Authors: Matthew Dunn
S
AHIR WAS SITTING
in his room, deep in thought. He needed to kill Will Cochrane. But he’d been told that it would be an exceptionally difficult task to capture him, let alone extinguish his life. And that meant he had to stack the odds in his favor by exploiting Cochrane’s only vulnerability: his unwavering need to protect the weak and innocent.
Sahir’s plan was simple and brutal, and—given the fact that Cochrane had murdered his father—it was apt that his father had inadvertently supplied him with the inspiration for the plan.
As a child, Sahir had sat on his father’s knee and listened to his tales about their forefathers’ exploits in India and elsewhere. He’d learned about a captain who’d served in the ranks of Queen Victoria’s army and fought the Pashtun clans at the Khyber Pass, an architect who’d designed and built bridges over treacherous ravines in the mountainous north, a doctor who’d cycled the entire length of India to meet his future wife, and an owner of a tea plantation in Darjeeling who’d one day decided to diversify and cultivate opium.
The man who fascinated Sahir the most was his great-grandfather. Only one known photograph had ever been taken of him, and for the most part Sahir kept the photo on his person whenever he travelled. He pulled it out of his wallet and looked at the sepia image of a handsome yet roguish-looking man who was holding a rifle in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other, with a cigarette fixed in one corner of his smiling mouth and one foot planted on the head of a dead black leopard.
His name was Baber, but Sahir hadn’t thought of him by that name ever since his father had talked about him. “He was a shikari! The last of his kind; the best shot in India. And when he died, no man had equaled his bag of tigers.”
Shikari
was another name for “hunter.”
Sahir loved one story about Shikari his father had told him. He could hear his father’s voice and words now.
“After World War I ended, he returned to his family home in Rajasthan, took off his Indian Army uniform, and told his village that his experiences on the Somme were nothing like hunting; he declared that any fool with a gun could have killed the poor souls who were sent over the top of the trenches into no-man’s-land.
“His wife, children, and the locals in his village were scared of Shikari because they thought they saw madness and vulnerability in his eyes. But they were also scared for another reason: a huge tiger had been spotted in the nearby outskirts of the jungle. Determined to allay their fears and to prove to them that he was the man they knew before the war, he put on some robust silks, fixed himself a flask of gin—for he was a prodigious drinker by then—paid a villager for her goat, and took the leashed animal to the jungle, where he tied the goat to a tree and clambered up its branches.
“He waited there for two days, his rifle in his hands, never moving from the branch. The tiger came on the third night, its nostrils flaring. Shikari had never seen one so big and knew it was powerful enough to leap up the tree and rip him apart. But it was fixated on the tethered goat, whose gullet had been slit so that the scent of blood would make the tiger insane with hunger.
“The tiger moved closer, ready to kill the goat.
“Shikari glanced at the stars, aimed his rifle, pulled back the trigger, and shot the beast in its paw.”
The child Sahir had interjected, “He missed?”
His father had shaken his head. “No. Just before the shot, Shikari had an epiphany that broke his heart. He realized the tiger was in no-man’s-land and that he was no better than one of the enemy German machine gunners at the Somme, waiting for him and his Indian and British comrades to draw closer so that they could be mowed down.
“After the tiger limped away and collapsed, Shikari returned to the village with tears in his eyes and alcohol coursing through his body.
“His family and the villagers kept their distance from him as he carried on drinking through the night. But his youngest son, your grandfather, was brave enough to knock on his door the next morning and tell him that a group of Quaker explorers were taking refreshments in the village and had heard he’d injured a tiger. They wanted to help the animal. The boy had expected Shikari to hurl drunken abuse at him, but instead he staggered to his feet and guided the Quakers to the spot where he’d last seen the injured animal. The tiger was still there, lying on its side, breathing fast. Using poles with nooses, they pinned the animal down, removed the bullet, cleaned the wound, and used needles to stitch it up.
