Assassins Rogue by Rachel Amphlett

Author:Rachel Amphlett [Amphlett, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781913498511
Publisher: Saxon Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

Ankara

* * *

Adrian Ogilvy lowered his sunglasses onto his nose and rolled up his cotton shirt sleeves as he left the hotel, unaware that he was being watched.

In his mid-sixties, he walked at the pace of a man with purpose, and of one for whom exercise was a regular occurrence.

He checked his watch, the timepiece gleaming in the bright light already causing sweat to prickle at his hairline. He had an hour until the pre-arranged meeting but wanted to arrive early in order to assess the location.

His contact – Mahdi – had suggested a remote location for their meeting, and Adrian had readily agreed. It was far away from the diplomatic quarter, away from prying ears and eyes, and the drive would serve to give him time to batten down his increasing panic.

Adrian’s gaze shot to his left as double glass doors parted and a waft of air-conditioned coolness swept over him.

Most people – particularly the tourists – were sensible enough to spend the daylight hours by the hotel pool or visiting one of the malls to stay out of the heat.

He did not have the luxury of choice.

Not now.

His attention snapped to the right as a convoy of black limousines passed, the licence plates revealing the passengers to be diplomats behind the smoked-out windows before the cars swept by and turned through the gates to one of the many embassies lining the streets in the city.

A cursory glance over his shoulder gave him no cause for concern.

Families congregated in small groups outside the shops – parents bickered in the midday heat, sulking children with bored expressions at their heels while women in niqabs hurried past clutching laden bags from the market and department stores. A long line of traffic curled along the road in both directions, the movement of the vehicles swift, busy while a siren wailed in the distance.

Adrian picked up his pace, wishing he’d remembered to wear the straw fedora that was currently sitting on the middle of the hotel room’s king-sized bed where he’d left it in his rush to leave.

Jaw set, he pulled a cotton handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his forehead, then swallowed.

His heart rate was elevated, not from the exercise – he played tennis three times a week back home in England, and was used to working in the refugee camps based closer to the Equator – but from a nagging worry that had grown since a phone call last night.

He slowed as he approached a grey four-by-four parked at the kerb, aimed his key fob at it and threw himself behind the wheel, grateful for the tinted windows keeping out some of the heat. Starting the engine, he opened the windows until the air conditioning started to pump out a cool breeze, then swiped the parking permit off the dashboard and pulled into a gap in the traffic.

He thumbed down the volume on the steering wheel controls, the muted voices of the BBC World Service fading to the background,

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