The Kite, page 5
ALGERIA
The pain in Harry’s ankle was a constant thrum. Both sharp and dull, with every step. When Asher had said there’d be walking, he wasn’t wrong. It didn’t help that the ground was rocky, sandy, and uneven.
They’d paid Mr Sadik handsomely for the old van, and after midnight, they’d driven east to the small town of Ahfir, made a very stoic exchange with two men, and were driven through mountain desert farmland through a checkpoint and were dropped off in the middle of freaking nowhere. Asher got out, Harry followed. Asher gave the men a nod, and without a word they turned around and drove away.
Not one word had been spoken throughout the whole ordeal.
“What the hell just happened?” Harry asked.
“We just entered Algeria without paperwork.”
“Do I want to know how you organised this?”
Asher gave half a shrug. “My informant is well connected.”
Harry shook his head and took in their surroundings, lit up by the almost-full moon and cloudless sky, thankfully. There were mountains to their north, open desert to the south, and not a road or a landmark in sight. Harry was never fond of the desert at night. Too many shadows for his liking. And the landscape played tricks on the mind, as did the wind, and it was far colder than it should be.
He fixed his coat and then his backpack. “What now?”
“Now we walk.”
And so they walked; east for about five kilometres until, as the sun began to rise, they came to a quarry of some kind. The setting made Harry nervous, like they were walking into an ambush, but Asher seemed very familiar and his ease was a little reassuring.
In the quarry, they found a small and battered truck. Harry took out his pistol, senses on high alert, but Asher just smiled and opened the driver’s door. “Put your gun away and get in.”
“It would probably help if you told me the details of the actual fucking plan,” Harry grumbled.
On the seat was a large envelope, which a smiling Asher handed to Harry before he started the truck. The engine rumbled to life, loud in the still of the early morning, and Asher began to drive.
Harry peered into the envelope and couldn’t believe what he saw.
Passports.
He pulled them out. Two for Asher; one Algerian, one Saudi.
And one for Harry. It was Australian; his photo with some random name and dates.
“How did you . . . ?” Then, answering his own question, he asked, “Just how well-connected is your informant?”
Asher grinned. “Very.”
“So this is how you skip countries all over Europe and the Middle East?” Harry deduced. “You have some guy at an agency. Someone on the take.”
Asher’s expression became cold, his jaw clenched, and his eyes lasered into Harry. “Speak of him again that way and I will shoot you.”
Oooh. A raw nerve.
And he dropped a pronoun. Speak of him again. Harry considered this. “So, is he a boyfriend? A lover?”
Before Harry could blink, Asher had his pistol pressed against Harry’s temple, his other hand still on the steering wheel, smooth as silk.
Harry smiled at him, even chuckled a little and looked around the barrel of the gun. “Is that a no? Or a yes?”
Asher gnashed his teeth but pulled his gun away, and it was an interesting reaction, Harry noted. Normally cool and even aloof, this reaction from Asher was extremely emotive.
It told Harry a lot.
“Anyway,” Harry said, playing it off. “I’m thankful to your informant. The passport looks good, even though I don’t want to know how he got that photograph of me.”
Asher glared at him.
“And you seem to know where you’re going here,” Harry added, gesturing to their surroundings. The small dirt road linked up with another dirt road, then a sealed road, and before long they were on the A1 headed to Algiers. The old truck rumbled and bounced along the highway.
“Do you think perhaps next time you could ask your friend for an upgrade in vehicle?”
“Do you think perhaps you could be grateful instead of an ass?” Asher retorted. “I liked you better when you didn’t speak.”
Harry smiled.
“And when you didn’t smile.”
The drive to Algiers took almost seven hours, given the speed of the truck wasn’t exactly great. Asher had been quiet for about the first three hours and Harry had enjoyed the silence.
The rumble and the jostle of the truck became soothing, almost, and although his ankle didn’t appreciate the vibrations, it sure beat walking.
They’d had to stop for fuel, and this time Harry bought them breakfast pastries and coffee, and Asher’s mood seemed to lighten after he’d eaten. Because for the second half of the trip, he talked, and talked.
And talked.
Pretty much non-fucking-stop about Algerian history, trade and industry.
Clearly Asher was well educated in such subjects, but after three hours, Harry wondered if his ears might actually start to bleed.
“I always liked Algiers,” Asher volunteered as they finally came into the city. “The weather is great. The people, the food. So much history. Some very beautiful architecture.”
“I’ve only been here twice, and never stayed long,” Harry admitted, welcoming the change of topic. “Certainly not long enough to appreciate the architecture.”
Asher glanced his way, smiled, and shook his head. “You’ve been to how many countries in the world?”
Harry tried to think . . . “Too many to count. Probably easier to list the ones I haven’t been to.”
“And you never appreciate the cultures?”
Harry looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Ah, no. I have assignments. I get in, make the target, and get out.”
Asher sighed. “Which was your favourite? You had to like one more than the others.”
