Candleburn (9 page)

19

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Zain asked, drawing the car to the curb beside the headquarters of Kaskhar Industrial Enterprises. “We don’t know that the office is right and Al Calandria’s here. We also don’t know what kind of heavies they’ve got inside.”

“I’ll
be able to sneak past reception on my own far more easily than if there’s the two of us together,” Asp replied opening his door.

A
blast of heat washed into the air conditioned space from outside.

“Are
you saying I’m obtrusive?” Mehr asked.

Nate
looked at the Egyptian’s enormous frame. Muscles positively rippled through his two-sizes-too-small shirt.

“You
need to get some sleep. Go home and see your wife.”

“Sonia’s in Taba with the kids,” Zain said. “Half term. She’s taken them to see their grandmother.”

“And
you didn’t want to go?”

“To
see that old shrew?” Mehr exclaimed. “What are you, nuts? No, I’m saving my holiday up – I’ve got three weeks planned in Mauritius for the family as a surprise.”

“Nice,”
Asp said. “Tell you what – go back to my place and use one of the spare rooms.”

“That’s
a kind offer...” Mehr began.

“Don’t
argue,” Asp replied. “Your house is an hour away from here. After you cook some food and settle in, you’ll probably have no time at all before you get turfed out and have to come back because there’s been a break in the case. Head to mine; it’s ten minutes down the road. You can have a shower in the en suite, the maid can knock you up a proper lunch rather than bachelor slop and, at the very least, you’ll get two hours more sleep than you would if you headed home.”

Mehr
rubbed the bridge of his nose. He suddenly felt the tiredness of the last few days wash over his body.

“It’s
probably unsafe for me to drive all the way to Ghantoot in this condition anyway,” he agreed.

“Right,”
Asp said, putting both feet on the pavement and climbing out.

He
stopped before he closed the door and leaned back in.

“It
might be better if you stay the rest of the week at mine,” he said.

“Why?”

“After
I see Kaskhar I’m going to order some additional security for the house,” Asp replied. “With someone running around killing Chrome employees, better that we start amassing in one place and get some additional muscle power. I’m not losing another man to these bastards.”

***

Alice whistled in tune with her iPod as it kicked out cheesy disco hits from the 90s. She danced and clicked her fingers, walking from the kitchen with her steaming seafood fettuccine. She loved this sauce – you could buy it from the organic shop in the basement of the building, prepared daily.

Two
weeks ago she’d hosted a dinner party with six friends and successfully passed it off as homemade.

“That
snobby bitch Bella even asked for the recipe!” she smirked.

She
clunked the plate on the low table in front of the television and clattered a fork next to it.

A
thought hit her.

“I
should set her up with Blake. With his marriage on the rocks and his wife having left him, I could put the two of them together... he’d owe me a favour then – and it would serve the two of them right!”

Bugger.

She’d
forgotten her drink.

Skipping
back to the kitchen, she caught sight of the building next door through the windows. Twenty stories off the ground, the view gave a magnificent panorama of the marina during the daylight hours. At night, it shimmered like scattered jewels, sparkling in the oriental sky.

Although
the marina district was a very firmly established part of town, it had been completed just before the financial slump. Many of the apartments, bought by wealthy Arabs as investments had collapsed in value. Unsellable and with a shortage of tenants, many of them were only 30% occupied.

That
was how it was in her block – and she loved it.

As
team head, she could knock off early if she wanted to and hole up in her flat. No-one would see her and no-one would stop her. And because she was the only resident on her floor and there was no-one in the flat below, she could make as much noise as she wanted and there was nobody to complain.

It
was fabulous.

“You’ve
got to love Dubai!” she sang as she turned the music louder. “Boss of a team, free from the shackles of my old life, gorgeous apartment and a company car! I am on the up and up!”

There
was a knock at the door.

Alice
stopped singing.

Unusual.

It could be Duncan, he occasionally dropped by from his apartment two blocks down – but normally texted her a warning. After all, it wouldn’t do for others to see him in her home and get the right idea.

She’d
reel him in soon enough, if she wanted.

Right
now, they had a casual arrangement. She hadn’t decided yet whether he was worth taking a chance on. And Duncan was always out as a gigolo, stringing one girl or other along to every fashionable club in town.

All
in good time.

The
door knocked again.

“Impatient!”
she murmured, scooping her finger through the seafood sauce, still warm at the bottom of the saucepan on the stove.

At
the door, she looked through the spyglass to see who was on the other side. The view was being obstructed from the other side by a thumb.

“Cheeky!”
she giggled as she sucked the pasta sauce from her index finger.

Duncan
did the same thing last month when he brought flowers and a DVD for them to watch. She went to pull the door chain from its place but something stopped her. Better to be cautious, a girl home alone.

