Blood Rules by John Trenhaile Read Free Book Online Page B

himself.
    He glanced at Leila. She smiled at him and nodded briefly, puckering up her mouth, showing her laughter lines. She wanted it kept away from the police too. Right, then.
    “Um … no harm was done, I supp—”
    “Good. Fine, wonderful, great.”
    Halib bounded up; Colin instinctively rose also. Now he was being shepherded to the door by an ebullient Halib. Leila came to his rescue, taking him by the arm, her fingers tight around his flesh.
    “Don’t mind him,” she whispered. “He’s adorable once you get to know him.”
    He looked at her, trying to instill contempt into his gaze and consciously failing. Just get out, he told himself wearily. Cut it short.
Go!
He was almost halfway down the corridor before something prompted him to throw over his shoulder, “Leila, I live on the High—Number sixty-two, first floor.”
    Then he was being thanked yet one more time; the door was closing; he caught a final glimpse of Halib standing with arm raised to wave farewell; he was dismissed.
    It felt like that, he mused, as he wandered along Turl Street. I’m a servant, I did a good deed, I’ve been thanked by the master, and now here I am, belowstairs again, in my place.
    He returned to his room on the High, with its view of the garden at the back, now at the very height of summery charm, and put on an LP: Puccini,
Madame Butterfly.
After a while—it was stupid but he couldn’t help himself—he felt water on his cheeks. He swore, dashing away the tears. He began to knit all the bad words into oaths of great intricacy, attempting to weave a spell, a curse, on the woman who’d reduced him to such weakness. To such a pile of puke.
    A few minutes into Act Two, there came a light knock on the door. Colin ignored it. But then the visitor knocked again, and spoke. A woman’s voice. “Colin?” One word, just that.
    But what a word. What a voice.
    Colin, his heart beating fast, ran over to lift the needle. His hand was shaking so much that he scratched the LP—his favorite, too, and he didn’t care. He switched off the machine. He took a deep breath.
    “Come in, Leila,” he called.

20 JULY 1984:
0500: LONDON
    H ALIB had taken no chances over the reservation. He’d telexed the Penta Hotel as long ago as May, specifying the room number he required and charging it to a Diner’s Club card. From his vantage point by the soundproofed window he had a panoramic view of Heathrow Airport’s Terminal Three. In the early light, with the aid of binoculars, he could even make out the tail insignia of a certain Lockheed TriStar that was parked on stand Juliet Fourteen.
    Halib lowered his glasses long enough to consult his watch: less than an hour to go. They would be loading the fuel, the food and drink, checking individual suitcases against the list of issued boarding passes. The cleaners would have finished by now, leaving the cabin crew to set up the galleys ready for service after climb-out. The copilot would be walking around the plane, completing his visual check for oil leaks before testing whether there was sufficient nitrogen in the tires to support a fully laden landing in case of emergency. Early passengers would already be assembling in the holding lounge. Duty-free liquor and cigarettes would be coming across from the bonded warehouse, ready for stowage. The captain was reading his weather reports, calculating weights and speeds, updating his list of radio frequencies, studying today’s Notices to Airmen. And maybe, just maybe, some bright member of the cabin staff had thought to check the life rafts in case they had to ditch
    Halib raised the thumb and middle finger of his left hand to the bridge of his nose, massaging it gently. He took another look at his watch before once more lifting his binoculars. Thirty-six minutes to push-back.
    The overhead lockers were all still open when Senior Steward Alex Perkins began his routine check of the passenger cabin. He started at the back, giving each cavity more than a