The Soul Collector (20 page)

Faik Jabar woke up in agony, his eyes jerking open. He looked around the seedy room, then tried to sit up, forgetting that he was tied down. That brought another wave of pain, this time from his thighs. The memory of the Wolfman working on the flesh with a screwdriver made him retch. The Turk was still trying to get him to identify the shooter whose false beard had slipped. He wouldn’t accept that Faik didn’t know the man. At first Faik had been glad of that, because he was sure that as soon as he gave a name, he would be killed. But now, with the torture seemingly endless, he wished he could be done with his life.

He must have cried out, because the door opened and the middle-aged Shadow who was on guard duty came across.

“Shut up, scum.” The man picked up a length of stained cloth from the floor. “Or would you like me to put the gag back on?”

Faik looked away as his entire body started to shake uncontrollably.

“What’s the matter?” the Shadow said. “Does the little boy want his mummy?”

Faik felt the man’s rancid breath on his face as he leaned closer.

“Fuck,” the Turk said, in a low voice. “You aren’t faking, are you?” He walked to the door and pulled out his cell phone.

The Soul Collector

183

Faik drifted away, the pain still gnawing at him and a high-pitched wail almost deafening him. He was back in the basement, watching the traitor Izady fall to the floor as though he’d been poleaxed. The wail Faik heard came from his own mouth, as he took the bullet in his hand and then the blow to his head. The face, the devil’s face beneath the beard, was all he saw before he was sent into the dark abyss.

When he woke the next time, it was to the sound of whispered words in Kurdish. The doctor’s mouth was close to his ear, telling him that he’d be all right, and that he’d cut his bonds.

Faik opened his eyes and blinked. He wasn’t dreaming. The doctor stepped back and shook his head at the Shadow. “He’s very weak. Another session with the Wolfman will kill him.”

“So?” the Turk said with a twisted smile. The doctor put his left hand into his pocket. “Look at these wounds,” he said, pointing to Faik’s thighs. He waited for the Shadow to approach.

“What about them?”

“They are the work of a pig.”

The Turk’s eyes widened and he turned toward the doctor. “What did you—”

The needle of the syringe punctured his chest near the heart. The doctor pushed the plunger down and stepped back. The Shadow stumbled forward, one hand scrabbling at the syringe and the other stretched out. Then he collapsed to the floor.

“What…?” Faik said.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for years,” the doctor said, lifting the young man up by the shoulders. “Don’t worry, he’ll wake up soon.”

184

Paul Johnston

“But…but the Shadows will hunt you down.”

“Swing your legs around.” The doctor smiled at Faik.

“That’s it. They can try, but I think the King’s men will protect me if I deliver you to them.” He shrugged.

“Besides, the last hold the Turks had over me was my father in Istanbul. He died yesterday.”

Faik was breathing deeply, trying to summon the strength to stand up. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was old and he wanted to join my mother. Now, let’s get you walking. I don’t think I can carry you.”

The young man managed to stand, his injured thighs making him wince. “Where…where are we?”

“At a Shadow safe house in Hackney. My car’s outside. Where shall I take you?”

“My father’s house, off Green Lanes.”

They moved to the door, the doctor’s arm around Faik’s back. The room was on the first floor. The young man almost fainted as they went down the stairs, but his savior kept talking to him, encouraging him and praising his bravery. Then they were at the front door.

“Is there…anyone outside?” Faik asked, gasping for breath.

The doctor smiled. “I hope not. There isn’t usually. The lads across the road play at being hard men, but we’ll be in the car before they do anything.” He put his hand on the lock. “Ready? Here we go.”

He opened the door quickly and helped Faik out. The sun wasn’t very bright, but it made the young man blink. They got down the steps to the pavement and moved toward a green Opel Astra. The doctor opened the front passenger door and helped Faik in.

“Doctor!” came a shout.

The Soul Collector

185

Faik turned and saw the Wolfman running down the street toward the vehicle. “Get in,” he said in Kurdish. “Get in!”

The doctor remained standing. “No, I’m not going to let this animal hurt you anymore.” He fumbled in his pocket.

