Italy, an army base on the outskirts of Napoli. 13 years old. His dad stationed there with the regiment, dropping him off at the local school, telling him to learn some Italian and get on with it. Sink or swim son, sink or swim. Jack had swum, for a while at least. Fluent in Italian within a couple of months and the star of the class football team. But his success made him a target for the older boys. He took a couple of beatings on the way home from school. If his older brother had still been around things would have been different. But he wasn’t.
Things turned nasty when one of the boys, out to impress the girls who gathered by the fountain in the town square, pulled a flick-knife and waved it in his face. More angry than afraid, Jack piled into him, dishing up a bloody nose, flooring the boy and scarpering. The boy vowed revenge, swore he would get his friends in the Camorra to cut him to pieces.
Jack knew enough about the honour of small-town Italian males to take the threat seriously. It had taken some persuading, but eventually he’d got one of the soldiers, a Geordie named Alfie, to show him how to handle a blade, how to fight dirty. Alfie had been busted out of Special Forces for insubordination — that was the official line. The truth was his commanding officer had been concerned he was taking a little too much pleasure in the more gruesome aspects of his work. A liability in the elite fighting squads of the SAS and SBS. But there was no denying his skill with a blade, and Jack was so quick to learn, so perfectly balanced, that Alfie almost forgot the deathly intent behind the lessons he was teaching, caught up in the simple pleasure of passing on his hard-earned and well-practised skill.
Jack didn’t have to wait long to put those skills into practice. A quiet Sunday morning. The backstreet shortcut to the bakers. Church bells echoing down the shabby, careworn street. Washing criss-crossing the narrow gap between the buildings, flapping in the breeze. A moped sped past, then another. An ear-splitting Mosquito whine. More noise than performance, Jack thought. Typical Italians.
The two bikes stopped, 20 metres ahead, blocking the street. He looked behind him. Three people walking casually. Not boys, not teenagers, but men. Nowhere to go. They walked slowly, all the time in the world.
Three men against a 13-year-old boy. Jack shook his head; he was tall for his age and well-built, but this would be a walk-over. He felt for the flick knife in his jacket pocket. Could he really do it? He thought. Never mind that. Would he even get a chance? Five of them. He would be surrounded in a moment.
The most important thing to look for is how he carries himself, which side takes the weight. Lesson number one. Alfie’s voice coming back to him. All very well if you were fighting one person. The three men sauntered towards him. The leader was a wiry man with a cruel thin face and black hair swept back, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his tracksuit top. He whistled tunelessly, atonal, irritating, before spitting on the ground in front of Jack.
“We’re going to teach you a lesson,” he said, his voice dull, as if bored by the inevitability of the sadistic outcome he was about to inflict. Jack watched him closely, watched as he slowly drew a knife from his pocket, locked the blade in place, let it hang casually by his side. He was surprised to find he felt no fear, only a curious nervousness, a perverse excitement.
Surprise your attacker. Use any means at your disposal to put him off guard. Lesson number two. Jack hunched his shoulders and stepped back, allowed his body to shake, bit hard into his lip so it bled, did his best to conjure up the paralysing fear he didn’t feel. One final element, he let himself go, warm urine running down his leg, a dark stain forming on his trousers. The men laughed, the one holding the blade turned his head back to his friends, ridiculing him in the harsh sounds of the Neapolitan dialect.
Didn’t matter. He’d taken his eyes off his target. Jack stepped forward quickly, the man’s knife hand brushed aside, the blade up into his armpit, dragged down across his belly then onto the next man. The man was too stunned to react, watching in horror as handfuls of intestines slipped out of his friend’s stupefied grasp.
Jack went low, two jabs to the thighs, the heel of the knife into the man’s chin, the hard crack of the metal handle on the jaw bone. He dropped like a sack of semolina. The third man reached into his pocket, tried to adopt a fighting position. Too late. Jack dug the blade into his hand, twisting it on the way out just as he’d been taught, kicked as hard as could into his groin. The man collapsed.
The two mopeds fired up and raced towards him. One rider waved a golf club, swinging it clumsily at him. Jack ducked. The bike skidded, crashed into a doorway. Jack jumped over it, off down the street as fast as he could. At the end of the road a motor bike waited for him, revving its engine impatiently. Alfie sitting on it, no helmet, broad grin in place.
“Hurry up man. I canney wait all day.” Jack jumped onto the back, holding on tight.
“Ah think even ah wudda had a problem dealing with alla them fellas at wunce.” He said in his thick Geordie accent. Somehow Jack doubted that. A coldness had come over him. He felt neither elation nor regret. His heart rate barely raised above its resting rate throughout the entire episode. He felt in control. He knew he had it, the thing his father possessed, the thing his mother could never understand. The ability to take a quiet, emotionless satisfaction in a brutal task. A profound burden for a boy to carry into adulthood.
“Shit Alfie. I forgot to buy any bread,” he said.
9
Ahmed Seladin sat in the back of the British Gas van, nails chewed down to the quick, eyes gritty and tired. Another night without sleep. Another day tangled up in this nightmare, cramped and uncomfortable. Speeding along unknown roads, through unfamiliar cities. The man opposite looked at him and shook his head.
“Not used to this type of work are you my friend? You need to toughen up. Stay alert. No mistakes this time.” Another of the Chinaman’s goons. A seemingly indestructible force, capable of storming through each day without stopping for something as ridiculous and unnecessary as sleep.
“You have the injection ready?” He said. The plan was a quick snatch. Grab the boy and bundle him into the van, get the sedative in as quickly as possible. The floor was covered with plastic sheeting, ready for Dr. Seladin’s scalpel.
“Here,” Ahmed said, taking a loaded syringe from his flight case. “Jab it in the neck and squeeze. He’ll be out in a second. Just try not to stab yourself with it in the meantime,” he added sarcastically. The man gave him a cold look.
There were two other heavies in the van. Silent, awkward in their civilian clothes. They’d assumed that strange posture veteran soldiers adopt before battle, alert but relaxed, a heightened state of readiness with a minimum amount of physical effort.
“Go! Go! Target is in the open!” The driver shouted. Movement all around, Ahmed pressed himself against the side of the van as the doors swung outwards, avoiding the flailing arms and legs of the men clambering past, sprinting down the street. He caught sight of the man emerging from the house, took in his height and build. For one brief moment Ahmed found himself hoping he might land a punch or two on the heavies, make life a little harder for them.
It all happened so quickly Ed Garner barely had time to react. He was scanning the text file he’d been sent on Amanda’s family and friends. The noise of the van doors swinging outwards and three sets of feet charging down the street made him look up. He saw their intention, the speed with which they were closing down the space. No way of getting there in time.