'We're big strong boys,' said Matt. 'We can look after our corner of the playground.'
He cut the call, walked to the kitchen to retrieve his mobile, and started tapping in the details of his address. He pressed send and waited until he knew the text had been sent. 'Well, now she knows where we are,' he said, looking across at Ivan. 'And where we are going as well.'
Ivan smiled. 'I remember when I was still a teenager,' he said, 'when I first signed up with the Provos there was an old guy called Mickey Royle who took me under his wing and showed me some of the ropes. He taught me lots of lessons about survival — but the first one he taught me was this: let the enemy come to you.' He rocked back on his chair, a casual smile on his lips. 'When you go to them, you make yourself vulnerable. You move about, you expose yourself. Much better just to let the opponent come to you. That way you fight on your own territory.'
'I know,' Matt said, smiling. 'I've been one of those targets, remember.'
Sallum stared at the ceiling of the hotel room. In his mind he was reciting verses from the Koran, playing them over and over, drawing strength from the majesty and power of the words of the prophet.
The moment when my soul can be joined with his in heaven. That is what I am working for.
There are many moments of solitude in the professional life of the assassin, and Sallum had grown used to them over the years. When he was by himself, as he was for most of the time, he liked to pray and to study the Koran, cleansing his spirit and his mind afresh for each kill. At night, when he lay the holy book aside, he found himself thinking of his childhood, back in the Saudi wilderness. He was one of twenty children by his father's eight different wives. Although his father had so many different children he could scarcely keep count of them, his mother Saja had not been very fertile, and Nasir had been her only son. His father had quickly lost interest in her — in the hierarchy of his harem she had ranked right at the bottom. He'd showed little interest in Nasir as well, but to his mother he was the only pleasure in an otherwise harsh and disappointing life. She had always been at his side, his constant companion through all his adolescent years, and he still prayed for her and spoke to her every day. It was only after she had died that he had joined the movement. Allah had been the only person he could imagine who could fill his mother's place in his life.
If father could see me now, he would be proud of me. He would know that I am doing his work. He would not ignore me and insult my mother, the way he always did in the past.
The phone rang twice before Sallum answered it. 'Hammersmith, west London — that's where you'll find the last two thieves,' said Assaf. 'Do you know it?'
'What address?'
'Cedar Road,' said Assaf. 'Number sixteen.'
'Allah shall guide us at all times,' said Sallum.
For a moment he thought about the woman who had interviewed him at Manchester airport. Maybe she had realised who he was. Maybe she was trailing him. Maybe this was all a set-up: the next two victims could be planning an ambush. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Not helpful, he told himself.
I will do my duty, no matter what the risks to myself
He rested his head against the pillow. His eyes were starting to shut, and he could feel a sense of calm and peace washing over him as he drifted off to sleep. The cares and anxieties of the day had vanished into the air, and he was able to relax.
It is so much easier for a man to sleep properly at night when he knows who he is going to kill in the morning.
TWENTY-ONE
Observation — the first and most important skill the assassin learns. Unless you have surveyed every inch of the ground you are going to attack, all your weapons and your tactics are useless.
I look, I study, and only then do I strike.
Sallum had walked twice down Cedar Road now. He moved swiftly, with his head down, and changed his overcoat in the car before returning: if anyone was watching, he wanted to make sure he didn't draw any attention to himself. He glanced at number sixteen through the corner of his eye, using the few seconds available to memorise every inch of the building. It was a typical Victorian terraced house, built on two floors, probably with a cellar, and another room in the loft. There was no entry at the sides, and although the front door would come away easily enough under sustained gunfire, it was likely to be well defended.
They are trained soldiers, and they are expecting me. They won't die without a struggle.
Sallum walked on. Dusk was falling, and there were only a few people on the streets. Ash Road ran parallel to Cedar, another row of Victorian terraces, most of them bought up and modernised over the past few years — they all had expensive looking cars outside, and flash new kitchens inside. He walked along the street, counting out each house. Number twenty-two, unless he had made a mistake in his calculations, backed directly on to number sixteen. Unlucky, thought Sallum surveying the ordinary-looking house. But your number is up.
Sallum walked on, allowing himself one more glance over the house. If there were three or four men in there, he had a problem. He headed back towards the car, got in, and pulled out the laptop he kept under the back seat. Hooking up the computer to the mobile phone, he fired up a web connection, then logged on to the electoral roll site used by junk mail companies to compile their mailshots. You needed a password to get in, but Sallum had already signed up for a subscription using a false password.
He tapped the Ash Road house's details into the computer. The information was transmitted down the line, and the answer took almost a minute to appear on the screen. Mrs Westhoff, plus a Celia Westhoff, described as a minor. A mother and a daughter — maybe a divorcee.
She will offer little resistance.
Sallum snapped the computer shut and walked briskly down the road. There was one other person walking along the street, and he waited for them to pass before making his move. He rang once on the doorbell, fingering the P7 in the palm of his hand.
The woman who answered the door looked to be in her early forties, with brown hair tied up behind her head, a loose looking dress, and no shoes. 'Electricity meter,' said Sallum sharply, taking a pace inside the hallway, half-closing the door behind him.
People judge you by your appearance, Sallum reminded himself. So long as you wear new, clean clothes, are clean shaven and smell of soap, they usually trust you. She was wary, but not so wary as to slam the door in his face. 'Your card?' she said, looking at him suspiciously.
He took another pace into the hallway, and dug into his pocket as if searching for his wallet. Then he swung the P7 up and jabbed the barrel of the gun into her forehead. He squeezed the trigger twice, the two bullets smashing through her skull. She dropped to the floor, her knees buckling beneath her. A trickle of blood seeped from the back of her head, draining into the blue carpet mat stretched from the hall to the kitchen at the back.
Sallum slammed the door shut, then held the gun up, ready for anybody who might be coming down the stairs to see what had happened. He counted to twenty, then tucked the gun back into his pocket.
At least she was alone, he thought to himself as he stepped over the body. He had executed several children already this week, and he was starting to tire of it. They whimpered and screamed and wriggled. They didn't know what death was.
Throwing two bolts across the front door, Sallum checked first the kitchen, then the first floor. The master bedroom gave the best view of the houses behind. The neatly trimmed lawn of this house backed on to a wooden fence, then the gardens of Cedar Road. Number sixteen's was a tangled mess of weeds, a few metres of scruffy lawn, a rusted swing, and a huge pile of black plastic rubbish bags.