Tom Cain - Assassin

She’d been smuggled out of the House of Freedom with a blanket over her head and the only photographs of her that had reached the media were some blurry old family snaps, touted by the same aunt who had sold her into slavery. Yet somehow all the people in their military uniforms, going about their work or lining up for food, seemed to know who she was, and they greeted her as someone special, even precious.

Lara had been used by plenty of Americans in Dubai, and she couldn’t understand how those crude, drunken oafs could have been produced by the same nation as the impeccably neat and sober Air Force personnel who were now smiling at her, shaking her hand and calling her ‘ma’am’. They told her what a privilege it was to be taking care of her. They insisted that she should let them show her round the base. They even helped her choose what to eat when she was overcome by the sheer profusion of choices on display.

She found herself looking round every so often, just to make sure that Jake was still close by. He would give her hand a little squeeze and that would be enough to make her feel safe until the next time she was overwhelmed by it all. In the meantime, she was happy to let Chantelle Clemens tell her what to do now, what would happen tomorrow and what her role in proceedings would be.

‘You’ll meet the President when he arrives here and you’ll travel with him to Bristol,’ Lara was told. Clemens must have seen the look of alarm on her face because she added, ‘Don’t you worry yourself about Mr Roberts. He’s a good, kind man, and he’s got kids about your age. He’ll make you feel right at ease.’

Lara nodded, saying nothing as Clemens continued, ‘When we get to Bristol, I’ll be there to look after you and show you where to go, OK? Good. Now, you’ll be introduced onstage during the President’s speech. We wrote some words for you to say, if you think you can manage that. But if you can’t that’s fine. Take a look, why don’t you? I’ve got them here.’

Clemens handed Lara a sheet of paper. ‘What do you think?’

Lara read aloud, speaking quietly: ‘My name is Lara Dashian. I was taken from my country, Armenia, against my will. I was bought and sold. I was made to do terrible things. If I did not do what my owners wanted, I was beaten.’

She stopped for a moment, unable to go any further.

‘Take your time,’ Clemens said.

Lara nodded, took a deep breath to compose herself and continued. ‘But I was lucky, I was rescued. Many other girls, just like me, are not so lucky. They are still slaves. Please, I beg you, do everything in your power to help rescue them.’

She fell silent, the arm holding the sheet of paper loose at her side, her head down, biting her lip.

‘Please excuse me,’ Lara said. She walked a few paces away and then slumped down against a wall. She ended up on the floor, with her head in her hands.

Clemens gave the girl time, then went over to her, crouched down on her haunches and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Lara nodded.

The two of them stayed silent and motionless for a few seconds, then Lara looked at Chantelle Clemens and said, ‘I will say those words. For the other girls, the ones who are not so lucky, I must say those words.’

Damon Tyzack heard the explosive crack echo around the rolling Cotswold landscape and watched as a puff of orange smoke billowed up into the air. He cursed under his breath. The dummy explosion had detonated on a patch of grass at least ten yards from its target, a crude structure built from scaffolding, planks and hay bales. It stood at one end of a field far from any public roads at the heart of an estate in Gloucestershire owned – via a complex series of intermediaries – by the Russian mafia leader Naum Titov. The loan of his field was Titov’s contribution to the death of Lincoln Roberts. To Damon Tyzack, however, the simultaneous removal of Lara Dashian was at least as important an objective.

He spoke into a walkie-talkie. ‘Let’s do that again. This time I want more height at the point of release, and a longer delay on the fuses. See if that achieves the desired result.’

Tyzack had been hard at work for several hours, calibrating his equipment and checking that the combination of stolen goods, back-street engineering and software mailed in from the far side of the Atlantic could do the job for which it was intended. Not yet, was the answer. But it would, even if he had to stand in that damn field all night. The only weapon he would be taking into the killzone tomorrow would be the iPhone on which Bobby Kula’s custom application was installed. He watched the screen one more time, hit a button, waited a few seconds… Crack! This time the smoke rose from a point just beneath the foot of the stage. They were getting closer.

‘And again,’ he said into his handset.

As he waited for the next run, Tyzack thought about the events of the previous night. He had to admit, he’d got a hell of a shock when he’d looked through the Transit’s windscreen and seen Samuel bloody Carver getting out of a Jag thirty yards up the road. The man was supposed to be dead. What in God’s name was he doing alive and well outside Bill Selsey’s house?

Tyzack had ducked his head just in time, thanking his lucky stars that his face was partially hidden by his cap. Carver’s arrival had significantly altered the odds and made the attack on Selsey unacceptably risky. If that was all he had to do, Tyzack might have gone ahead, just to take on Carver and put him down for good. But with so much else at stake, that was one pleasure he would have to deny himself, for now at least. He’d shouted at his driver to keep going, then told Geary to abort the mission.

And it had not been an entirely wasted effort. Tyzack now knew a lot more than he had before. MI6 had obviously not only broken Selsey, they had also used him as bait. Selsey did not know who had hired him, but Carver would have worked it out in an instant. Tyzack went over what he had told Carver about the Roberts hit. No name had been mentioned, but he’d certainly given enough clues. He’d wanted Carver to work it out and be tortured by the thought that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

That had been a mistake, Tyzack had to admit. But again, he had learned something, too. They were expecting him. That was useful to know. Especially since there was absolutely nothing that anyone could do to stop him.

About thirty miles to the south-west, a slender blue-grey and black XSR48 speedboat was cruising at a fraction of its potential 100-mph top speed upstream along the river Avon. Its destination was a berth on a pontoon at a boatyard located off The Grove in Bristol. The man at the controls had no idea why he was making the delivery. That was none of his business. His orders were to get the boat to where it was meant to be, make sure it was refuelled and ready to go, then take a cab to Bristol Temple Meads station and get on the first train to London. He carried those orders out to the letter.

In Bradford, Foster Lafferty, sitting in a Bangladeshi curry house on his interracial diplomacy mission, was equally clueless as to what any of it was about. Not long ago Tyzack had wanted him to teach the Pakistani gangs a lesson. Now he was supposed to offer the same men a hundred grand just to do Tyzack a favour. Lafferty had never known the boss let anyone off the hook like that before. But he’d been around a long time, and both his instincts and his experience taught him that the best thing to do was say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and leave the thinking to the high-ups. When the deal was finally concluded, he heaved a sigh of relief and ordered a couple of onion bhajis, a chicken tikka bhuna (extra hot) and a pint of Kingfisher. That, at least, he understood.