Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (15 page)

Rage and abhorrence erupted deep inside
Abigail. At that moment she loathed everything that Terry was. His
limited horizons, his pathetic job, his pretence at college, his
aversion to travel, above all his incurable jealousy. He’d
deliberately fooled her with his thin mask of charm, yet now truths
were out! She could identify her deeper disquiet. Terry was a
stalker!

“You’re despicable!” she screeched. “
How
could you do that?
”

“Bee, please forgive me… I wasn’t thinking
properly that day. I…”

“That’s it!
WE’RE FINISHED
.” A small
part of Abigail was amazed by what she was doing, amazed by the
uncontrollable intensity of her own mood. But this fragment of
consciousness made no effort to interfere. She didn’t want to deal
with Terry ever again, didn’t want to touch him ever again.

Terry was crushed. Streaks of wetness shone
upon his pasty cheeks. He didn’t even have the spirit to plead.

“
Someone else
was following you too,”
he insisted weakly. “I’ve no idea who. Perhaps… Perhaps you’re in
some kind of danger?”

Abigail was past caring. “Then it’s a bit
late to tell me!” she snapped furiously. “I can look after myself.
I
will
look after myself!”

Terry hung his head in shame.

For just a split second, Abigail thought
about grabbing her stuff. But given the state of the flat, she’d
never find it. Well, there was nothing she couldn’t do without. She
stomped through the mess, heading for the door, crushing and
scattering goodness knows what.

“Don’t call me,” she flung bitterly over her
shoulder.

“Bee,” wailed Terry. “Abbeeegaaail…”

The air outside felt like a breath of freedom
to Abigail, yet it didn’t cool her mood. She stalked at speed down
the sidewalk, her mind a churning engine of wrath.
How could he
do that? How could I have been fooled by him for so long? A
stalker!

As she turned the first corner, heading for
the Charles MGH station, she didn’t notice a police vehicle pulling
into the street behind her. In her current state, she might well
not have registered even if its lights and siren had been on.

Terry was on his knees amid the sea of destruction.
He tasted the salt of tears on his lips, and peered through
shifting distortions at the old photo of his parents.

“What kind of son did you raise?” he asked
them desperately. Maybe it really was all his fault. Maybe he
really was hopeless, the way Abigail thought.

He took a long, shuddering breath, and tried
to think of practicalities. He ought to call the police. But it was
no use, he probably couldn’t even talk without sobbing. He’d lost
his beautiful girl. For all he knew, he might have lost half his
possessions too. The rest were floating in this chaos, which would
take days to clean up. He wouldn’t make it to work now either, he’d
be letting the guys down.

Life didn’t get worse than this. Fresh tears
burst forth.

And then two policemen walked in. Terry was
confused. He hadn’t even called them yet. He stood up and hurriedly
wiped his face with his sleeve. The police guys gazed around the
room. One took off his cap and scratched the scalp under his
thinning blonde hair.

“Sir? We had reports of a serious
disturbance.”

“I just had a row with my girlfriend,
but…”

“I’ll say! Some row!”

“No! No, I mean that wasn’t the disturbance,
we didn’t make a disturbance!”

“Well, someone sure disturbed this place
pretty bad. Are you injured, sir?”

Terry looked down at his hand. Blood was
leaking through the tissue. One of the police guys spoke into his
radio.

“I… I just cut my finger. Look… I’ve been
burgled, my place is trashed!”

“So this is your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir, I have to tell you… This doesn’t
look like a burglary exactly. I’d say someone was searching for
something in particular. Something valuable to them. Really
valuable.”

A third policeman walked in, accompanied by a
menacing-looking German Shepherd on a tight leash.

“I haven’t got anything valuable,” protested
Terry. “Not really valuable.”

“Value can be a reflection of need.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You don’t mind if we check then, do you
sir?”

“Hey! I’m the victim here!”

But the big dog was already unleashed. It
bounded about the room, almost immediately picking out a bulky old
computer screen lying on its side. The dog pawed at the plastic
casing and whined.

“What’s it doing?” asked Terry, a knot of
fear already forming in his gut.