Harry squinted at him. “The reason I like some cities over others, or whatever, is because of the anonymity. The ease with which I can hide, escape, go undetected, blend in. I don’t look at the architecture.”
Asher snorted. “In what city do you blend in? Please name one. You’re six-foot three-inches tall, three feet wide, and angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You glare and scowl. Your size is intimidating enough without the death-stare.”
“I don’t have a death-stare.”
Asher laughed now. “The way you look at me right now. The only reason I don’t crap myself is because I’m not scared of you.”
“You’re not scared of me?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Not even close.”
Harry sighed and decided to take in the passing scenery instead. On many trips to many cities in different countries, he’d kept his head down, only taking note of exit routes, landmarks, police presence.
But Algiers was a pretty city, he had to admit, as they headed toward the bay where there were palm trees and immaculate whitewashed buildings. “Hmm,” Harry grumbled. “I just appreciated the architecture. Are you happy?”
Asher laughed. “Don’t get any ideas. We’re not staying in any of these.”
Harry figured as much, but as Asher turned off and weaved through the back roads, Harry realised where Asher was taking him. “‘Rock the Casbah,’ huh?”
Asher shot him a confused look. “What?”
“Never mind.”
The Casbah region of Algiers was iconic, yes. Bustling with tourists and locals, crammed, ancient buildings with narrow, winding and steep streets. Having never been there, Harry knew it by reputation alone, and the song, of course.
Asher pulled the old truck into a tight parking spot and killed the engine.
“Now what?” Harry asked.
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“A guide.”
Christ.
“How?” Harry asked. “How did you organise this?”
Asher gave him a sidelong glance.
“Oh right. Your informant.”
“Don’t speak of him.”
Harry inhaled deeply and sighed on the exhale. “I’m very curious about you and him.”
Harry was expecting another angry outburst, possibly another gun pointed at his head, but instead Asher raised an eyebrow. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“You are jealous.”
“I absolutely am fucking not.”
“You wanted to know if we were lovers before.” Asher hummed, though it sounded more like a purr. “Would you really like to know just how well we know each other? What he would do to me?”
“What I would really like to know is what your brains look like splattered on the window behind you.”
Asher laughed. “You’re so easy, Harry. So quick to anger. I’d have thought you had the patience of a saint, but you have such a little, teeny, tiny”—he held his fingers close together—“fuse.”
Harry wanted to grab Asher by the throat and pummel his fucking head in, but that voice in the back of his mind, that voice of reason, his intuition that had kept him alive so far, knew what Asher had said was right.
Why does he affect me like this? Where is the patience and indifference I’ve prided myself on?
What is it about Asher Garin that rankles me so much?
“You are insufferable,” Harry mumbled with a sneer. “And infuriating. You know you’re annoying, right? You never shut up. Did your boyfriend ever tell you that?”
“You are equally insufferable,” Asher replied. “If you ever run out of bullets, you could just growl at your next target. Maybe rip his arms off with all that pent up anger and beat him to death with the soggy ends. Or better yet, spend five days with them like I’ve had to, and they’ll surrender.”
“Well, just so you know, if sniping someone from a mile away is no longer an option for you, you could just kidnap them, give them a gun, and talk to them non-fucking-stop and they’d shoot themselves.”
A knock on the window scared the shit out of both of them.
Harry pulled his gun and aimed it at the intrusion, but Asher deflected it, pushing the gun away. The intruder was a man wearing a traditional djellaba and a no-nonsense glare. He didn’t even blink at Harry’s gun.
“You want room or not?” the man said.
Asher turned on his high-wattage smile and charmed the man in both Arabic and English as they collected their bags from the truck and began walking. And he was charming, and the smile could soften even the hardest of souls . . .
Maybe even Harry’s.
The man, who did not give a name, guided them through the spiderweb of narrow corridors and up the many, many steps. If it wasn’t steps, it was cobbled stones. The walls got narrower the higher they climbed. Buildings jutted out overhead, powerlines, extension cords clung to exposed beams, and men herded donkeys along the pathways to collect rubbish. The streets so narrow, Harry could touch opposite side walls with either hand, and the buildings were in disrepair. Old, decrepit, peeled paint, crumbling walls, patched with whatever materials they could find. There was graffiti, tin bolted to walls instead of windows.
Yet it was strangely beautiful.
There were ornate doors in ancient and arched doorways, heavy wood with iron patterns whose age Harry would hate to estimate. The tile work was incredible. The steps and pathways were worn by thousands of feet over hundreds of years, carried along the air of danger, spices, and sweat.
And Harry caught himself . . . He was admiring the architecture.
Jesus H Christ.
He chastised himself, grumbling as he followed the two men ahead of him.
Asher glanced over his shoulder. “Ankle okay?”
“M’ankle’s fine,” he snapped.
His ankle was not fine, but he wasn’t admitting that to Asher.
Harry hated that his ankle was sprained. He hated that Asher had hid them away in Tangiers to give him time to heal. He hated that Asher got them through three different countries without a lick of trouble, got new passports, transport, accommodation.
