The Last Target

By John Storey

Imagine if you can, that the woman you have just met is the only woman who has ever charged you with the deep mercurial fire you thought only existed in others.
Imagine how you would feel when she is abducted from right under your nose?
Could you imagine that - armed with only the skills provided by the sedentary life of an office-bound yacht-designer - you are now faced with making the decision to chase off into a black, cold and rainy night to try to find her - knowing all the while that, even if you suceeded, you would have to confront several armed, vicious and ruthless men.
Imagine also, that you found her but are now trapped aboard a tramp steamer that is teeming with armed guards and heading swiftly away from the comfort and security of your sterile office-bound life.
If you can imagine all that, then try to imagine this – you are terrified of the sea...
Congratulations, you have made it to the beginning of James Fletcher’s journey.
Inside Helen’s story:
You are alone and far from home, have no money and are trapped in a cold and dreary life.
You meet a man. He is different from the usual men. He is unassuming, polite and considerate. He makes you feel good, makes you smile and makes you realise what your soul was missing.
But, during a bathroom break in a restaurant, you are attacked, drugged, tied up and thrown into the back of a van. Then there is only darkness.
Hussain’s story:
Your men have succeeded in their mission.
After a long and busy day, all of your targets are secure. Eight hand-picked women are all now cocooned within the container deep in the hold of the Matryoshka, now steaming fast towards the middle-east. The women are all comatose, blissfully unaware of the future you are planning for them and they are all equally unaware that each of them is now owned outright by eight of your wealthiest, most deviant clients.
Another year and another consignment. The only thing that remains to do is to prepare them to conform, willingly, to their new master’s bidding. Youssef Hussain always smiles at the prospect of training the new girls. It’s his true calling. He has been a practitioner of this dark art for many years.
It is Hussain who the super-wealthy turn to for their darkest amusements.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Storey
• Release date: Feb 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9780646573106

John Storey

John Storey founded Storey Communications, Inc. with his wife Martha in 1983. He has three children and eight grandchildren. He lives in western Massachusetts and farm in Westport, New York.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The boy screamed, but the wind screamed louder, ripping the words from his lips and hiding them forever in the folds of its fury.

A sickening, tearing noise screeched up from below then the yacht began to roll.

Jamie Fletcher’s twelve-year old fingers were fortified by terror as he clung to the wheel while his entire world turned upside-down.

He held his breath as the yacht completed its capsize and plunged him beneath the cold green water. He was no longer able to breathe, but at least it was calmer.

His movements were slow. The drag from his waterlogged clothes hampered his efforts making it near-impossible to avoid the swirling tangle of ropes that followed the tattered remnants of sails as they danced around in their deadly underwater ballet. It seemed to take forever to struggle away from the stern but finally he swam clear of the debris and turned back to look at the stricken yacht.

Huge, ugly bubbles gurgled from the gaping wound where the keel had sheared off and allowed the cold Atlantic to flood in. It had already begun to sink. He watched helpless, as the bow of the inverted hull tipped slowly down.

For a moment, the shiny stern rail seemed to rise towards him. If he could just get a hand-hold, he could pull himself across to the saloon and through to his parents’ cabin.

His scream of desperation disappeared in a rush of bubbles as he thrashed towards the rail, but his billowing clothing was a drogue that held him back and sapped his remaining energy. He was too slow. He stretched his arm out and brushed the cold metal with his fingertips, but the bows continued to pitch down and pulled the rail away from his grasp.

He was suffocating. His lungs demanded that he breathe but he forced himself to watch. The rail moved further away as it faithfully followed the bow in its downward slide.

Under the pressure of trapped air, the saloon door exploded open, releasing a cloud of silver bubbles that began a frenetic race to the surface. Were they his parent’s last breaths? He watched the ever-expanding mercurial spheres jostle each other as they billowed upwards toward the boiling green surface. They were beautiful, then they were gone.

He looked back down to the saloon. It wasn’t too far away, less than ten metres, but it was becoming impossible to continue holding his breath and darkness was closing in around him, but somehow he managed to maintain station in the water as the gap stretched to fifteen, then twenty, and the bowsprit pointed steeper towards the dark depths.

