Hard Place Read Online Free Page B

as if he had no cares. “Nasty area at night.”
    “Tossed over the railings into Frank Banfield Park. Naked. Small build. Aged about fifty. Nearly bald. Tattoo on his left buttock.”
    Ratso said nothing.
    “Widna be needing nail polish for Christmas.”
    Ratso rose slowly to his full height, couldn’t take the news sitting down.
    “Nor condoms, neither.”
    Shit! Tortured! That bastard Bardici. What had Neil revealed?
    Ratso nodded but said nothing as he weighed the implications. “We’d better take a look. Pick me up outside Nero’s. It’s going to be a long morning.”

    CHAPTER FIVE
    Washington DC

    3:15 a.m. Lance Ruthven was awake instantly. He silenced the alarm and climbed out of the double bed that he shared with nobody. After wrapping himself in a silk dressing gown with a dragon motif, he glided down the narrow corridor to the kitchen where he fired up the coffee maker on the black marble countertop. He saw the flip-top lying on the table and moved toward it. He resisted momentarily but then flicked open the pack. As he waited for the Costa Rican dark roast, he lit up and stood by the window looking down onto Dumbarton Street, conveniently close to M Street and a pleasant walk to the State Department where he worked.
    Unlike New York, a couple hundred miles farther north, Washington, DC, was a city that slept. Of course, down Pennsylvania Avenue, government buildings would be buzzing with activity, as would some of the big law firms. But midweek, this was not a party town. Washington took itself seriously. Running the world was serious. Life-and-death decisions were taken in the few square miles that he could almost see from his window. The lives of soldiers and citizens globally depended on the perceived knowledge and wisdom of the politicians, military figures, spooks and government servants who ran DC. Sure, he could imagine the occasional senator or other party animals being tossed into cabs from the K Street Lounge or the Good Guys Club on Wisconsin. But mostly, it was early to bed and early to rise.
    But not 3:15 a.m. early.
    He checked his Cartier Santos watch, a little luxury he had picked up on the Rue du Rhone in Geneva while attending a top-secret meeting during the Iraq War. Times had changed; Afghanistan now filled his working day. Kabul, Kandahar and the integrity of the Green Zone were the agenda at 2201 C Street NW. He poured a coffee and stubbed out the cigarette. On the table lay his Blackberry and a neat silver pay-as-you-go cellphone. He checked the time again, picked up the phone and dialled.
    Seven thousand miles away, the phone rang in a magnificent turreted poppy palace in the Sherpur district of Kabul. An urbane man with a round O of a mouth adjusted his glasses, waved an aide from the room and answered the call. He felt at ease, totally secure with over thirty-five guards patrolling his ten acres day and night.
    “How’s it going?” Ruthven asked.
    “Usual diplomatic crap. I’m meeting a British delegation shortly.” The speaker sighed at the tediousness of it all. The Afghan’s voice was guttural but his English was heavily American East Coast. Not surprising. Until fifteen years before, Adnan Shirafi had been at Harvard Business School following private schooling in New Hampshire. His top-class education had taught him everything … and nothing. Certainly nothing that had enabled him to become the pivotal figure controlling and exporting over 80% of the world’s heroin.
    As a cousin to Afghanistan’s new president, he had a comfortable impression he was above the law. The US and British governments knew of Shirafi and his drug empire but were powerless to expose him. Helmand Province was Shirafi’s fiefdom, the area that produced the endless supply of poppies. He could turn the Help Button on or off at a whim. He could fix elections—and had. He could stir up the local tribesmen for good or ill. He played Downing Street and the White House as easily as Sir Elton