“It’s trained to find stuff like cocaine,
sir. Perhaps we’d better have that casing off.”

Terry collapsed to his knees again. He
wondered if this was a nightmare, if he was really asleep. He beat
his head with the palm of his hand, hoping to wake up, or disappear
into oblivion, or get any result but having to remain here.

“Sir? Sir! Hey Jim, grab his arms.”

Abigail was riding the subway by the time her anger
abated. The carriage was almost empty, only two other passengers,
both apparently too tired to keep their eyes open.

She realised she’d been harsh, leaving Terry
like that, with such hate, at such a time. No doubt he’d already
felt vulnerable, the lock on his front door broken and his place
trashed by some low-life.

In retrospect, she realised her subconscious
had long been waiting for its chance to strike, and this chance had
been perfect. She’d pulled out with her own psyche intact, with no
complications, able to stand on high moral ground and direct all
blame towards Terry.

Guilt grew in her mind. She felt
manipulative, as he’d sometimes said she was. She stared at the
circle of Terry’s blood on her sleeve, already dried-out and
darkened. She thought about calling him and fished out her mobile,
but of course it wouldn’t work underground.

Then, perhaps as a counter-balance to guilt,
the prospect of freedom and excitement, of exotic places and exotic
men, spurted up from some deep source to flood Abigail’s
consciousness.

She knew herself well. Loyalty and guilt
could easily tie her to Terry again,
if
she allowed any
opportunities for them to take hold. Without her even knowing, the
mobile slipped back into her bag. In the end, Terry
had
tailed her, when she’d given no cause whatever for jealousy.

Only then did she wonder about the other guy
who’d been following her. No doubt that was one of Jack’s minions.
Perhaps this shouldn’t be a surprise after their row at Elephant
Walk, yet she still found it hard to believe that he considered her
so important.

She thought about having her father fall on
Jack from a great height, but decided against it. Right now she was
still full of anger; she needed someone to hate, someone to fight
against, especially in a good cause. Bigoted, fundamentalist,
spy-master, unacceptable face-of-the-state Jack, was the perfect
candidate. Already she hated him with a passion.

And then she noticed a newspaper lying
abandoned, on the seat next but one to her left. Surely it was a
Boston Globe
, but was it today’s? Would Paul have anything
in there?

She leaned over and grabbed what indeed
turned out to be that morning’s
Globe
. She swiftly scanned
the first pages… nothing. And then, low down on page five: ‘ICE
around Roxbury mosque’. A short piece, but enough. Her mouth
involuntarily curled to a grim smile. She must thank Paul. It was
clearly her day for striking back.

Cronkite
Graduate Center, Cambridge, Massachusetts: May

When the doorbell of her apartment woke Abigail, she
squinted at the bedside clock, bleary-eyed, imagining for a moment
that the alarm had rung. 8.00 a.m. Was she forgetting something
important? But then the doorbell rang again. A faint echo of
interrupted dream still chased around her memory; Jack Turner
stabbing her with questions. Was it him standing outside, shoving
an acoustic ice-pick into her brain! Surely that bastard knew that
she’d only meet him on neutral territory. Or was it Terry? At 8
a.m.? Impossible! Then all flooded back...

Their terrible break-up yesterday. Leaving
him among all that chaos. A pall of guilt and depression forced a
groan from her. She slipped out of bed, half hoping
it was
Terry. Perhaps she could retrieve some friendship and honour from
the emotional wreckage; offer to help him clean up the
apartment.

Impelled by another insistent ring, she
pulled a green silk dressing-gown over her shortie pyjamas, belting
the gown as she padded into the tiny hallway, bumping the door-jamb
on the way.
Be careful of your toes
,
a banged toe hurts
like hell
. The floors of these residences in the Cronkite
Graduate Center on Brattle Street were hardwood throughout, and she
hadn’t put down any rugs. Leased by the year from September, the
accommodation lacked air-conditioning, which might pose a problem
come the hot and humid days of July and August.

