PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER TEN

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

Rashid Al-Mannai - Jordanian Ambassador
Officer Windrush - MPD Patrolman
Jerri Neighbour - Freelance Journalist
Kolé Cutter - American President
J A Metcalfe (JAM) - CIA/UK Liaison
Horace Lime - SO11/CIA Liaison
Philip Dalton - British Assassin
Morris (MO) Schlick - Film Director
Nicola Schlick - Mo's Wife
Tse Lin Yan - Chinese Miliary Attaché
Victor Miles - Secure Armed Services
Abdul Miandad - Syrian Lawyer

Rosie Hoare - Limes' Secretary
Lobb - Policeman

Alan Borg - MPD Homicide Detective
John D Elkins - Bank President & City Mayor

Maurice Le Clerc - Monaco Security Chief
René Dupont - Interpol

Mendy Wade - Chief of White House Staff
George Bartlett - Head of White House Security
Sam McDonald - Head of FBI
Charles Howe - Sam's No.1

Herbert Brown - Embassy Butler
Colonel Najeen - Head of Embassy Security

Aziz Alludashiij (Alluda) - Jordanian Junior Envoy

Fatima Windawi - Rashid Al-Mannai's Secretary
Khalid Haddad - Security Officer
Yaya Munchid - Embassy Chef
Abdul Nizzar - Kitchen Scullion
Hussein Mohammed - Embassy Chauffeur
Teddy Harbour - MPD Police Pathologist

10

Washington DC - August 07, 2013 - 13.40

At the Jordanian embassy, things had started to warm up. The chauffeur, Hussein Mohammed, felt close to death. So great had been his anxiety to find Alluda and report back to the colonel, he had barged straight into the young envoy's room only to collide with some hidden force. He was jerked forward and down, banging his head violently on the floor as a thousand tiny spots floated before his eyes. Then, just as surprising and with equal venom, an exceptionally strong hand attempted to force his head through Alluda’s carpet, into the concrete floor below.

He was aware of the terrible pain in his nose which felt as if it was broken and a thick discharge of mucus and blood forcing its way through his nostrils. From the corner of his eye, Hussein saw a gun barrel making an equally painful indent into his forehead. The chauffeur wriggled, fighting for breath. He noticed Alluda’s face contorted in horror.

Elkins continued to glare at him, while the gun bit ever deeper into the man’s face. ‘Who is he?’

The voice was hard, urgent. The terror Hussein experienced, the like of which he had never previously known, began in his bowels which started to jerk beneath him. For Alluda, this was no longer a pipe dream. It had become a whole new reality. What had originally appeared to be a simple plan, one designed to designate him as the victim, had suddenly gone badly, irrevocably, wrong. Chillingly, he knew that this would be the first of many mistakes before the day was done. Prior to his attack, Hussein must have witnessed him consorting, apparently freely, with two men armed to the teeth; surely, he had been compromised beyond redemption.

Elkins, on the other hand, had only just started. He angrily repeated his question. ‘Tell me who the fuck he is.’

Alluda turned away and retched. Gasping for breath and cowed, he wiped his mouth; the remains of illicit food dripped down the bedroom wall.

‘Please don't kill me! This man is Hussein Mohammed. He is the chauffeur. He is my friend!’ He lifted his arms over his head, as if he too had become a captive. Connolly realized the man needed to convince his friend. The rude entry had been an accident, one that could result in fearful consequences for everybody. He raised his gun, pretending to cover the young envoy.

In the meantime, Hussein, who could not have cared less about Alluda, was conscious of the cruel hand pressing him down further, the hard floorboards crushing his head. ‘Alright, Hussein Mohammed, people don't usually rush into someone's room without knocking. You wanna tell us about it, then?’ The chauffeur felt like he had Colonel Najeen to deal with all over again.

The hand eased slightly as he tried to talk through his twisted mouth, teeth grinding against gums. He could taste the salty blood which was still pumping out and covering the lower part of his face.

‘The colonel told me to go and fetch Alluda...’

