Blood Moon Rising (A Beatrix Rose Thriller Book 2) by Mark Dawson Page A
Authors: Mark Dawson
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shone with fear.
Duffy gripped him by the chin and tilted his head up so that he was looking at him. “How old are you?” Duffy said. “Really?”
“Nineteen,” he said quietly.
“Nineteen. Sounds about right, Faik. I reckon that’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me all day.” He let go of the boy’s chin, and his head slumped forward, resting against his chest. He turned to the policemen. “Take him back to his cell.”
Duffy left the hut and stepped out into the baking heat outside. McNulty was still there. He was sitting on an upturned oil drum, watching the monitor as the policemen fixed cuffs around the boy’s wrists.
“You been watching?”
“Nothing better to do. What do you think?”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Duffy said. “He’s just a kid. What do you think?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Poor little bugger. He’s going to get thrown into a cell, and then God only knows what they’ll do to him.”
“Not our problem,” McNulty said, standing up and sliding his Ray-Bans onto his weather-beaten face. “You want to get anothe r beer?”
Duffy had been doing this long enough to be able to compartmentalise his work. The interrogation was necessary, even if it hadn’t produced anything useful other than that the boy knew nothing. And now it was done.
“Sure,” Duffy said. “Why not.”
Chapter Eleven
T he airbus stopped in Doha to refuel before travelling on to Kuwait City.
She spent her time reading the dossier on Mackenzie West that Michael Pope had provided. He fit the profile of the typical Manage Risk operative: he had been a Ranger with experience in Iraq during the occupation. His file showed that he had enjoyed an exemplary career and had been recruited by the company as soon as he demobilised. There had been work in Pakistan , Afghanistan and then Iraq. His annual fitness reports were near perfect.
It appeared that he had enjoyed something of a Damascene conversion soon after his arrival in Basra, with his line managers reporting that his conscience was proving to be an impediment in the efficient fulfilment of his duties. They had insisted that he undergo a psychological evaluation, and the spooks at GCHQ had been able to hack into Manage Risk’s servers and download it. The report had suggested that an incident on the road out of Basra in which an insurgent’s IED had killed a colleague had provided the impetus for his change in outlook. What he had witnessed outside the gates of Energy City had been the final shove that he needed. Now, the report said, he was unstable and could not be trusted to toe the company line. He was, they said, a liability.
They arrived in the evening, the dying sun casting its last rays across the expensive new airport. Beatrix had operated in the Middle East dozens of times before, but it was still a shock to the system to leave the climate-controlled interior of the Airbus for the heat outside . The air bridge was air-conditioned, too, but the evening’s heat bled through it and slapped against the disembarking passengers as if it were a physical presence. Beatrix slugged back a mouthful of cold water from the bottle she had taken from the steward and walked purposefully to border control. Now that she was here, she wanted to get started. There was a lot that needed to be done.
She flashed her diplomatic credentials and bypassed the sweaty line that had formed at the understaffed gate. The airport stretched away, gleaming steel and chrome and marble. She bought another bottle of water from a concession, swallowed another Zomorph and negotiated the slowly revolving doors into the baking warmt h outside.
She carried her bag to the taxi rank and slid into the nearest cab. It was blissfully cool inside.
“Where to?”
“The Intercontinental,” she said.
Beatrix was waiting at the hotel bar as she had been instructed. It was a hot, stifling evening, and she had ordered a beer to try and combat it. The place was as
Duffy gripped him by the chin and tilted his head up so that he was looking at him. “How old are you?” Duffy said. “Really?”
“Nineteen,” he said quietly.
“Nineteen. Sounds about right, Faik. I reckon that’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me all day.” He let go of the boy’s chin, and his head slumped forward, resting against his chest. He turned to the policemen. “Take him back to his cell.”
Duffy left the hut and stepped out into the baking heat outside. McNulty was still there. He was sitting on an upturned oil drum, watching the monitor as the policemen fixed cuffs around the boy’s wrists.
“You been watching?”
“Nothing better to do. What do you think?”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Duffy said. “He’s just a kid. What do you think?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Poor little bugger. He’s going to get thrown into a cell, and then God only knows what they’ll do to him.”
“Not our problem,” McNulty said, standing up and sliding his Ray-Bans onto his weather-beaten face. “You want to get anothe r beer?”
Duffy had been doing this long enough to be able to compartmentalise his work. The interrogation was necessary, even if it hadn’t produced anything useful other than that the boy knew nothing. And now it was done.
“Sure,” Duffy said. “Why not.”
Chapter Eleven
T he airbus stopped in Doha to refuel before travelling on to Kuwait City.
She spent her time reading the dossier on Mackenzie West that Michael Pope had provided. He fit the profile of the typical Manage Risk operative: he had been a Ranger with experience in Iraq during the occupation. His file showed that he had enjoyed an exemplary career and had been recruited by the company as soon as he demobilised. There had been work in Pakistan , Afghanistan and then Iraq. His annual fitness reports were near perfect.
It appeared that he had enjoyed something of a Damascene conversion soon after his arrival in Basra, with his line managers reporting that his conscience was proving to be an impediment in the efficient fulfilment of his duties. They had insisted that he undergo a psychological evaluation, and the spooks at GCHQ had been able to hack into Manage Risk’s servers and download it. The report had suggested that an incident on the road out of Basra in which an insurgent’s IED had killed a colleague had provided the impetus for his change in outlook. What he had witnessed outside the gates of Energy City had been the final shove that he needed. Now, the report said, he was unstable and could not be trusted to toe the company line. He was, they said, a liability.
They arrived in the evening, the dying sun casting its last rays across the expensive new airport. Beatrix had operated in the Middle East dozens of times before, but it was still a shock to the system to leave the climate-controlled interior of the Airbus for the heat outside . The air bridge was air-conditioned, too, but the evening’s heat bled through it and slapped against the disembarking passengers as if it were a physical presence. Beatrix slugged back a mouthful of cold water from the bottle she had taken from the steward and walked purposefully to border control. Now that she was here, she wanted to get started. There was a lot that needed to be done.
She flashed her diplomatic credentials and bypassed the sweaty line that had formed at the understaffed gate. The airport stretched away, gleaming steel and chrome and marble. She bought another bottle of water from a concession, swallowed another Zomorph and negotiated the slowly revolving doors into the baking warmt h outside.
She carried her bag to the taxi rank and slid into the nearest cab. It was blissfully cool inside.
“Where to?”
“The Intercontinental,” she said.
Beatrix was waiting at the hotel bar as she had been instructed. It was a hot, stifling evening, and she had ordered a beer to try and combat it. The place was as
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