Double Blindside

“Understood.” Kumad brought up the other business he was involved with. “Did you know Binice and Terzel are in London? At one of our emergency apartments?”

“Yes. I sent them there to keep them away from everything here. They believe they are being given a reward for the work they have been doing for the cause. I told them I needed them to oversee a project that is coming off in London. Their arrogance is amazing. They truly believe that while they have stolen money from us I am rewarding their loyalty. I told them to take a break while the project is being set up. Your treatment seems to be working well. In the last week they have started to look unwell but have said nothing because they have no idea what is happening. Tak, as much as I would like to have them suffer even more, I think it is time to cut short their suffering. We have enough on our hands with other, more important matters. Would you agree?”

“It would complete our deal and close it nicely.”

“See to it.”

* * *

KUMAD KNEW LONDON WELL. He visited often. He enjoyed the rush of the big city, the busy pace. The fact that for the most part he could come and go as he pleased. Anonymity was a useful thing for someone in his profession. Although security, as in any large city, had been increased, London was still an easy place to get around. The busy streets, full of people going about their business, were comparatively safe. Armed police were in evidence, but with such crowds it was easy to lose himself. He was, on the surface, simply a citizen going about his business. He posed no threat to the watchful eye.

With Binice and Terzel taken care of, all that remained was for him to handle the banker. Kumad saw no problems there. Makar would not offer any kind of resistance. He was just a money mover. Not a trained gunman.

Sitting in a small café that served real Turkish coffee, Kumad considered his options. Makar would not be in his office until morning. It was just after nine o’clock in the evening, so he would have to wait until the man came to his office for the next day’s business. As he drained his cup, Kumad decided he may as well return to his hotel and get some sleep. Nothing was going to happen until the next day.

At his small hotel in Bayswater he had a shower, cleaned his pistol and made sure the magazine was fully loaded. Then he went to bed and got a solid night’s untroubled sleep. He knew that Makar never opened his office before nine thirty.

He was in another café across the street from Makar’s building, having breakfast and keeping an eye out for the man, when Makar stepped out of a London cab, paid the driver and went into his building. He carried an attaché case that would most likely contain his laptop. Kumad finished his food and coffee, paid and left the café.

He walked along the street before he crossed it and eased into the alley a few doors along from Makar’s building. The rear area was quiet and Kumad made his way to the wooden gate that would lead him to the back of Makar’s property. He had been here before and knew all the access and exit points. There was a brick wall with a timber gate. Kumad pulled on a pair of latex gloves, slipped the latch and stepped through, closing the gate behind him. There was a small yard leading to the metal stairs, which in turn led to the upper floor. At the top was a metal door that gave access to the interior. From earlier visits, Kumad knew that Makar kept the door unlocked during the day; the man had a fear of being trapped inside a locked building and turned the key when he arrived each morning. He didn’t worry about anyone breaking in to steal because there was never money on the premises. Everything Makar did was via his computer; he brought his expensive laptop with him each day and took it home at night. The office setup was nothing more than a front for Özgürlük.

The door in front of him let Kumad take the short passage to Makar’s office. He took out his sound-suppressed pistol and eased off the safety. He could hear Makar on the phone and waited until the man finished his call. The moment Makar replaced the receiver, Kumad pushed open the door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and walked across the room to stand at the desk, extending his arm, the pistol inches from Makar.

Makar stared at the black muzzle, then at Kumad.

“Who are you?” He had never met Kuman before and would have no idea he worked for Özgürlük. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to close your account. The same as I’ve done for your two partners,” Kumad said and pulled the trigger.

It was a close shot, the skin around the wound peppered with powder and scorch burns. The back of Makar’s head blew open, depositing brain and skull matter on the high seat back. Makar’s head bounced against the seat, then forward. The phone rang at that moment. The sound startled Kumad for a second. He recovered, putting away his pistol. He closed the laptop and disconnected the cables. He turned and disturbed items in the office to make it appear as though someone had broken in. He didn’t believe the actions would fool the authorities for long but it was no more than a distraction.

The phone stopped ringing

With the laptop under his arm he pulled the office door almost shut, made his way out of the building the way he had come in. A couple of minutes later he slipped back onto the street, walking calmly, and merged with the pedestrians on the sidewalk. He had already removed the latex gloves by then.

Kumad returned to his hotel, packed his carryall, with the laptop under his clothes, and made a quick call.

