Candleburn (18 page)

35

Blake watched Oassan from behind the ornately pruned hedges in the communal grounds. The Arab was walking slowly along the jogging path that ran alongside one of the large ponds. He could see Oassan talking quietly, either to himself or to the cat box he held in his hand.

Blake
tried to make out what the man was saying but couldn’t hear over the thumping of his heart in his chest. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. They still hadn’t fully adjusted to the darkness of the park from the bright road. He focused his concentration on slowing his breathing and listening.

“And
until the 1800s in Turkey,” Oassan said to the box, “an adulterous woman was tied in a sack with a cat and then tossed into the sea. Ah, good times. We will see that they return.”

Blake
edged his way to a gap between the shrubs. Oassan drew closer and stopped to face the lake.

“Unfortunately
for you,” Oassan said in deep, husky tones to Jeffrey, “I cannot promise you that honourable fate. It is simply too conspicuous for me to keep walking around the city with you. So, my friend, here we shall part ways.”

He
began to swing the cat carrier gently underarm.

Blake
rushed from the gap towards his foe, rugby tackling Oassan about the midriff. Oassan fell hard on the pebbles of the shore. The cat began to scrabble as the box toppled towards the water.

Blake
stood. Bruises and scratches from his earlier fights stung his arms and torso. He kicked the Palestinian in the ribs. Oassan rolled away. Blake went in for a second strike. He lashed out with a boot. It was caught before he could make contact and twisted.

He
fell.

In
a second, Blake was back to his feet. Oassan was already up. The two men were face to face.

“You
must be Blake,” Oassan smirked. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person. I must say, I am impressed. I don’t know how you survived the fate of your journalist friend – but not to worry, you will be joining her soon.”

Before
today, it had been more than a decade since Blake had been in a fight for his life against another human being. He was much older now than he was then. His skills, honed to instinct, would return, of that he was sure.

But
his muscles were older.

They
still ached from his battle with the Russians and from crawling around elevator shafts. He was less flexible. His reflexes were slower.

All
those disadvantages could easily mean death.

Still,
there were pluses.

Blake
wore trainers and jeans. Oassan – while younger and a third larger – was in local dress. His legs were restricted by the tight bell of material as the dishdasha swept to the ground.

Blake’s
left foot swept out. A crescent moon kick. Once, in a former life, his boot would have struck his opponent clear in the face, toppling him. Now it barely reached his shoulder. Oassan shrugged the attack away.

“Interesting,”
the Arab said. “You are deeply out of shape. And if you thought this fight would be one-sided because of my clothing, think again.”

Oassan
flicked his sandals to the side. His bear like paws went to the buttons at his neck. He ripped the material. Underneath was another outfit: a tee-shirt and trousers.

Blake
was a bolt of lightning. He darted in to strike Oassan before he lost his one main advantage.

Oassan
was faster.

A
juggernaut of a fist pounded Blake’s temple.

Blake
staggered backwards.

Oassan
sniggered as he finished ripping the threads of the thobe from his body.

“You
should also know that I was a champion boxer at York Hall during my time in London,” he gloated. “I am younger than you, fitter than you, and I am better trained.”

The
Arab leapt forward and struck a crushing blow towards Blake’s skull.

Blake’s
block was messy.

The
punch missed his head but juddered into his shoulder blade.

The
force was immense, twisting him badly.

Blake
took a jump back. He needed some distance. Oassan’s arms were raised, open fists guarding his head. He was weaving lightly as he stepped forward, readying another hammer blow.

Blake
leapt backward again.

“Coward,”
Oassan said. “No-one wins through retreat.”

A
common topic among martial artists during Blake’s training sessions was the belief that boxers could be bested by using kicks and sweeping out their legs. Blake knew from experience that this was a mistake. In a battle of kicks to hits, a boxer’s speed and fitness would win every time. It was as foolish as trying to beat a boulder into submission.

