Candleburn, Page 2

  Asp kissed his children once again and lowered them slowly to the floor.

  “Quite right, my wonderful wife,” Asp replied. “Persephone and Guinevere you know quite well that we only use proper names in this house. Please listen to your mother.”

  He winked at them. The kids giggled.

  “Now grab your swimming kit, or we’ll be late,” their mother said sternly.

  The children ran back up to their rooms.

  “No school today?” he asked.

  She sighed deeply.

  “Don’t you listen to anything that goes on in this house?” she said. “It’s half term. We’re off to the beach for the morning.”

  Asp watched his wife, elegant and detached, glide down the stairs. Her auburn exquisiteness, after all these years still captivated him. Even in jeans and a loose fitting shirt she was flawless. Her father was the third Viscount Darenth, the owner of thousands of acres of land including a huge country mansion just outside Sevenoaks in Kent.

  She had cast a spell on him the moment they first met punting on the Cam. He’d seen her from the banks of the river and called out in greeting. She’d lost the grip of her pole and slipped on the wet wooden boarding trying to regain it. She plunged into the river.

  Without hesitation, he dived in to save her. As she splashed and shrieked, he pulled her to the water’s edge and dragged her onto the bank. Dripping, sodden on the grass, he gazed into her eyes and said:

  “Are you okay?”

  She slapped him across the face and stormed off.

  Now he looked deep into her features once more.

  Cold. Brooding. Stunning.

  “How’ve you been?” he asked.

  “You’re late,” Alexandria replied.

  “It was a difficult one. We lost Jim.”

  “Lost? As in...”

  He nodded.

  She stopped. The ice melted. A softness returned to her; Asp hadn’t seen that in months, since before he’d been banished to one of the guest bedrooms.

  Alexandria placed her hand on his cheek, the same way her daughter had moments before. He closed his eyes and smelt the rose petals of her perfume – she always placed two dabs on each wrist after she showered.

  “Was it the same as before?” She hesitated as she spoke. “With the torture, I mean?”

  Again, Asp nodded and lifted his own hand to hers, holding her delicate fingertips next to his skin. She withdrew.

  As she walked away, she looked over her shoulder back at him.

  Asp knew this move. She did it before every row or bombshell of bad news, almost as if she couldn’t face him and speak – as though the disappointment in his eyes was unbearable to watch.

  “I suppose now is not the best time, then,” she began.

  “No, Alex, now would not be the best time for one of your little histrionic games.”

  Asp surprised himself. Perhaps it was the tiredness talking.

  “They’re not histrionic. I’m unhappy. I’ve followed you here to the ends of the earth – put my career on hold. I’ve thought long and hard about it. I want to go home, Asp. I want to go back to England.”

  This was not the first time they’d had the conversation. He adored her and yet now, sleep-deprived and still somewhat in shock from seeing his colleague’s cadaver, he found himself speechless.

  There was so much he could say: why England? She was never happy there either. Why now? Every month the reason changed. What career? Despite being one of the brightest people he’d ever met, she’d dropped out of university two months into her third year. If she’d stuck it out for barely another six, she’d have graduated.

  But no, Alexandria wanted to drop out, and that’s what she did.

  She became a pole-dancer.

  She lasted four months.

  There had been more than a trace of parental rebellion in the move. When he finally convinced her to go out with him and reconsider her life, she’d tried five different lines of work – from legal aide to mortgage broker and finally, upon their move to Dubai, she’d become a talent scout for a modelling agency. She stuck at that job almost two years.

  Dubai.

  It was the unofficial capital of the Middle East and certainly not the ‘ends of the Earth’.

  “I’m serious, this time,” she said. “I’ve talked to Daddy. He’s buying the children and me a house near Tonbridge.”

  Asp could feel the heat of anger well through his body. His blood vessels tightened, his neck reddened. He was overwrought and this was not the time for a fight. His mind was empty, his mouth dry.

  What to say? How to respond?