“Hands where I can see them!” the Wolfman said. He was pointing a silver pistol at the doctor, who reluctantly complied. Faik lowered his head, vaguely aware that a veiled figure in a
burqa
and
chador
was approaching the car. He was desperate, he wanted to get out of the car to face the Wolfman and finish things, but he couldn’t, he was too exhausted, too feeble to help the doctor—

The three rapid spits and the slap of bullets hitting flesh at close range made him look up. He had heard that sound before. He looked around and saw the Wolfman lying prone on the pavement with his arms flung out. Blood was emerging from holes in his shirt.

“Don’t follow me,” came a voice that Faik recognized. He saw the figure in the black robe and headdress bend to scoop up the Wolfman’s pistol. “Get in the car, Doctor,”

he said. The young men on the other side of the road were beginning to gather, staring at them. The killer had already disappeared around the street corner.

The doctor opened the driver’s door and got in quickly. He started the engine and pulled out. Faik turned his head and saw a cluster of people around the dead Shadow.

“Who was that?” the doctor said breathlessly.

“Don’t ask me,” Faik said, twitching his head. He wasn’t going to admit that he recognized the killer’s voice—not to the doctor and not to any of the King’s men. He had no idea why his life had been spared in the 186

Paul Johnston

basement and then saved on the street, but he had a nasty feeling that he’d have to repay the debt. In the meantime, he just wanted to eat and sleep. Then he saw again the face of the man who had killed Izady and the Wolfman—an inhuman, devilish face. Faik Jabar suddenly realized that he was nothing more than a pawn in a world full of pain and betrayal. He let out a sob for his lost innocence, and then another as the doctor, who had risked his life for him, gently squeezed his arm.

The Soul Collector was in the back of her van, holding a torch over the notes she’d made. Over the previous twelve hours, she had staked out the homes of the SAS

men known as Rommel and Geronimo. Although the men were no longer in the regiment, they still lived close to its base at Hereford—Rommel in the town itself and his comrade in a village ten minutes’ drive to the east. Geronimo didn’t have kids, so she would have to take his wife. She seemed to be the lazy type, who rose late and sat around the house drinking numerous cups of coffee. Like many middle-aged women who were losing their looks, she seemed to be locked in a world of her own—

in the six hours the Collector watched her, she never once spoke on the telephone. As for Rommel, he had two girls under five and a boy who was in the second year of primary school. His wife looked exhausted and incapable of putting up much of a struggle.

The woman turned a page and studied the timeline she had constructed. She was sure that the ex-SAS men would have set up a reporting system with their families—they would be aware of potential reprisals by Irish paramilitaries and foreign agents. That meant she had to snatch
The Soul Collector

187

her targets as quickly as possible. Rommel’s and Geronimo’s people didn’t present a problem as they were close together. But she then had to get to Wolfe’s house in Warwickshire, a drive of at least an hour, before the alarm was raised. With the men far away, she was sure that would be long enough.

Sara turned off the torch and smiled as she stretched out on the sleeping bag. Her knee banged against the steel box that contained her gear.

She had everything she needed to kill, maim and incapacitate. Which of the three she used would depend on the circumstances. She was prepared for anything.
Thirteen

I was about five minutes’ walk from my flat when I realized that Karen would be going crazy. I’d changed the SIM card in my phone and only Andy knew the new number. I stopped at a public phone and called her office number. I got her secretary, so I hung up and tried her cell phone.

“Matt!” she said. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“Pardon?” I asked, playing the innocent.

“Don’t mess me around. I’ve been ringing you for hours.” She paused. “Where are you?”

Something about the way she asked the question made me suspicious. “Em, around and about. Hang on, I’ll call you back.” I broke the connection, retrieved my phone card from the machine and walked back toward Fulham Broadway Station. I had the distinct feeling that Karen’s interest in my location wasn’t casual. There was a good chance she’d been told to bring me in—technically, to protect me, but really to make sure I couldn’t take unilateral action against Sara. One thing I wasn’t going to be
The Soul Collector

189

doing was calling her back. Not only could she put a trace on the phone—I wasn’t going to make that mistake again after Safet Shkrelli—but she might manage to talk me into seeing things her way. I couldn’t risk that, and I wasn’t going to leave Andy and the others to face Sara. I was her main target, and I didn’t intend to leave them in the lurch. The only way we would catch her was by me taking her on. Karen would never be able to allow that, even if she understood it.

