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  He hung up and returned to the sitting room. There was no telling what time his agent would ring back. If he did.

  Ward poured himself another drink.

  And waited.

  WAITING GAME

  It stayed light until well past nine o'clock. Ward finally got to his feet and drew his curtains at about 9.40.

  A moment later the phone rang. Ward caught it on the fifth ring.

  'Hello, Martin?' he said, expectantly.

  'Yes,' Martin Connelly said. 'Are you okay, Chris? I just got your message. I would have rung earlier but I've been out for a drink with—'

  'Just listen to me,' Ward interrupted. 'When was the last time we spoke on the phone?'

  'What?'

  'When was the last time we spoke on the phone? It's a simple enough question, Martin.'

  'I'm not with you.'

  'Today? Yesterday?'

  'I called you two days ago. We were talking about work and—'

  'But I haven't called you? We haven't spoken since then?'

  'What's this about, Chris?'

  'I need to know.'

  'Are you pissed?'

  'Not yet.'

  'Listen, is everything all right?'

  'My career's crumbling around my ears, my life's being destroyed. Why shouldn't everything be all right?'

  'You know what I mean.'

  'No, Martin. I'm not sure I know anything any more.'

  'Listen, come down to London, we'll have lunch. I'll pay. I can't say fairer than that, can I?'

  'Thanks for calling back,' said Ward.

  A STRANGE CALL

  Ward sat in his large kitchen and ate the sandwich he'd made from three-day-old bread and ham that was perilously close to its sell-by date.

  Music drifted from the compact sound system that stood on one worktop. Ward hardly heard it. He finished his sandwich and put the plate in the sink.

  The phone rang. As he crossed the room to it he looked at his watch. 6.15 p.m.

  Who the hell would be calling him at this time?

  He picked up the receiver. 'Hello,' he said wearily.

  'Hi, Chris, it's Jenny,' said the voice at the other end of the line.

  'Jenny?'

  For a moment he could not recall.

  'What time do you want me to come round tonight?' she asked him.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'You phoned and asked me to come to your house.'

  'What the fuck are you going on about?'

  'You rang . . .'

  'When?'

  'Earlier today.'

  'What time?'

  'I can't remember exactly. Does it matter? You just didn't say what time you wanted me—'

  'What time did I ring?' he demanded.

  'I said, I don't know.'

  'Morning, afternoon? When?'

  'It was this afternoon. Look, everything's all right. I spoke to one ot the other girls and she said she'd come along. It's going to cost you though. A hundred for me and the same for her. Her name's Claire. She's gorgeous. Long, dark hair, slim. She's done this kind of thing before so—'

  Again he cut her short. 'What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't ring you.'

  He heard a deep sigh from Jenny.

  'All right, just tell me what time, will you?' she said.

  'I don't want you here tonight,' he said.

  'But I've arranged it with Claire. I told her—'

  He slammed the phone down. As he backed away, his heart was thudding hard against his ribs.

  Ward turned and headed for the sitting room. He needed a drink.

  NOWHERE TO RUN

  Ward sat looking at the phone for what seemed an eternity.

  Had he really called Jenny? Asked her to come to the house. And with another girl?

  Making phone calls without being able to remember them. Writing lucidly and productively, then failing to recall doing so. What was this? Drunkenness?

  Had he begun suffering from some kind of blackouts? But what manner of breakdown caused memory loss yet inspired creativity?

  Ward shook his head as if to answer his own unspoken question. It was impossible.

  And yet it was happening.

  He drained what was left in his glass and decided to go to bed. No matter how long he sat up pondering on his current dilemma, it wasn't going to help.

  He trudged through to the kitchen and took a couple of paracetamol. For fleeting seconds, he wondered about taking the whole bottle.

  He drew the kitchen blinds slowly, peering out into the blackness of the garden. He looked towards the office. No silvery-grey light shining inside. Nothing.

