Candleburn (27 page)

53

Asp’s shoes crunched with the compacted glass embedded in their soles. They crossed the tiled floor to the elevators. The red numbers in the digital displays indicated all the lifts were stuck at the sixth floor.

Rasoul’s
office.

“We’ll
take the stairwell?” Asp suggested, rubbing his feet clean on a Persian rug in the waiting area.

Blake
agreed.

They
moved softly up the stone steps, listening for any sound. When they neared the top floor they could hear voices coming from inside. Asp recognised one as Rasoul. The second was Russian: Fedor Milanovich.

“I
knew I should have kidnapped that miserable worm when I had the chance,” Asp whispered. “It’s Rasoul and the head of the Russian mob.”

“Then
they’re likely both armed,” Blake replied. “What’s the layout of the room?”

“It’s
like a museum in there. Kaskhar has a fixation about knights and chivalry. There’s a fire exit on the far side that leads up to the roof, which you’ve got to imagine is where they’ve put the bomb.”

“What
makes you say that?” Blake asked.

“When
I was here earlier, Rasoul said they’d installed a solar plant. If the bomb wasn’t up there why would he be in his office now?”

“Why
be here at all?” Blake replied. “There’s only two hours to the meeting. Why aren’t they fleeing the country?”

Asp
raised a finger to indicate silence. The two voices were having a heated argument.

“We’ve
covered that already,” Rasoul said.

A
burst of loud coughing.

“You
want out safely, we have to go now,” the Russian replied. “They sign in two hours. Fuse is two hours. Go up, insert the key. We need to go.”

“The
signing’s scheduled for two hours but this is a government meeting,” Rasoul replied. “These things are never on time. Once the fuse starts, it can’t be switched off. The ceremony will last an hour, then they’ll have lunch. It’s better to wait thirty minutes more, then we go.”

“I
don’t see why you need me here,” the Russian grumbled. “I should be home with my family.”

“Don’t
you mean, screwing your whore?” Rasoul snapped.

The
Russian swore a chain of expletives.

More
coughing.

“The
deal was made plain when you signed up,” Rasoul continued. “You have experience with these things from your Spetznaz days. If you want the second half of the money – you’ll stay until the key is turned.”

“Then
let’s at least go up to the roof to keep watch.”

“And
again with this... no!” the Iranian said. “They will have snipers on the Address hotel opposite and the other high buildings. If we go on the roof and hang about, we’ll be targets. If we wander calmly outside, insert the key and come back inside, no-one will focus on us. Just wait. Have a drink.”

Blake’s
face lit up with relief.

“What?”
Nate whispered.

“If
the bomb’s got a two hour fuse and they haven’t primed it yet, we can stop this before it starts.”

“How
do you want to play this?” Nate asked.

Blake
unzipped the bag. He stuffed the spare magazine in his pocket and checked over the machine gun.

“Stay
here,” he said.

He
sneaked through the door.

***

Rasoul Kaskhar looked out from his all-glass corner office at the Dubai Mall fountain.

The
jets where shot gallons of water high into the air in time to serenades of classical Arabic music. Crowds of tourists thronged against the display’s edge, whooping and hollering with excitement as the show blasted away like a firework display. It seemed as though visitors to the shopping mall weren’t subject to the exclusion zone.

“Typical
Dubai,” Kashkar mumbled. “Money trumps everything.”

He
reached for the leaded-glass whiskey decanter hidden discretely in a cupboard next to the window and poured himself a generous double helping of 50-year-old scotch. He then locked the cupboard. Even though Dubai was a tolerant place, it was best to keep alcohol out of sight and over time, such thinking simply became habit even when no Emiratis were around.

As
he savoured its smoky tones, Rasoul lifted his gaze to the Burj Khalifa, 400 metres away on the far side of the artificial lake. God, he loved this place. The tower thrust upwards towards the heavens, gleaming with reverence.

It
was a shame it would soon be no more.

But
there were always costs in any great vision.

Rasoul
coughed violently. He brought a small cotton handkerchief to his mouth and wiped the sputum from his lips. It was dark red with blood.