I sent Andy a text message—we’d agreed to keep calls to a minimum. He said he’d followed Doris Carlton-Jones to a bridge club in Beckenham. I told him to stay on her. It was just possible that Sara would have arranged to meet her birth mother. Then I had a thought. Maybe she was also keeping an eye on Doris Carlton-Jones. She knew what Andy looked like. I texted him again, telling him to keep out of sight as much as possible, and not to go back to my flat.

On the bus into the center, I thought about what I was doing. Dropping out of sight would piss Karen off and it might anger Sara, too. There was no right way to act. I thought about leaving the country and making it clear to Sara that I’d done so. Would that stop whatever devious plan she was working to? I knew it wouldn’t. She was implacable and relentless, and I was sure she’d spent the last two years honing the skills that the White Devil had introduced her to. I hit several cash machines, using different accounts each time, and then went to a computer shop that I hadn’t used before on Tottenham Court Road. I emerged with a laptop and a wi-fi card. Then I headed for the first hotel on the list I’d memorized. It was a cheap place in Bloomsbury, with clanking water pipes and dingy rooms, but the 190

Paul Johnston

clerk was happy to be paid in cash and didn’t ask for identification. I signed in as Mr. R. Thompson and gave an address in Leeds. Both were real, as I’d checked the local telephone directory—it wasn’t a good idea to make things up, given the heightened security situation in London. I locked the door and set up the laptop on a rickety table. I’d got the techies in the shop to initiate the system, so I was ready to roll. I logged on and checked my e-mails. There was nothing unexpected. I went to Rog’s ghost site to see how he and Pete were getting on. They were making progress, but it was slow.

I got back to thinking about the cryptic clue I’d been sent. There were under six hours to go. I was suddenly plagued by doubts about Katya being the target. Why would Sara go for a woman I’d only met briefly? Also, she could hardly have come up with a more difficult target, given how seriously a gangster like Safet Shkrelli would take security. Then again, I told myself, it would be just like Sara to choose an unlikely victim, and just like her to take on almost impossible odds. I hoped Shkrelli had paid heed to my warning. I’d liked Katya. She hadn’t lost her human warmth, despite the horrors she’d been through. Maybe that was why the gangster had chosen her. But was it really her name in the puzzle? I looked at it again. “The sun set by the westernmost dunes of Alexander’s womankind.” The sun. Apollo? Oddly enough, I didn’t know anyone of that name. Who else was associated with the sun? Louis XIVth of France had been known as the Sun King. Again, I didn’t know anyone called Louis, first or second name. I logged on to one of the search engines and came up with a list of sungods—Sol, Ra, Shamash, Inti, Surya Deva. I couldn’t link any of them to a recognizable person, unless I was
The Soul Collector

191

expected to warn every person named Sol or Solomon of imminent death. Then there were all the newspapers with

“sun” in their titles. I didn’t see how they might fit in to the rest of the clue. I thought about the dunes again. The westernmost dunes. In the U.K., that would mean Cornwall—there were plenty of beaches there, as well as a burgeoning surfing scene. Cornwall. I didn’t know anyone by that name. Shit, this was getting me nowhere. Then I remembered the name and initials the sender had used to sign off. Flaminio. That was an obvious link to John Webster’s play
The White Devil.
I’d initially assumed that meant Sara had written the message. But Flaminio was a male name. She would surely have used the name of Vittoria, the main female “white devil” in the play. As for D.F., I couldn’t make any link between those letters and Webster’s play. I began to have the feeling that I was playing a game with rules I only vaguely knew. Then I ran D.F. through a search engine and came up with the protagonist of a play by another writer born in the 16th century—Christopher Marlowe’s vainglorious but ultimately tragic Doctor Faustus. Why would Sara—or anyone else—cast themselves as the man who made a pact with the devil and ended up in hell?

I had a bad feeling about this. It looked like Sara might not have written the message. Was I being pursued by a male who had, in some way, done a deal with the devil? Everyone made compromises, everyone did things they didn’t want to for some temporary gain. Then I remembered what Karen had said about the book I’d written:
The
Death List
was in effect a pact with the devil and, by writing it, I’d lost part of my humanity. Maybe Sara, or someone else, was hinting at that.