Devil's Tumble

By Eben Beukes

MY COUSIN BEFORE THE STRANGER. MY BROTHER BEFORE MY COUSIN...

The Scud missile did not bring the dreaded sarin gas but it did point the way to the first dead body. The first in a trail of blood that would lead Kuwaiti homicide detective Riad al Ajmi from the world of the rich to the slums of the underworld as a war rages on the horizon and old wounds are opened once more. Kuwait City, March 2003. The Iraq War—the city swarming with American troops as refugees start streaming in, bringing with them tales of horror. Some going all the way back to the earlier rape of the city and uncovering old secrets—terrible secrets—that some would do anything to keep hidden.

Even murder.

Then there’s the ritualistic slaughter of a young nurse at Kuwait’s Armed Forces Hospital, the killer dressed in the Class A uniform of a ranking American officer—shades of a serial killer previously encountered in Seoul.

Enter CWO Sally Kendrick and WO Troy DuBois, American Military Police CID, flown in to find this killer before it threatens to spill into the realm of civilian Kuwait, straining the uneasy relationship between host city and foreign troops.

A second murder on the military compound raises the possibility of Kuwaiti involvement and soon the duo find themselves working with a reluctant Riad, who prefers to do things his way, which is not quite the army’s way. As the body count mounts, the scene is complicated by the unexpected arrival of Riad’s uncle, the scion of a well-known Lebanese crime family. What is he doing there? How did he even manage to get into a city in total lockdown? Could he be linked to what was happening on that hospital compound and on the streets of the city?

Still struggling to deal with the violent death of his wife at the hands of a jihadist, leaving him the sole carer for a young daughter, Riad finds himself drawn into the circles of the city’s rich and the arms of a sultry seductress, whose motives might just hold the key to the biggest secret of all.

As the hunter becomes the hunted, this fast-moving thriller builds to a shattering climax, where Riad faces the fine line between the law and that most elusive entity of all—justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463716847

Eben Beukes

Growing up in apartheid-era South Africa Eben Beukes experienced at first hand the turbulent transition period of that country to a modern democracy. A University of Stellenbosch graduate he worked as a young surgeon in several of the country's "black hospitals" after completing his compulsory military service in the SADF.In later years he worked as a surgeon at a large military hospital in Saudi Arabia, two years in New Zealand and for the five years leading up to 2006 was a senior surgeon at the Armed Forces Hospital in Kuwait City, the base hospital at the start of the Iraq War in 2003.His experience during the six weeks war led to the publication of Pockets of Resistance documenting the often farcical and always chaotic inner workings of a large military hospital with Americans and Arabs reluctantly rubbing shoulders while in the throes of a hot war. A total of seven years in the Middle East provided the background for both The Mask of Louka (Saudi Arabia) and its sequel, Devil's Tumble, both featuring British educated Kuwaiti detective, Riad Ajmi.Earlier novels were political thrillers set against the background of a newly democratic South Africa. These feature Harry Dance in the Shadows of a Rainbow trilogy: The Cherry Red Shadow, The Lily White Shadow and the recently published The Blue Ice Shadow.Other novels include Any Way the Wind Blows, a noir detective novel as well as A Straitlaced Man.Eben Beukes lives in Australia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Kuwait City, March 2003

The ground was uneven and Riad cursed as his shoe encountered a discarded tin can, sending it clattering over the rubble, the sharp sound bringing the sergeant who was leading the way to an abrupt halt, his sidearm drawn.

‘What was that?!’

‘It’s just an empty can. For God’s sake stop waving that thing around! There’s no -one here!’

The soldier muttered something about Saddam’s spies being everywhere, eyes watching them, directing the missiles that were turning the city into a ghostly framework where no lights showed and no traffic stirred.

No civilians. Deserted streets where, only days before, there had been the lights and clamour of a big city at night.