‘Colonel Najeen, the Chief of Security!’ Alluda sounded terrified.

Hussein continued.‘The colonel said to fetch him.’ The hand eased a little more.

‘And why would the colonel say that?’ The man's voice had that same silky tone.

Hussein tried to relax his neck which was now tensing into hard spasms of cramp. ‘He...he... thinks Alluda is into hash.’

Elkins stared at the envoy and then laughed hysterically. It was almost a release.

‘Into hash is he? Hash is not the only thing he's into.’ Blood rushed to Alluda’s face. The stupid bastard was about blow him away, but then the man followed up quickly.

‘He's in as much trouble as you if we don't get the right answers.’ Again, the young American loosened his grip slightly, his voice more relaxed. ‘So, how did the colonel find out that Alluda might be into hash?’ Hussein tried to glance at his tormentor.

‘I...I don't know. It's something to do with the courier, I think.’

Elkins grinned. ‘Courier, what courier?’

Hussein managed to shake his head. ‘I don't know. Someone nobody seems to have heard of. He got himself killed by a truck, right outside the embassy, half an hour ago.’ The reply had a completely chilling effect. Elkins lifted his hand from the man's neck.

Connolly's face crumpled. He could see Miandad’s face covered in sweat, his body trembling; a grease ball who would fold at the first puff of wind. Completely forgetting he was supposed to be covering Alluda with a gun, the young Irishman pressed up to the cowering man. ‘What courier? Give me his name.’ The chauffeur tried to think. The colonel had mentioned his name. The man holding him seemed to have stopped breathing. He put his gun away, transferred both hands to the chauffeur's jacket and snarlingly yanked him into the air. ‘Give us his name.’

Hussein concentrated. This was a nightmare. Shaken like a rag doll, he screwed his eyes up. ‘Please, sir. Please, wait a moment. Please.’ Tears started down his face. Of course, it was like one of the senior envoys at the embassy.
‘Was it Iqbal something?’ Now Elkins began to panic. He drew the man even closer. ‘Iqbal? Iqbal who? Think man!’ He shook Hussein again, but the chauffeur went limp, his eyes rolled into his head as if he was about to pass out.

Connolly finally broke the spell. ‘Shamshall?’
Hussein nearly broke loose in his feverish excitement, his eyes suddenly bursting from his head. ‘That's it, that's it! Iqbal Shamshall, a phony courier. He was trying to get into the embassy. Run over by a truck. He's dead!’

Elkins let go and Hussein fell back, his head banging hard on the floor. This time,it was the back of his head, but that same constellation of tiny fluorescent lights came back to haunt him.

The men exchanged glances. The phony courier, Iqbal A Shamshall, or more to the point the lawyer, Abdul Miandad, had been run over. The Irishman felt a strong sense of guilt. He was suddenly convinced that the man had been close to death, even when they had been breaking into the drains. Killed by a truck but was he was already dying? If so, how and, more to the point, why?

Hussein had worked himself up into a state of exhaustion. He just wanted to sleep. A voice broke through his fatigue to say something before someone rolled up one of his sleeves; he jumped at the sharp prick of a needle. Then he heard a voice. ‘That's right,just keep him quiet until this is all over.’ It sounded like Alluda, but he couldn’t be sure. In any case, he didn't care. He had no knowledge of someone carrying him through the trapdoor, down some iron rungs and dumping him on to a wet, slime-covered floor.

* * *

The door into Al-Mannai’s inner sanctum opened gently as a silver trolley preceded Brown. The ambassador and his guest, already in deep discussion, had obviously struck a mutual chord; neither were obliged to finish the meeting, particularly now, with Cutter on his way. With over half an hour before prayers, followed by his meeting with Alluda, the timing for Al Mannai would just about work
.
The two men watched as Brown laid out glasses, plates, napkins and cutlery, before lifting a silver cover from a platter of simple, inviting sand¬wiches. Replacing the cover, he turned to the ambassador. ‘Yaya will grill a hamburger for the President when he arrives.’ Brown grinned cruelly. ‘I'm afraid he may never recover!’

