Osama by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

walked to the wide wooden staircase. Mrs Jones’s stairlift was at the bottom, looking out of place beside the burnished, rather ornate banister. There was no way the old lady could make it upstairs without it, however. Mr Ashe laid the remote control on the seat and made his way upstairs.
    Seventeen steps. He had counted them the very first time he came here.
    Mr Ashe’s room was immediately to the left at the top of the stairs. The door, as always, was shut. He let himself in. It was a large bedroom – the largest in the house, Mrs Jones had told him when she showed him the room, but having examined all the others he knew that was a lie. Or rather a mistake, for he suspected Mrs Jones was past remembering such details. There was a lumpy double bed against the far wall with a patchwork quilt, and an enormous mahogany wardrobe in another. Behind the bed was a window that looked out onto the neglected back garden and, perhaps 200 metres beyond that, the brim of the cliff on which this old house stood, overlooking a grey sea that was only just visible through the rain. Three pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall: two of them were inexpertly painted oils of the imposing house, each from a different perspective, framed in cheap plastic with thick layers of dust and grime along the tops; the third, right next to the window, showed a sailing ship battling through stormy seas.
    The floor was littered with big cardboard boxes – about fifteen of them – and taking up the centre of the room was a circular table about two metres in diameter and covered with a crumpled yellow tablecloth. Piled high on this were stacks of papers, files and photographs; books; a chunky Dell computer and what looked like an early mobile phone – boxy and with a six-inch antenna – but which was actually an Iridium satellite phone: Mr Ashe’s sole link with the outside world in this remote region where internet connectivity and mobile-phone reception were nothing more than rumours.
    Closing the bedroom door behind him, he carefully laid on the table the cat’s hair he had pulled from the sofa, before walking over to the wardrobe. His few clothes were hanging next to some long-forgotten garments of Mrs Jones’s. He selected a heavy green Barbour raincoat and loosened the hood from its pouch, before returning to the table. Lying on top of the Dell was a book. It was about two-thirds the size of an ordinary paperback, but a good two inches thick, and wrapped in a sturdy leather binding with a push-button fastener. Embossed in gold on the front were the words ‘Holy Koran’, in both English and Arabic. Mr Ashe picked up the book and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
    Then, rummaging around in one of the cardboard boxes, he found a small tube of superglue. He recovered Dandelion’s hair, left the room and locked the door: the key he used was newer and shinier than the one Mrs Jones had given him, because the very first thing he had done on moving into his new lodgings had been to change the lock after the old woman had gone to bed. She’d never mentioned that her key no longer worked, but that didn’t mean, of course, that she had never tried to get in, or would never try in the future. Half blind and confused, it was unlikely that she would ever understand the significance of anything behind the locked door, but Mr Ashe still didn’t want any prying eyes. He squeezed two tiny blobs of superglue, one onto the top of the door, one onto the frame, then carefully fixed the cat’s hair to them. It would only take a minute to dry, and nobody would notice it was there if they weren’t looking for it. He went downstairs again.
    The voice coming from the television was slightly muffled here in the hallway, but it was loud enough for him to make out. ‘More details are emerging of the daring raid in Pakistan by US Navy SEALs that has killed Osama bin Laden . . .’
    Mr Ashe could not help a brief smile. He pulled the hood of the coat over