by David Caris
A subpar perch.
A subpar bolt-action rifle.
Uncertain ammunition.
Cumbersome comms.
And no target.
Dick in his hand.
Chapter 66
Luther’s phone rang.
He checked the number and saw that it was blocked. He raised a finger, letting Megan know he would be taking the call, then turned away and moved through the hotel into one of the bedrooms before answering. ‘Hello?’
There was silence. He put a finger in his ear and cocked his head, straining for any clue. He was confused. He didn’t get blocked numbers on this line. ‘Hello?’
‘Luther Curzon?’
A woman’s voice. French accent.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’ He suspected he knew, but he wanted to hear her say it.
‘You know me as Bibi Dauguet. You knew my sister, Francoise Berenger. I believe you knew her simply as Rose?’
‘And your real name is Lise Berenger, correct?’
‘Impressive, but as I said, you know me as Bibi Dauguet, so let’s stick with that.’
Luther closed the door to the room. ‘Go on.’
‘You have my journalist. And from what I can see of your flight plan, it would appear you have Van Heythuysen, too.’
‘How do you figure?’
‘You flew to Madrid. I gave Van Heythuysen that information – about me being in Spain – to give to you.’
Luther felt his heart sink. He sat down on the end of the double bed and lowered his head. So much for the element of surprise.
He didn’t bother to ask how Dauguet had obtained his number or flight plan. She had brought his company to its knees and could clearly do whatever she liked online. He felt the by now familiar lightheadedness return, and he wondered absently if it was even a product of his cancer.
Stress more likely.
He tried again. ‘You’re ringing me, and you know my intentions. So I can only assume you want something?’
‘I want to meet.’
He looked up, surprised. ‘Where? When?’
‘Well, not where Van Heythuysen told you. I’m assuming that’s where you have Kovac waiting for me?’
‘Kovac?’
‘In fact, I know it is. Bishop, too. Which surprised me. A lot of eggs in one basket, Luther. Why not hold one of those two in reserve? You’re slipping, but I suppose with the extra burden of lung cancer that’s hardly a surprise, is it? A lot on your mind, not much time.’
‘If you want to meet,’ he said, not surprised she knew about the cancer, ‘I choose the location. We do it where John Kovac took it upon himself to gun down your sister.’
Dauguet laughed. ‘You’re really not in a position to make demands, but as it happens I’m feeling generous. Since it’s your preference, we’ll meet where you gunned down my sister. And you can keep your snipers there. I have my own in place. Mutually assured destruction.’
‘Time?’
‘Take a look at Kovac’s file. You sent it to me, remember? It’s all in there. We’re marking the anniversary of her death. That means location and timing.’
‘And if I decide against it?’
‘I just gave you your preferred location, Luther. Be grateful.’
Dauguet ended the call.
Luther set his phone aside and sat for a moment, staring at the wall. He felt trapped, defeated. Logically, there was no way he could obtain victory in this contest. He should’ve listened more closely to Kovac, should’ve detected this trap rather than rely on hope. He had doggedly prayed his luck would change, the exact gambling he had warned Megan against.
Of course the information from Van Heythuysen had come too easily…
He bunched one fist so hard it turned white, then stretched it out, watching the blood rush back in and turn it pink. He was finished. He had now abandoned a cleanup campaign that just might have saved Curzon and delivered it into Megan’s capable hands. He had done so for this longshot, which was no shot at all. Dauguet was well aware of the threat posed by Kovac and Bishop, and she was willing to proceed with the meet anyway.
Luther no longer had any semblance of a plan, yet he would be required to maintain the illusion of one. Lying to Kovac, Bishop and Megan, he now saw, was the only way to get to this meet, the only way to speak face-to-face with Dauguet.