He hung motionless in the eerie green silence, still waiting for the moment of relief when his parents emerged from the saloon doors.

Any next moment, any next moment. But they didn’t. They never did.

A frown creased his forehead. In the distance, somewhere far above he could hear a strange beeping noise, regular and demanding, but he couldn’t place it. It divided his attention as he watched the stricken vessel accelerate. His lungs were scorched from the effort of denying them a breath.

Then, the yacht was gone. It merged with the darkness, disappearing into the black. Only then did he allow himself to kick towards the urgent beeping.

***

James Fletcher’s arms and legs thrashed as he clawed towards the surface. His head broke through and his eyes opened into the dim grey light. His heart was racing as he gasped for air, twisting his head from side to side as he tried to get his bearings. He expected the shriek of the storm and some evidence of the passing of the yacht, but the only noises were the blood pounding in his ears and the intrusive electronic beep.

Thin gaps in the blinds sliced the weak morning light into horizontal strips, allowing just enough in to illuminate his surroundings. The thin strips were supplemented by flashes of electronic light that synchronised with each jarring beep. He remained still for a moment while he collected his bearings. A tiny bead of perspiration threaded its way through his hair and joined the others on the dampened pillow. It was just the dream. He welcomed the timely distraction as his hand closed on the phone.

The name flashed on the display in syncopation with the ring tone. Coburn. Q. Coburn. Q. Coburn. Q.

The brief moment of respite evaporated and his stomach twisted into a black knot. There was only one reason why Quentin Coburn would be ringing at this hour. Hull Seven six-one had been discovered.

He shoved the phone deep under the damp pillow and heaved himself from the bed. His feet hit the floor and he didn’t stop until his hand twisted the shower knob and sent the hot jets of water to scour his skin.

James wiped his hand across the condensation, clearing enough of the mirror to see where to place the razor. He scraped a furrow through the foam and stubble and distracted himself with thoughts of hull Seven six-one. She had been developing into a great boat, like something from the old days, when A.J. Whitworth personally mentored his select cabal of designers.

The old man had been a legend. He would always stop by at the most opportune time, always ready to offer help with problems, always eager to explore the options.

His attention to detail and quality had taken the Whitworth marque to the very top of the industry. They were the good old days.

James had kept hull Seven six-one beneath Coburn’s radar for months. A few days more and she would have been a true blue-water classic. A modern vessel with old-school quality. A.J. would be turning in his grave. At least the phone had fallen silent.

***

Helen Corrine couldn’t see much of the sky. The next block stretched as wide as it was tall and the windows stared back like a hundred sightless eyes. Occasionally a curtain opposite would twitch as an inhabitant looked out at the dismal patch of world, possibly hoping that it had just been a bad dream, but dreams shouldn’t be this bad.

A wistful sigh escaped her lips. Back home she would have been able to see the variegated blues of the Coral Sea.

She reached across the dresser and selected her favourite from a pile of hair grips and pressed its spring-loaded clips. Its sixteen silver tines opened like sharks-teeth. She closed them over the soft lapel of her cardigan and began to draw the brush through her hair, letting the strands fall gently from the bristles and watching their changing colours. She smiled. Ever since she was a girl she had been fascinated by the range of tones that seemed to change with the weather.

Back home, the strong Australian sunlight had burnished the pigments into an amber cascade interlaced with fine filaments that had glistened like gold.

Here, in the cold English winter, the amber had darkened to deep chestnut and the gold had faded to burnished copper.

She continued to brush, feeling her hair become smoother and softer. When she was satisfied, she dropped the brush onto her lap, gathered the hair into her hand and wound it into a tight thick coil. Taking the clip from her cardigan she snapped the long tines deep into her hair and released it, carefully examining the efficacy of the clip’s hold. Satisfied that it was secure, she stood up and walked to the kitchen.

***

Haddad looked through the viewfinder. The grey slab-sided building opposite offered a multitude of windows to search. He pulled the curtain a little wider, allowing the lens to traverse in a wider arc while he counted. Thirteen up, seven along. She was in the kitchen.