What
good was money when faced with a chest full of cancer?

And
to think, he’d survived and accomplished so much.

Thirty-five
years ago, he’d fled the violence of Iran’s revolution and arrived on a dirty wooden dhow in Dubai’s creek-side harbour. He chuckled and took another slug of whiskey to wash away the taste of death from his mouth.

All
he’d escaped with had been the blue tee-shirt he wore, thick cloth trousers and a pair of leather sandals. The religious zealots had stripped him of everything else – even the photo of his mother, hidden in his wallet – as he crossed through check-point after check-point to reach the coast. When he arrived in Dubai, he stank of fish from hiding out in the hold of the small fishing boat. Sleeping on the deck had been out of the question. Both sides in the revolution shot refugees on sight. He’d have put the entire crew at risk.

In
the lifetime since his arrival, he’d built an empire. An import-export business. A network of construction firms. He had interests in natural gas, shipping, even a hotel operation. He was the embodiment of the Dubai story. From nothing to $250 million. There was a reason Arabs called Dubai the City of Dreams.

The
Russian was still bleating behind him.

Coward.

Fedor was being handsomely paid. Two and a half million dollars had been splashed on finding and buying the bomb from a dealer in the Ukraine. More on transportation – fortunately, he could use his own ships to ensure discretion. Milanovich would get another half a million before the day’s end, once the weapon was primed.

Rasoul
swilled his glass.

The
plan was simplicity itself.

It
was all about bringing freedom for his people in Iran.

And
like any good business deal, the cost would be borne by others. He picked up the hand-sized, Cartier picture frame from his desk. Behind the glass was a dog-eared black-and-white photo. It had taken four years to track the soldier who’d robbed him as he entered the town of Shiraz on his way to escape.

Fortunately,
the man had kept the wallet and hadn’t found the photo hidden behind a back false seam.

Rasoul
smiled as he admired the portrait of his mother, sitting on a swing in the front garden of his childhood Tehran home. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, his eyes moving from her youthful face to the light brown staining around the edges of the photo. He rubbed his thumb across the glass as though he could caress the once scarlet blotches, the last remaining evidence of the soldier who’d stolen his possessions and beaten him with the butt of a rifle until he cried and begged.

His
lips widened with satisfaction.

Whether
it was a thieving prostitute who’d tried to scupper his plans by mailing a pathetic puzzle box to a journalist, or the incompetent security agents who’d kept stumbling across his plot: no-one crossed Rasoul Kaskhar and lived.

54

Blake darted behind a chest-high pedestal and ducked.

He
examined the room. It was an ersatz replica of a crypt – fake columns and pillars leading up to a vaned, vaulted ceiling, with everything painted in a light yellow giving the effect of the Caen stone favoured by Northern French and British cathedrals.

Plinths
lined the spaces between the cushioned columns, each displaying an array of medieval items. Suits of armour, broadswords, bows and arrows; it reminded Blake of a trip to Arundel.

He
edged around the plinth. A knight in mid-swing with a mace towered above him.

“So
creepy,” he thought. “Bloody millionaires – nutters, the lot of them.”

From
here, between the legs of another mannequin, he could roughly see Fedor and Rasoul. Ideally, he’d have preferred to move closer, but if the Russian truly had been in the Spetnaz, Blake didn’t want to chance it.

He
aimed.

It
was a tricky shot, through the legs of another knight, sporting a shield and sword. Blake considered switching on the rifle’s laser pointer.

Again,
too risky.

Shots
under pressure.

Blake
thought he’d left all this behind him long, long ago.

He
stared through the gun sight.

Breathe.

“Slow, slow down.”

Breathe.

The Russian moved out of Blake’s line of sight.

“Shit.”

***

“One
thing you never explained to me,” Fedor said stepping forward, “how do you plan to live out the rest of your days?”

Rasoul
faced the Russian.

“My
wife is Brazilian,” he said. “Once the bomb is set, I will fly to meet her in Rio. It is in the country’s constitution that no-one married to a local who has children can be extradited.”