He hated that Asher was good at this.
That people warmed to him, fell for his charm and his disarming good looks. He hated that strangers liked him.
He hated that he liked him.
The man stopped at a blue door along one particularly narrow street. Well, it had once been blue. It was now peeled and rusted, but it had a decent lock. The man held out a key and Asher gave him the truck key in return, and without even a glance in Harry’s direction, the man walked back the way they’d come.
Asher unlocked the door, but Harry stopped him from opening it. With a glance up and down the empty street, he took his pistol in hand and pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
It was dark, though his eyes quickly adjusted. The first room was small, the second room was clear too. No one was lying in wait for them, Harry determined easily, because there was nothing to hide behind.
The first room had a table and two chairs and an old sink basin in the corner. The second room had one single bed in it.
He turned around to find Asher standing inside, smiling.
“I’ll take the floor,” Harry grumbled.
Asher snorted but didn’t say anything. Instead, he carried the chair into the bedroom, stood on it, and lifted the utility panel in the ceiling. “Give me your bag, and pass me mine.”
Harry picked up the duffle bag, surprised at the weight of it. “Christ. What have you got in this?”
Asher lifted himself into the ceiling cavity, a space Harry could never squeeze through. Then he poked his head back down so he could see Harry. “I carry my friends with me. Barret and MacMillan.”
Harry sighed and handed the bags up to him. A second later, two feet appeared, then two legs. “Catch me.”
“I’m not going to fucking catch you.”
“If I sprain my ankle, we’ll both be useless.”
“I’m not useless,” Harry grumbled.
“So help me get down.”
Harry knew damn well that Asher could manage just fine. But, resisting the urge to sigh again or to fucking scream, Harry moved the chair and grabbed Asher’s legs. Asher lowered himself through the manhole just enough to put his crotch right at Harry’s face height.
Deliberately.
On purpose.
Asher refixed the panel in the ceiling into place, then pretended to slip, gripping Harry’s shoulders. Harry caught him, his arms around Asher’s ass. He looked down at Harry and grinned. “You’re so strong,” he said.
Harry dumped him onto the bed, upending him with as much care as he’d treat a bag of rocks, and walked into the other room.
It had been far too long since he’d touched a man in a way that wasn’t violent, and this was too much of a mindfuck right now.
“Being rough is my favourite kind of foreplay,” Asher called out with a laugh. He appeared with that stupid fucking grin.
Harry glared at him. “Is everything a joke to you?”
“Not everything. I take food very seriously.” He clapped Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
SEVEN
“I’m not going back down all those steps,” Harry grumbled. He was too tired for this bullshit.
“I thought you said your ankle was fine.”
“It is.” It kinda wasn’t. “But I’d like to keep it that way.”
Asher’s eyes glittered with humour. “This way then,” he said, going up to the end of the lane and turning left into what was kind of a tunnel. And it opened out onto a street. Like an actual street, with traffic.
Harry stopped. “Do you mean we could have driven up here instead of walking?”
Asher laughed again. “Of course.”
“Then why the fuck didn’t we?”
But then it dawned on Harry why Asher had done that.
It was to keep an advantage over him. Push the pain limit on his ankle to keep Harry the weaker of the two. “I should just fucking shoot you right now.”
Of course Asher laughed at that. “It wasn’t all about you. Where we left the truck was the drop off point. It was just unfortunate the room is in the high end of the Casbah, but that room was chosen for good reason. No windows, no elevated post positions close by for a sniper to perch on.” He gestured to the cluster of run-down and neglected buildings behind them. “And no one would think to look for us here. And it was all arranged without us having to do a damn thing.”
Harry hated that he made sense.
An old taxi came over the hill and Asher flagged him down. He opened the back door for Harry and waited. “Get in. I’m hungry, and you know what happens when I’m hungry?”
“You get more annoying.”
Asher’s smile turned into a sneer. “I should have shot you in Madrid. Get in the fucking car.”
Harry returned the favour by grinning right at him as he slid into the backseat. Asher slammed the door closed and climbed into the front passenger seat and had a lovely conversation with the driver as he drove down the hill.
Harry’s Arabic wasn’t great, but Asher seemed to be able to switch between languages like he was just swapping accents and not whole complex dialects.
Harry made out the words market, mahjouba, and makrout. Food, Harry deduced, and the driver laughed at something Asher had said.
He could charm the leg off a chair.
He really was insufferable.
Asher paid the fare, adding some extra for the recommendations, and when the taxi drove away, Asher pointed to one of the narrow walkways into the lower Casbah. “This way for the best mahjouba in the city.”
Harry wasn’t even sure what mahjouba was, but it wasn’t long before his nose and stomach found the source. Asher ordered, Harry gave him the cash, and with a bag full of food and some drinks, Asher nodded to the town square that buffered the Casbah from the road and marina.
They found a bench seat amidst the crowd and sat to eat. Harry was on his third pancake, Asher on his second, when Harry decided he needed some answers.