The butler referred to their fat cook, Yaya Munchid and Al-Mannai enjoyed the private joke, but Schlick became anxious. ‘Do we have a problem with the food?’

Brown allowed himself a grin and shook his head.
‘No sir, the problem exists with our chef. Today is the start of Ramadan. It will be very painful for Chef to cook a hamburger!’

As Schlick finally got the joke, the old man turned back to the ambassador. ‘There was something earlier, sir. I heard a squeal of brakes by the front entrance and just popped out for a moment. I’m afraid someone got himself run over.’

Al-Mannai nodded. ‘We witnessed him taken away.’

Brown indicated a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse, nestling in a bucket of ice, its exterior running with condensation.

‘Should I open this or wait?’

Schlick cast a puzzled look at the ambassador.
‘You don't drink alcohol, Rashid?’ It seemed half-statement, half-question.

Al-Mannai laughed and signaled for the butler to go ahead. ‘Please don’t tell any- one,’ he laughed. Brown opened the wine, sniffed the cork by way of reassurance, half-filled a glass, replaced the bottle and handed Schlick a napkin.
At this point, the director realized that, for the moment, everything had been prepared for him. As the butler bowed his head to both men and made a solemn exit, Schlick's eyes followed him. ‘You won't find too many like that nowadays.’

Al-Mannai smiled. ‘He came well researched; a very British recommendation.’

* * *

While the ambassador was enjoying himself with Schlick, his head of security sat in an almost deserted staff dining area, conversing with his subordinate, Khalid Haddad. Najeen’s small piggy eyes darted around the room, his voice deliberately low. Khalid bent his head to the colonel's lips. With the exceptions of Alluda, the chauffeur, Hussein Mohammed and, of course, the ambassador, still in his study with the Jew, the few remaining staff sat around a table on the other side of the room.

The colonel watched as the chef, Yaya Munchid, wiped a large piece of bread around a bowl of soup, before forcing the whole mess into his mouth. The man claimed diabetes but it was no excuse during this the most holy of fasting periods. Even worse, as he pre-tended to converse with his scullion, Abdul Nizzar, the man ogled lasciviously at the deep cleavage between Fatima Windawi's plump breasts.

Al-Mannai’s buxom secretary pretended not to notice. Instead, she glanced through the review section of an English Sunday Times newspaper, furnished by Brown, who seemed to be reading the Sport section. He sat slightly aloof from the other three, drinking tea and eating a thick-cut ham sandwich. Colonel Najeen shuddered at what he considered a deliberate provocation and tried to drive the man from his mind.

Fifteen minutes had passed since his brief conversation with the chauffeur and the man had failed to return with Alluda. Najeen speculated as to whether they had re-mained plotting or, perhaps, even fled from the building. Following the designated break, he would go and check for himself. For the moment, he appeared content to report events of the last half-hour to his colleague and certainly he had no wish for the other table to overhear his conclusions.

For his part, Khalid Haddad was circumspect with good reason; he was a recipient of special tobacco and other noxious goodies Hussein sometimes brought into the embassy and was anxious not to stir things up. He could end up being returned to his village near Aqaba in disgrace, perhaps not even able to return to his position as local postman.

Brown, who had finished his sandwich, took a last gulp of tea and walked over to the security chief's table. Najeen's lips curled contemptuously before forming into a hypocritical smile. Khalid Haddad excused himself and headed for the toilet, having noted the butler's approach and correctly anticipated an abrasive encounter. Brown's face remained impassive, giving nothing away. Was this why he always annoyed the wily old police¬man?

‘You should know the ambassador is still with the American. However, at two-thirty he has a meeting with Mr. Alludajiij's, in his room and does not wish to be disturbed.’

The colonel suddenly started to panic, something he had previously managed to avoid. As soon as he got to the bottom of the courier affair, he would want to talk to the boss and report his findings. Now, the probable culprit might get to see the ambassador first. It had become ridiculous.