“You
won’t miss your wealth? They’ll seize it the moment they figure out where the bomb was based.”

Kaskhar
snorted.

“I
already have $20 million invested there,” he said. “How much can one man spend in two years? That’s how long I have, if I’m lucky. It will be enough to take care of Rosette and the boy long after I’m gone.”

He
coughed again. He leaned on his desk for support.

Fedor
reached forward and helped Rasoul to the leather-backed seat.

“You
should stop trying to talk me out of our arrangement,” Rasoul continued. “After all, if I don’t go through with it, you won’t get the rest of your money and your employer Al Calandria won’t get the rest of my business empire. Once he assumes control, the state will be unlikely to expropriate it.”

Fedor
closed his eyes.

Rasoul
didn’t care if the hired help was getting cold feet; he only needed the Russian for a few more minutes.

Then
the bomb would be primed and unstoppable.

“Then
let’s get it over and done with,” Fedor said. “Come on, Rasoul: it’s time enough.”

The
Iranian sighed.

“Alright,”
he said wearily. “We’ll do it now.”

The
Russian lifted him to his feet and brought him around the desk.

“Get
off me,” Rasoul commanded, “I’m not a cripple.”

The
Russian let go. He then flew into the air and landed prone on the floor.

Crack.

Thump.

Rasoul
knew that sound well.

***

The Russian moved into view.

Blake
pulled the trigger.

Fedor
was taken from his feet. Rasoul looked up. He ran. Blake re-aimed. The Iranian was quick on his toes for an ill, old man. The clatter of a door. The stairs to the roof.

Blake
rose from his knees and bolted after him.

He
shoulder barged the door.

He
fell on his back.

He
cursed loudly.

The
fire exit was jammed from the other side.

He
raised the P90 and emptied the clip into the wood around the hinges. With a firm boot, the door gave way.

Blake
sprinted three at a time up the steps.

***

Nate put his head into the room and saw Blake disappearing up to the roof.

He
pulled out his phone to call Ron.

No
signal.

“Of
course,” he muttered. “Well, that explains why they had to be here in person.”

Security
services routinely jam cell networks, or even shut down entire sections of mobile mast towers during important conferences or official visits. It stops modern bombs being detonated by remote signal.

He
paced towards Rasoul’s desk. He had to phone Ron and let him know the bomb was here at Kaskhar’s building and based on the roof. Maximum elevation, maximum exposure to the air – maximum blast range.

A
rumble.

He
looked disconcertingly at the suits of armour. He half expected one to come alive.

A
body jumped out of the shadows.

“Holy
shit!” Asp leapt back.

“You!”
Fedor screamed. “I’m the head of the Russian fucking mob in Dubai, do you really think I don’t expect death at every turn?”

Asp’s
eyes widened. A bullet hole was visible in the middle of Fedor’s chest. Through it, the distinctive plastic-like mesh fibres of a Kevlar vest poked through.

“Motherfucker!”
Fedor yelled, waving a pistol. “But it still hurts, it still breaks bone, you know?”

There
were at least twenty metres between the two men.

Asp
looked to hide.

Before
he could move, Fedor fired.

Asp
felt the sting of the bullet enter. His innards felt like jelly. The meat of his body wobbled inside his ribcage.

He
staggered backwards.

“Yes,
you know?” Fedor continued, “That’s what it feels like. Unless it feels like this!”

He
fired again.

In
a daze, Asp dodged left.

The
bullet whizzed past his head. He felt the whistle of wind as it nicked by.

A
clang as it ricocheted off armour.

Asp’s
head spun. His ears filled with the pounding of blood.

“Or
like this!”

Another
shot.

Asp
wasn’t thinking. His brain was empty. He ran using pure instinct.

Left,
right, left, left. Wall. No, right.

He
stumbled away.

Another
bullet.

Another
clang.

Shit.

He reached the corner of the room.

He
turned around.

The
Russian was storming forward, pistol pointed directly at Asp’s chest.