  He pulled down the blind and turned to leave the

  room. As he did, he heard the scratching. Loud at first but then dying away rapidly.

  It was coming from the back door.

  Ward stood where he was as the sound came again. Then silence.

  He took a step closer to the door. The handle moved slowly. Ward swallowed hard.

  Someone was trying to break in.

  He crossed to the kitchen drawer and slid out a large kitchen knife. It was serrated with a wickedly sharp point and fully twelve inches long.

  The door handle moved slowly up and down as whoever was outside stealthily attempted to gain access. Ward wondered how long it would be before they tried a more forceful method. He crept closer to the door, his eyes riveted on the handle. It had stopped moving.

  The scratching sound, however, had begun again. More insistent this time. It continued for a full five minutes.

  In the silence that followed he stood motionless. Waiting. Wondering what he was going to do if someone did get inside.

  Ten minutes later he was still standing there.

  The scratching had not recommenced and the door handle had remained still.

  He shook his head. Another hallucination?

  Ward clutched the knife as he made his way out into the hall. He set the alarm and climbed the stairs, hurrying to his bedroom, anxious to see if he could detect any signs of movement from a higher vantage point.

  The garden was deserted. He looked in the direction of the office and saw nothing.

  For a full fifteen minutes, Ward stood at the window, the kitchen knife gripped in his fist.

  Finally he laid the weapon on the other side of the bed, undressed and slipped between the sheets. He fell asleep with his fingers still touching the handle of the knife.

  SWEET DREAMS

  3.11 a.m. Ward woke with a start. He reached for the knife, his breath coming in gasps, the last vestiges of the nightmare fading. The images were gone as soon as he opened his eyes. He tried to remember the dream but couldn't.

  He put down the knife and tried to swallow but his throat was dry. He swung himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom where he spun the tap and scooped several gulps of water into his mouth.

  Ward ran both hands through his hair and made his way back into the bedroom. He stood beside the window for a moment, gazing out into the night. The silence was overwhelming. He leant forward, pressing his forehead against the cold glass.

  Something smacked into the window with such force he thought it was going to shatter.

  Ward stumbled backwards, his heart thundering in his chest. He looked up.

  Pushing against the window was a.bird, its wings fluttering madly, its head flattened against the glass.

  No, it wasn't a bird. The wings were leathery. The face was flat and rodent-like.

  A bat? It was too large. Jesus, it was much too large.

  The fucking thing was the size of a hawk.

  It hovered there for interminable seconds, its claws scratching at the pane.

  Ward looked into its blood-red eyes and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  There was crimson around its mouth. On its small, sharp teeth.

  It finally wheeled away, disappearing into the blackness.

  Ward sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart sti
ll pounding. He reached for the knife and found his hand was shaking. He got up again and drew the bedroom curtains shut.

  Dawn seemed to be a long way off.

  LIFE GOES ON

  No marks on the back door. None on the office door.

  Ward sat down at the keyboard, pressed the power button and watched the screen light up. He began to type.

  Sit down.' The boy spoke with an authority beyond his tender years.

  'No thanks, I'd rather stand,' Doyle told him, his gaze moving alternately between the boy's face and the glinting blade of the Stanley knife.

  Hassim smiled and held the blade before him.

  'You will never understand true power because you will never have it,' he said, looking at Doyle.'I will show you what it is.'

  He struck at the servant. The razor-sharp blade carved effortlessly through the material of the man's jacket, exposing the material of his shirt beneath.

  Hassim continued to smile.

  The servant remained motionless, his eyes looking over Hassim's head, as if he were studying the wall opposite.

  'Whatever I want, this man must do,' said the boy. 'I tell him to obey me and he does.'

  He used the knife again. This time he cut through the servant's shirt and into his flesh, just below the elbow. Blood burst from the deep cut and stained the material.

  'I tell him he must not move and he obeys,' said Hassim.