  The buzzing from the lounge table stopped him. He looked down to see his mobile humming as it vibrated its way across the marble surface.

  Mehr Zain.

  “Don’t do anything rash,” he said gently. “I must take this. Work. You understand. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  ***

  Asp ran through the front door and down to the street. Mehr was already waiting in his car, engine revving, as he stared through the open passenger door for his boss.

  “Why the big hurry?” Asp asked as he jumped in.

  “Police scanner says they’ve found a dead hooker, body stuffed in the boot of a car at a supermarket near the Creek.”

  “Shit,” Asp replied. “There goes that lead. Any word on the nationality?”

  “As you thought: Filipino.”

  “Chaiwat Singuptra,” Asp said. “Well, at least we’ve a good rapport with him. You drive. I’ll put in some calls and get us a meeting.”

  “Yeah,” Mehr said sceptically. “Best of luck with that.”

  5

  Aarez pulled his hand across his beard to the bottom of his chin, then flicked his arm to the side. Sweat flew from the tips of his fingers and spattered on the wood-plank walls of the shack.

  In front of him, patterned with tiger stripes as the sunlight strained through the sides of the barn, a naked Thai man was duct-taped to a chair. Chaiwat Singuptra: full time second-in-command of the East Asian mafia in the country – part-time sell-out for Britain’s MI6.

  Cuts and bruises lined his body.

  Of course, his status as mole was not widely known outside a very select group of people. Unfortunately for Chaiwat, Aarez had recently become one of the few.

  “Now, let’s try this again,” Aarez said.

  His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Where is it?”

  The Thai man whimpered. His face screwed like a baby’s in mid tantrum as he shook it violently. The chair rocked unsteadily on the sand floor.

  Four other men circled the victim.

  Three were Somalis in loose-fitting cotton trousers and dung-stained tee-shirts that matched their encrusted hair. Nominally, they’d been brought to the United Arab Emirates by Aarez’s father to work on his camel farm as hired hands. In practice Aarez had scoured the lawless, wayward villages of Azania and recruited the disaffected to join his cause.

  The fourth man was Aarez’s childhood friend, Oassan. A hulking beast of a man, with muscles and fists to match, he was curiously fine-featured for one so large. He was the second generation of his family to be born in the UAE and yet, by itself, that was not enough for him to be afforded citizenship. Disavowed by the country of his birth, he instead survived on a Jordanian passport – as did many whose parental heritage could be traced to Palestine.

  A black and white keffiyeh was pulled tight across Oassan’s nose and mouth to keep out the blistering stink of faeces and rotting straw that wafted in from the gurning camels outside.

  “Still no answer?” Aarez spat.

  Oassan uncoiled a bullwhip and sent a gentle ripple along its length. Chaiwat grimaced in anticipation.

  Aarez nodded.

  With a grunt and almighty swing of his full torso, Oassan lashed his victim’s back.

  Blood mixed with sweat to form a fine mist as the whip flayed Chaiwat’s skin.

  Outside, the came
ls, disturbed by the cries of agony, began an empathetic chorus – a loud undulating harmony partway between a lion’s roar and a human scream.

  The whipping stopped.

  Dark red trickles ran down the Chaiwat’s legs and arms. Beneath the chair, sand slowly coagulated in blackening clumps.

  Aarez watched Oassan pant slowly and smile as he admired his handiwork.

  “Now,” Aarez continued, “once more, if you please. Where is it?”

  Chaiwat stared resolutely at the floor.

  “Do you know who we are?” Aarez asked mockingly.

  The Thai man snorted. Whether it was a resigned attempt at a laugh or simply a huffed effort at clearing the mucus that dripped from his nose, Aarez could not be sure.

  Chaiwat raised his head.

  “Yes, I know,” he croaked. “Ash-Shumu’a. You are ‘The Candle’.”

  Aarez grinned.

  Good – knowledge of them was on the rise. It was a tricky balance to maintain; enough recognition that they remained an enigma, a murky rumour – yet not so much that they had risen to the radar of the world’s security forces.

