Stephen Leather - Dead Men

She stood up, her mind in a whirl. She put a hand to her forehead, trying to focus. Graham’s mobile was still ringing in his pocket and she pressed the red button on hers to end the call. She stared down at the body, suddenly aware that the only sound in the room was her breathing. She looked at her phone, wondering who to call.

The door to the study slammed and she spun round, the phone slipping from her fingers to the floor. An Arab was standing there, a smile on his face. There was no need for Button to ask who he was or what he wanted. He was holding a carving knife and he swished it from side to side as he walked across the carpet towards her.

Shepherd jumped when the phone buzzed, then pressed the green button. ‘Shepherd,’ he said.

‘It was hired from their Marble Arch location, thirty-five Edgware Road, by a Hassan Salih, using a United Arab Emirates driving licence.’

Shepherd thanked the man and ended the call. His heart pounded as his adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. An Arab renting a car and driving out to Virginia Water could mean only one thing. He climbed out of the Audi, opened the rear door on the driver’s side and groped under the seat for the UMP. He ripped off the plastic wrapping and slotted in the magazine, then slammed the door. He looked around. There was no one nearby. He hid the machine-gun under his jacket as best he could and started to run back to Charlie’s house.

The Arab bared his teeth at Button but said nothing. Button crouched, her hands up defensively. She had done some hand-to-hand combat during basic training, but her instructors had always told her that if you were unarmed and facing a combatant with a blade, the best option by far was to turn and run. But the only door was behind the Arab and she had no other escape route. ‘What do you want?’ she said, knowing the question was meaningless but wanting to say something because talking was the only thing that might slow him.

He took a step towards her and she took a step back. Her husband’s body was to her right. Between it and the window there was a desk with a computer on it. The window was double-glazed and she wasn’t sure how hard she’d have to hit it to be sure of it breaking but she was sure that the Arab wouldn’t give her a chance to find out. ‘You know the name Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed? And that of his brother, Abdal Rahmaan?’

Button curled her fingertips. If he stabbed with the knife she had a chance of catching his wrist but if he slashed with it he’d cut her. Of course she knew who Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed was. And his brother. And now she realised why the killer was in her house, why he’d stabbed her husband and why he was going to kill her. She’d watched in horror as Abdal Rahmaan had been burnt to death by men working for Richard Yokely. And she’d interrogated Abdal Jabbaar while he was being tortured in the basement at the American embassy in London. It hadn’t been her idea, but she had played a part and she had always thought that one day her actions might come back to haunt her. That day had come, but the man with the knife was no ghost. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The name means nothing to me.’

‘Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed? Abdal Rahmaan bin Othman al-Ahmed?’

‘Never heard of them.’

He stopped swishing the knife. ‘You’re lying,’ he said.

‘Why would I lie? Abdul what?’

‘Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed. Abdal Rahmaan. Do not lie to me.’

Button shook her head again, more emphatically this time. ‘I don’t know why you think those names should mean something to me, but I can assure you they don’t.’

The man’s eyes narrowed.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Button. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about, I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m not the person you’re looking for.’

‘I know who you are. I have your photograph. There is no mistake.’

Button pointed at him. ‘I know who you are, and I know why you’re here. Your name is Hassan Salih and you’re a marked man.’

A look of confusion flashed across Salih’s face. ‘How did you . . .’

Button bent down, picked up her mobile phone and threw it hard at him. It hit his shoulder and shattered against the wall. Button moved forward, ready to grab the knife, but he was too quick for her and jabbed at her hand, just missing her. She jumped back, then rushed to the desk. There was a glass paperweight, a birthday present from Zoe to her father. She grabbed it. Salih lashed out with the knife again, catching her in the shoulder, cutting through her shirt and slicing into her flesh. She screamed and hurled the paperweight at him. It smashed into his jaw, breaking two front teeth. He glared at her as blood ran down his chin and he slowly raised the knife.

Shepherd’s feet pounded on the pavement, his breathing regular although he had run several hundred yards at full pelt. He hurtled through the gate and down the driveway towards the house. As he neared it, he heard a scream, followed by shouting. A man. He kicked at the front door, but it was solid mahogany and barely moved. He had the carbine in his hands but he knew it was only in movies that you could blow open a door with nine-millimetre rounds. The SAS used shotguns to shoot out the hinges of locked doors but the weapon he was holding was useless against the inch-thick wood. He stood back and kicked again. It barely moved.

Shepherd swore and ran to his left, round the house. A dog was barking and there were more shouts from inside the house. The shouts were a good sign. They meant that Charlie was still alive.

Salih stabbed at Button with the knife. She turned to the side and grabbed at his wrist with her right hand, but he was too quick for her and jerked the knife back. The blade cut into her palm and she felt blood spurt between her fingers. She screamed, more in anger than pain. Salih had killed her husband, the father of her child, but she was powerless to do anything. She wished with all her heart that she had a gun but she hadn’t been issued one by SOCA and she’d never carried a weapon when she’d worked for MI5. As blood dripped from her hand on to the carpet she looked for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

Salih said nothing as he slashed at her with the knife. Blood was pouring from his mouth where she’d hit him with the paperweight, but the only sound he made was a gentle whistling as he breathed.

Button glanced at the desk. There was a letter-opener that went with the paperweight, a steel blade embedded in a piece of carved crystal. It was next to the computer keyboard. She lurched towards it, but Salih anticipated her and slashed at her, screaming. The knife caught her side, slicing easily through her shirt and ripping into her flesh. The blade bit deep and she tried to twist away from the searing pain, tripped over Graham’s legs and went sprawling on her hands and knees.

She heard Salih grunt, then fell forward as something thumped into her right shoulder, followed by a sharp pain. She realised that the blade was embedded in her shoulder. She screamed as he pulled it out and the serrated edge ripped through skin and muscle. Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t want to die like this, cut to pieces in her own home. She didn’t want to leave her daughter. She didn’t want to die on the floor. She didn’t want the man who’d killed her to defile her as she bled to death. She rolled over. He was standing over her, blood dripping down his chin. Still he said nothing, though she could feel the hatred pouring out of him.

Button pulled her legs up and scrabbled away from him. She could feel blood running down her hip. It wasn’t life-threatening, she knew. There were no major blood vessels there, and the knife hadn’t gone deep enough to cut any organs. The wound in the shoulder was just muscle damage. She could still feel her fingers so there was no nerve damage. She was hurt but not dead yet.