“Keeping their guns trained on the tiger, they backed away and watched it limp into the jungle, never to be seen again. After the men returned to the village, the Quakers gave Shikari the leather pouch containing the needles they’d used to heal the tiger, and told him that they were to be his reminder that there was peace in the world.
“But Shikari knew he could never be at peace, because his life of hunting now seemed wholly wrong. So he gave the needles to his youngest son and went to bed, no longer a shikari, instead a confused and anguished shadow of his former self. That night, he died with the sound of German artillery fire raging in his ears.”
Sahir placed the photo back in his wallet and imagined the tethered goat. That’s what fascinated him the most about the story, because it seemed such an effective method to lure an alpha predator to its death.
And though Cochrane would want to rescue the tethered bait rather than kill it, the principle was the same. But he’d need something far better than a goat to distract Cochrane long enough to be able to creep up on him.
W
ASHINGTON,
D
.
C
.’S ILLUMINATED
night sky was sodden as I drove across a bridge that was taking me closer to the center of American politics and the city where Trapper believed I was hiding.
I was tired, and a large part of me felt that my trip to see Zakaria had been a wasted one because he couldn’t identify the man who wanted to kill me. But I was also puzzled by his last observation and kept trying to understand what it could mean. Zakaria never said anything for the sake of it; he’d seen something that I hadn’t, and that in equal measure annoyed and frustrated me as much as my car’s faulty seat-belt warning device, which had been pinging every second throughout my return journey.
I toyed with the idea of arriving unannounced at the safe house to tell Chrissie that my being away was fruitless and in any case I’d like to invite her out for a nightcap. But in doing that, I’d be telling her that I’d failed and had come back to her with my tail between my legs. I couldn’t bring myself to do that because I could imagine Chrissie smiling and saying something like, “So you’re like all the other Agency guys who talk a good game, trying to get me into bed, but can’t deliver the goods when it counts?”
Actually, I couldn’t imagine Chrissie saying anything like that, but I could imagine her thinking something similar, so I decided that tonight I wasn’t going to give her cause to believe I’m like some of the CIA guys she has to put up with. I wondered if Chrissie could be the one for me. She certainly made me feel good when I was in her presence. I momentarily fantasized about the two of us going on vacation together.
But I quickly put that fantasy and all other thoughts about Chrissie out of my head. Capturing or killing Trapper was all that mattered right now.
I drove through the city, windshield wipers on full, scrolling through radio stations until I settled on one playing modern jazz, but I quickly turned it off because the music sounded discordant and illogical alongside the infuriating and robotic
ping ping
of my seat-belt warning system. Plus, I had to stay focused on road signs, because I didn’t know my surroundings. Despite being a joint MI6-CIA officer for years, this U.S. trip was only the second time I’d been to D.C. Whenever I meet Patrick and his peers in Langley, they quickly put me on a plane to London because they think that if I stay in the States too long, I’ll cause them trouble. Given my current circumstances, it seems they are right.
I’d no particular destination in mind, though I had a loose idea to traverse the city until I found its northern outskirts and, hopefully, a motel where I could pay cash for a room, charge my cell phone, strip down and clean my handgun, and sleep. For now, I was an alien, drifting with buildings’ lights flickering over my face, free-falling with no idea where I’d land, a lonely predator searching for a secure place to rest. Solitary spies often feel this way. The more seasoned of us might have visited most of the world’s capital cities, but that doesn’t mean we are knowledgeable tourists; instead, more usually we are furtive travelers who migrate at night from one country’s Ritz Carlton to another’s Hilton and have no connection to our surroundings beyond the fact that they hold a man or woman with the potential to betray their country.
I felt that way in D.C.
It was just another dark city.
It was close to 11:00 p.m. when I found a motel with neon signs advertising its forty-dollar rooms and inability to accommodate teenagers or truckers. As I hauled my luggage out of the trunk, I thought that there must surely be less desirable people that the establishment would wish to deter. For example, fugitives, murderers, and me.
I looked around, rain dripping off my face, and wondered if this was the last place I would ever sleep.