He tightened the handle that locked the tripod and twisted the zoom ring just in time to see her drop a single slice of bread into the toaster.

Always a careful, methodical man, he checked the settings on the camera and the placement of the tripod before committing himself.

Satisfied that the image would be acceptable, he placed his thumb lightly against the camera’s transmit button. Only then did he speak into the small thin microphone that reached around from his earpiece.

***

Ten kilometres away, inside a grubby white shipping container that rested on the deck of a flatbed truck, which itself was concealed within an otherwise abandoned warehouse, the man using the name Youssef Hussain watched his blank laptop screen and waited.

After a soft click, Haddad’s self-assured voice in his earpiece announced. Target One, acquired.

Hussain sat back in his seat and rested his palms on the small desk.

Transmit, he ordered.

***

Haddad’s thumb pressed the button and completed the circuit, sending a torrent of electrons from the battery to the components of the camera.

The lens motor whirred quietly as it adjusted for exposure before it began recording the image of the woman in the building opposite who was still waiting for the bread to turn brown.

The image was converted into a signal which was transmitted from the camera to a white panel van parked in the street below. From the van, the signal was relayed to the shipping container and delivered to Youssef Hussain’s laptop.

***

Hussain’s deep-set black eyes glittered out from the dark hollows beneath his eyebrows. They peered above the smooth curvature of his nose and flicked from side to side as he examined the millions of pixels that moved in unmistakably feminine motion across the screen as the woman waited for her toast.

His leant forward, lifted a hand from the desk and stroked his meticulously razored sideburns. As he watched the image his fingers absently followed the line of his jaw to the end of his beard.

He spread his fingers and pushed them back through his thick black hair, making little impression on the unruly wave that corrupted its otherwise smooth contours. He sat back in the chair and his lips parted slowly into a smile. He nodded his satisfaction and his fingers abandoned their stroking and pressed a key on the keyboard.

***

In that instant, the signal was encrypted, its content buried deep in the smoke and mirrors of complex algorithms, then transmitted to a public internet node.

The internet node dumbly accepted the stream of data and blindly relayed it nearly six thousand kilometres further where it was received by a satellite dish attached to the top of a huge motor-home in a distant desert.

Before Hussain’s fingers had returned to his beard, the signal had been decoded and displayed on the screen of a second man.

***

Bashir watched the image. The woman had disappeared behind the refrigerator door. She reappeared with a packet of spread.

He was aware that the sight of the distant woman had elevated his respiration. Youssef Hussain’s smooth voice seeped from the speakers, interrupting his thoughts.

She is remarkable, is she not?

Bashir studied the contours of the woman’s body as she buttered the toast.

He had watched her many times before. Over the last few months she had unwittingly entertained him on this very screen, but today, today was the final day of her long-distance performance.

During those months, he had been involved in heated on-line bidding for her purchase. He had won. Terms and conditions had at last been agreed and today, both fee and woman were due for collection.

It excited him further that, even after all of those months of clandestine videos and negotiations, she was still completely unaware of his existence. That was about to change.

He had to clear his throat before he could reply.

She is Hussain, indeed she is. His screen went dark. Hussain, the woman! Where is my picture?

Hussain’s voice was sharp. Bashir. I regret that I must fine you for your indiscretion.

Bashir was stunned into silence. He allowed several seconds to pass before he could trust himself to speak, barely managing to keep his reply to a growl.

What? You would fine me? You would fine me? What would you think to fine me for?

***

It was cold in the container and Hussain could hear the rain pattering on the roof of the warehouse. It would be hot where Bashir was. Bashir was a powerful man and Hussain selected his words with care.

I must insist that you use only my first name. As I must call you Bashir, you will refer to me as Youssef, nothing else. This rule is for your protection as well as for mine. It is not negotiable. Hussain’s earpiece hissed, then he heard a click as Bashir pressed his ‘talk’ button.

Despite the conciliatory content, Bashir could not disguise the bitter edge of indignation in his voice.