  At least until now.

  “Then you know we’ll get what we want,” Aarez hissed.

  “I am dead whatever happens.”

  “Not so,” Aarez replied, “with no survivors, there would be no-one to talk of our mercy. End this now. We have much experience in getting what we want. If you make us continue, I’m afraid my offer of clemency will be rescinded.”

  Chaiwat coughed. Blood bubbled between his lips. He retched. Vomit oozed through his teeth. He spat on the floor and regained his composure.

  “Do what you want with me. When I don’t report in, others will follow.”

  Aarez laughed and clicked his fingers at the Somalis who ran outside.

  “I’ve spent five years building Ash-Shumu’a,” he said. “I’ve planned its operation and networks. Oassan and I have bred paranoia through our converts. No electronic communications, so nothing to trip your Echelon or PRISM. I assure you, no-one has been compromised. We have assumed at every turn that you and others like you have been watching.”

  The Somalis returned with two small metal boxes. Opening them, one contained candles; the other, lighter fluids and variety of full hypodermic needles.

  “The truth is far more prosaic,” Aarez continued. “The fact is that none of you even know we exist. Not British Intelligence, not the Americans – not even, bless them, the Central Bureau of Intelligence for this dear UAE. Everyone that comes close, we kill. The nearest neighbour to this farm is twenty miles away. Your screams will not be heard. No-one is coming to your rescue and there will be no-one who follows your trail – at least, not until it’s far too late.”

  Aarez studied the candles and selected one. He lit it with a plastic lighter.

  “And now, you will understand why we are called ‘the Candle’. Not only will Ash-Shumu’a light the way for the rest of our people – but also we burn those who block the path. First we will start with your toes. Then your fingers. Then your feet and knees and calves. Talk or not, we will find what we seek.”

  Oassan removed a canister of liquid butane from the box.

  “One final thought,” Aarez said, “don’t worry that you will pass out and miss all the fun. We’re well versed in this now.”

  He gestured at the syringes.

  “We can keep you awake and in anguish for days until you’re ready to end it. And remember – all it takes is telling us where it is.”

  Oassan began singing a children’s song while squirting lighter fluid very precisely over the Thai man’s left big toe.

  “The foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone...”

  ***

  Blake turned the puzzle box over in his palm as he parked his car in front of the Journal’s office. He dared not risk taking it inside. He opened the glove compartment and placed it inside. He then lowered each car window by an inch. Without such a precaution he feared the box’s contents would be damaged; a vehicle with closed windows in Dubai would reach oven temperature in barely twenty minutes.

  Born in London to an American father and a French mother, Blake had moved back to the US aged 11 and had to toughen up quickly. Even in the internationally diverse Washington Beltway, a kid with a British accent was a target for bullying. He’d stayed in the US for university, graduated and worked in Virginia. While on a business trip to London he met Cathy.

  Blake smirked as he walked into the office elevator, thinking about his wife.

  Brunette, Irish; she’d captured his heart at a party in Richmond. She changed everything. He quit his government job and became a journalist. He moved back to Britain. Everything was going well until the Journal reposted him to Dubai.

  Blake closed his eyes and blanked his mind. He had to clear his thoughts before he entered the daily battle of the office. If he went in angry, Alice had already won.

  He took a deep breath and walked in.

  Inside, Alice was standing like a meerkat, forward, weight on her hands as she leaned conspiratorially over the fibreboard desk-divides, gossiping. Opposite her Blake’s other journalist colleague – a man from Portland called Duncan – listened intently.

  Duncan laughed loudly. Alice flashed him a warning look as Blake came through the door and she stopped talking.

  Blake said nothing beyond a perfunctory “Good morning” and set his computer out on his desk.

  “Thank you very much for joining us,” Alice said with a sarcastic tone and theatrically bowing.

  The office didn’t really keep normal hours – the nature of reporting dictated that when a story occurred you worked as long as required. Sixteen-hour days were a weekly occurrence. Thirty-six hour runs happened once a month.

