The Protector (28 page)

As Abdul arrived outside Hassan’s house he looked in every direction, at the same time straining to listen. A light was burning inside on the ground floor. The car that had pulled up was Hassan’s red Opal. Abdul stepped into the shadows of the doorway and faced the shabby door that had not been painted in years. His feeling of apprehension grew even stronger and he prayed it would not get any worse - Hassan would sense it and feed off it. He breathed deeply several more times, reached his hand out and struck the door with his knuckles. The knock was pathetic and he cursed himself for his feebleness as he repeated it with more vigour.

An orange glow appeared through several cracks in the door and a noise came from inside the house. Abdul’s heart beat faster at the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door opened.

Hassan was holding a pistol. The pale orange light filled the end of the hallway behind him. He stared at Abdul with an ominous expression on his face. Hassan’s shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a stained T-shirt beneath and the top of his trousers had been unfastened to ease the strain on his fat stomach. He looked as oily and sleazy as ever.

Hassan’s stare shifted to Abdul’s stump and his podgy unshaven face broke into a smirk. ‘What do
you
want?’ he asked, losing the smile and spitting out something.

Abdul swallowed, opened his mouth but was unable to speak. It felt as if he had suddenly been choked by a tightening pressure around his chest.

‘Say something or get lost,’ Hassan growled.

‘I . . . I have to talk to you,’ Abdul finally managed to stutter.

‘About what?’

Abdul glanced behind him nervously. He cleared his throat but found that he had become tongue-tied with tension again.

‘Are you going to say something or are you going to just piss your pants?’ Hassan asked.

‘I have . . . I have business to discuss with you,’Abdul stammered at last.

‘Business?’ Hassan said with contempt. ‘What kind of business would
you
have with me?’

‘I need information.’

Hassan suddenly grew suspicious and looked past Abdul.

‘I’m . . . ’ Abdul began. But he found himself struggling to remember the verbal strategy that he had rehearsed.

Hassan raised his pistol and levelled it at Abdul’s forehead. ‘You’ve got five seconds. If you don’t tell me what you are doing here by then I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

‘The man w-we kidnapped. I have people who want to know where he is.’

‘I’ll leave your body in the street right here,’ Hassan growled. ‘No one will care around these parts. I could butcher you with a cleaver into a dozen pieces and no one would bother me . . . Who wants this information? ’

‘An American. Civilian, not military,’ Abdul quickly added.

‘I think I
will
shoot you,’ Hassan said, turning the weapon to check the safety catch was off before pointing the muzzle back at Abdul’s head.

‘Please. They will pay for the information,’ Abdul pleaded. ‘I’m frightened.That’s why I can’t speak. Give me one minute. Please, Hassan.’

Hassan studied the younger man as if he was a piece of dirt. ‘You said the one word that could save your life, you little shit. Pay.’ Hassan lowered his gun. ‘In,’ he said, stepping aside.

Abdul stepped into the house’s narrow hallway, past Hassan who smelled of sweat and alcohol, and waited as the man checked outside before closing the door.

Hassan brushed past him, walked to a room partway down the hallway and stopped in the doorway. ‘Here,’ he grunted.

Abdul shuffled past him and into a squalid room. The only furnishings were a tattered couch, several worn and grubby rugs overlapping each other to cover the floor and a side table.

Hassan went to the side table that was covered in dust-covered junk as well as several bottles of Scotch, one of them half-empty and with its cap off. He put the gun down, picked up a filthy glass containing a fair measure of the amber liquid and took a large swig. He winced as the liquid passed down his throat and then he glared sullenly at Abdul. ‘You want a drink?’

Abdul shook his head. ‘No.’

Hassan dropped his gaze to Abdul’s stump. ‘How’s the hand?’

‘What hand?’

Hassan broke into a guttural laugh. ‘“What hand?” That’s good. I never knew you had a sense of humour.’

Abdul had intended it simply as a stoic statement.

‘I hope what you want is not some kind of joke, though,’ Hassan said, ominously serious once again.

‘I am here to do business.’

‘About the American
we
kidnapped,’ Hassan said, chortling. ‘“We.” I like that. I hope you don’t expect to get paid now that it’s
we
.’ He took another swig from the glass. ‘Who are these Americans?’

