by Mark Dawson
Milton closed his eyes and tried, again, to sleep.
Epilogue
CLAUDE BOON waited in line. There were three pay phones and six men who wanted to use them. Louisiana State Penitentiary was known as Angola, but the inmates referred to it as the Farm. It was the largest maximum-security prison in the United States, with more than six thousand offenders and nearly two thousand staff.
It was a nasty, brutish place, but there was nothing too surprising about that. Boon expected it. He had heard all the stories: rape, gang rape, men who were bought and sold like cattle.
Boon was not a large man. He did not look particularly impressive.
Fresh meat.
Boon had been in places like it before and knew what he would have to do to render his stay bearable. He knew, for example, that he needed to make a demonstration as soon as he arrived. He selected the man who would help him to do that. An inmate called Clarence Wright, better known as the “Booty Bandit,” a bear of a man whose vocation was beating, torturing, and sodomising fellow inmates while prison guards looked the other way. Wright, a psychopathic serial rapist, was the guards’ resident enforcer. They arranged for men who needed to be reined in to be transferred to his cell. Boon made a nuisance of himself in the canteen to make that happen and, on the first night, as Wright made his move, Boon murdered him with a shank that he had fashioned from a toothbrush, pushing the sharpened plastic into his throat. The carotid artery had been severed clean in two, and Boon had bathed in the fountain of the big man’s blood. None of the guards or other inmates wanted anything to do with him after that.
Now the authorities were in the process of adding a new homicide charge to his rap sheet, but Boon didn’t care about that. He wouldn’t be around long enough for that to become relevant.
The man at the phone nearest to the line finished his call and replaced the receiver. Boon walked to the phone, ignoring his place in the queue. One of the others, a tattooed brute who ran with Ride or Die, started to protest until he saw who it was who was cutting the line.
Boon gave him a glance, even and calm, and saw the man take a step away from him.
He picked up the phone and dialled the number that he still remembered from all those years ago.
“Pronto Dry Cleaning. How can I help you?”
“I need to speak to the director.”
There was a slight pause as the woman on the other end of the call adjusted her expectations. “Can I ask who’s calling, please?”
“Yes,” Boon said. “Tell him it’s Avi Bachman. I’d like to come home.”
Tarantula
A John Milton Novella
Mark Dawson
CHAPTER ONE
THE MAFIA in that part of Italy called him Tarantula. A tattoo of a spider decorated his face. The abdomen of the insect was on his right cheek, covering it from the cheekbone to the line of his jaw. The eight legs spread up to his eye, his forehead, towards his ear and down to his throat and the corner of his lips. His head was shaved and the rest of his skin was decorated, too. There was a pistol and a grenade. A neat line of cursive script above his right ear declared, in Italian, “La vita è dolore.”
Life is pain.
Tarantula had become his nom de guerre. He was a hunter, just like the spider, and just as deadly.
This morning, Tarantula was nestled down in the undergrowth in the cliffs outside the pleasant coastal town of Castellabate. His vantage point afforded him a perfect view down onto the narrow cliff-top road that led from Agropoli to Marina di Camerota. The road was spectacular, even to his jaded eye, with a steep climb to the east and a vertiginous drop to the azure blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea to the west. He could see for miles. The sky was beautifully clear with not even a hint of cloud. The weather was capricious here, but there would be nothing to disturb his task this morning.
The man was a careful planner and he had chosen his position with his usual diligence.
The road followed the line of the cliff, bending in a slow and gentle curve. It was fenced for much of its length but this span of a half a mile or so was unguarded, with a steep drop that terminated in deep waters fifty feet below. The unfenced part came at the apex of a sharp hairpin. It was necessary for drivers to slow right down to make the turn, to thirty or forty miles an hour maximum, before they could increase their speed again for the straight run ahead.
That was important.
The sight lines were clear and unobstructed, long enough to ensure that he would have plenty of time to sight his target.
That was important, too.