Oassan
thrust a blow to the stomach. Another to the chest. A third to the cheek.

Blake
teetered.

It
was like being battered by a solid block of iron.

Another
two steps away.

Blake
wasn’t going to win this through brute force and blocking. His face burned. He would take too much damage before victory. This required a more holistic approach.

He
breathed out. He cleared his mind. His head emptied. His thoughts became the endless vastness of nothing.

Blake’s
feet intuitively shifted position.

Oassan’s
next four blows struck like machine gun fire. Jab to the head. Tapped aside. Jab to the nose. Avoided. Punch to the temple: knocked upward. Opening created. Blake slapped an open palm to the underside of Oassan’s chin. Neck exposed. Blake struck with his fingers, knife hand, to the suprasternal notch, two inches below the Adam’s apple.

The
effect was immediate.

Oassan’s
fourth blow, a punch to the ribs, failed to connect.

He
gasped for breath.

He
reeled.

Blake
flicked with his toes. The upper sole of his shoe connected with Oassan’s testicles.

“Now
that’s just low,” Oassan laughed faintly as he staggered back.

Blake
now had some space. Thought was returning into his mind. He sighed heavily.

“Internalise,”
he whispered to himself. “There is only energy.”

He
swept his arms in front of his chest in wide movements: clouds with hands. A shiver across his skin. It wasn’t cold. It was the spirit of tranquillity rushing through his body, the quickening of his soul, there was no gap between him and his enemy; they were one.

Oassan
dashed forward. Blake bounced to the side. Another wide, brawling punch. Blake moved. Left hand whipped. Curled. Circled his foe. He ducked the arm. Second hand to outside elbow. Strike. Strike. Strike.

Oassan
screamed.

Blake
bent his opponent’s right arm the wrong way at its elbow. With a fourth hit, flattened palm, Oassan’s bone snapped. Sinews gave way. The hand went floppy in Blake’s grip.

Blake
was behind his foe now. He hooked his left heel forward. Strike. Boot scraped along shin. At once, the knuckles of his right hand drove home a blow to the nose.

Oassan
lashed out with his left fist; a punch to Blake’s belly.

It
hit its target.

Normally,
it would have floored an opponent – but the blow was soft, deflated of power by the punishment Oassan had received.

Oassan
broke away.

His
arm flopped limply at his side. It now looked two inches longer. Still, Oassan kept his one working fist high, readying for another attack.

Blake
grabbed his enemy’s ear. Twisting, yanking, gripping, he shifted his body forward.

Oassan’s
fist pounded out. It hit Blake’s chin.

Blake’s
vision blacked for a fraction of a second.

“Stay
with me,” Blake commanded his battered body. “Stay with me.”

A
lesser man would have fallen.

Blake
remained on his feet.

Oassan
was moving round the topiary bushes, his back to one of Dubai’s many parkland sculptures. In the darkness, his mind entirely focused on the fight, Blake ignored the jagged outline of the artwork.

Oassan
looked nervously about him. He was preparing to make a break and run for it. Blake swept his hands forward, preparing a butterfly strike. Oassan’s nervousness was a feint.

Another
punishing blow.

Blake
deflected it.

It
missed his solar plexus but caught his chest.

He
clenched his muscles.

Still,
it knocked him.

Oassan
took another step back, clearly searching for an exit. His back brushed against the sculpture.

The
distraction was all he needed; Blake lashed out another kick.

His
shin crushed Oassan’s crotch. The Arab bent forward with surprise. An almighty uppercut thrust to the chin.

Connection.

Oassan physically lifted from the ground.

A
final strike, direct to the middle of his torso. The Palestinian flew backward. His one good arm flailed.

He
began to fall.

Blood
soaked silver spines burst through Oassan’s body. Blake stood shocked. The sculpture erupted through Oassan’s legs, arm, stomach, neck and mouth, emerging divine, diabolic, from the darkness.