A
T NOON THE
following day, Sahir slung a black canvas bag over his shoulder and stepped out of his apartment.
There were three other apartments that could only be accessed from the narrow corridor outside Sahir’s apartment. As well as getting to know his immediate neighbor Isabella, Sahir had made it his business to ascertain the identities of his other neighbors. One of them was a construction worker who pulled twelve-hour day shifts and only came home to eat and sleep; the other was a sightseeing guide who spent every daylight hour walking tourists around D.C.
Sahir knew Isabella was in her apartment, because he could hear her singing along to pop music. As he knocked on her door, he wondered if she was stoned; he hoped so, because he wanted her to feel relaxed in his company. Not that he had any concerns about that, because Isabella struck him as the carefree, trusting type who saw the good in people rather than their flaws. Sahir liked that about her, and he was glad she was his closest neighbor.
“Who is it?” she called, probably panicking that the person at the door could be the landlord or a cop.
Sahir smiled. “It’s your neighbor. I’m bored and wondered if you could make me a cup of tea. I’ve run out of anything to drink.”
Isabella opened the door, a grin on her face, her eyes a bit bloodshot. “You’re bored?”
“Yeah. Bored.” Sahir made an effort to keep his attention fixed on her beautiful face and long hair, because he didn’t want to appear rude as he was checking out her slender but curvaceous body, clad in hot pants and a tight T-shirt. “But if now’s not a good time . . . ?”
Isabella frowned. “What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing. I’m going to collect my laundry later.” Sahir shrugged. “I’m trying to do anything to stop the boredom.”
Isabella laughed. “I haven’t got any tea.”
“Ah, okay.” Sahir half turned.
“But I’ve got Pepsi, milk, and wine.”
Sahir’s smile broadened. “A glass of milk would be good.”
He followed her into her apartment. It was identical to his, though hers had cannabis smoke hanging midair in the living room and a coffee table with long cigarette papers, loose tobacco, cannabis resin, a bottle of red wine, and a half-empty glass.
Isabella gestured to the couch and turned the music down. “I’d have cleaned up if I knew you were coming over.”
Sahir shrugged and lied, “Doesn’t bother me. I used to be a big pothead. Only reason I’m not anymore is because I once got busted at my university and they threatened to kick me out.”
“They’re not here now. I won’t tell if you want to share.”
“Tempting, but I’ve got to finish an essay. I need a clear head.”
“I don’t.” She sat opposite him and picked up a cigarette paper. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Actually, I enjoy being around smokers.”
Isabella sprinkled tobacco in the paper, unsealed the resin, lit a match, and held its flame against the cannabis. Then she rubbed her thumb and forefinger against the singed area, turning it into crumbs, which she peppered over the tobacco. She placed a rolled-up piece of cardboard at one end, ran her tongue along the paper’s adhesive edge, and sealed the joint. Putting it down, she went to the adjacent kitchenette, poured a glass of milk, came back, and handed it to him. After lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply on the drug, she sat back down and asked, “You sure you’re here just for a drink? You seem like a nice guy, but I don’t want you to be disappointed, because I’m not the kind of girl who . . .”
Sahir raised his hand. “And nor am I that kind of man. Really, I’m just glad of some company. This essay’s driving me nuts.”
This reassured Isabella. “I hope this doesn’t sound wrong, but I’d never met an Indian guy before you moved in here.”
“And I’d never met a lady from Argentina before.” Sahir winked at her. “We have crossed borders, have we not? And there can be nothing wrong with that.”
“I agree.” Isabella screwed her eyes up as she took another drag. “So, when you finish your PhD . . .”
“
If
I finish it.”
“
When
you complete it, are you hoping to be an engineer or something like that?”
Sahir took a sip of his milk; it tasted off, but he gave no indication that it was bad. “I don’t know. My parents want me to build things, though I’m not so sure. It’s not my passion.”
Isabella nodded. “Parents can be asses like that. Mine want me to be a teacher. I can’t think of anything worse.” She leaned forward. “What is your passion?”