Everything about it was perfect.
The man glassed the road carefully. He had an excellent pair of binoculars and the images leapt at him sharp and crisp, almost close enough to reach out and touch. The inland side of the road terminated with the sheer cliff face, buttressed with a stone wall. A wire net had been fastened to the cliff to prevent dislodged boulders from falling onto the cars below.
The long gun laying in the rocks next to the man was an SVD, the Russian Dragunov sniper system. It was a semi-automatic gas-operated rifle with a short-stroke gas-piston system. The barrel was not typically rifled over its entire length, but the man had paid to have this one adapted, with additional rifling to increase the twist rate and, thus, the accuracy.
The man settled behind the rifle. He felt the tension in the trigger, found his stockweld and slid up to the eyepiece, staring into it and seeing the ridge and the trees and the vegetation through the mil-dot-rich reticle. He made a minute adjustment to the focus ring, creeping it around until the last remnant of blur was gone and he could see the leaves on the fir tree at five hundred feet distance.
He took out his Leica handheld laser and ranged the spot where he knew his quarry would emerge. Next, he took out a small weather station and noted the wind, humidity, and temperature. The trees were rustling a little in a light breeze that was running in off the sea. He noted the data in a small notebook and calculated the firing solutions he would need. He dialled the first into the scope of the rifle, making adjustments for windage.
The folding bipod was mounted onto upper rails above the barrel and the adjustable horizontal front grip was mounted on the lower rails, under the barrel. The rifle had an adjustable stock and cheekpiece. The barrel was protected by a ventilated aluminium hand guard and was fitted with a muzzle brake, useful when firing full-power magnum loads like this.
He saw the car approaching from the north and swept the glasses up to it. It was a hire car, a Mercedes S-Class, the tinted windows and the smooth silver paintwork glittering as it caught the sun’s early rays. The man watched as the car started to slow for the sharp bend.
He settled down, relaxing his body and breathing easily. He laid the crosshairs on the car.
He shut everything out except for the scope and the images that it presented to him. He concentrated on the feel of the Dragunov against his chin and shoulder, the smell of the cleaning fluid that had been used on its metallic parts, the cold touch of the aluminium eyepiece against his eye socket. He felt the chill of the fibreglass stock against his cheek. He held the rifle steady, still, and waited until the target nestled at the confluence of the crosshairs.
Three hundred and eleven feet.
Wind, one minute, left.
The car slowed a little more.
The man nudged the sight a fraction to the right until the windscreen filled the scope. He fine tuned just a little more, aiming for the faint outline of the driver through the darkened glass.
The trigger was two-stage.
The man filled his lungs and then exhaled slowly. He squeezed the trigger once, and then again, more tightly, squeezing straight back since even a millimetre pull to the left or right could effect the accuracy of the shot.
The rifle fired, a sharp and keening report as the bullet streaked away. He could see the disturbed air trailing the projectile. It ate up the distance to the target in an instant. The windshield went milky white as the round punche
d straight through it, the hole made so fast that the rest of the glass remained intact. The car jerked across the road, crashed up against the cliff face and bounced back towards the unfenced drop. The front wheels left the asphalt and found nothing to replace it, the car powering into space, angling quickly downwards and then falling into the void.
The man’s view was blocked by the angle of the cliff but he heard the clap and the splash as the flipped-over car slammed into the water roof first, then the sound of the whining engine as the wheels continued to spin, a series of gulps as water surged into the cabin, and then nothing.
One shot.
That was enough.
The man they called Tarantula collected the spent casing and dropped it into his pocket. He broke the long rifle into its constituent parts and placed them into the foam lined carrying case.
He closed the lid and picked up the case. A lorry from a bakery in Naples rumbled around the bend and continued north towards Salerno. It made him think of breakfast.
The man pushed a pair of Ray Bans over his eyes and retraced his steps towards Castellabate. He would drive down to a café he knew on the water at Capitelo. He would order a cappuccino and pastry, read the newspaper and look out to sea.