Of course. You must forgive me, Youssef. He stressed the name. I was distracted. How much?

Youssef Hussain sat back in his seat, steepled his fingers and smiled.

The fine for your indiscretion will be entirely at your discretion. As it is a question of your honour, it is a matter for your honour to resolve. Hussain watched the screen and waited.

A short time elapsed before the message popped up in the corner.

Bashir: Fund transfer complete.

A row of digits below the message confirmed the figure.

Bashir. You are indeed a man of great honour. I am truly unworthy.

Just restore the damned picture, Bashir demanded.

Hussain released the key, restoring the video feed to Bashir’s screen. After a while he spoke into his microphone.

How would you like to proceed? he asked.

A grunt in his earpiece told Hussain that Bashir was still considering his response. There was no hurry. He checked his watch. Not yet.

He sat back in his chair and admired the same image that Bashir was poring over. Target One was quite tall. At first sight her height made her appear thin but on closer inspection she was well-shaped, subtly curvaceous. Her skin-tone contrasted darkly against the white edge of her blouse although, from months of observing her closely, he could see that her light tan had faded in the long English winter.

Her blouse was covered by a loosely woven, thin black cardigan whose contours hinted at pleasantly shaped breasts, perfectly proportioned to complement the generous width of her hips. Her hair was piled up and held in place by a clip of some sort, revealing the graceful arc of her neck.

Hussain smiled again. At first glance, this woman appeared quite unremarkable. Until you studied her, then she became quite remarkable. It was a pity she was going to Bashir.

What is she waiting for? Bashir demanded.

She is waiting to make the phone call. This is how she begins her Friday. Every Friday.

Not next Friday. Bashir laughed.

***

Helen Corrine glanced at the clock as the hands slowly crept towards five forty-five.

A few strands of hair had escaped from the coil. She blew them away from her face, gathered them together and tucked them back in.

She absently toyed with her toast, picking a piece from the edge, but her heart wasn’t in it and her eyes returned to the clock.

Although she already knew the answer, she repeated the calculation and added ten hours to the time. It would be three forty-five in the afternoon and hot. The cool sea breeze would be stirring the palms and bringing a measure of relief.

A crumb had settled on her cardigan. She carefully picked it off, then turned her attention to the telephone. She discarded the fragment, stood up and lifted the handset and began to slowly tap out the long list of numbers, trying hard not to over-take the slow, creeping hands.

***

An electronic beep in Hussain’s ear signalled an incoming message. Haddad’s voice was deep and calm.

She is making the call.

A second beep announced a more excited stream of words that came from Bashir, six thousand kilometres away.

What is she saying? Can you hear what she is saying? Bashir’s voice betrayed a slight tremble.

Ah, Bashir, my friend. Would you care to listen in? The usual contribution would enable me to provide that service.

You are as sharp as my grandmother’s tongue, Bashir hissed. Wait.

Hussain held down a key on the keyboard and spoke briefly into the microphone.

Haddad, stand by to add audio. He watched as the message box popped up on his screen.

Bashir: Fund transfer complete.

He released the key.

Bashir, I thank your most benevolent generosity. He pressed the key again, cutting off Bashir.

Haddad, add sound.

***

Helen counted the rings. After twenty she thought about hanging up. She knew the old woman would still be asleep, but let it ring. That was the arrangement.

Helen knew that the ringing would eventually filter through her grandmother’s slumber and, in her mind visualised the gnarled, weather-beaten old woman rising stiffly, before making the slow, painful journey towards the phone.

Hello? The voice was faint and guarded.

Hi Gran. It’s me, Helen. She clutched her arm protectively across her stomach. The double-edged sword that provided pleasure from hearing the familiar voice also served to heighten the pain of her separation.

Helen! How’s my little girl doing? And how is the old country? Are they looking after you there? The distant voice contained a tremble that was generated by more than aged vocal chords and sleepiness.

Helen turned her back to the kitchen window and closed her eyes to the grey English morning, blocking out the images of her drab surroundings and borrowing heavily from the memory of her late grandfather’s store of fanciful stories to help paint a kinder picture for the elderly woman.

