Authors: Chris Ryan
The Kill Zone (13 page)
A knock on the door. With a slight pang of regret, Gresham turned back to look into the room. It was richly appointed, with a Gainsborough on the wall and finely upholstered furniture. Not quite to Gresham’s taste, nor to his wife’s – they thought of themselves as more modern than that. But hell, as he’d said to her more than once, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and as far as gift horses went, the residence was a goddamn thoroughbred.
‘Come on in,’ he called.
The door opened and Elsa, a young intern, appeared. She was a fine-looking thing, with a short brown bob, a little upturned nose and what Gresham thought of as a ‘fuck me’ face. He had to remind himself that he was fifty and she was twenty. Not that it had worried that old dog Clinton, of course, but Gresham had known Bill since his Arkansas days and was man enough to admit that the former president had been more of a pussy magnet even without the aphrodisiac of supreme power; whereas Gresham had to admit ruefully that his best days were behind him. Hell, his own breasts were only slightly smaller than Elsa’s.
So he did his best not to be lecherous as he talked to the girl. ‘Yes, Elsa?’
‘Your five-thirty appointment is here, Mr Ambassador.’ She looked at her clipboard. ‘Mr Khan, from the Islamic Council for Peace.’
He gave her what he hoped was a fatherly smile. ‘Show him in, would you?’
A minute later, Elsa opened the door again and a man entered. He was a slight-looking guy, with a short black beard, round glasses and a thin face. Kind of like a Middle Eastern Gandhi, Gresham thought to himself as he stepped forward to shake the man’s hand. Come to think of it, the resemblance didn’t stop at his physical features. Habib Khan had twice been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. People who talked about such things – and Gresham was one of them – had two theories as to why he had never been awarded the prize itself. Firstly, he wasn’t a big enough celebrity. And secondly he was, by all accounts, thoroughly unpredictable. There was always a chance that he would reject the award for some high-minded reason of his own, and that would be an embarrassment the Nobel Committee couldn’t countenance.
Still, no one could deny that Habib Khan had done his bit to keep the British Muslim community on the right track, and Gresham was curious to meet him. ‘Mr Khan,’ he announced, affecting that jolly, booming voice he always used for official meetings. ‘It’s a real pleasure to welcome you to Winfield House. I know you must be a busy man, and I sure appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to come see me.’
Khan bowed his head. He looked a little bit awkward, as though he thought he didn’t quite deserve to be here. ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said, his voice quiet and his language precise. ‘This is a most magnificent building, Mr Ambassador.’
‘Please, call me Nat. Isn’t it though?’ He put one hand conspiratorially on Khan’s shoulder. ‘Let me tell you something – I gotta keep hoping my wife doesn’t get too used to it. In my job, you never know where you’ll end up next. Word is that the embassy in Kabul’s a bunch of crap.’ He laughed at his own joke, then winced inwardly when he realised Khan was uncomfortable with that kind of language. ‘What can I get you, Mr Khan? Tea? I’m more of a coffee man myself, but please – whatever you like.’
Khan held up one hand. ‘Nothing, really,’ he said.
Gresham looked over at the intern. ‘Thank you, Elsa,’ he said, and she quietly left the room.
‘Have a seat, Mr Khan.’ The ambassador led his guest to one of the sofas surrounding a glass coffee table, and they sat down together. ‘You’re probably wondering,’ he said, ‘why I’ve invited you here.’
Khan smiled. ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he said.
‘Sure, sure.’ He moulded his face into a more serious expression. ‘Mr Khan,’ he continued. ‘For reasons of security, I’d appreciate it if this conversation went no further than ourselves for the time being.’
‘Of course, Mr— Of course,
Nat
.’
Nat
.’
They smiled at each other.
