Maltese Steel

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Somewhere in the harsh lands of Tunisia, a man sat alone in semi-darkness. A low glow of light was coming from two standard lamps. These stood opposite each other in the large square room. The light was enough to break up the darkness at one end of the room. But failed to illuminate the twenty-twenty room completely. He sat on a claret leather chair in front of a large desk carved from olive wood. On the desktop was a large monitor, a cordless phone, and an old brass desk lamp.

The room itself had little in the way of furnishings. Two leather armchairs sat on a large Persian rug, between them a small oval oak coffee table. Along the right-hand wall was an antique bookcase to the left, a large painting of a battle scene set in the first Afghan war. The image was called The Last Stand, the final fight of the 44th Regiment at Gundamuck in 1842. Men on a rock platform surrounded by incoming hordes.

The man sipped green tea from a Turkish glass teacup. The weak light masked his face. However, his white cotton shirt stood out from the shadows. His hands were large and bore signs of hard labour. His short-sleeved shirt revealed a tattoo of a crescent moon under an open star on his left wrist, where a watch face would sit.

There was a knock on the single wooden door, then a young bearded man walked in and stood in the centre of the room. Waiting to be called forwards. Even in his loose-fitting khaki clothes, his trembling was apparent.

He was in the presence of The Master.

A man that governments had sort but never found, a man that would bring death to the invaders.

The man in the chair moved, only a beckoning hand. The young man approached and whispered something into his master’s ear. The Master waited until the young man had finished and then pushed the glass cup into the boy’s right eye with a quick, upward thrust. The boy screamed before the man grabbed him and smashed his head onto the table. There was a crunch of glass as the wooden desk drove the glass deeper into the boy’s head.

The screams stopped, and The Master sat back in his chair. The body slid off the desk and fell into a bloody heap on the bare concrete floor. In the open doorway stood a tall, bearded man in a dark suit.

‘I thought you might take the news badly,’ said the man in the doorway. ‘Don’t worry, the other plan will be active soon. There will be no mistakes.’

‘There better not Aamir. There better not,’ The Master said. His voice was deep and ancient. Aamir bowed and then waved behind him before moving out of the way. Letting two large built men into the room to retrieve the blood-soaked body of the boy. As Aamir closed the door, The Master opened a desk drawer and pulled out a picture of a woman and a little girl.

‘Soon, my darlings…. Soon.’ His voice was as deep as his anger. He put the photograph away again and locked the drawer. The Master pulled himself out of the chair and walked towards the door.

There was much to do.