A Time for Dying

  • The Final book in the Geoffrey Summers trilogy
  • Some muslims believe that the day a black camel comes to your door is the day of your death.
  • Geoffrey Summers and Richard Sharpe of MI 5 become involved again with Al Qaeda when Josh leaves a trail of bodies in his effort to wreak revenge on Ahmed bin Raman. The abduction of a senior figure in  British intelligence and the possible attack on major buildings in Europe from a puzzling and unusual source causes all parties to once again confront the Al Qaeda leader in a final showdown.The chase across Europe finally ends in Spain.
                                                           A Time for Dying

Jacques leaned back against the wall in the alcove facing the house. Two hours had passed and he would shortly make his move. He fingered the knife, his special and favourite weapon. With this sharp blade he had already cut the throat of four victims. He trembled with anticipation remembering the look in their eyes as they realised they were dying. The thought of that moment always made him shiver with excitement. .

He glanced at his watch again, the Englishman he was about to kill should be asleep by now, and his entry into the house had been organised. A key had been provided and the locks oiled, so no sound would disturb the sleeping victim. It’s time, he decided. Quietly he slipped across the street.

The key moved silently in the lock and he opened the door and slid into the hallway. He had been told that the third step squeaked so he stepped from the second to the fourth on his soft soled shoes and moved up to the landing. He turned left and went to the end of the hallway, checking that the door had the number 6 painted on it. This was the room he wanted. He placed his ear against the door but he could hear no sound. Grasping the door knob he firmly turned it and pushed. To his surprise the door opened, he expected it to be locked from the inside. He had the tools necessary to unlock it but the stupid Englishman had left it open. That made his task easier and the Englishman’s death more certain. From the dim light showing through the window he was able to make out the shape of the bed and table. He moved quickly towards the bed, the knife in his trembling hand. The excitement was building inside of him. A light sound and a sharp prick to his neck made him spin round. There was a shadowy figure standing in front of him. H e tried to raise his arm but found he couldn’t move. The room grew even darker and he collapsed.

Jacques opened his eyes and regarded the view with a puzzled brow. Bare chest, stomach and legs. He shook his head and tried to lift his arms with no success, and he started to regain full use of his senses. His arms were strapped to the chair, his legs to the chair legs. He was naked. He struggled to move but the chair made no movement. It must be bolted to the floor, he thought. There was something strange about the feel of the it, then he suddenly realised what it was. The chair had no seat in it. Jacques body was protruding through the chair. He looked around the room, his eyes resting on the figure of a man sitting opposite him. The man smiled.

‘You’ve taken some time to come round,’ he said.

Jacques glared at him.

‘There’s only about an hour left before it gets light,’ the man said, ‘so I’ll have to dispense with the formalities and get down to business, who sent you to kill me?’

Jacques tightened his mouth and said nothing.

‘Oh dear,’ said the man, ‘ I was hoping this wouldn’t be necessary. He turned to the table by his side. Jacques had not noticed it previously but now looked at the table with apprehension. He could see what looked like a scalpel, some pincers, and a blow torch.

The man picked up the scalpel, ‘No, I don’t think so, too messy,’ he said, I could get some blood stains on my jacket.‘

He picked up the pincers and taking Jacque right hand looked at the nails.

‘A shame,’ he said, ‘ you bite your nails, making them very short. It’s going to be difficult getting a firm grip on them with these. I could try I suppose.’

Jacque was beginning to get very perturbed, the Englishman sounded serious.

‘Of course, ‘ the man said, ‘we can dispense with all this if you’ll just answer my questions.’

‘Your bluffing,’ said Jacques.

The man smiled, ‘I can assure you that I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get the answers I want,’ he said.

Jacques made no reply.

The man stood up, walked across to Jacques with a roll of tape and tearing a piece off strapped it across Jacques mouth.

‘I wouldn’t want the neighbours complaining about the screams.’

He picked the blowtorch up and opened the gas tap, struck a match and lit the torch. It made a low humming noise as the blue flame shot from the nozzle. With the torch in his hand, he walked across to Jacques, and then stopped. ‘I forgot about the smell,’ he said. He put the burning torch on the floor and walking to the window, opened it.

‘You’ll never believe the smell you get from burning testicles,’ he said.

‘It’s really obnoxious. You probably won’t notice it.’

Jacques looked at him with terror in his eyes, this Englishman was insane, he couldn’t do this.

‘All you have to do is nod, if you decide to answer my questions, that is.’

Jacques nodded his head but the Englishman didn’t seem to notice. He was getting down on his knees with the blowtorch in his hand. Jacques nodded violently but the man was more intent on getting the torch pointing in the right direction.

‘I don’t want to set fire to the chair,’ he explained.

Perspiration was dripping down the face of Jacques as he nodded even more violently, trying to make noises through the tape across his mouth as he felt the warmth of the torch.

The man noticed, ‘Are you certain,’ he asked.

Jacques nodded a few more times. The man hesitated, ‘I would be really annoyed if I had to light this again,‘ he said.

Jacques nodded. The man turned off the gas and placed the torch on the table, returned to Jacques and pulled the tape off his mouth, he sat down facing him. ’Who sent you to kill me?’ he said.

Jacques hesitated for a second and the man started to get up from the chair.

‘It was Pascall Carre, ‘ he said, quickly.

The man whistled, ‘ the Paris gang boss, ‘ he said. ‘Why would he want me dead?’

‘He was paid to organise it,’ Jacques said, ‘and he wanted to make it look as if it was someone from out of town, so he got me to come from Marseille.’

‘How much?’ said the man.

‘I was getting two thousand up front and two afterwards,’ Jacques said.

‘How would Pascall know you’d killed me?’

‘Afterwards, I was to cut off your finger, the one with the ring and show Pascall.’

‘Where would you find him?’

‘I have an address written on a piece of paper in my pocket,’ Jacques said.

‘Why all this secrecy?’

‘Pascall didn’t want anyone to know of his involvement, some people wouldn’t approve,’ he said.

The man walked across behind Jacques to the bed and looked in the pocket of the coat lying there. He pulled out a piece of paper and looked at it.

He walked across to Jacques ands showed it to him, ‘Is that the address,’ he asked.

Jacques nodded, as the man walked back to the bed.

‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Jacques said.

The man walked behind him, ‘ You can go,’ he said. Jacques breathed a sigh of relief, the man continued, ‘to hell’. Jacques felt something touch the back of his head and heard a noise before his body slumped in the chair.