I lurch upright, carefully scanning the massing car park of temporarily becalmed commuters. There are several silver vehicles but none of them are clean. I’m approximately thirty metres from the junction. He must be stuck further back in the queue, out of sight behind the kiosk. Do I dare to step out or peer round the side? Do I risk getting spotted? There’s not enough time left for me to withdraw backwards and move into a new position.
Shit.
Suddenly the cars nearest to me start to move.
It’s a right hand filter lane onto József Körút.
“Moving again,” reports Jack. “Fifty metres.”
He must be in the filter.
I position myself, head angled toward the cars as they slowly parade past, emerging one at a time from the blue metal edge of the kiosk. They are so close that I could reach out and touch them. White car. Black car. Silver car – too big, too dirty. Black. Red.
“Forty metres.”
Grey.
Blue.
Silver...
“Thirty metres.”
I’ve stopped listening to Jack.
Instead I’m gently turning my head, whilst lifting my right hand, and the corresponding side of the newspaper, as I continue to appear to scan the headlines. The shiny silver vehicle moves slowly past me and away. Its driver is staring forwards as he passes, intent on navigating the junction, but I can’t see him properly from here.
I stoop suddenly, and fuss as if with my bootlaces. This new position yields an unobstructed view right through the vehicle.
One last chance...
Any second...
He turns right at the junction, and presents himself in perfect profile, before vanishing out of sight again.
“Got him,” I report.
~~~~~
Jack swings the Nissan over to the kerb and I pull the door open and jump inside.
“Where is he?” he asks me, tossing his smartphone across.
I flick the device over and can see the flashing signal icon. “He went right into József Körút,” I say and he pulls back into the traffic, heading toward the junction and sweeping past my earlier kiosk vantage point. I study the phone’s tiny screen for a second. “He’s taken the fourth on the right. Into the one way. József Street.”
“Check the film,” he instructs, but I’ve already ripped the cap off my head and am watching its secreted footage as he speaks. Turns out it’s a good job I stooped down. The pictures as the car passed next to the kiosk are mainly of the Dacia’s silver rooftop. “Anything?” he asks.
I watch the pictures blurring, then re-steadying, whilst I rushed to crouch down. I can see our target. The back of his head. He looks like he might be bald or very closely shaved.
“Anything?” Jack repeats more urgently.
I watch the screen anxiously until the car turns into the junction, then I jab the tiny pause button.
Blurred.
Frame forward.
Blurred!
Frame forward...
Shit.
Frame forward...
“Did you get anything?” Jack barks, as we approach the turn off.
I lift the cap and turn it so he can see inside.
He takes one glance at the crisp, clear, freeze-frame and turns back to the road. “Where is he now?” These few innocuous words crawl from his mouth loaded with a new and strangely chilling conviction. The icy hostility surprises me. He has never sounded like this before.
I grab the smartphone again. “Gone left into Fecske Street,” I scrutinise the screen. “Careful!” I grunt.
“What?”
“I think he’s stopped.”
Jack slows and pulls gently to the side. “Options?” he asks.
“Turn into Vig. The second on the left from here.” I instruct. “Fecske is one way.”
“They’re all fucking one way round here,” he complains.
“Yes,” I concur. “And Vig is the best place to be if he moves again.”
Jack turns us into Vig Street.
“There’s a parking space ahead,” I point forwards and Jack heads for it. “Who is it?” I ask him carefully.
Jack glances at me. “It’s my target,” he says coldly. “It’s Azat Sikand.”
~~~~~
Sikand grabbed the rucksack from the passenger seat, rummaged inside it and fished out his pistol. Then he re-closed the bag, tucked the weapon into his waistband, and pulled his jacket closed over it. Glancing quickly behind him, he swung the car door open, grabbed the bag, stepped out onto the street, and walked confidently around to the back of the vehicle where he paused and opened the hatchback. He slung the backpack into the otherwise empty bay and slammed the swinging door closed again.
The Dacia bleeped as he activated its central locking.
The safe house was in the next block.
He would walk from here.