Oh Gran. It’s beautiful here and everyone is so friendly. She concealed her crossed fingers, as if the old woman could see them from the other side of the planet. And the weather is lovely at the moment, so mild. She forced herself to smile as she spoke, helping to generate a happier tone.

It had been her grandmother’s dream that Helen visit the old country, to see for herself where the roots of her family had been cultivated before their transplantation to the fertile soil on the other side of the world.

The frail old woman had sacrificed a great deal so that Helen could make the pilgrimage and in return, Helen felt her duty was to blow the dust from the old woman’s hallowed memories and breathe some colour back into her fading soul.

Her duty discharged, she carefully deflected the conversation away from herself.

Anyway Gran, enough about me. How are you? How are things back home?

The distant voice needed no further prompting. Helen pulled the phone hard against ear as her grandmother’s warmth flowed directly into her own soul. A stream of words that first described the weather then, with a little encouragement, moved on to detail the changes of the season before finally indulging in the rich and scandalous speculation of some sweet neighbourhood gossip.

As she listened, Helen closed her eyes and was transported back to the distant room. She could imagine the sheer comfort of curling up and sinking into the soft sanctuary of her grandfather’s over-stuffed armchair, listening while the lorikeets and honeyeaters squabbled over the nectar in the garden while the sweet heady scent of flowers competed with the warm odour of her grandmother’s baking.

She knew there would be a price to pay for such indulgence later, but, for the present, she revelled in the joy of listening to the distant voice.

Eventually the voice at the end of the line changed in tone, jarring her back to the moment. The calls always ended the same way, always with the inevitable question.

So, when is my little angel coming home?

Helen glanced up at the hands of the clock and was horrified. So slow earlier, now they raced towards the end of the low-rate call time. She spoke more quickly and readied her thumb on the studs of the receiver cradle.

Soon Gran. I’m saving for the airfare but it’s taking a bit longer than I expected. A month, two at the most. I’ll definitely be there for Christmas.

She knew she was kidding herself. The cost of the flight would double over the Christmas holidays. The clock ticked again.

Sorry Gran. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to catch my bus. Love you, take care, bye!

She listened for a few seconds as the old lady responded. Then, with silent apology, pressed the studs down and severed the slender lifeline to her home.

She checked the clock again. Too late, the call price had gone into to the next band. Telecom shareholders had just got richer and her airfare moved another step further away.

The warm and colourful image of home disappeared in the dreadful silence of the phone, returning her to harsh reality. Back to the drab bedsit in the grim and grey concrete block, alone with her aching emptiness for another week. The back of her eyes prickled with tears. She should never have come.

She replaced the handset gently onto the cradle, reached for a tissue and began to pay the real price.

***

Hussain pulled the earpiece away from his ear. It reduced the volume, but he could still hear the irate voice.

That was not worth so many dollars. Bashir was angry. I am not pleased!

Hussain remained calm.

My friend, what would you have me do? What would you have me do with this beautiful young woman? Is she not desirable to you? Look now at your hands. Can you not imagine her warm, smooth, tender flesh beneath those very fingers? Imagine the look in her eyes when she knows you! He moved the earphone back. My friend, my very good friend, what would you have me do with this most remarkable young woman?

Bashir remained truculent.

I have paid you a great deal for an Australian weather report and some silly old woman’s gossip. The price has become too high and I think that we should discuss reducing it to a more reasonable level.

Hussain saw his own expression harden in the reflection from the laptop screen.

Am I to understand that you wish to withdraw from our agreement?

He listened to the hiss over his headphones as Bashir gathered his thoughts. He knew Bashir’s temper well and knew exactly what to expect. He checked his watch. It would be fine. There was time. Hussain’s earpiece crackled into life.

Bashir’s words were understated but his voice was hard. Youssef, I think that I have already spent too much and I should like to spend less for what you are selling me. I suggest a reduction of fifteen percent. It is my offer.

Bashir, you are wise to query the value and, of course, I must respect your wisdom but, I will not reduce the price. That was set by your bid. I must caution you that, if you withdraw from this agreement, I will not be able to service your requirements for many months.