Blake
stepped to the side.

It
was some kind of ludicrous artwork, a collection of linked stalagmites, like a section of a hedgehog.

Blake
was aghast.

Oassan’s
arm juddered. He rasped for air. Twitches in the midst of spasm. His eyes tracked to Blake, imploring for help. A giant glistening pinnacle, stained and wet emerged from between Oassan’s lips, stretching forth towards the sky.

There
was nothing to be done.

Blake
set his jaw hard.

He
grabbed the puzzle box from Oassan’s backpack and picked up Jeffrey. He turned and headed for the car.

Behind
him, Oassan sputtered his last breath, gargling blood as he stared at the heavens.

36

Ron’s phone began to ring.

It
rumbled across the counter as the bartender replaced his drink.

“I
have to take this,” he said to Asp. “It’s important.”

He
went outside to the patio area, leaving Asp to pay for their next round. Through the window, Nate watched as Ron paced back and forth, talking assertively to whoever was on the other end of the line.

The
outside area was nominally reserved for smokers. However, with the indoor smoking ban once again stalled in the country’s bureaucracy, the courtyard was, as usual empty. Why step outside and sweat in the 40 degree evening heat if you could sit inside?

Ron
was chortling to himself as he returned through the door.

“My
apologies,” he said. “Truly. Please go on. I take it you eventually found Dan?”

“We
did,” Nate replied.

“This
is when you stepped in?” Ron asked.

“No.
I was still on holiday,” Asp stated. “I came back three days later. Jim should have called me when he found the body. By all accounts, he was terrified of disturbing me – thought he’d lose his job if he didn’t clear things up himself.”

“Would
he?” Ron asked.

Asp
ignored the question.

“I
got back and Zain filled me in,” he continued. “We found Jim late last night. By all accounts he’d tracked down the hooker. I don’t know if he got his hands on the package but it seems unlikely. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

“Because
he too was dead, in a bathtub with no fingers,” Ron continued, rubbing his beard.

“Exactly.”

Ron sat in silence as he worked through the possibilities. He removed from his jacket a small silver pipe and a tin of local herbal tobacco.

“And
you haven’t gone back to the UK operative because...”

“Dead,”
Asp said. “Found him in his own bathtub this afternoon.”

Ron
tapped his middle finger impatiently on the bartop.

“Fingers?”

“Burned off. Pads of his feet too.”

“Jesus,”
Ron said. “This is far more serious than I feared.”

Ron
rested his elbow on the dark wood of the counter. He brought the knuckles of his hand to his nose and rested his head on it, deep in thought.

“Which
is why you’ve reached out to me,” he said. “British Intelligence is likely to be a bust for you. Those jerks will just kill everyone simply to cover some effete career bureaucrat dick in London.”

“Right,”
Asp replied. “I figured US Intel is better placed to help. I also reckoned that you have, based on our previous dealings, more extensive information than anyone else I know – which could prove valuable given my current predicament.”

“There’s
more?” Ron asked, his interest piqued.

“Yes,”
Asp said. “They’ve kidnapped my wife, kids and Zain.”

“Holy
crap!” Ron exclaimed.

“Ron
– I need help here,” Asp implored.

Ron’s
phone began to buzz again. He glanced at the message, then back to his friend. He opened the tin and began to stuff a thumb-nail sized, grass-green wad of tobacco into the pipe.

“I’m
not a big believer in coincidences,” Ron said slowly. “Right now there’s another situation brewing that could well be connected to your own. In the next hour or so, I expect a man to come here who may be able to fill in some blanks and help us choose a course of action.”

Asp
was surprised. He leaned forward on his stool.

“Who?”
he asked.

Ron
grabbed a box of complimentary matches from a pile next to some napkins. He lit his pipe and began puffing on the noxious weed it contained.

“Someone
who’ll tell us that Spring Heeled Jack is alive and here in Dubai,” he said.