CHAPTER TWO
CONTROL’S SECRETARY had called John Milton and said that his presence was required. Milton had been hoping to find the time to work on his fitness but knew better than to keep his commanding officer waiting. He had driven across London to the anonymous office near to the MI6 building that advertised itself as the headquarters of Global Logistics. That was a front. The building was the home to Group Fifteen, the off-the-books kill squad that was sent in to resolve the problems of Her Majesty’s government when diplomacy and other means had failed.
Milton drove into the underground car park, left his car in his usual space and took the elevator up. When he arrived upstairs, Control looked in a bad humour.
“Sir?” Milton said.
Control was in late middle age, his face framed by heavy eyebrows that seemed locked into a perpetual frown. A sheaf of papers was scattered on the floor around his desk. Milton had seen his rages before and could guess what had happened: something in the papers had displeased him and they had been propelled at the poor executive who had brought them to his attention.
He looked up at him and spoke tersely. “You haven’t had anything for a couple of weeks, have you, Number Eight?”
“Nothing substantial, sir.”
“What have you been doing?”
Milton wondered if he was about to get one of Control’s legendary dressing downs. “I’ve been training, sir. On the range. It’s been a while since I got my eye in and I don’t want to get rusty.”
“No, quite. But no mission?”
“No, sir. Not since Sarajevo.”
“Sit down, Eight.”
Milton did as he was told.
“When’s the last time you went to Italy?
“I don’t know, sir. It would’ve been for a holiday. Tuscany. Florence. Ten years ago. Maybe more.”
“You’re going tomorrow. Naples.”
“What for?”
“We’ve got a problem and you can help fix it.”
There was a bundle of files on the edge of Control’s desk and he reached over and pushed them so that they fell into Milton’s lap.
“A little light reading, Eight.”
“What is it?”
“We’ve been working with the drug squad. There’s a particularly nasty branch of the mafia that operates down in Naples. The normal mafia is bad enough, obviously, but this lot make them look like choir boys. Have you heard of the Camorra?”
“Only anecdotally. A film, I think.”
“Nasty bastards, particularly ruthless. The Italians can’t get to grips with them and so they’ve given up. From Naples all the way down into Calabria, they practically run the state. They run the port of Naples especially. They’ve gone into business with one of the Mexican cartels and they’ve been shipping their cocaine and heroin into Naples and then all around Europe, including here. Tonnes of it.”
“And the government wants it stopped?”
“Of course they do, Milton. The police have done the legwork. There’s an organisation in Liverpool, criminal family, Curtis Patterson and his brothers. Looks like they take care of distribution once it gets over here. There’s been some cooperation with the Italians and we know precisely who we need to go and have a quite word with.”
Milton was familiar with Control’s euphemisms, and his curious reluctance to spell out in explicit terms the business of the Group that he headed.
“The details are in here?” Milton said, tapping the file. He was keen to get out of the office.
“Hold on, Milton. I’m not finished yet.”
Milton settled back down again.
“We want to attack this problem at both ends.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And you’re not the first agent we’ve put onto this. Number Three went over three weeks ago. We know a little about the mafia but not enough. We don’t know who we need to speak to, for one. Three has been undercover. Playing as the representative of another criminal organisation, this one in London. His orders were to ingratiate himself with the locals, find out as much as he could about the operation down there, and then report back.”
“He hasn’t done that?”
“He’s gone missing, Eight. We haven’t heard from him for a week.”
“Missing?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And you suspect foul play?”
“What do you think?” he said caustically. He indicated the file. “Everything you need to know is in there. Most of it is from the Yard. The Drug Squad, plus organised crime experts. Take it away and read it. There’s plenty there. And then tomorrow you fly to Naples. Find out what happened to Three. If he’s been killed, find out who did it and make an example of them. And then go after the big men. Understand?”