  Flexibility was key, particularly given that the Gulf weekend ran from Friday to Saturday, creating a frequent conflict with the Journal’s main editors in New York. They refused to understand that Fridays in the UAE were, for religious reasons, a difficult time to disturb government and business sources.

  Usually, the journalists ended up on the losing side of the ‘flexible time’ arrangement but it was commonly expected that if you put in extra hours, you got a small portion back. The only ‘rule’ was that everyone had to be present by 10am on a Sunday morning for the editorial meeting on how the week’s work would be divided.

  Blake checked his watch.

  “It’s 09:24. I thought we start on Sundays at 10:00? We have done for the last eighteen months,” he said cautiously.

  Alice raised an eyebrow. Her eyelids fluttered vigorously.

  “Well, everyone else is already in – so you figure it out.”

  6

  Aarez watched the three Somalis at the bottom of the pit shovelling sand up into a small heap. Fine grains were being lifted by the breeze like the softest of early morning English mists.

  England.

  Of all the countries he’d lived in, he both respected and marvelled at it. Everything about her was fascinating: her depth of history, her culture, her green, water-filled valleys and her bustling urban streets. Modernity straddled next to thousand-year-old cathedrals. How had such a tiny island become so powerful?

  And he loved her people!

  They were driven, yet lazy. Cynical, yet optimistic. Patriotic and yet despising of nationalism.

  Seven years, he’d spent there: first Sandhurst, then the London School of Economics and finally an MBA from the London Business School.

  All the time, he’d kept Oassan at his side.

  Let others tailor their dreams for the Middle East from the fabric of the United States. He and Oassan both agreed that was folly. England was the model for their vision. Not the modern nation ashamed of her past; the England of old – the visionary who used private enterprise to control world trade.

  The rumble of the pickup truck’s engine roused him from his thoughts as it briefly overpowered the noise of digging and shuddered to a halt. He heard the grating as
its tailgate opened, followed by the huffs of Oassan as he lifted and dragged the charcoaled corpse across the ground.

  The pit was now nearly eight feet deep and wide enough to accommodate two people lying side by side.

  “Stop!” Aarez called abruptly.

  His workers ceased digging and leaned on their spades.

  “Throw the tools up here!”

  The Somalis tossed their shovels beside Aarez’s feet.

  Oassan dragged the body to the grave’s edge. Black cinders flaked away on his clothes. The wind caught them and they fluttered about, butterflies, as they rose higher.

  “Did he crack after I left?” Aarez asked.

  “Don’t they always?” Oassan replied.

  Aarez’s lips widened with satisfaction.

  “The package was mailed to a reporter at the Journal in two parts: a puzzle box and a key,” Oassan continued.

  “Clever,” Aarez replied. “A puzzle box? I haven’t seen one of those since I was a child. Without the key, it’ll be near impossible to open – so we’ll need both packages.”

  “You want me to take care of it?”

  Aarez stared at the sky for a few seconds. It was possible the parcels hadn’t yet arrived at their destination, Dubai’s postal service being as it was.

  “No,” he said eventually. “After capturing Chaiwat, we may start to raise the interest of the local security services. Before everything’s in place, that would be premature.”

  Aarez licked his finger and held it out, feeling the direction of the wind. The air was pleasantly cooling on his palm.

  “Have the Russians do it,” he said.

  Oassan kicked Chaiwat’s body into the hole. The Somalis moved to the edge of the pit as the charred corpse tumbled between them.

  Aarez removed his Gucci sunglasses and began reciting a prayer.

  Oassan reached down to his ankle and lifted the hem of his thawb. He extracted a pistol from a holster attached to his ankle. The three Somalis looked at one another and started jabbering. One leapt at the sides of the pit and tried to scrabble his way clear. The sand crumbled away beneath his fingers and he fell backwards on top of the body, desiccated bones cracking beneath his weight.