Blood Money (chapter five and six.) (standard:Suspense, 2781 words) [3/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 16 2011	Views/Reads: 2089/1813	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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I'd skin you and then bury you alive, but shedding your leathery hide 
could turn out to be a long process. Start digging.” 

The leering farmer shook his head and threw the spade to the ground.
“Dig yer fucking hole yourself big man. IRA are we? Is that supposed to 
scare me, yer Catholic shit?” 

Keenan pointed his weapon towards the knee of the old man. “You talk
mighty brave with a belly full of whiskey down you. Stops you pissing 
your pants does it? Now for the last time, start fucking digging!” 

Again, the farmer hesitated and Keenan pulled the trigger. The screaming
man collapsed to the ground, clutching at his ravaged, bloody knee. 

“On your feet and dig or the next one will blow your knackers off.” 

The farmer proceeded to dig and Keenan waited patiently until the hole
was deep enough. He wrestled the spade from the wounded man's grasp. 

“Now climb into the hole.” 

“No, please don't,” whimpered the trembling farmer. “It was only a
fucking dog.” 

Keenan kicked out and his victim tumbled into the hole. The executioner
proceeded to fill in the hole with the damp earth, as the farmer 
attempted to climb from the grave. A powerful kick in the face 
flattened the man and he lay helpless, his pleading ignored by Keenan. 
The IRA man shovelled faster and faster, the perspiration stinging his 
eyes. A solitary hand protruding from the soil went limp and Keenan 
ceased his shovelling. 

Returning indoors, Keenan carried the dead dog outside and commenced
digging a shallower grave. He lowered the dog into its final 
resting-place and covered it with the soil before saying a prayer. 
Again, he returned indoors to wash, before returning to his vehicle. He 
carried the petrol can from the boot of his Range Rover and advanced 
towards the farmhouse. Dowsing the interior with the petrol, he was 
satisfied. He struck a match and flicked it into the farmhouse. 

Before driving away, Keenan selected a classical CD of his choice and
unwrapped another of his beloved lollypops. He drove away, looking in 
the mirror at the inferno he had left behind. 

JAKARTA 

Schofield relaxed in the jacuzzi and reached for the naked Indonesian
girl. He stroked her tiny breasts as she nibbled his ear. Arranging for 
an available girl had not proved a difficult task. Dropping a hint with 
the hotel barman had produced the desired result. 

She reached beneath the bubbling water for his penis and he seized her
tiny hand. “Later, darling. Go and freshen our drinks will you? I've an 
important call to make.” 

He grinned and watched the petite, shapely girl scampering across the
bathroom floor. Not daring to risk calling on the hotel telephone, he 
tapped in the numbers on his cell phone. He smiled; acknowledging that 
Chaplin was at last returning calls. 

“Hello.” 

“Sam, I've been trying to call you for hours. Why've you had your phone
switched off?” 

“I always turn it off when I'm in bed... Jakarta is seven hours ahead of
us, Dean.” 

“Listen, we may have a problem.” 

“You did meet Manaf didn't you?” 

“Yes, I met him, but he's only interested in donating the money to his
village.” 

“You made him the offer?” 

Schofield waved away the returning girl and waited until she had left
the room. 

“Who are you with, Dean?” 

“Nobody... No, I never made Manaf the offer. He still thinks he's being
paid for a magazine article... Sam, we couldn't have chosen anyone more 
pure. I'm not sure we can corrupt the poor bastard.” 

“What do you mean he wants to donate the money to his village?” 

Schofield sipped his Jack Daniels. “His village was destroyed by the
tsunami, Sam. He wants to rebuild it.” 

There was a long pause before Chaplin responded. “That may work in our
favour... How much does it take to rebuild a village? When he hears 
what we're offering, he may accept.” 

“The boy deserves a million pounds, Sam. We wouldn't have to add much
more to the deception. The poor mite lost his entire family.” 

“You're not getting all sentimental on me are you, Dean? This new image
is not befitting to you.” 

“You know, maybe Jack was right. Taking advantage of someone who's
suffered isn't fun.” 

“Put the proposal to him, Dean. Time is not on our side. I talked to
0'Hara last night and he's an impatient man... Listen, you haven't 
revealed your true identity to Manaf have you?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“There's something else, Dean.” 

“Go on.” 