After a further moment’s hesitation, the sergeant, Riad had him down for no more than twenty, a boy really, risked a brief probe of his flashlight before leading the way once more. Sweating under his thin dishdasha and wishing the soldier would pause so he could dislodge a sharp pebble in his sandal, Riad could hear Waleed softly cursing as he brought up the rear. His partner’s laboured breathing behind the gas mask like that of a tired old V8 being cranked up one last time.

Reflecting that his own gas mask was nestling somewhere between the clutter of rubbish on the Crown Victoria’s back seat, Riad shrugged and concentrated on following in the steps of their guide who was now approaching the small circle of figures standing a respectful distance away from a large oblong object whose finned rear section was dimly outlined against the background glow of a low slung moon. Already muffled voices dropped to a hush as the small party approached. A tall lean figure detached itself and stepped forward, hand outstretched.

‘Salaam aleikum,’ he said in the soft spoken dialect of the Gulf Arab. ‘Lieutenant Hossam Ayham, Army Engineers.’

‘Lieutenant Riad al Ajmi, Homicide, Salmiyah District, Wwas aleikum salaam,’ Riad replied, turning to introduce Waleed, frowning to see that his sergeant was still persisting with the bloody gas mask when no -one else was wearing theirs.

‘For God’s sake, Waleed, can’t you see there’s no gas here!’

‘Says who?’ came the muffled reply, a note of defiance from behind the fogged up goggles. ‘We were warned about sarin gas and also anthrax. How do we know that thing...…’ he pointed in the direction of the missile, ‘wasn’t loaded with ---...’

‘It’s empty,’ the man in the bomb protection suit said, straightening up from where he had been squatting next to the shattered nose cone of the SCUD. ‘Just an empty cavity where the weapons load should be.’

They watched in silence as the engineer gathered up his heavy canvas bag, the man pausing to draw a large white X on the fuselage with a spray can. ‘Cleared,’ he said unnecessarily as he strode past to throw his gear on the back of a parked Humvee, before struggling out of the hurt locker suit.

‘Third one to-night,’ Ayham said, shaking his head in wonder. ‘No payload; the earlier ones still carried some explosives but now it’s just nothing. Who fires an empty SCUD when we’re told the man has weapons of mass destruction?’

‘A man who has no cards left to play,’ Riad said. He glanced at his watch, twenty past midnight, half an hour since they got the call. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Over there, next to the Humvee. Come, I’ll show you.’

‘Who found it?’ Riad asked as they strode over.

‘One of my men did when we arrived shortly after the SCUD came down. Tripped over it in the dark.’

‘And this is the exact spot where it was found. You didn’t move it?’ They were standing next to the body now, its outline stark under the powerful headlights of the Humvee that had been switched on after a sharp order from the lieutenant.

‘We didn’t touch it, simply confirmed the man was dead before calling you.’

‘What made you decide this was a case for homicide; not just one for the regular police? The man could have been crossing this empty lot and was struck by flying debris from the crashing missile?’ He was crouching beside the body of the young man now, taking in the fashionably stressed faded jeans, the dark tee shirt and the striped Adidas sneakers. A small gold chain glistened at the neck, an expensive gold watch on a wrist, still faithfully keeping track of time. Instinctively Riad knew a baseball cap would be lying nearby, sunglasses somewhere amongst the rubble and probably crushed by myriad heavy boots that had already muddied the waters.

‘This,’ the lieutenant said, squatting next to Riad and lifting the flimsy blood stained tee shirt to expose the dead man’s torso. ‘We pulled it up to try and locate a heartbeat and saw this.’

Riad found himself staring at a blood soaked chest and neck, the skin unnaturally pale in the half light, a large bruise centred around a clean three inch wound running from one side of the neck to halfway across, severing the larynx. Taking a ballpoint pen from a shirt pocket, the lieutenant gently inserted it into the wound which tracked sideways and to the back, the pen gliding easily to more than half its length before he withdrew it, wiping it on the dead man’s shirt.

‘Straight through the carotid artery,’ he said with some satisfaction, ‘don’t have to be a doctor to diagnose this one.’

