Kareem was the watcher. He had been here for days and so far he had observed very little about the team inside the house.
He had found a position, back among the second rows of trees in the forest, so that he was far enough away not to be observed, but still near enough to see any movement at the front of the house or around the vehicles. He had clawed away at the soft earth to create a shallow pit for himself, to lower his body height and had covered himself with the foliage that surrounded him. It was not a perfect hide, but under the circumstances it was the best that he could do.
Kareem had allowed his body to become still and rest around him. He had found its pulse, found its tempo in the first few hours. His only movement was to slowly raise the binoculars to his eye-line, or to reach carefully into his jacket pocket to snap off a small piece of chocolate to keep him going. For variety, every now and again he would rotate his ankles, wrists and neck and hear them crack. A rare treat was when his body gave out an involuntary shudder against the night’s chill.
The house was in a state of stillness. All the curtains had been drawn with only the faintest flicker of light creeping through the curtains’ edges. But still he watched, he waited and he didn’t move. He was the eyes.
It had been so very similar when he had been with the Mujahideen; lying in wait for US military trucks as part of a convoy and he would be the watcher, or in control of the command wire, or the remote that would detonate the IED that would rip apart the Americans vehicles.
That was before he had been caught and traded to Pakistani intelligence. There, he had been tortured and held in a cell until the regime inside the prison had changed and only then had he been released and set free. He had made it to Germany to live under the roof of his brother and his family. He had worked for a pittance in menial jobs, just to pay for his rent and food. That was until he had met and been recruited by the angel of death, by Azrael.
Now he was the angel of death’s eyes.
In the early hours of the morning of the second day, somewhere between the end of darkness and the beginning of the day, he had allowed himself to rest for an hour, closing his eyes and letting his head lean forward to sleep. His reasoning was that the people inside would be locked down, cowed, perhaps even scared again. He needed to pace himself and his surveillance, so he would rest when he judged that there would be minimal activity.
But now the night had turned into light and had now turned into darkness again and he was sure that he had lost all sense of reality in his confined environment. It was the curse of the professional watcher.
Tom Lyth looked at himself in the mirror in his room. He was dressed in his habitual black coat, black turtleneck sweater and dark trousers. His only pieces of equipment were his smartphone and his habitual edged weapon, the small Japanese paring knife; the Fisherman’s hook. Guns were not on his menu, would have been more of a hindrance, and besides, if everything went as planned, it would be other people pulling triggers.
He closed his eyes for a moment and ran through how he wanted the night to play out. He often did these visualisation drills because, if nothing else, they helped to calm him. When he had played out the scenario, he took one last look around the room, ensuring that he had left nothing behind that could link him to this location. He hadn’t and what there was left would be destroyed very soon when the explosives incinerated the whole building.
He left the room and made his way down the staircase. The other man stood at the door, ready and waiting. Lyth checked his watch. It was almost time to leave and he had the keys to the Lexus in his hands.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
The taller man nodded
“Then let’s go,” said the Fisherman and the two men, agent and agent runner, walked through the door and out into the night.
Kareem gently removed the cell phone from his pocket and covered the screen with his hand. He flipped through to the text messaging app and typed in: TARGETS ARE ON THE MOVE: TWO. #1: TALL, SLIM, OVERCOAT, CAP. THE OTHER SMALLER, DARK JACKET, ACTING AS BODYGUARD. THEY ARE LEAVING NOW. VEHICLE; LEXUS.
He sent the message, watched as it buffered until finally two little blue ticks popped up in the message thread. Azrael had read it. Moments later, the reply came back at him: ANYBODY ELSE?
Kareem tapped back at the phone. NO. JUST THEM. VEHICLE IS ON THE MOVE.
Moments later, a new text bar appeared on Kareem’s phone. OK. STAY IN POSITION. SEND ANY UPDATES ASAP.
K.
When they had exited the safe house, Tom Lyth had made a show, just in case anyone was watching, of carefully guiding Pavel Zeman into the rear of the Lexus in the manner of a bodyguard with his client.
Once the tall Czech scientist was inside and the door was secured, Lyth climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The Lexus glided out of the driveway and onto the private road, a sweeping turn and it was moving along the main road heading to its target location.
The darkness enveloped them as they drove down the country roads. Only the beam of the headlights gave them any clue of their environment. A quick glance at the clock; they were fine and had plenty of time. Lyth glanced in the rear view mirror and looked at the face of the man who he had known for so many years. He saw the same unruly hair, the gaunt face and the tired eyes of Pavel Zeman.
“You sure you are ready for this, Pavel?” asked Lyth, a playful smile on his lips.
“Boss, I was doing this kind of thing when your momma was changing your diapers,” came back the voice of a heavily disguised Wolf Beckwith.