“ O'Hara wants to meet the beneficiaries and to be photographed with
them.” 

“Oh, shit.” 

“Don't tell me you didn't expect it. Our accomplices are going to have
to know about his original offer and that could complicate things.” 

“You mean, they could get greedy?” 

“Exactly... We need somebody who is loyal.” 

“But aren't you forgetting something, Sam? Our friends won't be real
heroes, so they're sticking their necks out too. They wouldn't even 
have been considered if it wasn't for us.” 

“I suppose you're right. So how do you feel about Manaf?” 

“Okay. I'll make him the offer tomorrow morning.” 

“That's the spirit... One more thing. I'm flying to Islamabad in
Pakistan tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Islamabad?” 

“I may have found our second hero... A friend of mine works for the Red
Cross and he mentioned somebody rather special that is currently living 
in the capital. We may not have to supply witnesses with this chappy.” 

“Be careful, Sam. It would be dangerous to recruit a real hero.” 

“Oh, this one's as bent as a nine bob note. A hero he may be, but he
stole my friend's wallet and wristwatch. I know what I'm doing.” 

“Goodbye, Sam.” Schofield smiled as the beautiful girl rejoined him. He
felt her warm, soothing body intertwining with his own and welcomed it. 
He could get used to this. 

6 

ISLAMABAD PAKISTAN 

The pleasant, warm afternoon prompted Sam Chaplin's decision to abandon
his jacket. Wearing a white shirt, he felt in conflict with the 
colourfully attired citizens of Islamabad. The broad, tree-lined 
avenues and exotic plants on view were kind to his eye, and the aroma 
of pungent spices added to the mystique of the city. Never had he 
expected Islamabad to be so clean. 

Chaplin hailed a yellow taxi and climbed in beside the bearded driver.
“The Shah Faisal Mosque please.” 

The driver regarded his fare curiously. “You English, Sir?” 

“That's right.” 

“My son, Zeb, he is studying in Oxford. A beautiful city, eh?” 

“Yes, a beautiful city.” 

The driver manoeuvred his vehicle around an overloaded bus and
accelerated. Chaplin looked back in amusement, eyeing the group of 
commuters, who clung onto the outside of the bus. Others were more 
fortunate and found a comfortable spot on the roof. 

Arriving at his destination, the sight of the magnificent structure took
the Englishman's breath away. Surrounded by rose gardens, the mosque 
stood out from the backdrop of the Margalla Hills. The untraditional 
building was like no other mosque he had set eyes on before. With its 
large triangular prayer hall and four minarets, the holy shrine lacked 
a dome. 

Chaplin paid the driver and parted with a generous tip. His eyes took in
the hundreds of colourful worshippers, who were either making their way 
to the mosque or simply admiring the picturesque view. Others slept 
away the afternoon. He mingled with the crowd, who shuffled forward 
slowly, looking for a man he had never met before. Multitudes of 
hostile eyes were fixed on the foreigner, making Chaplin feel 
uncomfortable. 

Standing below the Saudi-Pak tower was a man wearing sunglasses, a blue
shirt and denims. In his hands, he held a copy of the Times magazine. 
Chaplin broke ranks and headed towards him, hoping that he was not 
mistaken. 

The Asian man, who was in his late twenties smiled at the foreigner, his
perfect white teeth and slick black hair in keeping with so many of his 
countrymen. “Mr Chaplin?” 

Because the solicitor's friend from the Red Cross had been the
go-between, Chaplin felt obliged to present his true identity. After 
Lance Peebles, the relief worker had told Chaplin about the heroic 
deeds of Mukhtar Ahmed, he promised to look the hero up, on the 
pretence that he was visiting Pakistan on holiday. 

“Mukhtar?” asked Chaplin, offering his hand. 

“I expected you to be wearing a bowler hat and swinging an umbrella,”
joked the younger man. 

“Yes, I got Charlie Chaplin all of the time when I was at school... You
speak very good English.” 

“I was educated here in Islamabad.” 

“And your family lived in Muzaffarabad?” 

“They did. As you probably already know, they perished in the
earthquake?” 

Mukhtar discarded his magazine into a waste bin. “I know how a spy feels
now.” 

Chaplin passed over the letter from Lance Peebles. “Here you are...
Lance must be really fond of you.” 

