, and there were many new restaurants. Even the zoo was open again.

There were thousands of foreigners in the city spending their money in the shops and markets. Changes for the better were all around. It was clear to him that the Americans and the British were the friends of Afghanistan and here to help.

For that reason the telephone call was an easy one to make. It was part of his job to make sure nothing happened within Afghanistan that might damage the positive changes taking place in his country and his country’s relationship with its allies. His telephone call would help to ensure the changes and the friendship continued. He knew he might be sending some of his countrymen to their deaths, but only a few, not many. And they were bad people anyway, intent on doing harm, he told himself. He thought that a small price to pay for his country’s continued growing prosperity. So, yes, it was an easy telephone call to make.

Nevertheless, his hands were sticky and damp and he noticed a few drops of perspiration on the telephone handset when he replaced it. He put that down to the heat. It was hot and stuffy in his office, even now at the end of the day. He knew that one day he would get an air conditioning unit, but there were other more important priorities for now. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and gave the telephone a quick wipe. Then he wiped his forehead and face, and rubbed his hands dry before replacing the handkerchief.

The call was the end of his day. The final thing he needed to do before making his way home. He felt better for having made it. As if his day had been worthwhile. Another satisfying day at the office. He was getting those a lot lately.

Outside the Kabul evening air was warm but fresh. It hit him in the face as he stepped outside and it felt good. His car started first time. As a Minister he was entitled to a driver but he preferred to do his own driving. He enjoyed driving, it relaxed him and he found that he did some of his best thinking when he was behind the wheel.

It was a Japanese car, another import, and it had air conditioning. He turned it off and instead pressed a button in the door of the car. The electric window gently slid down. The Kabul air joined him inside. A guard saluted and a barrier was raised as he drove out of the gate of the Government building and onto the streets of the city.

He wanted to get home quickly. His wife and family were waiting for him. It was his son’s birthday and they were to have a celebratory meal together. A party, his young son had called it eagerly. A western term. Things were different now the Taliban had gone. He was running late because of his final telephone call. He had delayed making the call because he wanted to be sure of his information first. And by the end of the day he was sure. Now, his work done, he did not want to arrive late. So once he hit the open roads of Kabul he pressed down on the accelerator.

He lived in the south west of the city so the route home took him past the old city wall and the zoo. He would head out towards the Russian Embassy but turn off before he reached it. It was a route with which he was familiar. Sometimes there would be security checks on route, small police road blocks, but he hoped to avoid that today. He had heard of no activity in his official capacity as Minister of the Interior. Nor had he ordered any. So he expected a clear run home.

It was after turning off the main road, when he had been driving along a minor road for a little while, that the police checkpoint first came into view. He saw the blue flashing light in the distance, shook his head and let out a sigh. It never crossed his mind that it was an unusual place to have a checkpoint, because his mind was elsewhere.

Why tonight, on the day of my son’s birthday, he thought. Still, it need not delay him for long. Once he flashed his ID and his status as a Government Minister became apparent, he was sure he would be waved through quickly. That was what always happened. The checkpoint was just a small irritation and there was no point in allowing it to change his mood.

He slowed as he approached the road block. It consisted of a single police car, its lights flashing silently yet shouting to be heard, and four armed police officers. It did not look as impressive as other police checkpoints he had been stopped at before. Perhaps that was because usually checkpoints he saw were on busy main roads, not smaller roads like this one. He made a mental note to speak to the head of police about it. He felt a police checkpoint should have at least two cars, no matter what kind of road was involved.

There were three or four vehicles in front of his and they were waved through after the police had spoken to the drivers. The line of vehicles was not being delayed too long. That was good. Then it was his turn. He was the last in line. He drove forward slowly, then stopped and switched off the engine, as indicated to do so by one of the policemen. Two of the officers approached his car, while two remained by their own car with their sub-machine guns trained on his vehicle. His window was still open so he sat and waited for the two officers to reach the car. That was what he always did at checkpoints. It was the correct way to behave. It did not arouse suspicion. Arousing suspicion could be dangerous.

Do you have your ID please, sir? asked the first officer when he reached the window.

The Minister passed it to him and the officer made a big show of staring at it. He noted that the man’s top two shirt buttons were open and made a mental note to mention that to the head of police too when he next spoke to him.

This says that you are Saliq Mustaq, the Minister of the Interior. Is that who you are? The man’s question and his tone of voice were very direct.

Yes that’s right. What’s the reason for this check? I’ve not heard of any problems today.

No, you won’t have heard of them yet, sir. Would you step out of the car please? The policeman and then added, by way of explanation, It’s important.

The Minister did as he was asked. As he stepped out he made a big play of letting out a loud sigh, to let the man know he was becoming frustrated by what he saw as an unnecessary delay.

Look what’s the problem? None of the drivers in front of me were asked to get out of their cars.

Turn around and face the car please. Place your hands on the roof and spread your legs.

What’s the meaning of this? the Minister was baffled by the turn of events. This had never happened to him before. It’s my son’s birthday today and we have a little celebration planned. I need to get home quickly, he protested. It was information the policeman did not need or want to know. The policeman raised his machine gun and prodded the Minister in the chest.