It wasn’t Terry, nor Jack. The peephole
fish-eyed a dark-complexioned, middle-aged man with a trim
salt-and-pepper beard, dressed in a pin-stripe suit and plain grey
tie. Who on Earth? Then amazed recognition dawned on Abigail; it
was that fairly dishy, sophisticated-looking academic who’d been at
the CMES reception, yeah, standing nearby when she’d lost control
of her glass. But… What… Her sleepy brain gave up even trying to
form the question and she opened the door, though keeping the chain
on.

As soon as she did so, she could see what
hadn’t been obvious due to the distortion of the lens; the man wore
a reluctant and troubled expression.

“Dr Abigail Leclaire?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Kamal al-Mustafa Abu
al-Bashir
.
I’m an acquaintance of Walid al-Areqi.”

He must be the selfsame academic Walid had
said he might introduce her to… Why ever should he be standing at
her door at eight in the morning? Walid mentioning her name
couldn’t possibly cause the man to pay her a personal visit at
home, never mind at such an hour!

“I do apologise,” said her visitor, “for
intruding upon you so early.” Now he looked compassionate, she
thought, and faint apprehension whispered inside her. “But I
gathered that you were quite close to Walid, a good friend in fact.
So I took it upon myself… Your phone number was in Walid’s
notebook, and an operator was helpful with the address.” His
English was excellent and almost courtly, the accent softly vibrant
in a very attractive way. “I felt that a personal visit was best. A
phone call to you would have been… inadequate.”

“What’s wrong?” she demanded. “What’s
wrong
?”

“May I come inside? I do realise you’re
probably alone, but if we could overlook the offence to etiquette.
Walid spoke very highly indeed of you, and of your admirable desire
to understand aspects of our faith.”

Could dear Walid have rather over-emphasised
the scope of her interest, the better to further her cause? She
slipped the chain and stood back then, after he’d entered the
hallway, closed the front door.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, grasping
already that something serious must be.

“It is that your friend Walid, our beloved
and wise colleague, has tragically died.”

“Died? But how?”

“He was
knocked down
, I think the
expression goes in English. It sounds so innocent, doesn’t it? In
reality the vehicle brutally crushed Walid, peace be upon him in
the name of Allah the Merciful. That was last night, on his way
home.”

Abigail’s jaw dropped. Words failed her.

“He was slain by the hand of a drunkard, is
my belief. Such an evil of our modern times. I felt it beholden
upon me to spare you from perhaps learning this unawares from local
television or the newspapers. And to invite you to the funeral, as
well as to the litanies of remembrance at the mosque in Roxbury,
though that will not be for forty days.”

Abigail felt chill and confused. Still
struggling to absorb yesterday’s drama and loss, her thought
couldn’t grasp the enormity of this new and much crueller loss. She
was suddenly aware of her life teetering on free-fall. She fought
against dizziness.

“Crushed?”

Kamal seemed to gather himself, and Abigail
sensed within him an aura of great competence in relationships, a
warm confidence, as though he was more than an ordinary man yet at
the same time serenely concealed that fact.

“There is mercy in this,” he softly intoned.
“Walid would not have felt anything. Do not be afraid for him, his
soul is safe, and on the Day of Judgement will gain paradise. The
pain and suffering will be borne by those left behind. We must
share our loss, and share our strength.”

Kamal firmly clasped Abigail’s shoulder, and
indeed his touch seemed like a lifeline. She lurched against her
visitor, as though a gale of horrors was blowing and he was a great
boulder that could shelter her. Kamal held her, his strong muscles
a comfort, his odour of sandalwood. Then he led her to her small
kitchen, with scarcely a glance at her abandoned bed. After helping
seat her in the upright Shaker chair, which he seemed to intuit
that she favoured, he glanced around and then to her utter surprise
brought down a cognac glass and a half-full bottle of Martell, from
which he proceeded to pour a half-inch for her, which she gladly
drained.

Kamal seated himself opposite. Self-conscious
and shaking, Abigail pulled her silk gown tight around herself, but
the Arab gentleman looked only to her face or towards the window,
beyond which the crown of a horse-chestnut tree bore white
candelabra in bud, offered to a fluffy sky. Gulls winged past,
crying mournfully. To Abigail the familiar scene seemed now to hint
at candles, at souls.