Ed tapped the pilot on the shoulder and signalled to Gavin that it was time. He clipped his belt to the guy line and tightened the wrist straps on his gloves. Down in one, he thought, leaning backwards into the chill night air, letting the rope take his weight. The helicopter reeled with the shift in weight, the downdraft from the blades flattening his hair across his forehead. Ed slid to the ground and detached himself from the cable. He flashed his torch twice, the signal to send down the gear. It made a high-pitched whizzing sound, landing with a thump. Gavin followed, touching down light as a feather. An expert. They waved the helicopter away, shifting the gear onto their backs, carrying out a quick scan of the building. In the torchlight, the fallen bodies cast ghoulish shadows on the walls, momentarily brought to jittery life by the flickering beam. Gavin didn’t flinch; Ed suspected he’d seen a lot worse. They set the charges as instructed, enough phosphorous to create a hell of a firework display, then ran across one of the surrounding fields and took up position in a ditch. Ed handed the remote detonators to Gavin.
“Nice work, you can do the honours,” he said. In the darkness he thought he detected a ghost of a smile on the Scotsman’s face. Gavin flicked up the plastic cover and pressed the red switch. There was that moment of doubt, that millisecond that lasts forever when you think it isn’t going to blow, and then the sky lit up in a blaze of bright white light, fierce yellow flames that split the night. The explosive crash that followed. It must have been a hell of a sight for the motorists driving along nearby roads.
“Nice work Ed,” said Sir Clive’s voice in his earpiece. Sometimes Ed longed for the days when they didn’t have continual commentary in their ears from senior officers. It made him feel like a bloody TV presenter.
“Thanks. We’re moving out. Fifteen mile run to the nearest town. We’ll get changed there and be on the next train to debrief.” He replied.
“Hang on Ed, Mary has an ID for you, the guy who ran away. Possible location too.” Ed heard a shuffle and crackle as Mary moved towards the mic.
“Hello Ed, his name’s Jack Hartman, a student at King’s College. We need you to get there as quick as you can. But we want absolute discretion on this. Low profile observation, put your civvies on.” Sir Clive’s voice interrupted her, “let me know as soon as you get an eyeball on him but don’t for the love of God move in. I’m not about to cause a shit storm in my old University.”
5
Dr.Ahmed Seladin scrubbed at his fingernails. Blood was a stubborn stain to shift. The trick was not to let it dry. Five years studying at the Faculté de Médecinein Rabat, another ten years specialising in cardio-vascular surgery, then one stupid mistake and he was reduced to this. Carrying out gruesome work of a dubious scientific and moral nature for the highest bidder.
He checked himself in the mirror, his hair greying at the temples, thinning on the top. His brown eyes once filled with life and humour, now dull and indistinct.
It was the eyes that had got him into trouble, the eyes that had seduced the 17-year-old patient. Padma Rabhi, beautiful and skittish as an unbroken horse. She shivered at his touch, came to life in his embrace, gave herself wholly and generously to him. For a while he had even fooled himself he was in love with her, harboured thoughts of abandoning his childless wife. But then the father had found out, a prominent businessman with political connections. His revenge was swift and brutal.
It was only Ahmed’s skill as a surgeon that had saved his life, enabled him to stitch himself up, stop the bleeding from the fierce cuts inflicted. But he couldn’t save the life of Padma, taken away God knows where and slaughtered for the perceived shame she had brought on her family. And his career was finished. Her father made sure no hospital would ever offer him work again.
The only paths open to him now were the less conventional ones. The operations carried out illegally, plastic surgery in back street clinics, abortions for the mistresses of high-ranking government officials. That was how he’d come to be offered this job. His name had been whispered from one cheating husband to the next. An approach had been made. The money was good. Enough to buy him out of Casablanca, a new identity, maybe even set up a practice far away. South America, the Dominican Republic.
He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes now the same dull brown as the mud walls of the house he’d grown up in. A reminder of how far he’d come, and how far he’d fallen.
One of the mercenaries barged through the door without knocking, slapping him on the shoulder. “Come on Ahmed, you’re taking longer to get ready than a whore on parade day,” he said, unzipping his trousers and pissing carelessly over the toilet seat.
Ahmed ignored him and filled the basin full of ice-cold water. A common soldier talking to him like that. He plunged his face into the basin, opening his eyes, holding his breath. He savoured the sensation he’d known as a child, the dizzying cold of the mountain streams he bathed in when the scorching sun got too much. Two days on the move, two days without sleep. And now this meeting with the man who’d commissioned the whole grisly expedition.
The solider stepped closer to him and placed an unwashed hand on his shoulder. “Come on Ahmed,” he said quietly, “they are waiting,” Ahmed sensed the power through the grip, the insistence in his eyes.
He flattened down his hair as best he could and straightened his tie, following the soldier into the main room. The briefcase sat on the coffee table. He didn’t want to think about what it contained. He had no idea what they were, the tiny things, living but not in any form he recognised. Their workings were clearly visible, the interdependence of human tissue and cell-based technology, he just had no idea what their purpose was.
“Dr. Seladin, so pleased to meet you,” an urbane Chinaman, no more than five foot high and almost as wide at the waist as he was tall, stepped forward to greet him. Ahmed wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but it wasn’t this. The man was light on his feet, his bulk swaying from side to side like a spinning top, his greeting heavily garlanded in a French accent. The reference to Ahmed’s title, although clearly an appeal to his vanity, did not go unappreciated.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr…,” he had no idea what to call the man. Arrangements had been conducted through a string of third parties. A range of fixers, assistants, brokers.
The Chinaman raised a forefinger to his lips and frowned. “Monsieur Blanc,” he said at last, “yes, I think that will do for the moment,” a knowing smile taking root, but his eyes untouched by it, emotionless and black. “I have ordered some refreshments,” he said gesturing towards a tray of cakes and a pot of tea.
“I know it is a little late in the day but I can never resist ordering an afternoon tea when I visit London. This hotel is particularly proficient at preparing it,” he continued, the smile still in place, forced and unpleasant.
Ahmed nodded. He could feel his stomach rumbling but a plate of pastries piled high with cream and custard was the last thing he wanted to eat.
“I trust the operations you had to perform ran smoothly, no damage to the extracted items?” Monsieur Blanc asked, carefully selecting a millefeuille then pouring tea through a strainer. Ahmed thought about the one he dropped. He had held it close to his ear, checked the tiny heart was still beating.
“No problems at all, I am pleased to say,” he replied.
“Excellent. Of course we never expected a surgeon of your calibre to encounter any serious difficulties. That is the case that contains them?” Monsieur Blanc pointed a chubby finger at the briefcase on the coffee table. Ahmed nodded. Two men appeared and took the case to the bedroom. Ahmed watched them through the open door as they removed the contents.