do that. I don’t even know if we’re friends or what? Where have you been?’
‘I had to tend to some business out of town.’
‘Business was it? What was her name?’
He frowned. ‘That’s a little juvenile. Not like you at all.’
‘How would you know what I’m like?’ I snapped.
‘This is getting ridiculous. You said you just wanted to be friends. Are you jealous or do you want me to stay out of your life?’
‘I want you to tell me who you are.’
He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. ‘I can’t do that.’
That was that then. If he couldn’t be honest with me about who he was, how could I side with him over my own sister? My stomach knotted painfully.
‘Then,’ I struggled, ‘it’s best you leave me alone for a while. I need to take care of my family.’
He dragged one hand down his face and nodded. ‘I won’t go anywhere, Red. I’ll be at the house if you need me.’
He left silently through the back door and I collapsed back on the settee.
Beirut, Lebanon – 25 th December 2004
It was Christmas Day and colder than it had been all week. He’d checked in to a local motel with a single sponsor: the father, a humanitarian working for the Red Cross.
Every day for two weeks he’d sat on the same street, in the same cafés, playing football with the local boys, drinking tea and watching – waiting. Waiting for the call that was taking for ever to come. It had been seven months since his first job and there had been three others since – it all seemed second nature to him now. This was, however, his first war-zone assignment. It was also the first time things had gone wrong.
The call came at midday, the target someone he hadn’t expected. He’d spoken with the man on more than one occasion; he was the owner of a market stall that sold small, and somewhat useless, handmade leather goods. The man had even stopped someone from stealing from K just a day before. K had seen the thief coming, but for a bit of sport he was going to let him take his wallet before breaking his arm. Yet the man had chased the pickpocket away. Shocked at receiving help from a stranger, K had accepted an invitation to join the man for coffee. He was learning English and K’s cover was that he was a Swedish student. They conversed together, idle chitchat in broken sentences and misplaced words. The man often laughed at his attempts to explain the simplest of subjects.
Now, knowing he was supposed to kill him that very evening, K found he was quite perturbed. Having never pondered the reason for his job before, he couldn’t help but consider it then. For the very first time, he was aware of what he was about to do and it bothered him.
The target was by his stall, just a hundred meters away when K received the call that sealed the man’s fate. Tormented, he swallowed two espressos before leaving the bustling square to consider his plan of attack. The man was not even remotely covert, so he did not need to follow him. Down the back of his right trouser leg he placed a thin skewer, which he would later plunge into his target’s heart before shoving him down a flight of stairs. It would be a long time – if ever – before anyone realised the cause of death wasn’t an accidental fall resulting in a broken neck. By which time, both he and the sponsor would be safely back in the United States. The plan was made, it just needed to be executed. K picked up speed as he went over the arrangement in his mind.
His hair was shorter than usual and dyed a white blond; his skin tanned and dirty. He looked nothing like the boy from the room in France all those months ago. Today he was Karl, a schoolboy from Sweden.
He spent the day observing from a position where he could see the entire street without being noticed. He watched the man eat some food, watched him laugh at a joke as he drank from a pitcher of water after thanking the woman
‘I had to tend to some business out of town.’
‘Business was it? What was her name?’
He frowned. ‘That’s a little juvenile. Not like you at all.’
‘How would you know what I’m like?’ I snapped.
‘This is getting ridiculous. You said you just wanted to be friends. Are you jealous or do you want me to stay out of your life?’
‘I want you to tell me who you are.’
He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. ‘I can’t do that.’
That was that then. If he couldn’t be honest with me about who he was, how could I side with him over my own sister? My stomach knotted painfully.
‘Then,’ I struggled, ‘it’s best you leave me alone for a while. I need to take care of my family.’
He dragged one hand down his face and nodded. ‘I won’t go anywhere, Red. I’ll be at the house if you need me.’
He left silently through the back door and I collapsed back on the settee.
Beirut, Lebanon – 25 th December 2004
It was Christmas Day and colder than it had been all week. He’d checked in to a local motel with a single sponsor: the father, a humanitarian working for the Red Cross.
Every day for two weeks he’d sat on the same street, in the same cafés, playing football with the local boys, drinking tea and watching – waiting. Waiting for the call that was taking for ever to come. It had been seven months since his first job and there had been three others since – it all seemed second nature to him now. This was, however, his first war-zone assignment. It was also the first time things had gone wrong.
The call came at midday, the target someone he hadn’t expected. He’d spoken with the man on more than one occasion; he was the owner of a market stall that sold small, and somewhat useless, handmade leather goods. The man had even stopped someone from stealing from K just a day before. K had seen the thief coming, but for a bit of sport he was going to let him take his wallet before breaking his arm. Yet the man had chased the pickpocket away. Shocked at receiving help from a stranger, K had accepted an invitation to join the man for coffee. He was learning English and K’s cover was that he was a Swedish student. They conversed together, idle chitchat in broken sentences and misplaced words. The man often laughed at his attempts to explain the simplest of subjects.
Now, knowing he was supposed to kill him that very evening, K found he was quite perturbed. Having never pondered the reason for his job before, he couldn’t help but consider it then. For the very first time, he was aware of what he was about to do and it bothered him.
The target was by his stall, just a hundred meters away when K received the call that sealed the man’s fate. Tormented, he swallowed two espressos before leaving the bustling square to consider his plan of attack. The man was not even remotely covert, so he did not need to follow him. Down the back of his right trouser leg he placed a thin skewer, which he would later plunge into his target’s heart before shoving him down a flight of stairs. It would be a long time – if ever – before anyone realised the cause of death wasn’t an accidental fall resulting in a broken neck. By which time, both he and the sponsor would be safely back in the United States. The plan was made, it just needed to be executed. K picked up speed as he went over the arrangement in his mind.
His hair was shorter than usual and dyed a white blond; his skin tanned and dirty. He looked nothing like the boy from the room in France all those months ago. Today he was Karl, a schoolboy from Sweden.
He spent the day observing from a position where he could see the entire street without being noticed. He watched the man eat some food, watched him laugh at a joke as he drank from a pitcher of water after thanking the woman
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