'And a driving licence?' said Burton.
Sallum handed it across. Burton scanned the documents then looked back up into Sallum's eyes. Sallum could tell the man wanted to frisk him, but the latest briefings from the embassy said the Saudis objected to their women being searched by non-Muslim soldiers. Anyway, he would have been told she had already been searched by the Saudi officials outside the hotel. The British had insisted on that condition when they'd agreed to stop searching Saudi women. It was so rare for a woman to have any official business in a country where they weren't allowed to work, the restriction hardly seemed worth arguing about.
'The minister is in that room down there,' said Burton, pointing.
Beneath his veil, Sallum permitted himself a dun smile.
The salty smell of the sea kicked through the evening air. Matt took a deep breath, filling his lungs, and looked out across the wide expanse of the Mediterranean. The insults and abuse Gill had flung at him in the last few hours were still stinging his ears.
He started to run, his feet hitting a steady rhythm against the sand. Running had always been his way of relaxing. The pounding of his muscles, the straining of his calves and the thump of his feet against the ground combined to send the blood rushing through his veins, sharpening his reactions and clearing his mind. It was running that had first taken him into the Army, and then the SAS. And it was quickness and agility that had qualified him for the special forces: he wasn't the toughest soldier they had ever seen, but he was one of the fastest.
Whatever my troubles might be, at least the sun is on my back and the sand beneath my feet.
He looked up towards the Last Trumpet. It was a perfect location for a restaurant. Perched on a scenic hilltop, a kilometre west of Puerto Banus, it was a short drive from Marbella and within easy striking distance of the smart hotels and plush villas that lined this part of the coast. The balcony overlooked the jagged hills tumbling into the ocean, and into the sand-lined coves below. On a clear day you could see the north-African coastline twenty miles away. On a bad day you could watch the thunderclouds looming over the sea. It was the kind of view that made people want to linger and order another cocktail.
But selling a few cocktails and a few hamburgers are never going to make enough money to get me out of this jam.
It hurts now, he told himself, but I have done the right thing. Maybe it's old-fashioned, but a man shouldn't marry unless he is able to offer his wife a decent and secure life. Instead of debts and death-threats. Gill deserves better than that. It might hurt her now. But if we married she'd be hurt much worse. If I love her — and I do — then it's better this way. It will hurt me more and her less — and that's the way it should be.
Matt started to consider what life without Gill might be like. He had known her most of his life. Her older brother Damien had been his best friend when they were all growing up together in south London. For years she had just been Damien's funny little sister, but when she'd moved to Marbella after her family started the bar, he had realised that she'd blossomed into a poised and graceful young woman.
Our lives have been woven together. Hard to unravel them now.
Matt pushed himself faster, picking up speed.
Whatever else I might lose, I won't lose my strength or my fitness. It might be the only thing I can rely on.
The bar was already starting to come to life as Matt stepped on to the balcony, still gasping for breath after sprinting the last few hundred yards. The maid was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors, and at the back Pablo was making the evening delivery from the village: a couple of sackloads of potatoes for the chips, some steaks, hamburgers and chicken breasts, and plenty of peas and carrots. The diners at the Last Trumpet were not great gourmets, but they knew what they liked, and the servings were always huge.
Matt picked up some of the post that was lying on the bar: brown envelopes, with names and addresses printed by computer. Bills and bank statements — he didn't need to open them to know that the news would be bad.
If I'd realised that life outside was quite as difficult as this, I might have stuck it out in the Regiment.
Sallum stepped away from the soldier and walked swiftly down the length of the hotel's corridor. Fools, he reflected. They should have known better than to trust the Saudi guards to search me. Surely they know the Saudi army is riddled with supporters of the Holy Cause.
He knocked lightly on the door. Richard Brent, the minister's assistant, opened the door and guided Sallum to the sofa in the centre of the room. 'Some tea, Mrs al-Kazim?' he said politely. 'Or maybe some water?'
Sallum shook his head. Only delay is dangerous, he reminded himself. His eyes quickly scanned the room. Two men, both middle-aged and weak. No cameras, no security guards. The window was open, but they were on the seventh floor of the hotel and there was no building overlooking them. Everything was exactly as he had been told it would be.
'Pleased to meet you, Mrs al-Kazim,' said David Landau, standing up and offering his hand. Beneath his black robe Sallum eased his hand to the front of his jeans and pulled out the Heckler & Koch P7 pistol, equipped with a silencer. He chose the P7 because its unique firing system made it the perfect concealed weapon. It could be carried safely while fully loaded — Sallum knew of assassins who'd shot their own genitals off— but as soon as you gripped the handle it was unlocked and ready to fire. It weighed less than two pounds, and yet its four-inch barrel made it an effective deadly weapon at close range. It was the fastest gun he knew of
Sallum steadied himself, switching from the posture of a woman to a man. Leaning slightly forward on his left foot, he thrust the pistol upwards, his hands and the gun breaking through the robes.
Very few men are perfect shots with both their left and right hands. Sallum was not one of them: he reckoned he was a ten per cent better shot with the right hand than with the left. At this range it didn't matter. He could hit both men — and the P7 was designed to be fired with either hand. He levelled the pistol on Landau, loosening off three rounds in close succession. Then he turned the pistol towards Brent, who was starting to flee towards the door. He had covered only two steps before Sallum stabbed the trigger three times in quick succession. Each of the six shots was effectively muzzled by the silencer, the noise no louder than a cork being pulled from a wine bottle.
Landau fell backwards, hitting the sofa with the side of his head. The first shot had blown through his skull, the second ripped into his heart, and the third cut open his neck. Blood flowed swiftly on to the fabric, staining the surface of the seat.
Brent crumpled into a heap on the floor. The first bullet had shattered his forehead, the second took out his left eye. The third bullet had hit him in the centre of the chest. Oxygenated blood started to gurgle from his mouth and a deathly moan escaped from his sagging lips.
One more bullet for each man, just to make sure.
Sallum knelt down next to Brent, clipped a fresh magazine into the P7, wedged the barrel of the pistol into the man's ear and squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore open the opposite side of Brent's head. Sallum walked three paces to where Landau lay sprawled across the sofa. He rammed the pistol into his open mouth, fired, and stood back. Brain tissue was now spattered across the cream fabric. Sallum dipped a finger into the gooey mess and lifted it to his nose.