~~~~~
“Still static,” I say and hand Jack his smartphone back.
He pulls his Browning out and checks the magazine. “Come on,” he says, tucking it away again. “We need to confirm he’s alone.”
We jump out of the car and he points to his earpiece then back the way we’ve come.
I nod and start walking briskly, back toward József Street, switching my comms devices back on as I go.
“You there?” he whispers in my ear.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Head round behind him, and wait at the junction,” he instructs. “See if you can get eyes on the car without revealing yourself. I’ll go round in front and do the same.”
It’s two short blocks to the junction with Fecske Street and I slow as I approach the corner, then pause and look around at the buildings as if unsure of where I am. There are a few other people around. Random pedestrians and cars. Two males heading away from me. One woman with a bulging shopping bag approaching on the opposite pavement. No-one appears to be paying me much attention. I pause, as if waiting to cross the junction, and look carefully up Fecske.
Got it.
The Dacia is about halfway along the street. Parked on the opposite side of the road.
A car conveniently approaches where I’m standing, so I wait for it to pass, using the time to have another good look at our target.
“I can see the car,” I mutter. “Seems empty.”
“Okay,” he replies.
“I can get closer,” I say. “It’s parked near a gap between the buildings. There’s probably a pedestrian walkway to the next block.”
There’s a pause.
“I need to move,” I say, conscious I’ve been standing here for what feels like eternity. Another car passes by, and I proceed to casually cross the road.
“You’re right,” Jack finally responds. “I just checked on the PDA and there’s a gap between the buildings. Go ahead.”
I head down the pavement toward the Dacia until I’m alongside it and then, as I pass, I give it a good look. Who wouldn’t? It’s a nice shiny new car. I give it one last glance, over my shoulder, as I turn right into a wide paved area between the surrounding four storey tenements.
“Turn left at the next street,” Jack’s voice guides me. “See anything?”
“Car is empty,” I report. “No sign of the rucksack.”
“The tracker is definitely still there,” he mutters.
“It might be in the boot,” I offer and pause when I reach the next road, rather than take the left turn he suggested. “Wanna go get the car?” I mutter.
“Why?”
“There’s a parking slot here. On Auróra Street.”
“Can you see the Dacia?”
“Well enough.”
“Be there in five,” he says and I can hear, from the rustle of air over his microphone, that he’s on the move. “Keep a low profile.”
I wander over to the local corner shop and start halfheartedly browsing the eclectic display of fruit and vegetables laid out around it. “No problem,” I grunt.
~~~~~
Sikand turned angrily away from his recently surprised, petulant, and now somewhat disgruntled Hungarian hosts and stomped back down the apartment’s short hallway. “I’m going to get my stuff,” he pronounced as he pulled the door open, stepped out and slammed the door behind him. ‘You useless goat-fuckers,’ he added quietly to himself.
Fuming to himself, he stomped down the multiple flights of stairs and felt privately pleased that, despite the discomforts of Bucharest, they had changed plans and not reconvened here. These Hungarian guys were worse than the British idiots had been. He appreciated that, as a unit, they had to tolerate whatever sympathisers and support they could garner, especially in foreign lands, but these three were just a bunch of local crooks. And not even good ones at that. They had been horrified when he had arrived, making all sorts of whinging noises about how inconvenient the timing of his visit was, and making it all too clear that they weren’t comfortable to be sheltering him. That was, until he’d stuck his gun up one of their cowardly noses, and reminded them how much cash he’d be looking to repatriate if he didn’t get the support and services it was supposed to have paid for.
He’d stay here tonight, then return.
Otherwise, he suspected that he’d end up murdering at least one of these disrespectful and ignorant fools.
The boy wasn’t here.
The trip had been a complete waste of time.
~~~~~
“There he is,” mutters Jack, leaning forwards slightly so he can see past me and monitor the distant vehicle.
I remain facing forwards, but risk a quick glance, and at the end of the pedestrian area I can see a tall, slim, dark skinned and athletic man stooped at the Dacia’s open hatchback. When he stands, I see he has a bald head and pinched, violent looking face. His expression is cast in an angry grimace. He looks furious. “Not a happy bunny,” I rumble, and look forwards again.
