by Tom Riggs
“What did you say?”
“I said Lipakos, is that why you had your son killed? Out of some pathetic rich man power trip? I knew there was something missing, some motivation for you that I hadn’t seen. Now I know what it was…you’re insane.” Right on cue, the South African with the handlebar moustache stepped forward and punched Munro, this time in the stomach, hard. He gasped as the air was sucked out of him and the deep sickening pain began to rise. Again, he fought it. Allowed his adrenalin to surge, beat the pain. Lipakos looked at him and smiled, but said nothing.
“I knew Richard was blackmailing you,” said Munro between breaths, “that was the only explanation for his staying in South America and not running home to you immediately. And I knew it must be about money. We know you were trying to cut him out of your trusts. But there was something I was missing. It was the source of your argument, and the reason you had him killed when he started blackmailing you. Now I know what it was…you’re a nut job.” Handlebar moustache went to punch him again but Lipakos stopped him with a raised hand.
“Maybe I’m insane Mr Munro, who knows? Madness and genius are often confused. Was Alexander insane when he decided to take on the might of the Persian empire? Perhaps. Was Caesar mad when he marched his army across the Rubicon? Maybe. I crossed my Rubicon when I was in the South African bush, when I was handed that rifle and told to take the kill test. After that there was no going back. Have you passed the kill test Mr Munro? Crossed your own personal Rubicon? Something tells me you did a long time ago.”
Munro thought back to his first kill. A humid night in Liberia, the jungle so close he could taste it in the back of his mouth. The target in sight, his hand gripping a bayonet knife. A phone call from his commanding officer. Stay or go. He hadn’t hesitated. He was well past the Rubicon.
“Richard fucked it when he sent me a video of my mining operation in Brazil. Up until then I had been happy to just litigate with him. But the little bastard was threatening to send it to every charity, the UN, the Brazilian government. He had pictures of my helicopters, my crates being loaded. Game, set and match. I have to hand it to the little shit, he was good at something.”
“So you killed your own son? Minutes ago you were telling me about the importance of family Lipakos, or have you already forgotten that?” Lipakos smiled.
“Mr Munro … and here I was thinking you were the hotshot investigator. Perhaps you’re not as clever as your file makes out after all? No Mr Munro, what you haven’t worked out, what you never would have found out, was that Richard was not my son.”
Munro looked at him closely.
“No, the little bastard belonged to someone else,” Lipakos paused and took a deep breath, something akin to hurt almost visible in his eyes. “For over twenty years, I loved him as a father loves his youngest son. I used to look at him and think I saw myself as a young man. He loved the environment, and I was fine with that. I’m Greek, I love the sea. Two years ago we trekked to the South Pole together. As father and son. My PR advisors told me it would look good. Just before, Richard persuaded me to spend ten million dollars on some land in the Amazon. He said it would pay for itself through carbon trading or something. Like an old fool I believed him. I loved him you see…” he stopped and his face darkened.
“Half way through the trip, on the way back to camp I…” his face took on a look of absolute revulsion, “I walked into his tent…I saw him…with one of the guides…another man…”
“So your son was gay Lipakos, big deal, we’re out of the middle ages now… maybe you need to talk to someone about your homophobia. It can be a sign of latent homosexuality.”
This time the punch came hard and fast, straight into his face, ripping open the small cut below his eye. Munro breathed hard to counter the pain, pulling in air to pump the blood back into his brain.
“Don’t be a smart-arse Mr Munro, you will only get hurt. I’m trying to help you, tell you why I had the little faggot bastard killed. You see Mr Munro, he wasn’t my son. After what I saw in that tent, I knew he couldn’t be my son. No Lipakos man would ever lower himself to such depravity.”
“Really?” said Munro, “I thought the ancient Greeks were pretty relaxed about sexuality.”
Lipakos raised his hand to stop Anton, the largest and baldest of the South Africans from hitting him.
