The Mark of Halam Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mary and worse, if others close to him were in danger then he had little choice, he had to protect his friends. Zahar Akbar worked for the man responsible for the death of Arben Shala, Jeff’s former vineyard manager. There would be no running away. He would hunt Zahar down and put an end to it.
    “Jeff, how well do you know this Akbar?” Moana asked, breaking into his thoughts.
    “Zahar Akbar, not a lot. He’s a terrorist I came up against in Kosovo. I killed his brother and the man I spoke to on the phone captured Zahar. I never saw Zahar in the flesh. His brother Halam I’d recognise in an instant but he’s dead.”
    Jeff continued to mislead everyone into believing he killed Halam Akbar but he had not. Morgan Delaney, an American woman who would forever hold a place in his heart, had fired the fatal shots and saved his life. To protect her from reprisals from the people the Akbars worked for, he had taken responsibility for the kill. The four or five who knew the truth would never tell. Now it seemed his decision to do so was correct.
    “Moana, whatever this guy is up to in New Zealand,” Jeff said, “I can guarantee murder is a sideline.”
    “Care to explain?”
    “The brothers are, were, international terrorists but not with a cause. They work on contract. You pay the money, the Akbar brothers do the dirty work and whoever hired them takes the credit. They started life as Palestinian refugees and learnt their particular expertise in killing in a variety of Islamic training camps.” Jeff turned to Cunningham. “You know the type.”
    Cunningham nodded.
    “They are very good at what they do. They especially like to blow people up. The more the merrier. In my opinion it’s unlikely Zahar Akbar would risk travelling to New Zealand to avenge his brother; I think finding me here is a bonus. And I think it unlikely he came to kill a few innocent people. He could do that anywhere. The question that needs asking is, what is the real objective? I would add it would be safer to assume he’s not alone.”
    “There is the submarine. That would be an obvious target for a terrorist,” Moana said.
    “These guys aren’t suicide bombers. Or at least Halam wasn’t. I assume his brother is the same. They’re only interested in money. Security round the sub will be tight. There is no way they could get close enough to plant an explosive and live.”
    “Maybe not the submarine directly then but I think them being here at the time of the visit can’t be put down to coincidence.”
    “I don’t disagree,” Jeff said. “The two events are definitely related. As I said, the brothers were bombers. They loved to blow up crowded streets. Maximum casualties.”
    Cunningham butted into the conversation, “Like a crowd of thousands of protestors?”
    Jeff nodded. He noted Quentin’s eyes flick between himself and Cunningham, confused that he and Cunningham had switched from hostility to civility. Not forced. Quentin had never been in the military. He had no understanding that when on ops personal grievances were put to the side. He wasn’t about to try and explain the nuances of soldiering to a man whose most exciting adventure was playing in a rock band and giving autographs to teeny-boppers. He would never get it.
    “Okay,” Cunningham said. “So where is the explanation of how this Akbar is in New Zealand when supposedly he was captured and in the hands of the Yanks? How is it he is free? The American special forces aren’t in the habit of losing people.”
    “That’s a question I can’t answer but I assure you I’m going to find out,” Jeff said.
    “You’re not in the squadron anymore, Jeff. You’re a civilian. If you have any information, pass it on to the police. There is also an Intelligence Service that would probably want to be informed,” Cunningham said, an edge to his voice.
    Jeff stood and moved closer to Cunningham. Now the civility was dead and the two rutting stags were locking horns