Just do it. Now!

He thought about reminding the policeman if he knew he was talking to a Government Minister. He thought about asking for the man’s name and his unit. He thought about telling the policeman that he would speak to the head of police and make sure that this time tomorrow the man would be cleaning out the toilets at the police station. But he also thought that this policeman did not seem the type who would respond to threats. He wanted to get to his son’s birthday party and the quickest way to do that was by co-operating. So he did as he was ordered and spread himself against his car, hands on the roof. Once this was over and he was safely home he would get on the telephone to the head of police. Then this man would find out what a mistake it was to treat a Government Minister this way.

While the first policeman kept his gun trained on him, the second policeman walked around the car. He opened the passenger door and searched the glove box. He found nothing of interest. Then he walked back and frisked the Minister. There was a hand gun in the Minister’s jacket pocket and the policeman removed it.

Nice piece he said, showing it to his colleague. Then to the Minister he said, Do you have any other weapons? The Minister shook his head. The policeman tucked the Minister’s gun inside his own belt. Then he turned to his colleague and asked, Is this him then? The colleague nodded.

It was starting to occur to the Minister that something was wrong. These men did not seem like real policemen, their uniforms did not fit properly, they looked unkempt, and they did not behave like real policemen. Real police would not treat him this way; they would be respectful of him, fearful even. Their manner seemed odd, wrong. They did not follow procedures and the checkpoint did not seem authentic. Only one car, not two, he remembered. Still facing his car he asked, What’s going on? Who are you people?

One of them said, Shut up! Take your hands down from the roof slowly and put them behind your back, then move over to the police car!

Look if you want money I can arrange for payment to be made. He was well aware of the kidnappings and disappearances that sometimes occurred in and around Kabul. He started to turn. Not to start walking to the police car, but to face the men who were holding him at gunpoint. To plead with them and bargain with them for his release. He was a good bargainer. He was sure he would be able to strike a deal and be on his way without the need for further unpleasantness. He liked to use his hands when he spoke, to emphasise his words. So he started to raise his hands as he said, Nobody needs to know about ...

Before the Minister could say anything more one of the policemen smashed his gun butt into the Minister’s head. He fell to the ground unconscious.

Bring the car over here, the man shouted to the other two policemen, waiting at the police car. He’s out cold, and we’re not carrying him over to you.

The Minister was not a heavy man. It took little effort to pick him up and throw him on the floor in the back of the car. Then two of the police sat in the back and put their feet on him, to make sure he would stay down if he were to wake up. It was all over very quickly. They had the man they were sent to get. And no one else saw it happen.

As the car drove off one of them crouched down and wrapped some duct tape over the Minister’s mouth and then bound his hands together behind his back.

Did you bring enough tape? one of them joked. He’s got a big mouth this one.

It was dark when they arrived at the lock-up garage in one of the outer suburbs and no one saw them drive in and close the door behind them. Their old red pick-up truck was waiting for them inside, where they left it. They parked the police car next to it. The Minister was still unconscious. He was unceremoniously bundled out of the police car and dropped onto an old Persian rug on the garage floor. It was a large rug, almost a carpet, with a thick pile. They rolled up the rug, wrapping the Minister in the middle, his arms bound behind his back and his mouth still taped. A large oil stain that had been unseen on the underside of the rug was now clearly visible on the outside of the rolled up bundle.

It looks good, Abdul said one of the policemen. No one would know we’ve got the Minister of the Interior inside there. If anyone looks it’s obvious we’ve just got an oily old rug.

It took all four men to lift the rug, and its contents, and throw them onto the back of their old pick-up truck. They covered the load loosely with an old tarpaulin sheet. Examining their work, everything about the truck looked normal.

They left the police car inside the locked garage. It was the way they always worked and they knew the police car would be there the next time they needed to use it. Within minutes of arriving at the garage the men were on the move again. Driving out in their old red pick-up truck, they had a delivery to make.

Chapter 3

London

Tony Malbranque grunted as the fist of the little man slammed into him. It was a good solid punch, a hard punch, and the little man’s right fist buried itself in Tony’s belly. His body wanted to fall back to cushion the blow, but his arms were held tightly by the two bigger men behind him, so instead he found himself being pushed forward to meet it. There was the sound of ripping fabric as the stitching around the shoulders of his suit jacket gave way a little. A second blow quickly followed the first, this time a left, driving hard into his diaphragm. Tony’s head dropped forward until his chin was almost resting on the top of his chest. He gave a feint cough and blood splattered from his mouth down the front of his smart white shirt and tie.

Johnny the Ship says you’ve been stealing his money, the little man said. Nobody crosses Johnny the Ship and gets away with it.

Tony raised his head from his chest and looked at the little man’s face. The exertions of the last few minutes, the scuffle in the street when the three men jumped him and then the chase down the alley as he tried to flee, had taken their toll on the little man. Strands of the little man’s hair were knotted together by perspiration, which trickled freely from his temples down his cheeks and both sides of his face before dripping down to the cold grey tarmac. The little man was breathing deeply, catching his breath as he drew back his arm, readying himself to hit Tony again. He was grinning at Tony.