“Mr Munro, you are beginning to try my patience. I’m telling you that I had Richard killed for a reason. You see, after what I saw in that tent, I knew that he couldn’t be my son. So I had a DNA test done on him. It’s really very easy, all you need is a bit of hair. I was of course not surprised when the result came back. There was no Lipakos blood running through his faggot veins. His mother was a cheating whore, I only thank God that I had already divorced her … to lose a son and a wife … Do you know what that feels like? To think you have a strong son, a favourite, someone you think of as your heir? And then to find out that he is depraved … depraved and not yours. The son of another man, eating at your table, drinking your wine, spending your money. I started proceedings to cut him out of the trusts, it was the least I could do. But Mr Munro, I was hardly leaving him on the streets. His mother took twenty million from me, I gave him a flat. I wasn’t trying to get any of that.”
“What about his mother? Didn’t she have anything to say about that?”
“Sarah?” he laughed. “She’s so out of it on meds half the time, I don’t think she had any idea what was going on. As far as she’s concerned, Richard and I were the happy father and son. She probably found it quite amusing to think that I was giving her bastard so much money. Not that she could have stopped me cutting him off. But as I said Mr Munro, I was hardly leaving him out on the streets. All I was doing was cutting him off from any more, so the money could go to my real children…
“And what does he do? He goes to Brazil, to the piece of shit land that he persuaded me to buy. He goes to Brazil and tries to blackmail me about my own legitimate business. The carbon trading thing was bullshit. He had got me to buy hundreds of thousands of acres of land with absolutely no commercial value. So when some men approached me and told me there was gold on the land, what was I meant to do? Ignore them? As you say Mr Munro, I’m a businessman.”
“Your men were running a slave labour camp Lipakos, they were poisoning rivers, killing anyone who complained.” Lipakos laughed and mimed playing the violin, before turning back to Munro
“You’re breaking my heart, you really are. Those men working in the mine had jobs, and there aren’t a great deal of jobs in that part of the world I can assure you. And pollution? Give me a break Mr Munro, living is pollution. You pollute every day you spend on this earth, so don’t try and fob me off with some sob story about Indians.”
“So you found out he wasn’t your son, cut him off, and then he started blackmailing you. That’s why you killed him?”
Lipakos stopped and looked at Munro in slight confusion.
“Of course, what else could I do? Give in to the bastard son of my whore wife and her lover? Allow him to ruin me? Come on Mr Munro surely you can understand, it was my only option.”
“You’ve got problems Lipakos, you need help. Let me go now, and I’ll do what I can for you.”
Lipakos looked at his men, surrounding Munro, and they all laughed.
“Let you go? That’s a good one Mr Munro. Although maybe not as mad as you think. You see, I wanted to tell you why I killed Richard… I wanted to tell you because I wanted you to know it wasn’t gratuitous. It was my only option.”
All Munro could taste was blood.
“Whatever you say,” he said.
“No, I’m serious. I like you Mr Munro. I’ve read your file, I’ve seen the havoc you caused in Mexico. I would like you to come and work for me.”
Munro looked at Lipakos closely, looked at the South Africans, looked at Hudson skulking at the back of the room.
“You’re not serious?”
“Oh I’m deadly serious Mr Munro. I
could have had you killed by now. You and the lovely girl we have upstairs. But I like you. You have a talent, a talent that I could use. My associates in Mexico and Colombia have proved themselves utterly incompetent. And besides, it’s not entirely safe to be associated with them anymore. The American authorities have ways of finding things out. Anton and his men here,” he motioned to the goons, “they are effective, but they have visa restrictions…they certainly can’t go back to South Africa anytime soon.” He paused to give a high pitched laugh to his own joke.
“No Mr Munro, I would like you to come and work for me. You’ve been tenacious in looking into Richard’s death, and I admire tenacity. I need you with me, working as my fixer. I will pay you five hundred thousand pounds a year as a retainer…” The South Africans and Hudson all looked at Lipakos at mention of the amount, in shock and envy.
“So what do you say Mr Munro? You can walk out here now, with a big cheque and that lovely girl upstairs. She is completely unharmed, I can assure you.”