Other than Brown himself, Alluda claimed the privilege of meeting with Al-Mannai regularly, sometimes even without the benefit of an appointment. As Chief Security Officer, only he should have this privilege. Now, the man most likely to be involved in this Shamshall affair would have a chance to deny it. Brown had obviously attempted to humiliate him. Najeen contrived to seem puzzled. ‘And this is my business?’

The old butler ignored Najeen's attempt at sarcasm and sailed on. ‘Hussein Mohammed appears to have vanished and I will need him after lunch to do some shopping for me before he takes the ambassador to his meeting later. You appear to be the last person who spoke with him...’ Brown raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Since your title, as I understand it, is Head of Security, I thought it likely you would know of his whereabouts.’

Najeen ground his teeth in anger. This time the man had gone too far. However, the real hammer blow was yet to fall. ‘Please be aware that the American President is in transit, on his way here now for an unofficial visit.’ The colonel’s jaw dropped, unsure whether to acknowledge honor, outrage or plain panic; everything was forgotten in a moment of crisis. Najeen’s voice tightened; his face turned a darker shade of purple.

‘When?’

Brown removed his own ancient time¬piece, a gold-hunter fob watch, nestling in his waistcoat at the far end of an antique gold chain.

Hesitating, aware of the effect this final piece of news had produced, he peered down at the old timepiece and allowed himself the suspicion of a sneer. ‘In about 30 seconds, I shouldn't wonder.’ He turned on his heel and walked away, while Najeen, bristling with rage, pushed back his chair and marched from the room, his back as stiff as a revolver barrel.

* * *

The sky had grown dark and ominous. In that moment, rain cascaded down in one great rolling swathe across the avenue. A few people scurried for shelter as a large black Mercedes drew up alongside a fire hydrant by the embassy. Metcalfe turned off the igntion and a zigzag of lightning lit up the sky, followed by more thunder, closer now.

Lime ran his window down just as an irate police officer ran out from under the embassy portico and tried to wrench open the door. Then, seeing an MPD car pull in behind the limo, his face clouded with uncertainty. Lieutenant Borg got out, ran to the Mercedes and jumped in the back as Officer Windrush saluted, the rain drumming on his hat and cape. Metcalfe half rolled down the window; the rain showed no mercy to either of them.

The CIA man leaned across Lime and smiled. ‘I’m sorry about the hydrant.’

Windrush grinned as Borg reached over, opened the door and yelled at him. ‘Get in.’ The homicide detective made room as the man climbed into the back of the vehicle. Borg pointed at Metcalfe who had turned towards him. ‘Tell this guy what you told me.’ The policeman drew himself up in the limited confines, dripping water over the seat, removed a damp pad from his breast pocket and started flipping pages.

‘Close to my relief.’ Windrush consulted his notebook. ‘Around one fifteen. A Ryder truck comes down the avenue, good and steady. It’d just started raining.’ He glanced outside.
‘Anyway this guy runs, staggers, and falls right in front of it.

Lime prompted him. ‘You think, perhaps, he may have been drugged?’

The policeman was perplexed. ‘More like drunk,’ he said, still with doubt in his voice.

‘Witnesses?’ Metcalfe interrupted.

‘When the guy went down, people appeared from nowhere, but no one came forward, sir.’ Windrush sounded embarrassed and then he remembered.
‘Excepting some strange little guy with a hump on his back; might have been a backpack. He wore a funny slicker - a couple of sizes too big, if you ask me.’

Metcalfe persisted. ‘You thought that funny?’

The young police officer shook his head. ‘Nah, something else. He just felt wrong somehow, y’know. Maybe the hump on his back?’

Metcalfe continued. ‘You spoke to this guy?’

‘I told him to back off. He gets kinda embarrassed. Something was strange, him bending over the body, watching the embassy over my shoulder.’ He turned his head to illustrate. ‘I looked, the doors closed and...’

‘You actually witnessed the door close?’

The man's face lit up. ‘Yeah! The guy mentioned a couple of cleaners and…’

Lime stopped him. ‘The gentleman in the mack?’ Windrush looked puzzled and Lime repeated the question. ‘The guy in the slicker?’ Windrush grinned.