Sahir placed his milk on the coffee table, adjacent to Isabell’s drug stash, and let his hands drop to a position that looked natural but also kept them just out of sight. “Magic.”
“Magic? That doesn’t exist.”
“Are you sure?”
Isabella shrugged. “I think so. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“What do you think magic is?”
Isabella shrugged. “Stuff like creating fairies who live in the bottom of a garden. Or men claiming they can disappear in a puff of smoke.”
“They can, and that’s my point.” Sahir moved his fingers quickly yet accurately as he kept his eyes on Isabella. “Fairies aren’t real, but in 1917 two young English girls took photographs to show that fairies lived in their garden. People believed them. Magic became true.” He nodded toward Isabella’s latest waft of cannabis. “And smoke can hide a multitude of sins.”
“They’re just tricks.”
“I prefer to think of it as misdirection. The girls took fake images of the fairies via a medium that, at the time, was deemed incorruptible—namely, photography. And the man who vanishes behind smoke is leading his audience to believe that the smoke is like his soul and can take vacuous form, when in truth it’s a shield from which he can quickly retreat and hide before it clears.”
“They’re still just parlor tricks as far as I’m concerned.”
“You have a point.” Sahir placed a hand on the coffee table. “Real magic is amazing science in the hand of a person who knows what he’s doing.”
Isabella laughed, then coughed, while looking at her joint. “That’s the kind of thing I might say when I’ve had too many of these. It’s all a bit . . . ethereal.”
Sahir swallowed the rest of his rancid milk. “Magic must be tangible for it to be recognized as such. Otherwise it’s just unexplained phenomena.”
Isabella topped off her glass with red wine. “Amen to that, and I’ve seen no evidence of the tangible.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Where, when?”
“Here, and now.”
“What do you mean?” Isabella was staring at him, her eyes now lucid and inquiring.
“The cigarette you’re holding. It tastes like marijuana, doesn’t it?”
“Of course. It’s a joint.”
“And yet it has no marijuana or indeed anything else narcotic in it apart from nicotine.”
“What . . . ?”
“Stub it out and see for yourself.”
Isabella did what she was told; she ripped open the joint, held its remaining contents to her nose, and exclaimed, “That can’t be possible!”
“I know. But here’s the cigarette you rolled.” Sahir moved both hands onto the coffee table, holding the joint.
She grabbed it and tore it open. “This isn’t the joint I rolled. It’s only got tobacco in it.”
Sahir smiled. “Perhaps one of the two cigarettes on the bookshelf behind you is the joint you prepared.”
Isabell stood and turned. “These weren’t here before!” She tore them apart. “Tobacco, tobacco. No resin.” She grinned as she pointed at him. “I’ve no idea how you put these here. Very clever, but still a trick. Not the joint I rolled. All you’ve shown me is tricks, not magic.”
“Of course.” Sahir placed the tips of his fingers together. “Would you like to know the true magic?”
Isabella nodded eagerly.
Sahir placed a digit on the rim of the ashtray. “Can you tell the difference between cigarette ash and ash from tobacco that’s been combined with cannabis resin?”
Isabella was impatient. “Yes.”
“Pinch the ash you see and smell it; taste it as well if you like.”
Isabella did so and shook her head in astonishment. “That can’t be possible.”
“What isn’t possible?”
“I smoked a joint that I rolled with cannabis resin inside. It turned out not to have resin in it, yet it produced ash that did.” She was flummoxed. “How is that possible?”
“It’s not. It’s magic.” Sahir tapped his empty glass. “Could I trouble you for another milk?”
Isabella burst out laughing. “Of course, sweetie. You know, you’re great company. Stay as long as you like.” She moved to the kitchen, holding Sahir’s glass.
“I can’t stay too long.” Sahir followed her into the kitchen, yanked back her head, held her tight, and plunged a tranquilizer dart into her neck. “Not long now,” he whispered. He dragged her backwards as she lost consciousness, then he forced her limp body into the black canvas bag.