Over the course of his twenty nine years Tony Malbranque had been on the receiving end of two serious beatings. This was number three. He knew he had to be quick if he was to avoid the next punch and that he had few options.

What are you talking about? he stuttered while he planned his move. The two big men were holding him firmly under his shoulders and around his arms, almost lifting him off the ground. There was no way he was going to free himself from their grip but he was sure he could use their hold to his advantage. He pushed back against his captors and used the leverage created by their hold of his arms to lift both feet from the ground. Using the momentum he kicked out with his right leg with as much energy as he could muster. Tony’s foot landed firmly in the little man’s groin, instantly wiping the grin from his face.

The man shrieked like a soprano and clutched his groin as he staggered backwards into a pile of assorted junk and some large green plastic wheelie-bins outside the back door of an Indian restaurant. There was a loud crashing sound as he stumbled into the bins, knocking them over and spilling their contents out onto the ground. One of the bins was full of empty wine and beer bottles and the air echoed with the sound of breaking glass as some of them hit the hard paving stone of the footpath. Some others rolled out of the bin and along the tarmac surface of the road, and the sound they made reminded Tony of the ball rattling around in a roulette wheel – a sound with which he was more familiar. A frightened cat screeched as it ran out from behind the bins and Tony saw a rat twitching, exposed in its death throes in the place from where the cat ran.

The little man’s fall was broken by the garbage. An old wooden chair from the restaurant, that stood broken amongst the junk, splintered as he landed hard on top of it. He lolled about on the ground in spilled food waste, leftovers from the restaurant, as he tried to recover his composure and get back to his feet. Now it was Tony’s turn to grin and a satisfied smile spread across his face.

God it stinks! said Big Pete, one of the men holding Tony, as the stench of the rotten food assaulted his nose. He spoke to no one in particular, but his friend on the floor was pulling a face that showed he was fully aware of the smell of the waste that now enveloped them.

Tony could taste blood in his mouth but he too was aware of the rancid smell coming from the contents of the fallen dustbins. It was a strange combination and made him feel sick. As his feet returned to the ground he felt the men tighten their grip around his arms. One of the men drove his knee into the small of Tony’s back and at the same time the other swung a right hook to the side of Tony’s face, cutting him close to his eye. Tony groaned and his head dropped forward again. Blood started to trickle from the cut by his eye.

Are you alright, Sharky? asked Dumpling, the other big man holding Tony. No one knew why the little man was called Sharky, but it was the name used by everyone who knew him. Sharky liked the name because he thought it made him sound hard. That was important to Sharky.

Sharky gave a nod as he struggled to his feet. He brushed some rotten fish from his denim jacket as he got up and steadied himself. A red and white football scarf was draped loosely around his neck. The two men holding Tony back wore the same scarves.

Look at the state of you! Dumpling added sarcastically. There was an ugly green mark on Sharky’s football scarf, curry from one of the dustbins, and his efforts to brush it off only smeared the stain and made it look worse. To Tony it was a surreal scene and he laughed openly at the little man’s efforts, forgetting briefly about his own predicament. Sharky looked up from his scarf and stared at Tony. He failed to see the humour.

Mess up my Arsenal scarf would you? Tony stopped laughing, once again aware of the hold the two big men had on him. If he could have seen himself Tony would have been shocked by his own dishevelled appearance. Normally dapper, his cream coloured suit and white shirt were now speckled with his own blood. The sleeves of his suit were ripped, and there were large black scuff marks on the knees of his trousers from where he fell earlier while trying to run away from the three men.

Hold him tight boys, the grin was returning to Sharky’s face as he stood and caught his breath, I want to make sure he really gets the message this time. Then fixing Tony with a cold stare he moved in close to his face and whispered, Nobody steals from Johnny the Ship. Understood?

For a moment Sharky and Tony looked at each other, faces only inches apart, catching their breath. To Tony it seemed like an eternity as he waited for the blows to start again. Further down the alley there was another screech from the cat followed by the bark of a dog. Nearby, some of the wine bottles were still spinning and rolling to a stop on the ground and made small clinking and whirring sounds which grew quieter. Otherwise there was silence as Sharky paused to let his words sink in and prepared to hit Tony again. Then from the entrance to the alley there was a shout of Hey, you! As if by reflex they all turned to look. Then they saw him. A tall powerfully built man silhouetted against the fading late afternoon sunlight. Then they heard the sound of Dave Gold’s footsteps as he started to run towards them.

Chapter 4

It was a Saturday afternoon, a match day, and so the high street was quieter than usual. He knew it would be. Shoppers tended to stay home or go elsewhere on days when there was a football match.

On a match day, when the football club was playing at home, the streets and pubs near the ground would be busy at lunchtime and into the early afternoon but after kick-off the streets would mostly empty, except for a few determined shoppers. The pubs and streets would then start to fill again from about five, after the final whistle as people made their way home or stopped off at the pubs for a post match drink.

Dave Gold trained at his gym every day except Sunday and he liked to vary his route home. Sometimes he