‘It could be shrapnel,’ Riad said, immediately dismissing the thought.

‘No explosion,’ the soldier said, shaking his head. ‘This is a professional job, the way we teach it in Special Forces. A hand clamped around the mouth from behind and carotid artery and larynx sliced in one stab from the side. The victim dies instantly, unable to utter a warning sound.’ He made to demonstrate with the pen and Riad waved it away.

‘Don’t do that,’ he said, ‘it interferes with the coroner’s work.’

He glanced pointedly at the pen the lieutenant was still holding, the man seeing his look and laughing softly, ‘We can toss the pen into the evidence bag if you want. Army issue, I have a desk filled with them.’

‘Cute.’

With a weary sigh, Riad climbed to his feet and at that moment the sirens started up again. The first ones from way down in the old part of the city to be quickly taken up by a wailing crescendo building cacophony as others followed suit all over the city as far out as distant Ahmadi. A sound straight out of hell, Riad mused. This must have been what it was like in London during the Blitz, or the great German cities when the bombers came over in swarms with their fiery loads. Slaughterhouse 5...

Jesus, Riad! What is it with you?! Why must everything always be distilled into some book you’ve read, some thesis you wrote in those wasted years at Cambridge?!

Concentrate! A SCUD missile has just been launched from somewhere in the southern Iraq desert, its tell- tale signal instantly picked up by the Americans now advancing along that highway to Baghdad. Four minutes warning, they said. All citizens in Kuwait City to take instant shelter, keep their gas masks ready.

He tried to remember what type of alarm was coming over the speakers. Was it a gas or biological warning that was three long sounds followed by a pause? Or was that the explosive one?

Did it matter? (An idle thought of what a suitable sound for an empty missile could be was instantly dismissed.) A quick glance around confirmed that Waleed was still the only one wearing a gas mask, the soldiers seemingly oblivious of the sirens as they loaded their gear on the back of the truck. With a sigh, Riad reached for his mobile phone and dialled the station where he was put through to the duty forensics team.

‘Ali? Riad. I’ve got work for you. A man with his throat cut. What? Yes, of course he’s dead! And yes, I know what time it is. At the back of the Salmiyah Sultan Centre, there’s an empty lot close to where the shoppers park.’ Cutting short any protests, Riad pocketed his phone and took the flashlight from his partner as he started going through the contents of the man’s pockets.

By law, all adult Kuwaitis, citizens as well as expatriate workers and their families, have to carry a valid identity card known as an iquama when venturing outside their home. Credit card size the laminated document has a photograph of the bearer as well as his personal data and a current home address. The cards are renewable yearly, spewed from the insides of huge machines found in each district, and during the recipient’s birth month.

In Kuwait, there are no exceptions, everyone carries the card.

This one was battered and dirty and due for renewal in June. The face that stared back at Riad was that of a thirty- three- year- old with an address in Shuwaikh, an area Riad visited all too frequently as a representative of Kuwait’s finest.

Saleh al Hamdi. Kuwaiti citizen and now homicide victim. Riad went through the other items retrieved from the young man’s pockets. A well- worn wallet produced a credit card, a photograph of a young woman –-- no inscription on the back – a set of keys including one that, judging by the logo, would fit a Toyota and twenty two22 Kuwaiti dinars in small bills. A cheap cigarette lighter and five Marlboro cigarettes in a crumpled packet;. aA colourful string of prayer beads;.

sSome loose change.

No mobile phone. Didn’t everyone in Kuwait City have a mobile phone? Raiad knew many Kuwaiti males would have two or three. One for contacting the wife, another for the girlfriend. Stepping into the light of the torch, Waleed held out the twisted remains of a pair of sunglasses. ‘Like you predicted, boss. Oakleys too, nice. At least they used to be.’

‘No sign of a mobile phone?’

‘Sorry.’

Riad grunted. He could only hope one of the soldiers hadn’t pocketed the thing. Knew it was a no go to ask. ‘No sign of a baseball cap?’