I will not pay this price, Bashir snapped.

Over the years that he had been dealing with Bashir, Hussain had found him to be arrogant and aggressive, a reactionary who operated on instinct rather than rational thought. He knew that Bashir was simply responding to his wounded pride and that his pride would heal, but he knew Bashir’s lust was permanent. It was worth gambling on it.

He consulted his watch again. It could be done. They would have to work quickly, but it could be done. He made his decision.

Of course. You are very wise. Please consider my humble offer withdrawn. He reached down and pressed the key. Haddad! Turn off the camera. Abandon Target One, relocate to Target Three.

Both screens went blank as the video feed was cut. Hussain released the key, restoring the microphone connection to Bashir.

It is done. My apologies for offending you. Go in peace. He pressed the key and severed the connection before Bashir could reply.

Hussain leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. To manipulate such a rich and powerful man was a dangerous game. He blew the air out slowly through pursed lips and smiled.

***

Bashir heard the click and, for a few seconds, stared with incomprehension at the blank screen. His moment of satisfaction was short lived and he was quickly overwhelmed by the knowledge that he had just deprived himself of the woman.

All those months wasted and for what? He struggled to identify why he had made such a decision. To win a small point over that smug bastard Hussain! Idiot!

The hand-carved onyx fruit-bowl smashed into countless shards as it, and its pulpy contents impacted with the wall.

His dogs, a pair of lean, muscular Doberman pincers, attack-trained by the American Air Force, ran for cover leaving yellow splashes of fear behind on the Persian rug.

A timid knock and the door edged slowly open. A wide-eyed servant peered into the room and was barged aside as the panicked dogs took advantage of the gap.

Master, can I be of help?

Bashir lifted a crystal ashtray and pulled his arm back in line with the man’s head. The servant ducked and retreated, closing the door in fear for his life.

Bashir looked out of the window at the vista beyond. The sight of the desert always calmed him, especially this desert, his desert, where a web of pylons and pumps jutted up against the sky all the way to the horizon.

He watched as the pump heads nodded to the rhythm of their tasks and felt the calmness return. He knew from his accounts that this small field alone garnered over five thousand barrels an hour, and these were only a few of his pumps, the few that he could see. He had many more.

He cursed his own temper and replaced the ashtray on the table. In the time since he had thrown the bowl of fruit, the pumps had extracted enough oil to have paid the fifteen percent several times over.

Chapter 2

James gazed down from the top deck, barely registering the dramatic events caused by the bus’s erratic progress. It swayed perilously as the driver fought with the other road users, missing parked cars by slender margins and sending pedestrians scurrying as its huge tyres transformed puddles into waves.

Somewhere behind him, the piercing techno-tone of a mobile phone was arrested by a deep Caribbean accent. The voice was loud and the language an incomprehensible tumble of street-slang and swearwords.

Outside the glass, ugly jagged towers squatted against the grey horizon, solemn fortresses of stained concrete that poked rudely into the fat rain-filled bellies of the grey clouds.

Here and there, a few trees tried to compete for the thin grey light, but they were tired and forlorn from their long, desperate struggle.

A pang of melancholy washed over him as he recalled the descriptions from his late Grandfathers stories. He tried to imagine how it was before, how, that in his grandfather’s day, this country was described as a green and pleasant land, and this county was referred to as its garden.

The stories had described a gentle existence, where thriving village communities were dotted around the countryside, surrounded by green meadows and invisibly linked together by narrow winding lanes kept secret by tall hedgerows.

He had described long summer evenings when the children stirred the dust with cricket and kiss-chase. They hunted with home-made nets in shady woodland streams, filled jam-jars with tadpoles and, on the way home, with the same nets chased butterflies. They picked wildflowers for their mothers to encourage a smile and so avoid a scolding for staying out too late.

When winter came, they feasted on hot thick porridge before sledding down white arctic hills. They dared the strength of the ice on the pond and the unique crystal pattern of each snowflake was a constant source of amazement.

