Double Blindside. Don Pendleton

out his sound-suppressed pistol and eased off the safety. He could hear Makar on the phone and waited until the man finished his call. The moment Makar replaced the receiver, Kumad pushed open the door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and walked across the room to stand at the desk, extending his arm, the pistol inches from Makar.

      Makar stared at the black muzzle, then at Kumad.

      “Who are you?” He had never met Kuman before and would have no idea he worked for Özgürlük. “What do you want?”

      “I’m here to close your account. The same as I’ve done for your two partners,” Kumad said and pulled the trigger.

      It was a close shot, the skin around the wound peppered with powder and scorch burns. The back of Makar’s head blew open, depositing brain and skull matter on the high seat back. Makar’s head bounced against the seat, then forward. The phone rang at that moment. The sound startled Kumad for a second. He recovered, putting away his pistol. He closed the laptop and disconnected the cables. He turned and disturbed items in the office to make it appear as though someone had broken in. He didn’t believe the actions would fool the authorities for long but it was no more than a distraction.

      The phone stopped ringing

      With the laptop under his arm he pulled the office door almost shut, made his way out of the building the way he had come in. A couple of minutes later he slipped back onto the street, walking calmly, and merged with the pedestrians on the sidewalk. He had already removed the latex gloves by then.

      Kumad returned to his hotel, packed his carryall, with the laptop under his clothes, and made a quick call.

      “Your appointments went well?” Kaplan said. “No difficulties?”

      “None.”

      “You found the laptop?”

      “Of course.”

      “Then I will see you when you return.”

      “Yes.”

      Downstairs, Kumad checked out, paying his account in cash, and walked to the nearby multistory car park where his rental sat. He took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on before he unlocked the vehicle, placed his bag in the trunk and slid behind the wheel. He was always careful not to leave any prints behind. There were too many ways to be identified these days, so covering his tracks was something he did as a matter of course.

      He started the engine.

      And that was when it came to him as he stared at his hands gripping the wheel.

      The shell casing.

      He had not picked up the spent bullet casing from the floor of Makar’s office. The ringing of the phone had distracted him and his mind had been occupied with other matters.

       The casing.

      A small item in itself, but one that could become important if it was found. Because there would most likely be a print on it from when he had loaded the pistol’s magazine. When he loaded his magazines he used bare hands. In the past he had found using latex gloves to be a problem; twice the thin latex had been snagged by the loading slot of a magazine, tearing off a piece of the rubber and becoming jammed in the spring mechanism. Something as small as that could have interfered with the action of the magazine, causing a misfire. Since then, he had always worked barehanded—he compensated for that by never, ever, leaving behind a spent bullet casing.

      Until today.

      A stupid error on his part. One that could have repercussions if it was found.

      Kumad considered the implications of identification that would place him at the scene, making him the number one suspect. He valued his anonymity, but he was not stupid enough to believe he was not on a database on some computer. And via that identification came the possibility he could be linked to Özgürlük.

      He sat in the car and considered his options. Foremost in his thoughts was protecting his identity. In his line of work, remaining anonymous was vitally important. He needed that status to stay as it was. If he was identified as the man who had assassinated Makar, then his usefulness in the future would be compromised.

      Kumad turned off the engine and took a fresh pair of latex gloves from the glove box. He climbed out and locked the car. He exited the car park and began the return journey to Makar’s office building. It would take him about a half hour. He did not hurry.

      First he would check out the area. See if there seemed to be any unusual activity around the building. If the police were there he would walk away. By then it would be too late for him to recover the casing and he would need to leave London as he had planned, and as quickly as possible.

      He realized there was no other way he could handle this. If the police found the casing, which they undoubtedly would, the process would begin. It would take time, and during that time Kumad needed to get as far from the UK as he could. There were many places he could go. Give himself time to cover his tracks and establish a new identity. He had the money to do it; his profession paid him well, and Kumad had always been prudent when it came to spending the contract fees he gathered. With money he could purchase any of the documents he needed. Some minor cosmetic enhancement would also help. His fingerprints were another matter—but that was something he had been thinking about for some time. He could not change them but he could have them removed so that problems such as this would not occur again.

      There were so many ways the authorities could check out evidence nowadays. A fingerprint, any small piece of evidence, could be passed from country to country, logged into electronic search engines. Cooperation between law-enforcement agencies extended globally. A single item could be passed around quickly, checked and rechecked, throwing up answers in a short time.

      Kumad needed to retrieve his bullet casing before it was found.

      When he walked by the alley to Makar’s establishment he didn’t stop. He carried on until he was satisfied it was safe. Observation of the street showed no unusual presence in the area. It was a busy London high street, lined with stores and populated by large numbers of people, somewhere unusual activity would be noticeable. And a uniformed police presence would be almost impossible to conceal.

      He realized the longer he delayed the more likely Makar’s body could be discovered. If he was going to retrieve the shell casing it had to be now. He was aware of the risk but in reality he had no other choice. If the police found the shell casing and a check for fingerprints proved positive, the matter could escalate. Kumad did not underestimate the skill of police procedures. And he could not allow any investigation to tie him to the Turkish organization.

      He turned around and calmly walked back to the alley, moving quickly and making for the access stairs to Makar’s building. He pulled on the latex gloves as he headed to the stairway.

      At the top of the access stairs he opened the door and stepped inside the building.

      He moved into the corridor where Makar’s office was situated.

      And that was when it all went wrong.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       London, earlier that day

      Gary Manning watched the rain streaking past the window of the USAF transport as it touched down at RAF Lakenheath and rolled along the runway. The base was host to a large American contingent. Strings had been pulled to get Manning and Hawkins onto British soil without fanfare. The presence of the Stony Man operatives had not caused much of a ripple on the aircraft, which was making one of its regular supply runs.

      The President had spoken to the echelon of the Air Force, requesting their assistance in a security matter that touched on NATO safety and an overspill into Turkey. There might have been a collective intake of Air Force breath because of the President’s involvement, but in the end his request was agreed to.