“Who
is it?” she called through.

“Delivery
ma’am,” came the reply.

Duncan
!

Her
heart soared. She put her palm to her mouth and breathed heavily, checking for halitosis.

“Delivery?
I didn’t order anything,” she said, coyly and opening the entrance ajar until it clacked on the metal-chain lock.

Before
she could look through the gap and tease her paramour, a workman’s boot kicked the door wide, knocking her to the wall. The chain flew broken to the ground.

Her
body connected with a thud against the plaster of her hallway.

She
shrieked.

A
crowbar swung through the air.

There
was a crack of bone as it connected with her shins.

Alice
screamed.

Her
feet stayed planted on the floor and she felt herself tumbling forwards. She raised her arms but on the way down, she felt two pairs of vice-like hands grip her about the shoulders.

She
was dragged backwards by two East Africans. Before she could scream again, a third man with farm soiled fingers, reeking of manure and axle grease, forced a damp dishrag in her mouth.

She
tried to bite down and near gagged.

The
cloth was too large and being thrust deeper and deeper into her throat. Astringent. She gagged again. It tasted of turpentine. It burned. Bile and stomach acid spewed out of her nose.

She
clambered for air.

Her
feet looked somehow loose, trailing at funny angles, not responding to her commands to fight and kick.

“Breathe
,” she screamed in her mind.

She
snorted on her own sick as it dripped from her nose. Alice could feel her face puffing and turning blue. Tears streamed from her eyes.

In
her panic, she didn’t hear the door slam as two men in night-blue dishdashas walked into the apartment. One was swinging the crowbar in slow circles. The other carried two tin boxes under his arm and clicked his fingers at the Somalis.

Again,
those sickening fingers reached into Alice’s mouth. The cloth was removed. She wanted to scream. All she managed was a cough, a gasp and another cough.

Duncan
stood by the door, rubbing his hands.

“Good
work,” Aarez said to him. “You won’t want to stay here for this part.”

“My
usual payment will be made tomorrow?” Duncan replied.

“Count
on it. And we’ll use our contacts in Washington to start pushing for the promotion you want.”

Duncan
grinned.

“And
I’ll see you at the weekend?” he said to Oassan.

“If
not sooner,” Oassan replied.

“Good,”
Duncan said. “I’ll make tracks – I’ll want to be somewhere else with an alibi.”

As
he opened the door to leave, Alice managed to croak out a feeble protest:

“I
thought you cared?”

Duncan
said nothing. He lips soured with disgust, he shook his head disdainfully and left.

“Please,”
Oassan groused, swinging the crowbar. “You are a poor judge of people.”

The
door closed with a thud. Duncan was gone.

“Better
take care of him tomorrow, Oassan,” Aarez said. “A weasel like that would sell us out as soon as he was taken in for questioning.”

“
I’ll invite him out to the farm,” Oassan nodded in agreement.

Alice
realised at that moment that their attention was diverted from her. The grip of the East Africans had loosened. She shook her shoulders vigorously and lashed out. Her captors staggered aside.

Her
legs broken beneath the knees, she rolled onto her belly and began crawling across the polished wooden floor. She was aiming for the balcony. If she could attract attention from out there, help might come.

Laughter
from behind her.

“She
certainly has spirit,” Oassan said. “I’ll enjoy breaking her.”

She moved faster, her forearms crossing the shag pile rug she purchased only last week.

“Shitting
bastard,” she thought.

She’d
bought it because she’d got friction burns on her lower back from the Persian rug in the bedroom a month ago when she last had Duncan over.

A
foot was pushed between the blades of her shoulders squashing her flat to the floor.

“A
well tried attempt,” Aarez sniggered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “But that’s quite enough of that.”

Alice
tried to scream again. A hoarse rasp was all she could manage. Her throat felt raw and numb.

“Ah,
yes, feel free to try all you like,” Aarez continued. “Think of that gag we stuffed down your throat as a chemically induced silencer.”

She
was grabbed by her shoulders once more and forcibly turned over even as she struggled.

Another
rasping scream – this time in agony.

Her
feet remained facing the wrong way.

“You’ll
be loud enough for us to hear your answers,” Aarez said as he walked elegantly back towards the tin boxes. He opened one and removed a large, church candle. With deliberate patience he lit the wick, which sputtered to life.

“But
don’t let that prevent you from letting rip,” he continued. “Because I assure you, you will feel the need.”

Alice
began to sob.

How
did this happen? Why were these people in her home?

“What
do you want?” she rasped. “I haven’t done anything. I never hurt anyone.”

“My,
you are an intelligent one – I like them business-like and efficient, straight to the point,” Aarez said. “Let’s think, what do we want?”

