Part 33 (2/2)

”There'll be another time for that,” Milton said. ”I'll wait until you get them asylum.”

”That might be a few months.”

”But you think you can?”

She paused. ”It's possible. I mean, on a compa.s.sionate level, there's no question that they should get it. What's happened to them-everyone can see they deserve it. But what's right and what's legally possible are not the same thing.”

”But?”

”I'm quite confident.”

Milton put out his hand. ”I have to go,” he said.

”You have my number,” she said. ”Give me a call in a couple of weeks. I think this will all be sorted out by then.” The lawyer shook his hand. ”What are you doing now?” she asked him. ”I was going to buy you a coffee.”

”It's kind of you, but I can't-I've got a plane to catch.”

”Somewhere nice?”

”Not that kind of trip, I'm afraid.”

”Business?”

”That's right,” Milton said. ”Business.”

He shook her hand again, told her to call him if there was anything that he could do to help, and pushed the exit door open. He pa.s.sed through security, nodded to the guard standing by the X-ray machine, and went outside into the cold, bright morning.

EPILOGUE: Libya.

Chapter Sixty-Five.

ALI TESSEMA OPENED HIS EYES. His bedroom was dark. The window was open, and he could hear the soft susurration of the sea as it rolled against the beach below.

He thought that he had heard something.

He lay still, damp sheets clinging to his sweaty body, and listened. There was nothing. No sound. He must have been dreaming. He had been drinking all night, expensive Russian vodka that he had smuggled into the country to beat the ban on alcohol. There had been rather a lot of it, and he had been drunk when he had finally stumbled into bed. He still felt a little drunk, and now he was hearing things.

He exhaled, allowing his shoulders to sink back against the mattress, and closed his eyes again.

”Wake up, Ali.”

He stopped breathing; his heart felt as if it had stopped beating in his chest. He put down his right arm and levered himself to a half-sitting position. The gentle wind parted the curtains, with just enough moonlight admitted for him to see the man sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room. He was dressed all in black: black combat trousers, a black tactical jacket and black boots. He was wearing a black balaclava that obscured everything save for his eyes and mouth. His left leg was crossed over his right knee and his hands were in his lap. Ali glanced down and saw a pistol in his right hand, the metal sparkling in the dim light.

”Wake up.”

Ali had a pistol of his own in the drawer next to the bed. ”Who are you?”

The man turned his head so that a little more light fell down onto him. His lips were pressed together in a tight line.

Ali's left hand was still beneath the covers. He carefully, slowly, started to slide it toward the drawer. ”What is your name?”

”Milton.”

”My guards?”

”Dead, Ali.” The man stood and indicated the room with a flick of the pistol. ”This is a very nice place. It must have been very expensive.”

Ali's throat was suddenly very dry. He swallowed.

”How much did it cost?”

He found that he couldn't answer.

”You can't remember?”

His hand was at the edge of the mattress. ”Yes. It was expensive.”

The man gestured down at him. ”Don't bother,” he said. ”Your gun's over there.”

Ali looked. His pistol and the box of ammunition that he kept with it were on the table next to the armchair.

The breeze died down and the curtains closed. The light disappeared. The man was a shadow now, a darker shape amid the gloom. Ali could feel his presence, close, but he dared not move.

”How many people had to die so you could have a house like this?”

He tried to swallow. ”I run a business. I help people. I give them a chance to find a better life.”

”No, you don't. You profit from the pain and misery of desperate men and women. Men and women and children. I've seen how you do business. I've been on one of your boats. I've seen the others that didn't make it to port because they were unfit for the voyage. You are a parasite. You're worse than a parasite. Did you really think that there would never be a reckoning for what you've done?”

The shadow was at the foot of the bed. The curtains parted again and the light glinted off the barrel of a pistol that had been raised and aimed at him.

”Please. What do you want? Money? Please. I give you more money than you have ever seen before.”

”Your money can't help you now.”

The bullet hit him in the forehead. He was dead before he could hear the sound of the gun.

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