Читаем The Walking Dead полностью

He heard the howl of the vehicle's engine. He looked over the neat chopped top of the hedge, across the ploughed field, beyond the wood of dense tree-trunks, and into the distance where a cloud bank settled on a shortened horizon. He saw the wheel of the birds' flight and sensed the innocence of the place. There would have been the same innocence to be seen if he had gazed out from a derelict hut, once used to shelter livestock, at groves of trees that bore dates, or irrigated fields of maize. Innocence reigned in the moments before the Apache gunships materialized above a horizon of gently swaying branches. On his fighting ground in Iraq, if a new cell member had fled in the night, he would have abandoned the place he slept and his current plan, would have started again from point zero on the laborious preparation for a new attack site. Too many now depended on him, and he knew that he would ignore the entreaties of his friend.

'If it is ready, you should go,' Ajaq said.

He walked away from his friend, across the wet grass. Inside the Triangle, on the banks of the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, innocence was unknown to him. Once, he had been captured. Once, the army of the enemy had had him defenceless and within their power, his freedom gone. Once, for an hour less than half a day, he had sat hunched down in the blister of the sun, with his arms held in the small of his back by plastic restrainers, his eyes taped over. But his papers had held up to examination, and the interrogation in the field had been rough — a few kicks, some belts with a rifle's butt — yet bored and cursory. He had been freed. With the wide, staring eyes of an idiot and the limp of a man disabled by polio — . as listed on his documentation — he had shambled away from the Americans. And that night Muhammad Ajaq, who was the Scorpion, had started an inquest inquiry as to whether he had been betrayed or merely fallen into the enemy's arms by misfortune, but men had died because he might have been betrayed. There, innocence did not exist. Here, his ability to recognize a mistake wavered.

He heard a vehicle's door slam at the front of the cottage.

He left his friend, the Engineer, behind him. The curtain flicked at a window, the boy's room.

He should have killed the bastard…but he had not.

He came round the side of the cottage, where the climbing rose was thickest.

He heard the woman's piping voice. 'I just wanted to see that you were all well, all enjoying your holiday together.'

And heard the girl's stammered reply: 'Very well, very much enjoying being together.'

At a front window, pressed close to each other and up against the glass panes, were the faces of the rest, staring like fools and frightened. With his hand by his thigh he snapped his fingers at them and saw their retreat. The girl, Faria, had come out through the front door and intercepted the intruder by the porch. The woman was middle-aged, jowled at her throat, and had crow's feet at her eyes; she wore an old waxed coat and a tweed skirt. He thought her strong. He thought she would fight, and saw the nails on her fingers and the heavy boots on her feet — would fight hard for her life. She stood square in front of a mud-spattered Land Rover, parked beside their own car.

She had not yet seen him. 'It seemed only polite that I should call round — you know — to be satisfied that everything was working, that you had everything you needed.'

Neither had the girl seen him. 'Everything's good, fine, no problems, wonderful.'

If he needed to, he would kill her. The woman would condemn herself if she gained entry and meandered through the bedrooms, if she saw the boy, if she entered the room where the waistcoat was laid out, if her questions were persistent, prying.

'There has been a problem with the shower unit — I forgot to tell you about it — and sometimes it needs a bit of a tweak. With so many of you here it might need that…I said to my husband that I really should call by and check the shower flow…' She was moving forward, about to skirt the girl.

He saw the girl's hand reach out, as if in panic. 'There's nothing wrong with the shower.'

'Best to be sure.'

'There's a mess inside — I wouldn't want you to see—'

'Too early, am I? Only take a moment — it's awful when a shower hasn't got the flow.'

The woman was past the girl, on the step, and the door was wide open. The girl's hand snaked out, caught the arm of the waxed jacket, and the woman stared into her face, surprised by her grip. By his orders and planning, Ajaq had killed many, perhaps high hundreds. With his own hand, by shooting, with a knife or by strangulation, he had killed tens. Man or woman, he had never lost sleep for those he had killed. He saw the woman's thickened throat, below the jowl, and buried in it would be the windpipe, where the pressure of his thumbs would be if she entered the cottage. He did not believe there was malice in her, only curiosity but it would be sufficient to condemn her to death — by strangulation.