He peeled off his shoes. He lay back and spread his arms, before eventually rolling onto his side. Pathetic as it was, he felt like crying. He always seemed to be on the verge of tears nowadays, and he suspected it had to do with death. His understanding of himself was out of date. The certainty of death had robbed him of a lot of his emotional control, and worse, of patience. Everything now felt urgent, and that urgency was leading him to make catastrophic mistakes.
The tears came, undeserved but insistent none the less. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, but he knew now that he would never see Pemberton again, never see his wife again, never see Lottie again. He would never have a final conversation with his son, Daniel, either.
He wasn’t ready for this.
There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’ he said, sitting up and stumbling headlong into the bathroom. He grabbed up a wad of tissues and dabbed furiously, disgusted by his bleary reflection.
‘Dad, are you okay?’
‘Yes. Just resting. I’ll be out soon.’
He heard her move closer to the door. ‘Who was that call from? The one you just took?’
‘Pemberton,’ he lied. ‘I’ll be out shortly. Just give me a moment, can you?’
He heard her linger, heard her hesitate. But then she pulled back, and he noted the soft tread of her feet as she made her way back through the hotel room.
Luther went on staring at his reflection, hideous under the stark glare of the mirror’s lighting. He had pushed himself too hard coming here, with his health as it was. He had squandered the little time he had left, and he now realized he had seen his last sunset but couldn’t actually remember it.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake with his last dawn. He would savor it.
‘Dignity and gratitude,’ he reminded himself in a croaky mumble, before splashing water on his face.
He toweled off and checked his watch.
He had close on five hours.
He would watch the sun rise, place a call to Pemberton, then call his son, too. And then he would speak with Megan. Every minute mattered now.
But even before all that, before he attempted to hurriedly put his family affairs in order, he would need to arrange a helicopter.
His mind started to whir. There was no way he could hike out to where Rose died.
A tour operator perhaps? Yes. Cuenca was picturesque, a tourist magnet. Surely some little company or other would be willing to rent a helicopter and pilot by the hour.
He could do this. There was time. Not much time, but enough.
He looked back at his reflection, and realized if he was going to die today there was a step that came before all others. He needed to shave, shower, and get presentable.
He stood a little taller and nodded to himself in the mirror. Five hours.
Chapter 67
Luther used the first four of his last five hours on earth efficiently. He cleaned up, said goodbye to his loved ones without causing undue alarm, and checked back over the contents of his last will and testament, a document he hadn’t looked at in six months.
He was en route to meet the tour helicopter, Megan driving him, when another blocked call came through. Megan glanced at him as he stared at the screen. ‘Kovac?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Bishop?’
He shook his head and took the call. ‘Luther Curzon.’
‘I’m happy with the time, Luther, but I’ve changed my mind about the location. I think it’s best Kovac and Bishop stay out in the middle of nowhere, don’t you? I’ll meet you a little closer to town.’
Luther immediately saw what s
he was doing.
Neither Kovac nor Bishop would be able to hike back in time.
He glanced at Megan, who was listening intently. He wasn’t sure if she could hear Dauguet’s voice or not.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘San Pablo Bridge.’
Luther was vaguely familiar with the bridge. He’d seen it when researching Cuenca. ‘Which side?’ he asked.
‘I always like to meet people halfway, Luther.’
‘The middle then,’ he said, ignoring the smirk in her words.
‘I hope you don’t mind heights.’ She clicked off.
Luther sat for a moment, wondering what she was playing at. Then he turned to Megan. ‘Change of plan.’
Chapter 68
Kovac heard the helicopter before he saw it. It looked like a four or five-seater, single-engined, with what he guessed were two-bladed main and tail rotors. It came out of the sun, banked and entered the ravine, then followed the hiking trail and set down on its fixed-skid landing gear.
He used the scope to study it as it powered down. It was going on lunchtime and the day was now shrouded in a drizzle so fine it was almost like fog. Even so, there was still a sun in the sky, a diffuse golden ball against the white mist, and with this sun came more than enough light to read an advertisement on the side of the helicopter for some kind of local scenic flight company.