‘No. Probably left it in the car.’

‘What makes you think he drove here?’

The sergeant shrugged, ‘No -one in Kuwait walks,’ he said simply.

Straightening up with a grunt, Riad shoved the man’s personal belongings into an evidence bag his partner was holding out and absently patted his pockets before remembering he had given up smoking three weeks earlier. Glancing around for any signh of the forensics team, it struck him how eerily quiet the city was. And how dark. Almost like a major power failure; or a total eclipse of the sun.

Not that there was an official curfew or any warning from the authorities to the good citizens to stay in the relative safety of their homes, there being no bomb shelters or indeed any underground tunnels to offer shelter against whatever terrors Saddam Hussein had in store for them.

No, Riad mused, rather it was the still fresh collective memory of that earlier rape of Kuwait, the unspeakable horrors of the invasion of 1990, the wholesale destruction and pillaging that followed. The summary execution of so many, the disappearance of others to an uncertain fate in Baghdad. Most never to be seen again.

Better to stay inside, close the curtains and put out the lights. Except, of course, for the blue flicker of carefully screened televisions where all would be watching the battle unfold on CNN.

Forty- eight hours into the war and counting. The rockets at night and the Blackhawks by day, the latter coming in low and fast on the horizon to disappear behind the enshrouding walls of the Military Hospital on the periphery of the Sixth Ring Road. The city as quiet by day as it was by night.

And Riad left wondering why a man had been brutally murdered at that exact spot. And why he had not been robbed.

……….

Sally Kendrick walked down the rear loading door of the C130 hauling her canvas kit bag. As usual, she had packed light and a backward glance at her partner, Troy DuBois, struggling to heft a bulging backpack while hauling his own kit bag, brought a wry smile to her lips. He was new at this she thought, did not yet appreciate that as an MP you got to live off the land the military called home. That certain privileges came with the job, like open access to military supply depots and decent meals whenever you felt like it.

You even got to wear civilian dress whenever the job called for it.

It was unexpectedly chilly on the tarmac, the light of morning still only a promise on the horizon at that early hour and a wind from the desert tearing at her baggy battle dress fatigues and whipping fine yellow sand in her face. Waiting for Troy to catch up, she peered past the stream of personnel making their way to the distant airport buildings, finally spotting the Humvee parked near the perimeter fence, the driver waving.

‘Our ride,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And ain’t that typical of the marines to be dead on time.’

Dead on time just about summarises it, Troy reflected as he followed her across to where the Humvee had started up and was coming their way.

The man behind the wheel was a marine major, the lettering on the desert pattern fatigues Weathers, first name Chad, as they shook hands.

‘CWO Sally Kendrick and my partner is WO 4 Troy Dubois.’ They watched as Troy slung the baggage into the back of the vehicle, suppressing a sneeze as a cloud of dust rose from the loading tray.

No driver, she noted, but then seeing the sensitivity of the matter the major would want to keep things quiet, even to the point of negotiating Kuwait traffic himself. Weathers was somewhere in his late thirties she guessed, the deeply tanned and weather beaten features as typical of the serving marine as was the cropped crew cut and the brisk manner. The clipped speech. The sidearm was worn low, slung and strapped to the thigh and Sally wondered whether he had it chambered and ready.

They didn’t salute. Weathers wasn’t in their chain of command and Sally had learned you never gave the man’s army anything you didn’t have to. Casual insolence was the way to go.

‘I’m to be your contact while you’re here,’ Weathers said as he pressed the starter button, the diesel springing to life with a low rumble. ‘This is what we have.’ He passed her a slim manila folder, sat back as she scanned the few pages inside.

‘That’s the girl,’ he said unnecessarily, jabbing a finger at an A4 size colour photograph of a young Filipina woman. It was taken from the shoulders up, the bruises on the slim neck vivid, the lips bruised and slightly parted exposing tiny white teeth.

The eyes were closed and Sally reckoned they would be hazel brown, even black. Like the shoulder length hair.