‘The President will be making a visit to London this year on July seventh. He’ll be dining at the Houses of Parliament, then giving a speech to reinforce the special relationship that exists between Great Britain and the United States. He feels that to do this on the anniversary of the London bombings will be an effective way of reminding the world why the Coalition remains in Afghanistan, and what our aims are. There will be all the usual . . .’ He rolled his hand in the air as he searched for a word. ‘All the usual flummery – an audience with the Queen, the usual meet-and-greets. I’ll be straight with you, Mr Khan – most of that stuff is window dressing, nothing more, but the President is keen to do some real work while he’s here. He’s aware of your efforts, and those of your organisation, to promote the peaceful observance of Islam, and he’s very keen for me to arrange a meeting. To show the world that our fight is not with Islam itself, but with extremism.’ Gresham interlinked his fingers and laid his hands on his ample stomach. ‘Is that something that might appeal?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued to gabble. ‘The President arrives at RAF Northolt at about five-thirty p.m. on the seventh. From there he goes straight to Parliament, so really the rest of that day is out. But he’ll be staying here overnight and has a lunchtime audience with Her Majesty before returning to Washington, so perhaps breakfast here on the eighth? We could arrange a photo call for ten a.m.?’
Gresham leaned back. If he was honest, this was one of the most enjoyable parts of the job. Offering an audience with the world’s most powerful man made him feel powerful himself.
Khan removed his spectacles, cleaned them on his rather unfashionable tie, then returned them to his nose. ‘Nat,’ he said, ‘that is a most thoughtful offer. I regret immensely that I must decline.’
Gresham blinked. Decline?
Nobody
declined. If the President of the United States wanted a meeting with this guy, he
got
a meeting with this guy. Washington would go nuts if he reported back that he’d said no.
Nobody
declined. If the President of the United States wanted a meeting with this guy, he
got
a meeting with this guy. Washington would go nuts if he reported back that he’d said no.
‘Ah, Mr Khan,’ he said delicately. ‘Please don’t feel obliged to give me your answer now. Perhaps you could think about it overnight.’
Khan gave him a gentle smile. ‘Mr Ambassador,’ he said, ‘that is very kind of you. But I do not need to give the matter any more consideration.’
Gresham frowned. This was beginning to be tiresome. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Of course,’ Khan replied. He stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Your President,’ he said, ‘is a good man. In the struggle for peace between Islam and the West – and I truly believe, Nat, that this is the principal struggle of our times – he is a tireless fighter. You and I know that, because we see things how they are.’ He turned to look back at the ambassador. ‘But there are many people who do
not
see things as they are, Nat. Their view of the world is filtered through a film of hatred and misunderstanding. It is these people – these extremists and terrorists in waiting – that I must reach out to. If they have the impression that I am too close to your President, a man who – forgive me – they despise with all their heart, any good I can achieve will be immediately undone.’
not
see things as they are, Nat. Their view of the world is filtered through a film of hatred and misunderstanding. It is these people – these extremists and terrorists in waiting – that I must reach out to. If they have the impression that I am too close to your President, a man who – forgive me – they despise with all their heart, any good I can achieve will be immediately undone.’
Gresham stared at him. In his world, the world of politics and public relations, anyone would give their eye teeth for a photo op with the President. It wouldn’t be anything to do with their cause, whatever that happened to be, and everything to do with their own vanity.
But not this guy, it seemed. Habib Khan, with his owl-like features and understated presence, didn’t
have
any vanity – at least none that Gresham could detect.
have
any vanity – at least none that Gresham could detect.
Khan clearly noticed that the ambassador was at a loss for words, and so he filled the awkward silence. ‘Your President and I,’ he said, ‘want the same thing. We want peace. But we must go about it in different ways. I hope he will understand that.’
He offered his hand and Gresham shook it, not knowing quite what to say.
‘Thank you for your time, Nat. I have enjoyed our meeting.’
‘Me too,’ Gresham murmured, ‘me too.’ And then, as Khan headed towards the door to leave, he spoke up. ‘Mr Khan!’
‘Yes, Nat?’
‘We keep the details of the President’s foreign engagements under wraps for obvious security reasons. The announcement of his visit won’t be made until the day before. I can rely on you to respect that, of course.’
‘Of course.’
Khan smiled, nodded and quietly left the room, leaving Gresham to stare once more out of the window at the parkland beyond.