Munro went to answer but Lipakos stopped him.
“I must warn you Mr Munro, that the alternative is not as pleasant. I will not have you killed, you have come too far to be killed so easily. No Mr Munro, the alternative, and this has been suggested to me by Anton here, is that Anton and his men will hunt you. Hunt you like a stag. Behind this lodge are six thousand acres of empty moor. There is a village about thirty miles north east. Make it to the village, and you’re free to go. As is the lovely lady upstairs, she’ll be released completely untouched I can promise you that. After that, we go our own separate ways. You can try to pursue this investigation, but you won’t get far. There’s no evidence against me except hearsay. I closed the mine down last month, we’ve taken all the gold there is. My lawyers will tie you up in litigation for years if you keep pursuing me.” Lipakos was smiling again now, the suave ship owner at the cocktail party had returned.
“And if I don’t make it to the village?”
“Then Anton and his men will have their way with you I’m afraid. They get very bored up here, four South African special forces operatives, all alone in the highlands of Scotland. It’s hard to keep them entertained…”
Munro looked at Anton, in his cut-off denim shirt. Looked at the ‘C1’ tattoo on his left bicep.
“Special forces operatives? Is that what they told you they were?” Munro laughed. “These goons wouldn’t know a special forces operative if it bit them on the nose. They were part of a police torture unit called C1 Vlakplaas, the only speciality these men have is in torturing unarmed men and women from the townships.”
Lipakos looked at them with slight doubt.
“Whatever, Mr Munro. Make your decision. Come and work for me, or take your chances on the moor. I’m giving you the choice, life or death.”
Munro looked at Lipakos, his hair only slightly ruffled from his ranting, his eyes still piercing blue. He looked at the South Africans, big ugly sadists. Big but slow. He looked at Lipakos again.
“I’ll take the moor.”
43
Fifteen minutes later, Munro was standing on the edge of a thick pine wood, looking into it. He was still in handcuffs, a South African on each arm. Part way up a steep slope that gave him a good view below. Lipakos’ lodge was not huge, a large two storey Victorian villa, nothing more. But its position was breathtaking. It was on the edge of a river that cut its way through the steep brown and purple moors of Scotland. The river was wide and fast, perfect for Salmon fishing. The lodge was the only human habitation visible, probably the only one for miles. No doubt how Lipakos liked it. The landscape was barren except for the odd enclosure of trees like the one they were facing. All down the valley below them were small fenced-off enclosures of trees. Munro saw four deer run through the river below. Hence the fencing and the lack of any vegetation other than heather: the deer ate everything they saw.
“Enjoy the view boy, it’s one of the last you’re going to see.”
Munro looked round to see the bald South African, Anton, grinning at him. He had put on a thick ski jacket as had the other two. The wind was strong, so cold it hurt. Munro looked into the wood. There were patches of snow visible where the weak winter sun had not been able to penetrate through the evergreen leaves. He said nothing. He was still in his shirt, but it provided no protection against the wind. To stand a chance, he needed to get moving.
“So you meatheads are going to hunt me are you? You sure you’re up to it? Men at your stage in life should start taking it easy you know.”
Anton looked at Munro, bleeding, battered and in handcuffs and laughed.
“Alright tough guy, let’s get moving.” He pushed Munro into the wood and they began to climb a steep track leading up and away from the lodge. They walked for another ten minutes, through thick woods, climbing all the time. Munro was grateful for the wind cover that the trees gave, and grateful for the thinking time. Eventually he saw light up ahead, a thick deer fence and a gate. Standing by the gate was the man with the handlebar moustache, Piet. Holding two dogs. They started to snarl and bark as Munro and the others approached. Munro looked to Piet’s side and saw two ATV vehicles called Arctic Cats. They looked like large quad bikes, except where there should have been four wheels there was instead two sets of tank tracks. Perfect for crossing wet moorland at speed. Propped up against them was an array of weapons. A Ruger M77 bolt-action rifle with telescopic site, a 12-bore pump-action shotgun and an SA 80 automatic assault rifle. Munro looked at Piet, the dogs, the ATVs and the guns.