Amina Reyes, she read. Twenty- five and a nurse at Kuwait’s Armed Forces Hospital. It went on to list background details, friends and family back home. The body found behind a vehicle in the hospital’s basement parking lot at seven in the morning by a cleaner. Thirty- six hours ago, the time of death set at between six to eight hours earlier. Cause of death: strangulation. Signs of possible rape but no semen on the body.

‘I’m up here, major,’ she said without glancing at Weathers who forced his gaze away from her breasts to peer into the distance where another large transporter was making its final approach. As usual, it descended rapidly, almost a straight drop, aluminium flares shooting away from the sides and tail section in a dazzling show of early morning fireworks. Standard decoy practice against any missile launcher that might be lurking in the desert nearby.

‘How long do you think you’ll be here?,’ Weathers asked. ‘I mean what is the usual time frame for this kind of thing. Perhaps I could show you around in your off time...…’

‘It takes as long as it takes,’ Sally said, handing the file over her shoulder to Troy in the back. ‘And, no, thank you.’

Weathers shrugged and banged the Humvee into gear, the truck lumbering past the guards at the gate and turning its broad flat nose towards a distant Camp Matilda. ‘I thought I’d take you to meet the Military Hospital’s colonel first, then show you to your quarters. Give you chance to freshen up.’ He grinned, ‘From memory, it’s a long flight from Frankfurt and you’d have been lucky to get a hot MRE let alone a coffee.’

‘I’m fresh now,’ Sally said, ‘so let’s skip the social bits; I’ll meet with the colonel later, for now I’d like to get a bite to eat then head out to the military hospital.’ A thought made her frown, ‘Who’s the investigating officer in charge on the Kuwaiti side? I didn’t see that in the folder.’

‘There isn’t one. The colonel in charge of the hospital, an air force man, has handed it straight over to us. It seems the Kuwaitis don’t want this boat rocked at all. They’d be quite happy to sweep it all under the carpet, believe it or not.’

And isn’t that just great, Sally sighed. Simply put, there would be no co-operation from the Kuwaitis other than probably some junior officer who would be all smiles, offering plenty of refreshments, dubious interpreter service with the locals and very little else. And all that because of a witness who had spotted an American army officer in the vicinity of the crime in the time frame of the killing. A mysterious officer who had since disappeared off the face of the planet. She asked Weathers about it.

‘We’ve checked the movements of all officers on the hospital grounds above the rank of lieutenant on the night in question. All are accounted for, nobody was in that area at that time. Then there’s the other matter,’ he went on, swerving to avoid a stray dog that had materialised from the featureless surrounding desert like a mirage. The Humvee’s front tyre struck a sand mound and jerked violently, the heavy vehicle skidding as Weathers fought it back under control. The jolt had dislodged the passenger side mirror which banged repeatedly against the side of the truck. If Weathers noticed, he didn’t seem to care. Sally decided she didn’t either.

‘The other matter?’ she prompted. ‘Something that’s not in the file?’

Weathers shrugged, ‘I dunno if it’s relevant but the witness describes the suspect as wearing a well- fitting uniform with plenty of shining brass and what sounds like medals.’

‘Class A uniform ---...’ Sally said softly, a cold chill rising and bringing a catch to her throat.

‘Seoul,’ Troy said as he shifted in his seat, a new note in his voice.

‘Yes,’ Sally said, ‘Just like Seoul.’

Ignoring the quizzical glances from Weathers, they drove the rest of the way in silence, Sally’s thoughts with the events of six months earlier and a case that went cold and was suddenly with them again.

Bringing all of its horrors.

***

***

Chapter 2

Rania was up when Riad got back to the flat. His daughter dressed for school and fixing a sandwich, the remnants of breakfast scattered on the dining room table. He sank wearily into a chair and asked what the chances were for a coffee.

‘I didn’t hear you go out last night,’ she pouted, shoving the lunch box into a bulging backpack. ‘You always give me a kiss before going off.’