Jack sits back as the man, Sikand, turns to scan his surroundings. “He has a reputation for bloody and extreme violence,” he observes casually. “My brief was that he served, with another one of the cell members, on a voluntary basis in the Afghan Armed Forces.” I notice his cheek twitch slightly when he says this. “Details are sketchy but,” he leans forward again, and I risk another glance to see Sikand swinging Ebrahimi’s backpack onto his shoulder, “he was strongly suspected of being responsible for multiple counts of civilian torture and murder during that tour.”
“Why Afghanistan?” I ask.
“Free training,” he says coldly.
Torture and murder. I can attest to that. I watch, with a renewed burst of familiar stomach churning hatred, as one of the men responsible for snatching you out of my otherwise happy life disappears behind the distant buildings.
“Do we follow him?”
Jack shakes his head and waves the smartphone. “No point in risking it,” he replies. “I don’t think he’s going very far.”
We watch as the indicator moves slowly along the device’s electronic street-map and into the next block, where it stops.
“One of the tenements?”
“Looks like it.” Jack reaches for his cellphone. “There’s a cafe back on the corner of Fecske and Déri Miksa. I’ll go there and keep watch in case he moves.” He retrieves his pistol from the footwell and tucks it back into his armpit holster. “You take the car. Get back to Göd and use the secure comms to brief Command. Tell them Sikand is here, and is alone. Tell them we don’t know why he’s here, or how long he’ll stick around but judging by the fact he’s retrieved his bag then, unless this is a drop, or a pick up, I suspect he’ll be here for the night.”
I nod my understanding.
“Tell them we have a confirmed location.”
“Do we?” I rumble.
“I’ll scout around on my way to the cafe. So we will have by the time you’re talking to them.”
“Anything else?”
“Yep. I want to know if we’re ‘go’ to take him here.”
~~~~~
Jack carefully palmed his hunting knife, as he headed through the paved gap between the tenements and toward the Dacia. A quick glance up and down the street confirmed he was alone. He stooped next to the silver car and started to, unnecessarily, retie one of his bootlaces.
No-one around.
He leaned gently against the car, stretched his right arm swiftly under the vehicle, and stabbed forward violently into the tread gaps of the back tyre. The razor sharp edges sank in a little more deeply than he’d expected and he had to work the knife for a moment or two to free the blade. A tiny, yet satisfying, sigh and gentle hissing sound greeted the liberated blade so he stood back up, checked the knife was hidden by his arm, and sauntered along Fecske Street until he came to a recessed doorway.
This would do.
He stepped lithely into the cover, returned the knife into its pocket inside his jacket, and retrieved the smartphone.
The indicator remained static, somewhere in the next block.
He stepped casually back out onto the pavement as if exiting the building and turned right. The junction with Déri Miksa was a slight dogleg, with the cafe standing on the other side of the junction. He crossed the road in front of him and continued along Fecske Street. Many of the buildings looked like relatively recent constructions – well presented, expensive looking – all except for one, about two hundred metres in front of him on the right. This one was a tired looking, four storey, gable fronted, period tenement set slightly back from the line of more modern cubes. It had narrow slit-windows, with rusting black-iron balconies which clung grimly onto slightly crumbling red brickwork, and its communal entranceway stood wide open, collecting piles of ageing rubbish between flaking plasterwork.
Promising.
He strolled casually past the building until he was concealed by the corner of the neighbouring property, then glanced at the smartphone again.
This was the one.
Rolling himself around, he lounged with his back against the next-door building’s concrete wall and lifted up the phone. With one leg tucked behind him, he looked like any other ordinary guy aimlessly prodding out some text or email message.
Except, he wasn’t writing.
The display rotated axes in front of his eyes. The vertical differential read as being between ten and fifteen metres. Given that he was holding the device approximately one metre off the ground that meant the tracker must be located somewhere on the top floor. The floor which had a balcony devoid of lines of faded washing, or kid’s toys, or rickety sun-chairs, or any other chattel.