The stories were drawn from a long time ago. A time long before the war, long before the bombs had fallen.

At school and later at university, James had learned about the post-war reconstruction.

The area had been a major part of the south-coast munitions route and had attracted a storm of bombs which had eventually blown many of the villages into rubble.

The dust of war had barely settled when legions of architects descended. Academics who brought with them idealistic and grandiose ideas to create futuristic utopian communities in the skies.

They vied with their peers and displayed their egos with huge vertical concrete towers, using the cold and callous measures of small-footprint, high-population-density to justify the grotesque abominations that littered the skyline.

The local councils, impoverished by war and under immense pressure to create cheap accommodation for the displaced had little option but to accept these outrageous designs.

The war weary, exhausted masses, who had no alternative, had been herded into the cold, sterile monoliths.

They found that existence was difficult in these unnatural habitats and new rules evolved to cope with the new social order.

It all came down to space. There was insufficient. What little there was quickly became territory. Territories required protection and the task of protection fell to the children of the children who had played in bygone fields so far below.

They marked their borders with spray paint that decreed to trespassers a promise of absolute and certain violence. Childhood didn’t last much past four summers and no one laughed too loud.

The dream of escape became the reason to live, but alcohol and drugs were the only real means. For the dealers though, the dream was good. The dynamic forces worked in their favour and, for a share of the spoils, the gangs provided protection and distribution.

An arms race began. The gangs used their new wealth to arm themselves and the quickest and most violent were able to expand their territories.

In all the years of war, and after millions of tons of bombs, the Luftwaffe had only managed to stir the determination of the people sufficiently to bring about their own defeat.

Armed only with sharp pencils and rulers, the architects had created the cancer that now consumed a nation.

***

James’s head bumped against the glass, rudely delivering him back to the present as the bus braked hard, grinding to a reluctant halt at the base of one of the concrete spray-painted monoliths. The atmosphere on the bus changed.

Maan, I gatta-go. Gat sem bad tings ‘appnin’ maan.

James glanced back at the youth who had, until then, been swapping afro-culture dialogue with someone named Errol. He wasn’t surprised to see that the youth was white, a native, simply trying to merge into the changing culture of his homeland.

The young man snapped the phone shut and tucked it out of sight, then pulled his grey hoodie far enough forward to conceal his face.

James felt the silent tension that crept over his fellow travellers and, like most of them, had to look.

***

Heads surreptitiously turned towards the tower block where a third generation of young high-rise dwellers spilled out from the building’s dark orifice.

The gang looked briefly at the queue of sodden people huddled patiently beneath the bus shelter and, dismissing them as inconsequent, barged past, invading the bus with well-practiced technique.

The driver didn’t bother with the futility of attempting to collect their fares and it took him three attempts to close the hissing doors against the damp backs of the fortunate few who managed to squeeze in behind the youths. The doors cruelly guillotined the hopes of the remainder, who were abandoned back to the dismal rain. They watched, exasperated, as the bus moved away, its smoky engine growling as it laboured to shift the heavily laden vehicle.

Inside the humid cavern of the bus, the volume of noise rose as the group of rowdy youths called encouragement to each other as they waded through the huddled commuters looking for seats.

***

James rested his head back against the filthy pane and ignored the discomfort as his forehead bumped against the glass. He stared out at the opaque image beyond the grime, pretending that he could see through the murk, giving himself an excuse to ignore the commotion. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t engage. Be invisible. If they can’t see you, they can’t hurt you.

He drew the damp, battered green holdall closer into the protectorate of his lap, closed his eyes and tried to allow his mind to wander back in time to his favourite day.

It had been a glorious day. His parents had stood on the dockside and watched while he explored the Celeste. He had never seen a yacht up close before. She was a thing of such beauty and, in his twelve year-old eyes, had unlimited potential for adventure.

He could usually recall the details with ease, but he shivered and the image dissolved. The nightmare that had awoken him before was still too fresh in his mind, and the events that had created the nightmare had occurred only a few weeks after the day on the dockside.

Oi. Is this seat taken?

