Ariff kept low on the back seat, breathing heavily, not daring to stick his head up too far. His ears stung from the gunfire.
‘We can’t stay here,’ Yamout said. He was crouched down in his seat, gun in one hand, the other fumbling for his cell phone.
Ariff didn’t respond. They couldn’t stay but they couldn’t leave either.
The bodyguard fired another burst before the Ingram was empty. He quickly released the spent magazine and slammed in another. No one shot at him. Ariff couldn’t see why. Maybe he had killed them both. Please, make it be true.
The bodyguard cocked the weapon, but before he could fire again, a man appeared behind him — suddenly, terrifyingly. Another masked gunman. He stabbed a knife into the bodyguard’s throat and disarmed him of the Ingram in one fluid move. A geyser of blood sprayed from the huge hole in the bodyguard’s neck and he fell gurgling to the ground.
Yamout tried to turn but flames spat from the Ingram’s muzzle and holes exploded through the back of the driver’s seat. Yamout contorted and flailed.
The shooting stopped and Yamout’s head hung limply forward. Bloody bullet wounds were spread across his back and arms.
Ariff screamed. He screamed louder when a grenade sailed through the open doorway. He watched it fall out of sight, landing somewhere in the foot well on the passenger’s side.
It exploded with a monstrous bang and blinding flash of light. Ariff saw nothing but white, heard nothing except a piercing whine. He was too disorientated to move or even cry out. Hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him over the back seat. He fell into a crumpled heap on the road, on top of his blood-drenched and dying bodyguard.
More hands grabbed Ariff and pulled him upright. He had no strength to fight. The toes of his shoes scraped along the ground. His hearing began to return first. He heard screaming and yelling but it was quiet and muted. Ariff’s vision came back slower, but a still image of the car interior — the last thing he’d seen before the explosion — overlaid everything else. He could just make out one of his attackers rushing ahead, yelling and shoving scared pedestrians out of the way. The other two had Ariff between them, holding him up with their arms under his.
They rounded a corner. He saw a van parked up ahead. The lead captor opened the vehicle’s back doors, and Ariff was shoved inside, the gunmen either side of him following.
Ariff shouted for help but a rifle butt slamming into his face broke his nose and he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 44
Colonial Beach, Virginia, USA
Seagulls squawked overhead. Procter stood on the end of the narrow pier, wearing sunglasses, gazing eastward across the Potomac. The temperature was mild, the sky blue and cloudy. Windy. Procter’s kind of day. The beach wasn’t busy — an old guy threw sticks for his Labrador, a couple of people jogged, but the river had its fair share of water sports enthusiasts. There were fleets of sailboats and paddle-boats as far as Procter could see. Procter didn’t much like being out on the water, but he liked looking at it.
He heard the tap of footsteps on the pier boards behind him.
‘Beautiful day,’ Clarke said as he stopped alongside Procter. His tone was happily normal, no stress, no anxiety.
‘No,’ Procter disagreed, ‘it’s not. Ariff’s missing.’
Clarke stammered, ‘In what sense?’
‘In the sense that there was a shootout two days ago on a street in downtown Beirut. In broad daylight, if you can believe it. Masked gunmen disguised in burkhas ambushed Ariff’s motorcade. Used a grenade launcher to blow out the armoured glass of the bodyguards’ SUV and filled the vehicle with close to sixty rounds. Gabir Yamout and six of Ariff’s bodyguards were killed. The whole thing was over in under a minute, start to finish. Ariff was not among the dead, but a man fitting his description was seen being dragged away by the attackers.’
Clarke looked paler than usual. ‘Jesus Christ. But eye witnesses are notoriously unreliable. We can’t know for sure Ariff isn’t-’
‘That’s not all,’ Procter said, turning to face Clarke. ‘Soon after Ariff was snatched, his villa was attacked. Several more bodyguards were killed. The wife and son of Gabir Yamout were shot dead. Ariff’s own wife and his three daughters were kidnapped. A nanny hiding in a closet heard everything. Neither they nor Ariff have been heard from since.’
‘ Jesus,’ Clarke said again.
‘How the hell did Kasakov get to Ariff so damn fast?’
Clarke didn’t attempt an answer.
‘I just don’t get how he could have found Ariff in a matter of weeks. I mean, even the Agency didn’t know where Ariff was hiding out. It took us months to establish Callo as a solid link to Ariff’s organisation. Then we had to kidnap and interrogate the prick to find out what city Ariff was in. And even then we had to put bodies on the ground to establish where in Beirut Ariff actually lived. Yet Kasakov gets the same intelligence in a tenth of the time.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘That man is something else.’
They stared across the water for a moment. A college-age kid thrashed past on a jet ski.
‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ Clarke hesitantly began. ‘But our plan relied on the fact that Kasakov and Ariff knew enough about one another to inflict damage.’
‘To their networks,’ Procter corrected. ‘There’s no reason why Kasakov would know where Ariff, who has been under the radar for twenty years, was living. They’ve crossed paths with their businesses, but never personally. Ariff’s exact whereabouts was the one thing that Kasakov would certainly not have known before this began. But he found it out.’ Procter clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that. He may well be the devil himself.’
‘He’s just a man.’
‘Ariff will be dead by now, or wishing he was. I don’t even want to think what happened to his wife and kids.’
‘That’s not our fault,’ Clarke stated as he poked Procter in the chest. ‘Ariff put them in danger by living his life the way he did. He signed their death warrants with every rifle he sold, with every bullet fired at the innocent, with every IED that killed and maimed with explosives he supplied. He did this to them, not us.’
Procter nodded. He pushed a palm against his forehead. ‘I know, Peter. You’re right, as always. But our war is over a mere month after it began. All our work, all that careful planning to ensure Kasakov and Ariff tore each other’s empires apart, it’s all been wasted.’
Clarke looked away. ‘We haven’t yet got an accurate figure on the damage Ariff caused Kasakov’s network. But when we know, I’m sure we’ll find that it has been substantial. And remember, Ariff and Yamout are dead. Their network is leaderless and will be in disarray from the war with Kasakov. The flow of small arms has been effectively cut off.’
‘Until more dealers take over.’
‘Yes,’ Clarke agreed. ‘But even if we’ve only hampered the flow of weapons for a few months, we might have saved dozens of lives. Maybe more. And it’s not just Americans who will be saved. Think of all the death squads and terrorists across the world who won’t be getting guns, ammunition and explosives.’
Procter let out a growling sigh. ‘But this thing should have lasted months, maybe even years. Ariff and Kasakov should have pummelled each other down until there was nothing left of either of them.’
‘There was always the chance this would end sooner than we wanted, even if we didn’t believe it could be this early. No plan ever works perfectly.’ Clarke patted Procter on the shoulder. ‘Take comfort that it hasn’t blown up in our faces. And we’ve done so much good, Roland. We really have.’
Procter smirked. ‘You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me.’