Stephen Leather - The Hunting

Sid and his comrades had given lectures of their own, telling and retelling the story of their operation in Northern Cyprus, how it was planned and put together, how they got in and out of the country, and describing the killings. They were asked the same question every time: ‘What did it feel like, killing the kafirs?’ The answer was always the same: ‘Good. It felt fucking good.’ But in his heart of heart, Sid was having second thoughts. He had been so caught up in the euphoria of planning the operation that he hadn’t given much thought to what he would find on the beach. He knew he would be attacking kafir holidaymakers but it was only when he had climbed off his jet ski that it had hit home that many of the targets were women and children. He shuddered at the memory and tried to blot it out, or at least push it to the back of his mind. He stretched and arched his back. Amer patted him on the shoulder. ‘You okay, bruv?’

‘All good, bruv,’ said Sid, faking a smile.

‘You know we’re doing suicide vests soon?’

‘Yeah?’

‘For sure. They’ve sent some hot shot in who’s been doing it in Kabul. He’s a fucking legend apparently and I heard that next time we’re going to be doing a hotel in Spain. The suicide bombers will be going into the hotel and when the survivors run out, we pop them.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Jaffar, I think.’

‘No one tells Jaffar nothing,’ said Sid.

‘Nah, bruv, he said he got it off one of the imams.’ He patted him on the shoulder again. ‘Come on, get a move on. If you’re late for breakfast all the good stuff will have gone.’ He hurried over to the tent where the morning meal was being served. Sid hurried after him. If what Jaffar had heard was true, plans were being made for another attack. His heart began to race and he tried to calm himself down. Hopefully Amer was wrong and this time he would be attacking a military target and not women and children. But whatever was being planned would take time – the ISIS chiefs never rushed into anything.

CHAPTER 9

Van der Sandt checked out his suit and tie in the mirror. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, black shoes. There wasn’t much leeway when it came to dressing for a funeral. He smiled as he imagined Laura looking at him, tilting her head on one side as she always did when she was being critical. ‘Are you sure you’re going to wear that tie?’ she’d ask, usually with one eyebrow raised.

He’d always smile and say the fact that he’d knotted it around his neck was probably a clue, then she’d tut and go to his tie rack and choose the one that she thought would suit him better. She was always right, of course. About pretty much everything.

He saw movement in the mirror and whirled around. There was a drone about fifty feet from the house. A white one, a couple of feet across with a small camera underneath it. ‘Fucking vultures,’ he muttered under his breath. He stormed out of the bedroom and along the corridor to his gunroom. It wasn’t far off the size of a basketball court, the walls lined with the trophies that he had been allowed to bring into the US before the government had banned the importation of trophies. There were two stuffed tigers and a stuffed lion, and easy chairs and sofas made of the hides of his kills. There were half a dozen hides and skins on the floor, including a polar bear and a cheetah with the head still intact, staring at him glassy-eyed. There was also the largest crocodile he’d ever killed, a monster that had been stuffed and mounted with its jaws wide open.

His gun cabinet was at the far end of the room and he walked quickly over to it. The guns were hidden behind wooden doors that were lined with steel, and he had to place his thumb on a reader to open them. He put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the two dozen weapons on display. His pride and joy – the William Evans double-barrelled sidelock – was on a rack in the middle of the display, but he knew that an elephant gun was not the weapon of choice for a drone. He picked up a Purdey 20-Bore Sporter over-and-under shotgun, manufactured by the London firm in partnership with Perugini & Visini. It had been built to his specifications, with a longer barrel than usual for greater accuracy and a Turkish walnut stock, and was one of several guns that he used when he went pheasant shooting, usually with royalty, in the Scottish Highlands.

He grabbed two cartridges and loaded the weapon as he walked back down the corridor to his bedroom. He held the gun in his left hand as he opened the window with his right. The drone was still hovering, the camera pointed at the entrance to the house. Van der Sandt shouldered the weapon, aimed, braced himself for the recoil and pulled the trigger. There was a satisfying bang and the drone disintegrated into a dozen pieces that scattered over the lawn. Van der Sandt lowered the weapon and looked around for a second target, and when none was to be found he closed the window and took the shotgun back to the gunroom. He ejected the cartridges, put the unused one back in its box and the used one on a shelf. He smiled at the thought of mounting the smashed drone on a plaque, along with the cartridge. It’d be a talking point, once he felt like talking again.

He locked up the guns and went downstairs. His PA was there, in a black dress and black heels. Catherine Shirley had worked for him for the best part of fifteen years and she had never let him down. Her salary had risen in line with her professionalism and she now earnt more than many company chairmen, but she was worth every penny. Over the years she had developed the knack of anticipating his every move, to the extent that sometimes it felt as if she was reading his mind.

‘The car’s ready, Mr Van der Sandt,’ she said quietly.

‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he said. ‘Will you ride with me? I’d appreciate the company.’

‘Of course, Mr Van der Sandt.’

He flashed her a smile and walked across the marble-tiled hallway, under the massive crystal chandelier that Laura had imported from Milan, and down the stone steps to where a black Bentley was waiting. The liveried chauffeur already had the door open and waited until Van der Sandt was seated before closing the door and hurrying around the vehicle to open the door for Catherine.

Van der Sandt took slow, deep breaths as the car drove away from the house. He had lived there with Laura for almost twenty years and all three of their children had been born at the local hospital. Laura had always complained that the house was far too large – it had twenty-two bedrooms, a ballroom, and a dining room that could host a dinner for forty people. The landscaped grounds included a tennis court, a helicopter landing pad next to a large metal hangar, an orchard and a vegetable garden that alone required three full-time gardeners to keep in order. In all there were a dozen men and women working full time to maintain the grounds. The estate, surrounded by a high wall topped by CCTV cameras, was close to forty-five acres – which Van der Sandt liked to boast was larger than the grounds around Buckingham Palace – including a three-acre lake stocked with trout. Van der Sandt owned another twenty thousand acres of forest, stretching almost all the way to the Canadian border.

The main gate was half a mile away from the house and as they drove towards it Van der Sandt looked over at a herd of deer that roamed free among the trees. Laura had insisted on the deer, and made him promise never to raise a gun against them. She had also drawn up a programme to introduce wolves into the surrounding forest, as if that would in some way compensate for the animals he killed.

There was a security block by the entrance and a man there opened the gates electronically. There were six security people on duty day and night, overseen by a former Seattle police captain. The men and women on the security team had special dispensation to carry handguns, but on Laura’s instructions they had to be casually dressed and the guns had to remain hidden at all times.