  He cut again. This time the blade hacked into the flesh and muscle just above the servant's wrist. More blood began to flow, some of it running down his arm and dripping from his outstretched fingers.

  Doyle took a step forward. 'All right,' he snapped. 'That's enough.'

  Hassim rounded on him, his face suddenly contorted with rage.'No,' he hissed.'l am the one with the power. I will decide when it is over.'

  He cut the servant a third time. The wound was deep. It ran from just below the inside of the elbow to an inch or two above the wrist.

  Doyle saw the servant sway slightly, his eyelids flickering. Blood was now pouring freely from the wounds. It splashed the expensive carpet beneath.

  Hassim took a step back. 'He will not move until I say,' the Prince announced. 'He belongs to me. He serves me.'

  'Because he has to,' snarled Doyle.

  'Because he loves me and my family.'

  Doyle took another look at the servant. His face was pale and there was a thin film of sweat on his skin. Another minute or two and he'd pass out.

  'You've made your point,' Doyle said. 'Now let me get him a doctor.'

  'I will decide when the time is right. You are only a servant like him. You do not tell me what to do.'

  Little bastard. Sadistic, malevolent little bastard.

  The servant wavered. Hassim barked something at him in Arabic and the man fought to regain his balance.

  Struggled to remain upright before the boy.

  Blood continued to stain the carpet.

  Hassim held up the crimson-smeared blade and smiled. 'My word is power,' he said. 'This knife is nothing compared to the one who uses it.'

  Doyle glared at the boy.

  The servant finally dropped to his knees. Hassim turned on him furiously. He swung the blade around and caught the man across the cheek, laying the flesh open to the bone. The boy snarled something else in Arabic and spat at the hapless servant.

  Doyle turned and headed for the door.

  'I did not give you permission to leave,' Hassim called. 'Stay where you are.'

  'Or what?' Doyle said challengingly. 'Do you think I'm going to stand still while you do to me what you just did to that poor sod?'

  'I will tell my father you disobeyed me.'

  'Tell him. What's the worst he can do? Throw me out? Because if he does I'll tell you something Your Highness.' The last two words were spoken with distaste. 'I'll make sure that his worries about you are well-founded because /'// come after you. You want to see real power?' He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta 92F. He aimed it at the boy.

  'Now, you make one sound and I'll stick this fucking thing down your throat and pull the trigger. I couldn't give a flying fuck if your dad's the richest man in the world or Sinbad the fucking Sailor. Do you understand?'

  'You dare to threaten me?' Hassim said, his voice cracking.

  Doyle nodded. 'Fucking right,' he hissed. 'And you'd

  better get used to it. Do we understand each other?'

  Hassim hesitated.

  Doyle took a step closer, the barrel of the gun inches from the boy's head.

  'Someone tried to break in,' Doyle said quietly.'l tried to protect you. That's what I'm here for. Shots were fired. You got in the way. What a tragedy. That's what the police would hear and that's what they'd believe. Now, you wanted to test me. You've done that. Let's call it quits and let me get that poor fucker a doctor.'

  The servant was lying prone on the bloodied carpet, his life fluid still pumping into the thick, expensive pile.

  Hassim swallowed hard.'You would kill a child?' he said softly.

  Try me,' Doyle told him.

  'What kind of man are you?'

  Doyle laughed humourlessly.

  Hassim put down the Stanley knife.

  Doyle holstered the automatic. 'What happened in here tonight,' he said, 'is between you and me.'

  'If my father found out about this he would have you killed,' said the boy.

  'And that's supposed to scare me, is it?' Doyle snapped. 'He'd be doing me a fucking favour. Now, are you going to keep your mouth shut or not?'

  Hassim nodded.

  Doyle turned towards the door.

  'Excuse me, Your Highness,' he said quietly and stepped out into the corridor.

  Hassim stood staring at the closed door. When he tried to move he found that his legs were shaking.

  What the hell happened in there tonight?' Doyle took a bite of his sandwich and raised his eyebrows.

