Stephen Leather - Dead Men

Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed removed the leather hood from the falcon’s head and studied its inquisitive jet black eyes as he made soft shushing sounds. The few seconds after the hood had been removed were always tense. The bird needed reassurance and to hear the voice of its master. The Saker falcon was beautiful, one of the old man’s favourites. It had a wingspan of more than a metre but he barely felt its weight as it gripped his arm with its curved talons. The Saker generally hunted rodents but the falconer had been training it to take birds in flight and it had proved an able pupil. It cocked its head, then opened its beak and called, ‘Kiy-ee, kiy-ee.’ Othman and the falcon stood in the shade of a large yellow and red umbrella held aloft by Masood.

‘Yes,pretty one,’said the old man. ‘It is time to hunt. Time to kill.’ He peered out over the desert dunes. Two white Range Rovers stood to his left, with his falconer, Sandy Macgregor. The old man had met Macgregor while he was staying at the prestigious Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland, and had hired him shortly afterwards. Now Macgregor earned a six-figure salary and a range of expatriate privileges, including a luxurious five-bedroom villa, business-class flights home for himself and his family, and a place at a top international school for his twelve-year-old son. Half a dozen other falcons waited on block perches attached to the rear of one of the Range Rovers. They were still hooded and cocked their heads as they listened intently, knowing that one of their number was about to be flown and that soon it would be their turn. Two of Othman’s bodyguards waited beside them, big men in safari jackets, their heads wrapped in red and white checked shumag scarves, their eyes shielded with impenetrable wraparound Oakley sunglasses. Both men were Americans, former Delta Force soldiers. Othman had no love for America or Americans but, like the Saudi Royal Family, he had come to appreciate that Delta Force produced bodyguards second to none.

He rubbed the falcon’s brown chest feathers. It arched its neck, spread its wings and called again, ‘Kiy-ee, kiy-ee.’ It was a female, almost six years old. Females generally made better hunters than males. They were larger, had keener eyesight and were better suited temperamentally to the task. They were patient: a male would rush in and waste its energy chasing anything that moved, but the females watched and waited until sure of making a kill. It was one of the few instances in male-dominated Saudi life when the male was regarded as inferior to the female.

Macgregor only gave the falcon water once a week. The bird took enough liquid otherwise from the blood of its prey. All the birds were weighed twice a day, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. The key to keeping a falcon alert was to make sure it wasn’t too well fed. Overfeeding led to laziness, but underfeeding made it resentful and testy. The trick was to keep it just hungry enough to make it a determined hunter. The Saker hunted every day under Macgregor’s watchful eye, and the old man flew it several times a week, as he did all his hunting birds. The falcons were trained in the cool air of the early evening, but hunted best in the hours between sunrise and midday. Othman had been driven out into the desert as the sun was edging over the horizon, smearing the black sky with a reddish glow. Macgregor had prepared the birds as the sun had climbed higher and now, an hour into the day, a slight breeze was blowing from the west, ruffling the falcon’s feathers.

Macgregor lowered his binoculars. ‘Two o’clock, sir,’ he called. ‘About four hundred metres.’

Othman turned towards the two o’clock position. A small bird was flapping purposefully, heading towards the town in the distance. The old man raised his arm in the direction of the prey and pushed his gloved hand forward. As the falcon spread its wings, the old man opened his fingers wide, releasing the jesses. The falcon climbed into the air. The old man shielded his eyes with his gloved hand.

The falcon was heading directly for its prey. The Saker did not kill by dropping from a great height, it built up speed and attacked from behind and to the side, ripping at the victim’s throat with its talons and following it to the ground to finish the kill with its beak. As Othman watched it gain on the small bird, he held his breath, eyes burning fiercely. ‘Go on, pretty one,’ he muttered. ‘Kill for me.’

The falcon hit the bird hard, then veered to the left as the shattered ball of feathers tumbled to the ground. It cried in triumph as it glided in a full circle, then landed on its prey and began to feed.

Macgregor hurried across the sand to retrieve the falcon before it ate too much.

Othman heard an engine buzz in the distance, sounding like an angry wasp. He narrowed his eyes. A quad bike with large tyres was heading his way, spurts of sand spraying up behind it. Othman had been expecting its driver. His name was Muhammad Aslam – Servant of the Kind One. It was an appropriate name, Othman knew, because Muhammad Aslam was a fixer. Not a fixer in the way that Othman himself acted as a facilitator, organising multi-million-dollar deals and overseeing complex financial transactions. Muhammad Aslam operated at the other end of the spectrum, arranging violence for those who did not want to get their hands dirty. He could make bad things happen – at a price – his ability to do that enhanced by his employment with al-Shurta, the Saudi public security police.

Othman’s two bodyguards reached for their handguns but Othman nodded at Masood, who called that the visitor was expected. The men took their hands from their weapons but kept their eyes on the quad bike as it slowed and came to a standstill close to the Range Rovers.

As Muhammad Aslam climbed off it, a bodyguard went over and patted him down, then motioned for him to join Othman. Aslam was forty-two years old, but two decades with the Saudi police had aged him. There were dark patches under his eyes, deep wrinkles across his forehead and at either side of his mouth, and he had a badly trimmed drooping grey moustache. He was wearing a red baseball cap and sunglasses, both of which he removed as he approached. He bowed his head as he greeted Othman.

‘Let us go to the shade,’ said Othman. ‘The sun is fierce today.’

They walked together to a large marquee that had been set up some distance away from the Range Rovers. Inside, a jug of iced mint tea, another of iced water, and a plate of fruit had been set out on a table, with three chairs. Aslam waited until Othman was seated, then sat down himself. Masood poured tea for them, then backed out of the marquee, leaving them to talk alone.

Othman pushed the plate of fruit towards Aslam, who nodded his thanks and took an orange segment. ‘I need your help,’ said Othman.

‘Whatever you need, I am here,’ said Aslam. He bit into the orange and sucked noisily.

‘I need a man who can hunt,’ said Othman. ‘I need a man who can hunt and kill.’

‘There are many such men in the world,’ said Aslam.

‘My sons have been killed,’ said the old man. ‘I want revenge. It was the infidels who killed them, and I want them killed by a Muslim. They used their religion against my sons, so I will use Islam against them.’

‘I can find you such a man,’ said Aslam. ‘ Inshallah .’ God willing.

‘The infidels who killed my sons made sure they suffered, so I want them to suffer in the same way. I want them killed by hand, I want them to bleed and to scream. I want them to hear the names of my beloved sons as they die.’

‘It shall be done, I swear,’ said Aslam.

‘Money is no object,’ said Othman. ‘I shall pay whatever I must, but I want it done quickly. I am an old man and I do not know how much time I have left.’