“Your appointments went well?” Kaplan said. “No difficulties?”

“None.”

“You found the laptop?”

“Of course.”

“Then I will see you when you return.”

“Yes.”

Downstairs, Kumad checked out, paying his account in cash, and walked to the nearby multistory car park where his rental sat. He took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on before he unlocked the vehicle, placed his bag in the trunk and slid behind the wheel. He was always careful not to leave any prints behind. There were too many ways to be identified these days, so covering his tracks was something he did as a matter of course.

He started the engine.

And that was when it came to him as he stared at his hands gripping the wheel.

The shell casing.

He had not picked up the spent bullet casing from the floor of Makar’s office. The ringing of the phone had distracted him and his mind had been occupied with other matters.

The casing.

A small item in itself, but one that could become important if it was found. Because there would most likely be a print on it from when he had loaded the pistol’s magazine. When he loaded his magazines he used bare hands. In the past he had found using latex gloves to be a problem; twice the thin latex had been snagged by the loading slot of a magazine, tearing off a piece of the rubber and becoming jammed in the spring mechanism. Something as small as that could have interfered with the action of the magazine, causing a misfire. Since then, he had always worked barehanded—he compensated for that by never, ever, leaving behind a spent bullet casing.

Until today.

A stupid error on his part. One that could have repercussions if it was found.

Kumad considered the implications of identification that would place him at the scene, making him the number one suspect. He valued his anonymity, but he was not stupid enough to believe he was not on a database on some computer. And via that identification came the possibility he could be linked to Özgürlük.

He sat in the car and considered his options. Foremost in his thoughts was protecting his identity. In his line of work, remaining anonymous was vitally important. He needed that status to stay as it was. If he was identified as the man who had assassinated Makar, then his usefulness in the future would be compromised.

Kumad turned off the engine and took a fresh pair of latex gloves from the glove box. He climbed out and locked the car. He exited the car park and began the return journey to Makar’s office building. It would take him about a half hour. He did not hurry.

First he would check out the area. See if there seemed to be any unusual activity around the building. If the police were there he would walk away. By then it would be too late for him to recover the casing and he would need to leave London as he had planned, and as quickly as possible.

He realized there was no other way he could handle this. If the police found the casing, which they undoubtedly would, the process would begin. It would take time, and during that time Kumad needed to get as far from the UK as he could. There were many places he could go. Give himself time to cover his tracks and establish a new identity. He had the money to do it; his profession paid him well, and Kumad had always been prudent when it came to spending the contract fees he gathered. With money he could purchase any of the documents he needed. Some minor cosmetic enhancement would also help. His fingerprints were another matter—but that was something he had been thinking about for some time. He could not change them but he could have them removed so that problems such as this would not occur again.

There were so many ways the authorities could check out evidence nowadays. A fingerprint, any small piece of evidence, could be passed from country to country, logged into electronic search engines. Cooperation between law-enforcement agencies extended globally. A single item could be passed around quickly, checked and rechecked, throwing up answers in a short time.

Kumad needed to retrieve his bullet casing before it was found.

When he walked by the alley to Makar’s establishment he didn’t stop. He carried on until he was satisfied it was safe. Observation of the street showed no unusual presence in the area. It was a busy London high street, lined with stores and populated by large numbers of people, somewhere unusual activity would be noticeable. And a uniformed police presence would be almost impossible to conceal.

He realized the longer he delayed the more likely Makar’s body could be discovered. If he was going to retrieve the shell casing it had to be now. He was aware of the risk but in reality he had no other choice. If the police found the shell casing and a check for fingerprints proved positive, the matter could escalate. Kumad did not underestimate the skill of police procedures. And he could not allow any investigation to tie him to the Turkish organization.

He turned around and calmly walked back to the alley, moving quickly and making for the access stairs to Makar’s building. He pulled on the latex gloves as he headed to the stairway.

At the top of the access stairs he opened the door and stepped inside the building.

He moved into the corridor where Makar’s office was situated.

And that was when it all went wrong.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_d9867c3a-b3a5-53b2-95d7-476b27da173c)

London, earlier that day

Gary Manning watched the rain streaking past the window of the USAF transport as it touched down at RAF Lakenheath and rolled along the runway. The base was host to a large American contingent. Strings had been pulled to get Manning and Hawkins onto British soil without fanfare. The presence of the Stony Man operatives had not caused much of a ripple on the aircraft, which was making one of its regular supply runs.