Black woke early the next morning, showered, changed into dark jeans, a dark long-sleeved sports top, a pair of well-used running shoes. He went downstairs for breakfast at 7am, to a large ornate dining room, with wide bay windows overlooking a quaint, well-ordered garden. The food was laid out in rows of hot plates, buffet style. Black was famished. He heaped bacon, eggs, sausages on his plate. The place was empty, save for a young couple at one corner.
Black took a complimentary newspaper from a rack, sat nearest the windows. The skies were heavy with cloud. Looked like rain was coming. A waitress brought over a round of toast and a pot of coffee. He flicked through the paper. There was nothing of interest. He finished breakfast, poured himself a third cup of coffee, caught the waitress’s attention, and asked for a fresh pot, and more toast. He sat back, gazing at the scenery outside, though there was little to see. It was a neat garden, high walls on either side, a patch of lawn, and in the centre, a cherry tree, dense with clustered double pink flowers. From a branch hung a lantern shaped bird feeder. On it was a solitary robin, fearless, picking at the morsels of seed.
Black, prone to bouts of melancholic introspection, thought back, to another time, another world. Memories came back. Once, in the Khogyani District of Afghanistan, near the border of Pakistan, he and a small team of handpicked Special Forces were on a reconnaissance sweep. Taliban were believed to have gone on a “revenge hunt”. Door-to-door killings, seeking western collaborators in a number of villages. Black’s job was to evaluate and return, not to intercede. Black got to a village called Zawa. There was little left. The houses burnt and pulverised. Body parts on the dirt tracks. Women, children, animals. Death didn’t discriminate.
The smell of smoked flesh attacked the senses. No one was alive. The village, its population, reduced to memories. This was no Taliban strike. The carnage was too complete. Too perfect. This was a drone strike. Maybe the US. Maybe the British Army. Black didn’t know, and would never know. A drone strike gone way off target. A frequent event, in the badlands of Afghanistan. The so-called “surgical accuracy” a myth. If the military got a whiff of Taliban activity, then the response was simple – kill, kill, kill.
He and his men picked their way through the devastation, silent and grim. He remembered – in the doorway of a broken house, beside the body of a little girl no older than four, a tiny bird. A robin redbreast. Bright amongst the ruins. Fearless. Black had never seen one in Afghanistan, but he saw one there, in that village, standing strong beside the child. Daring him to come closer. A guardian of the dead. A tiny splash of colour in the dark. It brought what? Black recalled the emotion. Something in that tragic world he thought never to see. Hope.
Black drew his thoughts to the present, and wondered how things were playing out. By now, almost certainly, Copeland’s death was an established fact. The multitude of men he’d hired would be milling about, debating where their next pay cheque was coming from. In a short while, he reckoned, they would disband, return to whichever rock they’d crawled from.
Copeland’s manner of death, in the first instance, wouldn’t arouse suspicion. But in time, the BMW would be found, as well as the body of the unfortunate Harry James, his neck twisted at an ugly angle. Who would care? The police would think gangland killing, a frequent occurrence in the Malcolm Copeland universe. And retribution? Hardly. With Copeland gone, others would be too interested in filling his space, perhaps leading to warfare. Hopefully, the name Adam Black would fade into oblivion, like footprints in the sand.
The vibration of his mobile phone roused him from his thoughts. He reached into his pocket, glanced at the number. Deborah Gallagher. He answered. “Deborah?”
“Please come, Adam.”
Black sensed the strain in her voice. “What is it?”
“My son. Tony. He…” Black heard her hesitate, take a long breath.
He waited.
“He tried to kill himself.”
A short brutal statement. Black missed a beat, trying to rationalise. He spoke, and knew what he said wouldn’t help one iota.
“I’m so sorry, Deborah.”
“Please come. I’m at the house.”
“Give me an hour.”
Black disconnected, looked out into the hotel’s back garden.
The robin had gone.