Osama by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

his head, patted his pocket to check that his Koran was still there, and stepped outside. He made it a rule to drive here as little as possible, and Mrs Jones, of course, had no car. So he walked briskly into the rain, not stopping to look back at the solitary shape of the house standing on that deserted clifftop. His face was dripping wet in seconds; within a minute, the rain had soaked the leather of his inadequate brown shoes. When he had walked the thirty-metre length of the driveway and exited through a pair of rattling iron gates, he turned right onto the road that would lead him, if he continued for another four miles, to the nearest railway station, Thornbridge. Perhaps one of the infrequent country buses would pass him before then, but if not he was prepared to walk.
    A crack of thunder ripped the sky overhead. Mrs Jones’s house disappeared in the distance. Mr Ashe continued to walk, his shoulders still slightly stooped, his brow furrowed, the lower part of his trousers already sodden, his mind deep in thought.

Three
    CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, USA. 0700 hours EST.
    ‘I got to hand it to you, Mason. The President’s grinning like a goddamn lunatic – I think he’d do just about anything if you asked him.’
    Mason Delaney felt his lips twitching with pleasure as he rested his hands on his neat little paunch. ‘Well, there’s a thought, Jed,’ he replied, his voice as quiet as it always was when he was receiving a compliment and pretending to be modest. His eyes sparkled behind his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘You make me sound like the new Monica Lewinsky!’
    Delaney giggled. Jed Wallace, the President’s Chief of Staff, smiled patiently. It was an expression that didn’t suit his hawk-like face. His auburn hair was cropped military fashion and Delaney had no doubt this was a conscious style statement. Wallace ran the show in the West Wing, and he did it with military precision. ‘Seriously, Mason, you made a powerful friend yesterday, and one who expects to be around for a while. His approval ratings are through the roof. You just bought him another four years in office.’
    ‘I live to serve, Jed. I live to serve.’ Delaney inhaled deeply and, with a pleasant smile, looked around his office. The May sunshine was streaming in through the window, casting its light over his desk and the coffee table in front of the comfortable sofa on which the two men were sitting. He had made this office very much his own, transformed it from the bland, beige box it had once been into a place which, he felt, more accurately represented his character. An antique chaise longue stood along the opposite wall, and on the walls were prints of his favourite Michelangelo sketches. He adored the way the artist caught the male form. Really, he felt he could gaze at them all day.
    ‘Shall we take a look?’ Wallace interrupted him politely after a full minute of silence.
    Delaney snapped out of his reverie. ‘I beg your pardon, Jed?’
    ‘The images. Shall we . . . ’
    ‘Had enough coffee?’ Delaney indicated the china coffee pot and the two full cups on the table.
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Cookies?’
    ‘No cookies, Mason. Thank you.’
    ‘I only ask, Jed, because I think you might lose your appetite when you see them. If you’d rather not put yourself through it . . .’
    ‘I’ve finished my coffee, Mason.’ Wallace pushed the cup away from him to underline this.
    Delaney gave him a bland smile before standing up and shuffling over to his desk, where he picked up a manilla A4 envelope and brought it back to the sofa. He sat down, fixed Wallace with a stare that he knew would make the Chief of Staff uncomfortable, then removed a sheaf of photographs from the envelope.
    The photographs were in colour, but they were grainy and occasionally out of focus. The first showed an unmade bed and a large bloodstain on the rug in front of it. The second showed the same thing but from a different angle.
    ‘Mason, none of these show