Milton said that he did. The source of Control’s bad mood became obvious to him. He was fastidious about the effectiveness of the men and women who formed the Group. His target was absolute perfection. His agents were to be angels of death who appeared at the operative moment, carried out his orders with scrupulous efficiency, and then disappeared back into the shadows from which they had emerged. The thought that one of them might have fallen during an operation, particularly at the hands of something so grubby as organised crime, would have been anathema to him. He would demand retribution and Milton would be his means of bringing that about.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“No. Read up on it. Find out what happened. Make it right. Dismissed, Milton.”
CHAPTER THREE
MILTON LOOKED out of the window of the British Airways 747 as it descended through the clouds and lined up on approach to Naples. He saw the huge mass of Vesuvius, not the dun colour one would associate with volcanoes but a vast green mantle of vegetation. The city spread out from the water’s edge and stretched out until it faded into a hazy, polluted horizon. Nearer the plane, and directly below it as the undercarriage lowered with a judder, was the port itself. It was detached from the city, a confused, disordered jumble of ships and containers. The freighters were mostly Chinese, bearing the clothes and shoes, the toys and technology that would feed the appetite of the continent from Scandinavia to the borders of Russia. Goods unloaded here could be in the boutiques of Barcelona or Bonn two days later. The ships were enormous, almost too big to credit, gigantic leviathans that edged cautiously alongside jetties that seemed flimsy in comparison. The ships were ministered over by cranes, truck cabs and the tiny figures of stevedores and longshoremen in orange and yellow. The wharf held a multitude of containers, a grid of walls to keep the city out. Naples was surrounded by merchandise. It was almost swamped by it. It was easy to see, elevated at ten thousand feet, the scale of the opportunities that must have been available to those with the inc
lination to take advantage of them. He watched as big eighteen wheel trucks edged out into traffic and wondered how much of the freight they were dispersing was legitimate and how much bore the stamp of the Camorra.
“Could you put your tray table up, please,” the steward asked.
“Of course,” Milton said.
He did as he was asked. The plane banked steeply to port and Milton looked out as the port filled the window. He wondered what Owen Grieves had found down there that had led to his disappearance.
MILTON had no checked luggage and so he skirted the carousels that spewed out the battered possessions of his fellow travellers and made his way through immigration. He stopped at the British Airways desk and collected the envelope that had been left for him there. He found the long stay car park and skirted it until he found the covered bay that was reserved for motorcycles. He found the big, retro styled Ducati PS1000LE sport bike that he had asked for, opened the envelope and let the keys drop out. He straddled the bike and turned the engine over, feeling the purr of the big 992cc air-cooled two-cylinder as it throbbed beneath him.
It was a bright, warm day, and the sun glared down, a myriad of shafts that lanced into his eyes. He took his sunglasses from his pocket, put them on and then settled the helmet over his head. He gunned the engine, pulled out into the access road and then fed in the revs, racing out of the exit and onto the slip road.
He pulled into the traffic on the road into the city, revved the engine and headed out.
MILTON HAD booked the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Excelsior. It cost two thousand Euros a night, but he had an image that he wanted to maintain. He knew that had been spotted at the airport and he had seen the trail car that had followed him into the city. He didn’t mind that. He welcomed it. He knew the Camorra would keep a watchful eye over foreign arrivals and, with that in mind, Group Fifteen’s staff had seen to it that there was plenty of information on him that their illicit sources would be able to collect. They would report that Mr. John Smith, Esq., had excited the interest of the Metropolitan Police’s organised crime unit on more than one occasion. There were rumours, all unproven, that he was involved in the capital’s pre-eminent drug distribution network, the same network that had latterly employed Owen Grieve. There were rumours, again unproven, that he had personally eliminated rivals in his quick rise up the ranks of the organisation. He was also known as something of a playboy with extravagant tastes and a predilection for expensive women and fast motorbikes. It was important that he live up to that reputation, and a luxury hotel like this one was perfect.
