Keen’s high-speed drive brought him to the airport at Genoa far faster than he had anticipated. He was forced to reduce his speed as he neared the access road to the airport. He followed the road around to the parking area and eased the Peugeot into a slot. He opened the trunk and took out his luggage. Normally he would have taken time to return to the rental office and settle his account. This time around he was going to leave the car where it was. It would be located and the rental company informed. They would check out who had rented the car and follow through. By that time Keen would be back in London if everything went as planned and he would deal with the rental company then.
He entered the terminal building and made his way to the airline counter for his ticket. He had to go through the identification process, showing his passport and credit card before his ticket was handed over. Keen took it and made his way to the flight check-in desk where his luggage was weighed and tagged, vanishing from sight along the conveyor.
He was told the flight was on time and would be taking off within the next half hour. He walked through the busy terminal, searching for the departure lounge, then had to go through the usual delay at the customs desk. With that over, he passed through the barrier that fed him into the departure area. At least his pursuers couldn’t get to him now. No one was allowed through to this section if they didn’t possess tickets and passports. There were armed security guards and probably police patrolling the terminal building. Any sign of a disturbance and they would be on hand very quickly.
Keen located a bar and ordered a drink. He took it and sat at a table where he had his back against the wall and could see the entrance to the area. It never did any harm to be cautious.
So far, so good.
Abe Keen didn’t let himself become complacent. He was thinking ahead. If his pursuers missed him here, they would pick up the pursuit once he arrived in London. It wouldn’t take them long to work out who he was and where he lived in the U.K.’s capital city. Keen didn’t need telling that Razan Khariza’s people would quickly gain intel on him.
By the time they had finished, they would know everything there was written down about him. Regardless of the possible threat to him, Keen had no intention of going into hiding. It wasn’t his way. Since he had taken up his profession he had accepted that situations might occur that might put him in danger. He wasn’t going to change his way of life now. Not even for someone like Razan Khariza.
London, England
KEEN’S FLIGHT TOUCHED DOWN ten minutes late due to a sudden change in the weather. Rain hit just as the airliner had swung in over mainland U.K. and followed it all the way to Heathrow. He took the rail link into London, then picked up a cab to his flat in Camden Town. He glanced at his watch as he climbed the stairs to his floor. It was just after 3:00 a.m. Keen realized just how tired he was. It had been a long day.
His bags slung from his left shoulder, he put his key in the lock and pushed the door open. As was his usual practice, he reached out with his right hand to flick on the light switch. It clicked, but the hallway remained dark.
Keen was about to let go with a choice word or two but stopped in his tracks as he picked up the strong odor of a fruity aftershave.
He realized immediately it wasn’t one of his.
And knew in that same moment that he wasn’t alone.
He made to back off, out of the door, but a powerful hand caught hold of his arm and he was pulled inside with enough force to throw him to the floor. He hit hard, cracking his head against the tiles. The impact left him stunned, disorientated. Even so, he heard the door click shut behind him, and picked up the sound of movement in the seconds before he was lifted bodily and half dragged along the hall and through the door that led into his kitchen.
Discounting what he had thought before about not letting himself become threatened by Khariza’s people—because he knew damn well that was who was behind this—he had to give them credit for locating his home so quickly. After the thought, he decided it was a strange thing to consider in his present situation.
He struggled to free himself from the two men who were holding him. All that achieved was a sharp rap across the mouth that split the skin and pushed his inner lip back against his teeth. He tasted blood in his mouth and could also feel it trickling down his chin.
It was still dark in the kitchen. Keen heard a third man moving around. He heard the sound of the Venetian blinds being closed. There was a soft click, and the light under the cabinet unit to his left came on.
The man facing him was leanly fit. He had strong shoulders under the long leather coat he wore. It was buttoned right up under his chin. His face was shadowed in the dim light, the curve of his shaved skull gleaming softly. His eyes shone like bright pinpoints as he leaned forward to stare at Keen.
“No time-wasting, Mr. Keen. We both know why we are here and what we want. Let us take it and this can be over quickly.”
His voice was soft, with a Middle East accent.
“And then you’ll let me go so I can report it to the police? You must imagine I’m stupid.”
“Taking those photographs was not exactly the act of a smart man. Did you not think we would have taken precautions against such things?”
“We all make mistakes.”
The man nodded.
“Certainly so in your case. Now, the photographs?”
“In my bag,’’ Keen said. “The middle-size one.”
His luggage was dragged off his shoulder. Keen, still in the grip of one of the other men, watched as the bag was opened and the contents spilled out across the wide work surface.
“Are these the only copies?”
“I only need one set to prove my case.”
“Have you shown the photographs to anyone?”
“In the time I had in San Remo? Go figure.”
The man in the leather coat pawed through the rest of the bag’s contents. He held up a packet.
“These are the negatives?”
“Fuck you, find out for yourself. I don’t figure I’m coming out of this alive, so why the hell should I make it easy?”
Leather Coat sighed as if he was disappointed. He said something to his two men that Keen barely heard.
The man gripping his arms swung Keen around suddenly. He placed one hand at the back of Keen’s head and smashed the journalist facedown against the work surface. Keen’s world exploded in stunning pain as his nose was crushed flat under the impact, blood squirting across the pale wood surface. His left cheekbone cracked and his lips split open. He groaned, trying to pull free from the grip of the man who had pushed his face into the work surface. Pain rose, engulfing his battered face.
He was in no condition to see Leather Coat reach out and pick a heavy cast-iron fry pan from the hook on the wall. Leather Coat stepped up behind Keen and slammed the pan down against the back of Keen’s skull. Keen grunted in shock, arms flailing helplessly. Leather Coat repeated the blow over and over, the thick cast iron descending with terrible effect against Keen’s skull. Flesh lacerated, bone crumbled and Keen’s skull became a bloody, misshapen mess. The journalist’s shuddering, twitching form became