“Oh, he is. He helped me to rescue my people in Muzaffarabad..” Mukhtar
walked away slowly and read the letter. He turned back to Chaplin, his 
face beaming. “Mr Chaplin, you came so far out of your way to deliver 
this letter?” 

“No, I didn't.” 

A puzzled expression appeared on Mukhtar's face... “I must pray, Mr
Chaplin. Will you escort me into the mosque?” 

Chaplin nodded. “Call me Sam, please.” 

Outside the entrance, they removed their shoes and paced towards a
staircase that led to an expansive forecourt. Advancing into the 
interior prayer hall, Chaplin marvelled at an enormous chandelier and 
the walls that were decorated with mosaics and calligraphy, courtesy of 
the Pakistan artist, Gul Jee. 

Hundreds, if not thousands of the vibrant worshippers occupied the
prayer hall, and Chaplin joined his companion on his knees, feeling 
hypocritical in such a holy building. Not being a devout churchgoer, 
the solicitor feigned his prayers. 

Several minutes had passed before Chaplin followed Mukhtar outside. The
sun was low in the orange flaming sky and the chill of the evening was 
setting in. 

“Are you hungry, Sam?” 

“As a matter of fact, I am rather peckish.” 

“Good. I know a really good restaurant.” 

“I'll flag down a cab,” suggested Chaplin. 

“No need, I have my car.” 

Chaplin eyed the battered Honda Civic with disdain. Reluctantly, he
climbed into the passenger seat. 

“Well, Sam. You said that you didn't come here to deliver the letter, so
then why?” 

The erratic-sounding engine turned over at the fifth attempt and Mukhtar
joined the procession of traffic. 

“I want to make you a wealthy man,, Mukhtar.” 

The bewildered Asian looked across at his passenger. “I'm not sure I
understand.” 

Chaplin cleared his throat and sipped from his bottle of water. “I'm
willing to offer you one hundred thousand pounds.” 

“Goodness, that is a lot of rupees. For what?” 

“I'll get straight to the point shall I? First of all I must profess
that I'm taking such a big risk in making you this offer.” 

“You want me to rob a bank?” 

“No, of course not... I need a hero, Mukhtar, and after what Dave told
me, I think I've found one; only a bogus one would have been 
preferential.” 

“Now you have confused me, Sam.” 

“Watch that motorcycle!... As I was saying, I work as a solicitor, and a
client wishes to give a large sum of money away to three deprived 
people, who have performed heroic deeds.” 

“Why would he do that?” 

“That's another story.” 

Mukhtar scratched his head. “You said you were taking a risk?” 

“I am, believe me... My intention was to use bogus heroes and to split
the money with my associates. Lance told me that you stole from him and 
that prompted my decision, you see, your dishonesty is an advantage to 
me.” 

“I was desperate. I am not a criminal. Lance was so kind to me and I
regret what I did.” Mukhtar cursed in his mother tongue and honked his 
horn at two youths, who were racing on scooters. “So you found yourself 
a genuine hero, but how do you profit from that?” 

“Because, Mukhtar, the sum offered by my client is far greater than the
money I'm willing to pay you.” 

The driver smiled. “So how much more?” 

“One million pounds,” mumbled Chaplin. 

Mukhtar whistled. “So why don't I just collect the full million?”
Chaplin wound down the window, the temperature rapidly dropping. “I'm 
so sorry but my air conditioning is not working... You haven't answered 
my question, Sam.” 

“My client left the choice of potential candidates up to me. I'm willing
to choose you for the sum mentioned; otherwise we just go our separate 
ways.” 

“And what if I approached your client and told him what you have
proposed? I'm certain that I could eventually discover his identity.” 

“Then we'd both be fucked, if you'll pardon the expression. You see, my
client I think you'll find detests informers, and so there's not a hope 
in hell that he'd offer you the million.” 

The Honda Civic pulled up outside the restaurant. Mukhtar gripped his
steering wheel. “You said that there are three such beneficiaries?” 

“That's correct.” 

“Three million pounds and you're offering me one hundred thousand?” 

“I have many associates, and have to pay off so many witnesses, not
forgetting the expenses... You have nothing to lose, Mukhtar, and I 
have everything.” 

“Come on, Sam. You're about to sample the best chicken biryani in
Pakistan.” 


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