He opened his eyes as the ugly present intruded rudely into his thoughts. One of the youths stared down at him.

Sorry? What? No, help yourself.

It was a superfluous exchange as the youth had already sat down. James returned his gaze to the blurred window and tried to relax, but the heavy odours of tobacco, beer and sweat that emanated from his new travelling companion made it impossible to concentrate.

What’s in the bag? The words were laden with menace.

Sorry? James feigned temporary deafness.

The youth pushed his face close to James’s.

The bag. What’s in the bag?

Books.

What books?

The options were few. James toyed with the idea of humour. It might avert hostilities.

He looked briefly into the youth’s eyes. Drugs had shaped the unflinching humourless black dots that stared back at him. The youth’s pale, pockmarked skin stretched thin across his face, pulling taut across the underlying bones and supporting a myriad of scars upon its waxy surface. A tattoo escaped from his back. It crawled up his neck and a tendril reached over his left eyebrow. An array of facial piercings and a fierce scowl completed the image of a creature that had been spawned within a dark world of violence and depravity.

The dead eyes pierced James to the core and demanded an answer. The idea of humour evaporated.

The thug coughed into James’s face, not bothering to deflect the accompanying shower of spittle. James pulled the holdall even closer.

Just books. James lurched to his feet, surprising both himself and the youth as he pushed past.

Excuse me, my stop.

He squeezed past and made his way to the stairwell with his pulse pounding loudly in his ears.

He descended the stairs and, with a shaky finger, pressed the bell-push and waited impatiently as the bus drew to a halt.

The doors hissed and slammed behind him, and then he was back on the sodden street watching the bus lurch away, displacing puddles of water into gouts of spray that sent the few other unfortunate pedestrians scurrying for cover. It was still raining, but at least he had retained possession of the bag. Most important.

Chapter 3

Courtyard cafe, Southampton. 07:45

The picture was shaky. The image from the lens concealed in Saleem’s cap juddered simultaneously on both screens as the broom-head swept the pavement clear of litter. Hussain pressed a key on his keyboard.

Saleem, do not work so hard. You are not being paid to sweep.

The image stabilised, then moved back up to the subject.

That is better. Hussain studied the woman for a moment, lifted his finger from the key and spoke to a second man.

Imam, is that more to your liking?

***

Imam sat forward and steepled his hands. He rested his chin on his fingertips and watched the screen. He was a short man of middle years whose stout, compact body was draped in a plain white linen thobe.

Like Hussain, he sported an immaculately groomed beard. However, his cheek jowls were clean-shaven, leaving the beard and moustache as a neat black-and-silver island that surrounded his lips.

Imam nodded to himself, satisfied with what he saw.

Youssef, my friend. Yet again, you have excelled yourself. I am considering your offer. Please have your man move closer to the merchandise so that I may better consider.

Hussain’s reply was respectful.

As you wish.

The image of Chelsea Beckerman enlarged on his screen. She was sitting at an outside table, beneath a striped canopy and sipped from a tall Styrofoam cup while she read a book.

The collar of her thick fur coat was pulled up around her cheeks and she cupped the hot drink in her hands to ward off the worst of the early morning chill.

Outside the tunnel vision of the camera, an unseen voice disturbed her concentration and a frown blemished her features.

Hey Chelse, how you doing?

She looked up and a smile smoothed out her flawless skin.

Hi Rupie, I’m great. Coffee? Her American accent was clearly audible through Imam’s speakers.

A tall, pale young man came into view as he leaned down and pecked her cheek.

No thanks, might keep me awake during dirty-Bertie’s lecture, they laughed together.

Hey!

The camera moved to the side and two other girls came into view. They held hands as they hurried over. Cheeks were kissed and the microphone picked up the squealed greetings that pealed across the courtyard.

Imam became fascinated by the interplay between the group members. He watched the two new arrivals. They kept their focus on the young man, each vying with the other and trying to engage his attention with their eyes and gestures.

But the man had eyes only for the American who, for her part, deliberately ignored his attentions with the casual nonchalance of one who chose her own suitors.

Imam watched the image change again as the camera panned to the