‘It was after midnight and you were fast asleep when I peered into your room. Besides, don’t you have that maths exam to-day? You were pretty tired last night.’

‘Was it another murder, Ddaddy?’ she asked, handing him a mug of coffee while glancing around for her mobile phone which was finally located between the cushions of the sofa.

‘It’s what I do, remember?’ The coffee was good but could do with an extra touch of milk, and climbing to his feet, Riad padded off to the kitchen. He had kicked off his sandals at the front door and for the thousandth time he stubbed his toe on the raised doorsill leading to the slightly sunken level of the other room, once again inwardly cursing the chaos of what construed Kuwaiti construction norms.

Replacing the milk carton in the fridge, he gazed through the small pantry window onto the balcony of the next door flat. As usual, the little sparrow was there, busily bobbing in and out of the gutter’s opening to the faint but distinct sounds of a demanding brood of nestlings. Not for the first time he noticed the swelling of its neck, wondered whether it was physiological, a food storage pouch perhaps, or was it some kind of a tumour? It seemed to be getting bigger by the day.

Lifting his gaze, he searched for a sight of the English school teacher who lived next door, the pretty brunette, sometimes taking her breakfast on the patio, wondering once again how to make that first move, get to know her name.

‘Dad! We have to go! I’m going to be late!’

Snapped out of his reverie Riad reluctantly pushed away his coffee –-- even with the extra milk it was too hot to gulp down – and reached for his car keys. The joys of single parenthood, he mused as he followed her down the stairs, a grinning Ali, the Bengali houseboy, pausing from where he had been sweeping the stairs to bid them a good morning. Two long years now that he and his daughter had been living alone in that Salwa flat. Two years since those terrible events on the Al Hada compound in Saudi Arabia when her mother had been so brutally murdered by a madman who was still on the loose.

Had this bubbly ten- year- old – his reason for living – been able to put those events behind her? Watching her skip down the stairs and over to the car, he realised that he could not answer that question. They never spoke of it.

The private English medium school his daughter attended (no madrissa for his daughter) was only a few street blocks up the road, and, as usual, the street was clogged with double parked cars as parents, most of them British expatriates, dropped off their children. Joining the queue, he parked behind a flustered looking mother in a BMW and handed Rania her backpack, turning his cheek for the expected hurried peck before watching her disappear amongst the throng of other kids, all dressed in their maroon and grey school uniforms. Soon he reckoned she would blossom into a young woman with all the trials and tribulations of a teenager and how on earth was he going to handle that?

An angry bleat of a horn and a car riding his rear fender elicited a curse as he swung back into the traffic, after a moment’s hesitation deciding it wasn’t worth going back to the flat now, he might as well drive down to the Sultan Centre and survey the scene in daylight before heading for the office. Slipping on his sunglasses, the glare off the white facades of the city already intense, he realised he was tired. Preparations for the coming war had meant endless after hours meetings for them all as they liaised with the military to plan for any eventuality, often that meant being too tired to sleep, his mind still active.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead, he thought wryly, then wondered where he had heard that phrase. Was it a movie? A book? A song, even? He couldn’t remember and it bothered him all the way into the city.

Waleed was waiting when Riad pulled up, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and loose hanging tee shirt and chewing on the tail end of a hot dog. ‘Morning, boss. Looks like we might make the news, to-day.’ He indicated the small crowd that had gathered around the taped off area and the television crew getting out of a van parked nearby.

‘Let’s keep those cameras away. I’ll give them a statement later,’ Riad said to the uniformed cops manning the police perimeter before following Waleed to where Ali Mansoor, the senior crime scene investigator, was in conversation with two others. He broke off when Riad strode up, dismissing the technicians who headed back to their van.

‘You look shit,’ he said surveying Riad with a critical eye. ‘It’s high time you got yourself a woman, someone to look after you.’

‘What, and grow fat and ugly like you? No chance.’

Mansoor chuckled then pointed to the car park fifty yards away, the area now filled with the cars