“Glad to see you guys like a fair fight. Although I can’t say I’m surprised, from what I’ve heard about your old unit. All you really did was arrest and murder students and women, maybe beat up a few old men in the townships if you were feeling really tough.”
Munro winced as one of the men behind him punched him in the back. He fell down as another one kicked in his knees.
“You’ve got a big mouth on you tough guy, a very big mouth,” said Anton. “You’re gonna be very sorry for that crack you made in front of the boss.” He ripped off Munro’s shirt. “Very sorry boy.”
“I sense a bit of jealousy Anton…I’m guessing none of you earn close to five hundred grand a year.”
One of the men, the one with the thin ginger moustache, pulled out a large hunting knife and went behind Munro. In two quick movements he slashed Munro’s back. Munro winced slightly, but the cuts weren’t deep. The man wiped Munro’s shirt across his back, mopping up the blood. Once the shirt was half soaked in blood he brought it to the dogs. They had stopped barking but they started snarling when the man approached them. He held the blood-soaked shirt in front of their noses. They were large, fine hunting dogs, Munro noticed, with a ridge of hair brushed up along their spine.
“Rhodesian Ridgebacks,” said Anton following Munro’s gaze. “We used them in the Transvaal to…”
“Yeah yeah,” said Munro stopping him, “to hunt lions, I’ve heard it all before.”
“No boy,” smiled Anton, “we used them to hunt kaffirs. And now we’re gonna use them to hunt you.”
Munro was pulled up sharply. He looked through the gate and the fence. The hill continued to rise, but less steeply. Beyond the fence the landscape was strangely desolate. The track widened slightly and sunk down so that it cut slightly below ground level. For several acres on either side of the track were hundreds and hundreds of dead trees. There had clearly once been a thick forest there too. But now all that was left were wizened silver corpses, shadows of the tall pines that had once been there. The effect was strange. It reminded Munro of a film he had once seen set after a nuclear apocalypse.
“Alright boy,” said Anton picking up the sniper rifle, “now we’re going to have some fun.” He pointed the gun down and worked the bolt, checking its sight, before looking back up at Munro.
“Past that dead wood there,” he said pointing past the fence, “is six thousand acres of Scottish moor. It’s all Mr Lipakos’ land, so don’t worry about tr
espassing…” One of the men holding Munro laughed, but stopped quickly when he saw that Anton wasn’t smiling.
“As Mr Lipakos said, there’s a small village thirty miles North East. We’re north facing now, so I’m sure you can work that out, a real special forces veteran like yourself…You make it to the village, you live. Because we’re nice fellas, we’ll give you a ten minute head start. Tough guy like you should be able to cover a couple of miles in that time.”
Munro looked at him. His face was bloated, his eyes a long way past cruel.
“Anton? It is Anton isn’t it?”
“Don’t bother begging boy, we’re already giving you a sporting chance.”
“I wasn’t going to beg Anton, I was going to offer you a way out. If you men release me now, I won’t hurt you. I’ll even put in a good for you with the authorities. You know your boss is insane, surely even you can tell that?”
“And if we don’t release you?” Anton’s face was now very close to Munro’s. He could smell his rancid breath.
“If you don’t release me, or if you come after me over that moor…I’ll kill every single one of you,” said Munro calmly, matter-of-factly.
For a split second fear registered in Anton’s eyes, but only momentarily. He pulled back and said something in Afrikaans to the ginger moustached man, who stepped forward and unlocked Munro’s handcuffs.
“You know what we used to do to kaffirs when we caught them boy? We’d put a tyre round their neck, soak them in petrol...then we’d drop a match and watch them melt,” he smiled and ran his tongue along his teeth. “We’d watch them melt.”
“I’m going to leave you till last,” said Munro staring straight into his pink dead eyes.
Anton clapped his hands and the others dragged Munro to the gate, opened it, and pushed him through.
“Ten minutes boy,” shouted Anton, “ten minutes.”