‘What do you think this is?’ he asked softly. His mouth was dry, his voice croaky. They had been out here a long time, silent, unmoving, waiting for their one shot.
Bishop was also lying prone, but close enough to still be within earshot. ‘Checking now,’ he said.
Kovac heard Bishop’s phone buzz, then felt his own do the same.
Still he didn’t move.
He decided to go on doing what he had been doing all morning. He waited, the pad of his finger on the trigger. He wasn’t hopeful, though. He wasn’t expecting Bibi to get out of this helicopter, because he couldn’t see where she would get out from. The helicopter was mostly transparent. It was a bubble helicopter, designed to give tourists the best possible view in each and every direction. It had a rear seat, but as far as Kovac could tell no one was in that rear seat. No one was in the passenger seat up front, either. There was only the pilot, a young female.
Bishop spoke again, his voice barely audible. ‘I just heard from King.’
‘And?’ Kovac noted the way Bishop had reverted to calling Luther “King” now that they were in the field.
‘And this is our ride out of here.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s a meet. It’s on a bridge back in town. San Pablo.’
‘I know it. What time?’
‘Unchanged. Forty-five minutes from now. King wants us to take up position to the north of the bridge and take the shot if we can get it.’
Kovac remained motionless. He watched the young pilot get out of the helicopter and stretch, before opening the passenger door for… who? There was no one in there.
A small fluffy dog jumped up onto the seat then out, and Kovac tracked it with his scope. He watched it urinate on command.
Male.
‘That’s not any old bridge,’ he said. ‘It’s a tourist magnet. At this hour, we’re going to be dealing with cameras. And what’s our story for this pilot? How’s she going to react when we wander down out of nowhere with a sniper rifle and two handguns?’
‘Hunters?’
‘That’s illegal here, and the girl’s flying around with her pet dog. Call me crazy but I’m getting an animal lover vibe.’
Even as he spoke, Kovac was assessing the risk of packing up, of standing and starting down towards the hiking trail. If there was another sniper out here, Kovac and Bishop would make easy targets. That sniper didn’t even need to be associated with this new pilot. The pilot could be sent by Luther in good faith, yet still get them killed.
‘Fine,’ Bishop said, ‘we tell her the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘Shut up and fly the helicopter.’
Kovac smiled and came up onto his knees, his neck stiff and sore and letting out a tiny pop – a legacy of the crash in Vienna. He started packing up, still scanning the opposite side of the ravine for any sign of movement. ‘She’s not going to be keen to put us down where Luther wants us.’
‘Then we improvise.’
‘Shut up and land the helicopter?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Okay. Forty-three minutes now. I’ll take point.’
It was a short and easy walk down to the hiking trail, but it broke just about every rule Bishop had ever taught Kovac. Snipers didn’t move like this. Not if they could help it. Movement should have been measured in inches. They should’ve been using camouflage and a sniper low crawl, and failing that they should’ve waited for dark.
But the deadline Luther had set didn’t allow for any of that.
They moved one behind the other at an easy jog, finding the footholds they needed in rocks and dirt and almost bouncing from foot to foot. Kovac didn’t worry about hiding the rifle or the handgun. He wanted quick access to both and they weren’t going to be able to disguise any of these weapons when they arrived at the helicopter anyway. He saw the pilot sense them, spin and raise a hand to her forehead to track them. He waved at her and she waved back, albeit tentatively.
Aside from his footing, Kovac kept an eye on the opposite side of the ravine. Not that he was actually expecting trouble from over there. He had been watching that side all morning. If someone had beaten them here, they would’ve taken their shot when Kovac and Bishop arrived. Or straight after dawn, anyway. No one had fired at them. And no one had arrived since. Kovac knew this because he would’ve seen it. His greater concern was somebody positioned on the same side of the ravine they were on. A sniper who had come in behind them at some point this morning would be exactly the sort of stealthy bastard who could kill both of them before they even sensed the threat. The first Kovac would know of it would be Bishop hitting the dirt behind him, dead.
