Page 1 of Thief

Prologue

The jeweller stretched his thick arms above his head, linked his sturdy fingers and rotated his calloused palms towards the ceiling. As the stretch travelled down his aching spine there was a tap on the office door accompanied by a sharp trilling voice.

“John, Miss Worthington-Hurley is here to collect her ring.” A pause then another rap. “John, John, can you hear me?”

“Yep, be right there,” he called in a rough voice as he lowered his arms to his sides and pushed to his feet. A nerve in his jaw twitched as he forced weight onto his left leg. “Dead son of a bitch,” he muttered.

Using the table for support, he moved to the safe and pulled out Miss Worthington-Hurley’s ring. He slipped it into a black velvet box embossed with gold lettering, flicked open the lock on his door and limped to the front of the shop. As he stepped into the glittering display area, he pasted a dazzling smile on his rugged features and forced a flame to life in his eyes. “Miss Worthington-Hurley, such a pleasure to see you,” he said brightly.

“Mr. Taylor.” The young woman bounced to the glass counter, blonde bob swishing, blue eyes flashing. “I trust you are well.”

“Fine, thank you, and yourself?”

“Fine, great…excited actually…really, really excited.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin and skipped on the spot.

“I thought you’d be looking forward to finally getting it.” He held out the small black box. “The alteration went fine. No hitches. I think you’ll find the fit perfect.”

She flicked open the lid and sucked air through her glossed lips. “Oh…I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. It’s completely stunning… Don’t you think?”

“It is indeed, flawless in every way. You could not have chosen better, madam.”

She pulled the ring from the spongy holding and slid it onto her left ring finger. “It fits perfectly. You’re so clever. It feels made especially for me.”

“Itwasmade especially for you.”

She held the three-stoned ring up to the artificial lights, tilted her hand and sighed as the light fracturing through it pebbled the counter with frantic stars. “Thank you so much. You’ve done a simply marvellous job.”

“My pleasure.”

“Has Tobias settled the account?” she asked, scooping the presentation box into a Gucci handbag.

“He has, and once again, congratulations on your engagement.” John leant his hip against the counter and shifted his weight.

“Thank you, you’re so kind. We’ll be in to order the wedding rings when we’ve set a date.”

“Very good.”

She pulled her handbag onto her shoulder, tapped across the redwood floor and breezed onto Park Lane, leaving behind a cloud of spiced perfume.

John’s smile slipped as he left the display area. There were no other customers in the shop. Just two junior female assistants chatting quietly as they conducted a laborious stock take.

He secured the lock on his office door, reached into a metal filing cabinet and withdrew a half full bottle of whisky. He splashed a triple into a stained mug and downed two-thirds in two gulps. He sank into his chair, shoved up his sleeves and pushed a heavy microscope to one side. The solid steel base scattered several delicate instruments onto the floor. He left them lying haphazardly—a complicated game of pick-up sticks.

He crossed his forearms on the table and rested his head on a deeply ingrained snake tattoo. He shut his eyes shut and his mind drifted. Alcohol eased the way.

Suddenly, he was hit with the stale scent of unwashed men and the creaking sound of straining canvas overhead. The atmosphere was studied, the tension mounting. He could hear himself asking questions, making calculated, important decisions, yet like being on a plane and waiting for ears to pop, his own voice sounded unfamiliar and watery. He took a deep breath and watched the Al Jazeera broadcast. Was there anything he could glean? His mind whirred through the finer details of the intelligence, piecing it together like a macabre jigsaw he knew off by heart.

He raised his head, disorientated, and squinted into the staring glare of a table lamp. Remembered where he was, in his office, he reached clumsily for his mug, swallowed, banged it down and fumbled for the light switch. He closed his eyes once more, and sleep claimed him.

The temperature plummeted. He was being jolted over stones and boulders. His jaw rattled and his spine tensed. The wheel suspension groaned its complaint. He studied Cobra One. They were an intimidating bunch. From their boots to their balaclavas, everything was the colour of the darkest night, including exposed flesh. Gadgetry and hardware bulged from every pocket, their outfits swollen with deadly loads. There was an atmosphere of grim anticipation. An energised but sombre tension only men going into battle emit, it filled the APV, inhabiting the space like another physical presence.

He jumped onto a ruined suburban road. Dust scattered around his heavy boots as his legs absorbed the impact. His night vision goggles gave the area a surreal green glow. A skinny Afghan dog stopped and stared, luminous pupils flashing, then it ran away, whip tail straight as a cane.

He was outside the house now—dilapidated, barely a roof and only three and a half walls. No complete windows and rusting corrugated iron wedged as a feeble fence. He flattened against the pockmarked wall at the north side with Eagle and Hig. The other three men rounded the corner to the south side to act as deadly lookouts.

Through the shadows, he saw his own gloved hand sign three, two, one. The doorframe brushed his shoulder as he ducked through the narrow gap. He came face to face with a bearded man—stained turban, round glasses, the right lens cracked like a lightening fork— with a primed AK47 in his hand.

John’s reflex created a sickening crack. He felt the soft flesh of broken neck on his forearm and the slack of dead tendons melt over his wrist. He lowered the body to the floor.

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