‘A newspaper.’ Abdul felt less tense now that he had engaged Hassan in conversation. ‘They want to do a story.’

‘What’s the deal?’

‘They want to know where the man is.’

Hassan drained the glass and refilled it from the bottle. ‘Where he is? That’s another joke, of course.’

‘They want to make contact with the people who have him,’ Abdul corrected.

‘And how much will they pay for this information? ’

‘I don’t know.’

Hassan looked at him suspiciously.

‘This is why I am here, Hassan. You know that I don’t know much about these matters.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I’m not supposed to say.’

‘I asked who they are?’ Hassan said darkly.

‘I . . . I cannot say,’ Abdul said, sensing danger but pushing his luck.

Hassan took another swig, put the glass down and picked up the pistol. ‘I could fire bullets into you all night and no one would come to investigate.You come into my house and dictate to me! “I cannot say”.’ He mimicked the words with a fair approximation of Abdul’s pathetic tone. He looked at Abdul coldly.‘Who are they?’

‘A newspaper . . . called the
Herald
,’ Abdul blurted.

‘Why do they want to speak to the kidnappers?’ asked Hassan.

Abdul was about to reply but Hassan interrupted.

‘They want either to interview them, interview him, or they want to pay a ransom. Right?’

‘You are right.’

Hassan nodded.‘The ransom will be in the millions.’

‘I don’t know anything about the money. Not right now,’ Abdul said.

‘They sent you out looking for the American without money? You are either crazy or stupid . . . I hope you don’t think I am either.’

‘They also do not know the cost of doing this kind of business. That’s why I am here.’

Hassan studied Abdul, weighing him up. ‘I’m supposed to give you a price for my information and then you tell those you work for, and then they give me the money - is that how this is supposed to work?’

‘Does that not suit you, Hassan? If not, please guide us.’

‘Tell me something, you little shit. How did you get into this line of business? I cut your hand off and now you’re working in a business that deals in millions. It was good fortune for you. I should take a piece of your money.’

‘Can you at least tell me if you can get in touch with the men who have the American?’ Abdul asked, desperate to get Hassan on track.

‘I think you are trying to make a fool of me, little man.’ Hassan swayed a little as the drink soaked into his brain.

Abdul warned himself to be more careful. He had never seen Hassan drunk before but suspected that it made the man even more dangerous. ‘Please, Hassan. I am only the messenger. They would not trust me with more than I have discussed with you.’

‘I believe that,’ Hassan slurred, putting down his pistol and lurching around as he took another swig of Scotch. ‘It’s a dangerous errand they’ve sent you on.’

‘Perhaps I should come back another time.’

‘Is that what you would ask the lion as you stood in his cave?’

Abdul’s concern went up a notch as he gauged the distance to the front door, wondering if he could make it outside at the run before Hassan picked up his gun and shot him. Abdul reckoned he might reach the door but he feared it would be as far as he got before Hassan’s bullets cut him down. ‘Then how must this work, Hassan? Please tell me.’

‘You want information and I want money for it,’ Hassan said, draining the glass again. ‘It is a marriage of the two,’ he continued, reaching for a packet of cigarettes. ‘You have asked for the information but you do not have money. So how can it now proceed? This is the question.’

Abdul watched Hassan as he laboriously set about lighting a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you give me a price for your information? Then I will tell those I work for.’

‘Idiot,’ Hassan scoffed as he picked up the gun and somehow managed to hold on to it while he poured yet another drink.

Abdul felt his own pistol inside his jacket pocket. His advantage lay in Hassan’s drunkenness but he would be foolish to underestimate the man’s experience with violence of all kinds. Hassan was unpredictable even when he was sober. He could lose his temper at any second and put a bullet into Abdul just because he was there.

Hassan looked over the rim of the glass, fixing Abdul with his heavy-lidded stare. ‘One hundred thousand dollars,’ he declared.

The price was unimportant now. Abdul had not imagined Hassan being this difficult to deal with and his every thought was focused on getting out of the house. ‘I’ll tell them,’ Abdul said as he took a step towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Hassan said as he put down the glass and swung his gun towards Abdul, holding it level for a moment before lowering it as if it had suddenly become too heavy.