He
brought the candle closer to her face. One of the Africans held her head fast as she tried to jerk away. She smelt the soot rising from the flame and felt the heat begin to crackle the skin of her nose.

Aarez’s
voice was soft and low as the most affectionate of lovers.

“W
here are the puzzle box and key?”

20

Blake lazily swung his Audi through the suburban streets of the Springs.

It
was a district of compact Italian-styled maisonettes sprinkled around a perfectly maintained network of communal areas that contained flower-filled gardens, large fountain lakes, tennis courts and swimming pools.

While
pricey for the size of home, life here was good.

“And
screw the expense, those wankers at the Journal are picking up the tab,” Blake muttered.

He
slowed his car to a crawl as he passed a gap between the houses that allowed a full view of the wide open parkland. The beautiful expanse of paint-tin green expanded away from him, through a playground and on to an artificial mere that contained three springs jetting water into the sky.

He
pulled to a halt on the curb and leaned on the steering wheel, watching the toddlers swing and slide, jump and laugh, as they ran around. Their nannies sat on a bench, gossiping.

Blake
began to cry.

He
missed his wife.

He
and Cathy had been in Dubai six months when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The doctors discovered it when they went for a consultation after trying to conceive for two years.

They
were devastated.

So
many conflicting emotions. Fear for the life of his love. Feelings of inadequacy and helplessness. Worry for the effect on her spirit. And, selfish though it may seem, Blake had to be honest with himself and admit: the element of disappointment that having children might never be possible.

He’d
always wanted kids, as long as he could remember.

Sure
there were IVF and donor eggs and all manner of modern miracles – but they were discussions for the future. Their priority had to be seeing her regain her full strength.

Fortunately
the healthcare in Dubai was second to none, provided you could pay the astronomical cost. The wealthy flew in from across the Arabian Peninsula. The Journal, another blessing, had excellent perks to its ex-patriot package – and that included insurance coverage.

After
treatment, she recovered and flew to be with her family in London.

For
her as an opera singer, Europe was ideal. For him, a place to look forward to when he left the Middle East. Although he felt as much an American as he did British, moving to Europe to be with her had given him a fresh start. It was a place where, with a new face, he had buried his past.

A
young boy howled with joy as he ran from the playground towards a bounding collie, released from the bottom of its garden by the child’s mother. The dog almost knocked the kid flat as it licked him all over his face. The collie’s tail wagged so frantically it seemed ready to take off. The child laughed hysterically.

Blake
rubbed the tears from his eyes.

The
sun elongated into a giant hot air balloon as it slowly descended to the horizon. The crystal clear sky was gradually blackening. The first stars already glistened in the indigo.

His
brain told him it was all just part of life; a cruel outcome from an unsavoury, random roll of fate’s dice. His mind said with all due logic that it was just one of those things. Shit happens.

His
heart told him different.

It
was punishment. The cancer, the lack of fatherhood, the stress of his job, Alice and the office environment – all of it was payback.

He
started the engine once more.

He’d
Skype Cathy as soon as he got in through the door.

He
needed to see her beautiful face and warming smile. He needed to tell her how much he loved her.

Blake
coasted around the corner, past the visitors’ parking spaces, set aside for people using the communal areas.

He
slowed his Audi again.

A
Toyota.

He’d
seen that car already today.

Empty.

He glimpsed the licence plate. It was the Russians’ vehicle.

“Shit.”

Blake checked the houses along the road. The design of these, like his, had an open garage at the front. Most were full as owners returned home from work for the evening. One home, two down from his own, was still empty.

He
pulled into the drive and exited the Audi.

The
house had several clear plastic bags of fliers tied to the door handle. The bags were Dubai’s equivalent of junk mail, delivered nightly by bicycle riding young men and containing a mixture of adverts for restaurants, shopping outlets and local events.

More
than one or two attached to a door indicated an empty place awaiting a new tenant or a family that were on holiday. With a car-less garage, Blake guessed it was more likely the former. That was important – he didn’t want to leave his Audi parked here for ten minutes, only to find an irate neighbour honking his horn loudly as he found a stranger blocking the drive.

In
the purple twilight, Blake walked stiffly along the brick laid pavement to his home.

He
peeked down the passageway that led to his front door. The tight wall that ran along its length created a wind funnel that trapped a daily dusting of sand.

Moving
quietly along its length, he scanned back and forth.

There.

Shoe prints in the dust.

He
ducked down, examining the tread marks. Two pairs. The flyer delivery boys, working all day in the searing heat, wore flip-flops. These tracks belonged to more upscale shoes. Good grips. They extended all the way to the front door.

They
didn’t stop there.

He
could see the back half of one print as its full length disappeared inside.

The
Russians were in his home.