‘I don’t know if you can see behind me the burned-out remains of the Bentley limousine that is believed to have been carrying the controversial American financier Malachi Zorn,’ he was saying.
‘Yes, Barry, we can see it,’ said the newsreader in the studio. ‘But is there any more information about what actually happened here?’
‘Yes there is, Kate. This was a very public assassination attempt, carried out in front of lines of cars all stuck in a traffic jam — a jam that may even have been created as a means of trapping Zorn. From what eyewitnesses are saying, a car pulled out into the middle of the road, stopping the traffic in both directions, before suddenly driving away at high speed. Seconds later there was a huge explosion that disabled the Bentley.’
‘Was that some kind of mine, like the IEDs we’ve become so familiar with in Afghanistan?’
‘Possibly. Some witnesses, however, are describing a rocket or bazooka being fired at the car. All we know for certain is that the Bentley was disabled. Very soon after that, a man approached the stricken car on a motorbike, fired a gun into the passenger compartment and then lobbed a grenade into it. One eyewitness who saw the interior of the car is still too distressed to speak. It’s safe to say it was not a pretty sight.’
‘And what about Mr Zorn? Do we know whether he is dead or not?’
‘That’s still hard to say, Kate. Certainly it seems very unlikely that anyone could have survived this attack. But he might have had one stroke of luck. A London ambulance was nearby and rushed to the scene. Mr Zorn’s body was taken from the car and driven away within a minute or so of the incident. It’s thought that his head may have been covered by a blanket, suggesting he was already dead, but I’m getting conflicting reports on that.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘We’re not sure, Kate. There’s been no word from any of the local hospitals. Meanwhile, in another extraordinary development, rumours are sweeping the tennis world that there has been some sort of incident in the tunnels beneath Centre Court, possibly involving gunfire and multiple fatalities. I have to stress, though, that these are unconfirmed…’
With a press of a remote control the screen turned to black.
‘What do you think? Am I now officially dead?’ asked Malachi Zorn.
‘How could you not be?’ Razzaq replied. ‘Carver blew up your car, then used a gun and a grenade to carry out the actual hit.’
‘The grenade bothers me,’ Zorn said.
‘Why so?’
‘If that grenade went off inside the car, how come the ambulance men were able to put the body on a stretcher? It should have been torn to pieces by the blast.’
Razzaq frowned. ‘True, though a blast can easily be blocked or deflected. A table-leg saved Hitler from von Stauffenberg’s briefcase bomb, after all.’
‘I guess,’ said Zorn. ‘But I’ll still be happier when I see some spokesperson standing outside a hospital, saying how tragic it is that I passed away.’
The SAS team had divided into two four-man patrols, which were now approaching both the front and rear of the building. Surveillance of the property with highly sensitive parabolic microphones and thermal-imaging binoculars had detected the presence of two adult males in the room that Zorn was believed to use as an office. The two men were still in place as the troops reached the building and flattened themselves against the walls. They weren’t going in through any of the mansion’s doors. They didn’t need to. Simultaneously they placed coiled rings of explosive cord, whose blast was tamped and focused by black rubber tubes of water up against the brickwork. The moment the signal was given, the cord would be detonated. Even before the smoke had cleared, the SAS would be in the building and racing towards their quarry.
Zorn was going back over the news report in his mind, its inconsistencies nagging at him, like an itch that would not go away. ‘That ambulance… we’re supposed to believe that, what? It just happened to be down the road, with nothing better to do? No way, that’s just not possible.’
‘What are you saying here?’ asked Razzaq.
‘I’m saying maybe the whole set-up was fake. Maybe Carver double-crossed you. Either that or the Brits got to him.’
‘But that would mean that they knew it wasn’t you in that car.’
‘Not necessarily. They could have figured out the connection to Rosconway.’
‘Impossible! How?’
‘I don’t know. But if they did, they’d have plenty of reasons to come after me.’
Razzaq did not reply. He wasn’t paying attention to Zorn any more. He was looking at an image on one of Zorn’s screens. It showed security camera footage: shadowy figures in black combat fatigues and helmets placing something on a wall. There was a sudden flare of white light and then the picture disappeared in a snowy blizzard of interference.
‘They’re coming after you now,’ said Ahmad Razzaq.
Modern explosive devices combine violence and precision. The tamped detonator cord generated a combination of noise, blast and total surprise that delivered all the shock and awe any attacking force could desire. And it left a hole as neat as a laser-beam through steel. The SAS troops poured through with their guns raised and ready to fire. They took just seconds to race from their entry points to Zorn’s study, and when they got there they blew out the lock and kicked open the door so fast that they barely had to break stride.
Eight heavily-armed members of the special forces, faceless behind their balaclavas, goggles and helmets, shouting at the tops of their voices and ready to respond in an instant to any threat burst into Malachi Zorn’s study…
… and found the property’s gardener and his assistant cowering behind a leather sofa, while the latest action from Wimbledon played on a massive flatscreen placed on the opposite wall.
‘Mr Zorn said we could be here,’ the gardener pleaded, raising his hands in surrender.
‘Honest,’ said his assistant.
Zorn had watched the attack play out. ‘So now we know,’ he said. ‘They’re on to me. But Jesus, don’t these jerks know how much money I’ve made? And can’t they figure out what that means? Anyone who’s got billions in the bank, there’s a good chance they’re smart enough to see things coming. And it’s a friggin’ certainty they can afford more than one damn house.’
79
Parkview Hospital
The man with Malachi Zorn’s face looked blearily around the room, trying to summon up the focus to make head or tail of the surroundings and the men looking down at him from the far end of the bed. One of the men, who had an olive-skinned, Middle Eastern appearance, detached himself from the group and came closer. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘my name is Dr Assim. Don’t worry, you’re in hospital and you’re quite safe. Now, can you tell us who you are?’
The man frowned and screwed up his eyes as he gathered his wits and then replied, ‘My name is Malachi Zorn.’
Assim smiled. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to do that any more. We know you aren’t Mr Zorn. Who are you, really?’ A look of fear entered the man’s eyes, a shock so palpable that Assim placed his hand on his wrist and assured him again, ‘It’s all right. You’re in no danger.’
The man looked at Assim for a moment, then his lips twisted into a bitter laugh as he said, ‘Sure I’m in danger. I’m a dead man. That’s the whole point…’
‘What do you mean?’ Assim asked. ‘The whole point of what?’
‘Wait.’ The man grimaced as he struggled into a sitting position. ‘I’ll answer your questions… maybe. But first you answer mine.’
‘What would you like to ask?’
‘Well, for a start, how come I’m still alive? I… I can remember an explosion at the front of the car. Then glass smashing right by me, and a gun coming through the window…’ He looked down at his own body and began patting at his chest and stomach. ‘And my clothes… they’re all covered in blood, but I can’t feel any wounds. How did the blood get there?’