‘A bit late in the day for cleaners?’ The man shrugged.

‘Were they going in or coming out?’ Lime indicated with his hand.

Windrush shook his head again. That he was bewildered was obvious. ‘I guess they must have gone in, otherwise I’d have known for sure.’ All of a sudden his face lit up. ‘I’d bet my pay on the dead guy heading to the embassy for sure. He had a briefcase…’

Metcalfe persisted. ‘But you didn’t see anybody?’

Windrush shook his head decisively. ‘No sir, I did not.’

Metcalfe turned to Lime. ‘So our stiff might have been a decoy?’

The Londoner laughed. ‘Some decoy!’

Metcalfe, still doubtful, turned back to Windrush. ‘Maybe a staff member heard the noise and came out to take a…’

Borg interrupted. ‘He didn’t stay long!’

Lime shrugged. ‘Maybe he wasn’t nosy!’

Metcalfe had started to feel uneasy. He again addressed the young police officer. ‘The guy in the slicker, you think he came from around here?’

Windrush shook his head. ‘No, sir, he sounded like your friend.’ He grinned and Lime returned the compliment. ‘He sounded like a cockney sparrow.’

Borg broke in quickly. ‘But you’d recognize the guy if he appeared again?’

The young policeman popped a tablet of gum into his mouth, started chewing, then nodded. ‘No problem.’

Metcalfe grimaced. ‘We’re gonna ask you to look at quite a few pictures.’

Windrush grinned. ‘If it’ll keep me outta the rain...’

Metcalfe ignored the quip. ‘You expected your relief in any case?’

Windrush glanced at Borg. ‘The Lieutenant thought I’d better stay here.’

Metcalfe started to open his door. ‘Who did you speak to at the embassy?’

Windrush again consulted his pad. ‘The Security Officer, a Colonel Najeen.’

Metcalfe nodded at Borg. ‘D’you think a little chat with the Colonel, Alan?’

* * *

Still in Alluda’s room and now aware of imminent exposure, Connolly glanced at his friend. ‘Well Peter, me boyo,’ he said in his thick Irish brogue, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
‘Perhaps we might have to go collect the ould fella?’

Alluda looked shocked. ‘What's the hurry? My uncle will be here after prayers, like he said he would, he always is. What’s the point of taking any more chances?’

Elkins gave the young envoy a resigned look as might have been reserved for bank officers querying his misappropriation of funds in an earlier life. ‘Alluda, listen. This gets said once.’ Without awaiting an answer he continued.
‘Our plans are now blown. Our diversion is dead. They found his phony pass and checked. How else would they have gotten the name, Shamshall?’ He shook his head. ‘They could be right here, right now. If not, believe me, they're on their way. Your colonel sent Hussein, your friend, to go collect you and bring you to him.’ Elkins pointed a finger. ‘When neither of you arrive, he, or one of his goons, is gonna come down and bust his way through that door and we’re in a shooting war. So either we fuck off upstairs, or we fuck off out of it.’

Alluda made to protest again and Elkins jumped up, towering above him. ‘What part did you not understand, Aziz?’ All of a sudden, the American looked very dangerous. The ensuing silence was broken only by ammunition being snapped into Connolly's machine-pistol as he readied himself for whatever lay ahead.

Watching Alluda’s face crumble, the Irishman felt a sudden surge of pity. He knelt beside the young man, about as old as himself, and gently lifted his tear stained face.

‘Listen me darlin’. We’re just trying to earn a living. If we don’t go now, it won’t happen and then we’re all in even deeper trouble.’

Alluda's head sunk into his chest. He peered up again, tears in his eyes, his voice shaking.
‘Isn't it time you put me to sleep?’ Elkins glanced at the envoy and shook his head, his voice contemptuous.

‘That happened in another plan. Now you’re in this up to your nuts. Better you stick around.’ Connolly muttered something, crossed himself and eased off the safety catch on his weapon. Elkins picked up his gun and, together, they began to edge from the room, towards stairs leading up to the front hall.

The fireworks were about to commence…