The Horse and Three Feathers, a stone’s throw from the Falls Road, had a colourful past. During the Troubles it had been a well-known Republican hang-out. Stories abounded about what would happen if a Loyalist stuck his nose past the front door, but stories were all they were because no one ever did. This was PIRA turf, pure and simple.
Times had changed, but the Horse and Three Feathers hadn’t. Not really. If any stray tourists happened to venture in here, they’d have to be pretty thick-skinned not to realise how unwelcome they were. The management of this pub wasn’t fussed about customers, after all.
Kieran O’Callaghan stepped into the main lounge bar. It was dim in here, dingy enough to hide the fact that the red fabric on the seats was almost uniformly worn through, and The Corrs played blandly in the background. Behind the bar, a fat woman with a bored expression and huge arse sat smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. It sometimes seemed to Kieran that Fat Betty had been in that exact same position for twenty years. She was as much a part of the furniture as the defunct cigarette machine hanging on the wall, or the sticky, shamrock-green carpet. Betty was like a gatekeeper. No one got in to see Cormac O’Callaghan without getting past her.
She looked up at Kieran, then nodded at him. ‘He’s waiting for you,’ she said.
Kieran sniffed, looked around the empty room, then walked towards her. At the end of the bar was a section that could be raised to allow access to the serving area. He did so, then squeezed past the fat woman, along a row of optics that hadn’t been changed for months, through a door that led into a thin corridor, and from there into a back room.
It was dark in here, too, lit by a single low-wattage bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. This had once been the games room of the pub, and there was still a pool table and a football table in the middle. They were seldom used, however. No one came here to play games. No one came here for any reason other than to have an audience with Cormac. Why would they? It was a dump. Kieran could never understand it. His uncle must have been one of the richest men in Belfast, but he still lived as if he were some shitkicker from the estates. Sometimes he wondered if money meant anything to Cormac, other than just a way of keeping the score.
‘You’re late.’
Cormac’s voice was as rough as his surroundings. Kieran licked his lips. They were dry. Just looking at his uncle, knowing what he was about to do, made his skin cold and sweat drip down the nape of his neck.
‘Sorry about that, Cormac,’ he said. ‘Trouble at home with little Jackie. The missus is—’
‘I’ve got a little job for you. The usual. Sit down.’
Kieran hesitated. His right hand was in his pocket and he was absent-mindedly fiddling with the listening device the pig bitch had given him.
‘I said, sit down.’
Kieran did as he was told, taking a seat on the other side of the small, round pub table at which Cormac was himself sitting. Kieran’s uncle’s face was thin and lined, his eyebrows as grey and bushy as his hair. His skin was inexplicably tanned for someone who spent almost all his time in this dimly lit room, and on one side of his mouth there was a scar that followed the line a clown would paint to give himself a big smile. The scar didn’t make Cormac O’Callaghan look happy, though. Not even half happy.
Far from it.
He was a thin man, and he wore – as he always did, no matter what the weather – a heavy overcoat. Some people said he favoured this garment because he could easily hide weapons underneath it; others said that it was because he wanted to look more impressively built than he actually was. Kieran didn’t believe either suggestion. Cormac was too smart to carry firearms; and he had no need to appear more threatening than he actually was. Tales of his ruthlessness and brutality were almost part of the fabric of Belfast.
If you weren’t scared of Cormac O’Callaghan, it was because you hadn’t heard those tales.
‘When you say the usual, Cormac . . .’
‘Young Michael Elliott is giving me grave cause for concern, Kieran. I think we need to make sure that we can rely on his continued support, do you not?’
Kieran felt a twist in his stomach. ‘If you say so, Cormac,’ he said, his voice several notches quieter.
‘I
do
say so. You know the drill.’
do
say so. You know the drill.’
Kieran nodded. He knew. His uncle ran his drug distribution network by fear. Every so often – at irregular intervals and without warning – he would decide to make an example of one of his employees, then spread the word that the unfortunate victim had been tempted by disloyalty. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true – nobody was going to go to the police, after all – but it was certainly effective at keeping the workforce on their toes.
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