‘To tell my people your demands.’

‘You think I’m so stupid? Eh? You don’t think I know you want revenge for your arm . . . You leave and then the next people through my door are American soldiers who will torture me for the information. ’

Abdul was not prepared for such a response. ‘If that was true I would not have needed to come here,’ he said, thinking swiftly. ‘The American government does not negotiate. That is why they do not know. The newspaper is dealing with this. They would not tell the military.’

It took a while but Hassan began to see the sense in Abdul’s reasoning. ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘I will have my own hostage to make sure that you don’t cross me.’

Abdul had no idea what the man meant. He watched as Hassan tucked the pistol into his belt and reached for his jacket. ‘I don’t understand,’ Abdul said.

Hassan burped loudly as he looked at Abdul, a knowing smirk forming on his face. ‘I need a hostage to ensure I get my money . . . We’ll go to your apartment and I’ll stay with your sweet little sister until your newspaper comes up with the money.’

Abdul was horrified.‘You cannot do that,’ he gasped, unable to hide the alarm in his voice.

‘I do what I want. And if you don’t come back with the money . . . well, then you have a problem. And don’t be long. I don’t know how long I can spend in a room with your pretty little sister without showing her some affection,’ Hassan said, a grin forming on his sweaty face.

The blood pounded through Abdul’s veins and throbbed in his temples at the thought of Hassan even entering his apartment. The image of the man grabbing Tasneen grew frighteningly clear. There was no way he’d let the pig leave this house with that objective in mind. Abdul took the gun from his pocket and pointed it at Hassan.

Hassan’s brain was addled with alcohol and he’d already taken a step towards Abdul before the sight of the pistol stopped him. He swayed as he looked into Abdul’s eyes. ‘So I was right. This is what you came to do. Murder me.’

‘No,’ Abdul said.‘But now it seems like a good idea.’

‘You don’t have the guts.’

‘Maybe I didn’t before the night you cut off my hand.’ Abdul’s voice quivered slightly. ‘It doesn’t take courage to murder a man like this. Look at you.You’re not brave. It only takes great cruelty or hate and I have plenty enough of one of those.’

‘So. The boy thinks he is a man now. Perhaps you are ready to join us at last.’

‘Go to hell,’ Abdul said, the pistol shaking slightly in his hand as he tightened his jaw. The boom as the gun fired was the loudest sound Abdul had ever heard, or so it seemed in the small dingy airless room where even the clatter of a cockroach’s legs as it scurried up the cracked walls was amplified.

Hassan shrieked, grabbed his thigh and dropped heavily to the floor, falling onto his backside.There was no blood: the round had punctured the skin neatly and the meaty flesh closed around the entry hole.The intense pain that Hassan was feeling came from the red-hot bullet lodging inside the thick muscle and the shattered femur as his weight collapsed the limb that could no longer support him.

Abdul kept the gun aimed at Hassan. The man had not made another sound after his initial scream but his face was screwed tightly against the pain.

Hassan opened his tear-filled eyes and blinked furiously in an effort to focus on Abdul. ‘You shot me!’

Abdul was surprised by how easy it had been to fire a bullet into a man - or into this particular man, at any rate. There was something else about the experience that he had not expected. It had felt very good indeed. This chunk of metal in his hand was more than just a tool that fired a projectile. Weapons like it had made kings and brought down nations and now it had in a second reversed his vile relationship of servitude and torment with Hassan to turn Abdul into the undisputed master. But if it was to stay that way Abdul would have to finish the job. So he fired again.

This time Abdul was prepared for the explosion and he watched something red fly off Hassan’s shoulder as the bullet struck it. Hassan screamed as he brought a hand up to clutch at the new wound that, unlike the first, immediately bled heavily. The masterful feeling only increased as Abdul took a step forward, adjusting his aim to point the muzzle at Hassan’s head. Abdul was about to pull the trigger a third time when he suddenly remembered why he was there in the first place. ‘Where is he?’ Abdul asked, his voice now cold and decisive.

Hassan looked at him through drooping eyelids, his mouth open while his head and torso moved with every heavy gasp. ‘The . . . Islamic . . . secret . . . army have him,’ he said, the effort obviously causing him more pain. ‘Black Banners.’