  Melissa Blake nodded in the direction of Prince Hassim's room.

  'The kid showed me something,' Doyle said. 'I showed him something.'

  'What happened, Doyle? If you touched that boy ...'

  'I never put a fucking hand on him. Ask him. You know if I had he'd have come screaming to his old man.' He wiped some crumbs from his mouth. 'How's the servant?'

  'He needed twenty-six stitches and a couple of pints of blood,' Mel said.'He won't say what happened either.'

  'Has the Sheikh asked?'

  Mel shook her head.

  'He probably knows what that little bastard did anyway,' Doyle mused.

  Mel glanced at her watch. 2.11 a.m.The house was silent. The Sheikh and his family were sleeping, as were those servants not needed for night duty.

  'Do you want some company?' Mel asked.

  Doyle stood up and offered her the chair.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  He watched as she sat down on the floor next to him, slipped off her shoes and drew her legs up beneath her.

  'How are you coping?' she wanted to know.

  'With sitting on my arse outside the bedroom of some psychotic Arab kid?' Doyle said. 'I can think of better ways to spend my time.'

  'I meant with the job.'

  'Like the man said, it ain't what it used to be, but it'll do,' he murmured.

  'We move tomorrow. All three of us. A new job. Cartwright phoned me earlier.'

  'What about the Sheikh?'

  'He's going back to Saudi. His business here is finished.'

  'And us?'

  'Another client. You must have done okay, Doyle. I mean, Cartwright hasn't sacked you.'

  Doyle took another bite of his sandwich. 'Who made this?' he asked.

  'I did.'

  'You're quite domesticated when you have to be, aren't you?'

  Mel smiled and shook her head. 'Domesticity isn't for me, Doyle,' she told him.

  'Career woman?'

  'You could say that.'

  'What about boyfriends? There must have been o
ne or two.'

  'I didn't come up here to talk about my private life,' she said a little warily.

  'Fair enough. I was just making conversation.'

  'Polite conversation?'

  'About as polite as I get.'

  There was a moment's silence between them finally broken by Mel.

  'Yes, there were boyfriends,' she confessed.'A couple long term but I've always been wary of getting too close to people. My parents were both killed in a plane crash when I was twelve. They were everything to me. I've always been frightened of getting close to anyone in case I lose them too. Does that sound crazy?'

  'I know exactly what you mean,' he told her.

  'Blokes are always saying that women want commitment. I must be one on my own. I'm as happy with a one-night stand as any bloke would be.'

  He grinned.

  'Does that make me sound like a tart?' Mel wanted to know.

  'It makes you sound honest. Just give me a shout next time you fancy some uncomplicated sex.'

  They both laughed.

  Doyle watched as she stretched first one leg then the other out in front of her. She flexed her toes then returned to her sitting position.

  'Please, Mel, sit on the bloody chair, will you?' he said, again getting to his feet.

  'I'm fine, really. I shouldn't be here anyway. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.' She smiled that infectious smile at him.

  'Didn't the Sheikh want to know how one of his servants got cut up?' Doyle asked.

  She shook her head.'It's not his concern,' Mel said.

  'His kid is waving a fucking Stanley knife around and it's not his concern?'

  That's the way things are. It's a different culture. A way of life we'll never understand.'

  'Good. I don't want to understand it'

  'But you wanted to understand the IRA.'

  He looked at her, puzzled for a moment.

  'You were undercover in the CTU. You infiltrated the IRA on a number of occasions. You must have had to understand them to do that.'

  That was different,' he said quietly.

  'Who was Georgina Willis?'

  The question took him by surprise. He looked angrily at Mel.

  'What the fuck's that got to do with anything?' he snapped.

  'Cartwright said she was your girlfriend. He said she was killed when—'

  'Cartwright should keep his fucking information to himself.'

  'I'm not prying, Doyle. I'm just making conversation. I'm interested.'

  'In what?'