Ordinarily – in addition to doing all this on his stomach – Kovac would’ve broken this journey into segments, stopping regularly to observe and listen. Every foot of elevation he sacrificed left him more vulnerable after all. A sniper behind him would most likely be using a suppressed weapon, too, meaning he couldn’t even rely on hearing a shot to detect and triangulate an attack. They would be in a perch like the one he had just left. He wasn’t going to see or hear a thing unless he was perfectly still, perfectly focused. But for all that, stopping was out of the question.
Same reason.
Luther’s crazy timeframe.
So Kovac was upright, a distinct human shape against the rocks and scrub. He was an easy target, save for the fact he was moving and moving fast, his head down and his knees bent to knock off a little of his height. If he wasn’t going to stop and search for an enemy, wasn’t going to go on the offensive, he would put his speed to use. He’d bounce from rock to rock, and keep his movements random and unpredictable.
Bishop followed, swearing under his breath each time he almost rolled his ankle. No one shot at them – at least, not that either of them noticed – and a few minutes later they were crossing flat ground to the helicopter. The dog came running to greet them. It was one of those tiny fluffy dogs, which could fit in a woman’s handbag. Its little legs went a mile a minute, and Bishop reached down and scooped it up. He held it under one arm, like it was a football. He had his pistol in the other hand, and he waved the gun towards the helicopter. ‘Okay,’ he said to the pilot without bothering to introduce himself. ‘Let’s go.’
The pilot looked like she was 24 or 25 at the most, her hair dyed so blonde it was almost white. Her forearms and hands had a smattering of small, simple tattoos, almost like henna. She made a number of quick calculations in her head and obviously decided compliance was the best way out of this mess. Interestingly, she didn’t try and save the dog. She didn’t even look at it. She cli
mbed back into the helicopter and set to work preparing for flight.
Kovac got into the back seat, and Bishop got into the passenger seat with the dog. The engine started, sounding more like a fancy monorail train pulling out of a station than a helicopter. Kovac watched the shadows of the rotors on the ground. They swung by slowly. One… two, then exponentially faster with each rotation.
The helicopter eventually started to shudder.
He was still scanning for threats, but knew he wasn’t going to see or hear a thing – short of a bullet through the window anyway.
On the center console, screens blinked on, with graphics that looked like they belonged in a 1980s computer game. The engine was nothing like a monorail train now. It was screaming, yet throaty too on account of the gears and rotors, which had grabbed nearby bushes by the shoulders and were shaking them like naughty children. Dirt and stones rolled clear, and they lifted, tilted left, hovered, then lifted again. Kovac scanned the embankment they had just come down, but the hiking trail was suddenly moving fast underneath them.
He shifted his mind to San Pablo bridge.
Chapter 69
Anna was hiding out at a large inn with a busy lunchtime bar service. She wasn’t inside this bar, she was out back, hiding in a small shed that housed firewood. It was broad daylight now, so she couldn’t move again until dark. But she was happy with where she’d ended up. She could monitor the beer garden out here, as well as the parking lot.
And so far, there was no sign of Tall Man.
She sat in the gloom at the back of the shed, gnawing at a fingernail. Her nails were all sore and a few were on the verge of bleeding. The shed smelled like motor oil and she suspected there was a chainsaw and equipment somewhere, though she couldn’t see it without changing position.
Something she wasn’t sure she wanted to do.
She heard a car pull up. She recognized it at once and pulled back as far into the darkness as she could. It was Tall Man. She heard the car door, then the little bell that signaled a new customer entering the bar. She kept listening, but there was a large group in the back area at one of three trestle tables. They had been drinking for a few hours – a boozy lunch – and they were raucous. They were all cheering at something one of them had said, laughter dragging on until a voice suddenly cut through it all.
