by Lee Stone
– I’m Sticking with You, The Velvet Underground.
Lockhart walked out of the bank and into a problem. The journalist was sitting on a bench just outside the bank’s aluminum doors. His face was bruised, and he had a cut above his left eye where Lockhart had smashed him with the wooden stake on the Baku ferry. He was eating one of the tomatoes from the back of the truck. It was the journalist’s job to track people down, and grudgingly Lockhart had to admit that he was good at it. It was becoming tiresome.
The journalist stood up when he saw the men coming out into the street. His morning had been pretty much as he expected. He had been passed from the boat to the port authorities and then made a call to his editor who had wired enough cash to secure his release. The whole thing had taken about an hour. The journalist had never visited a country where this didn’t work; it was only the amount of cash and the speed of release that varied from place to place.
“Hey,” he called out to Lockhart in his thick Spanish accent as if he were greeting an old friend. “Charlie Lockhart, how are you?”
Lockhart stared at the journalist. He had revealed his name to the bank staff less than an hour ago, and yet already the journalist had learned it. Lockhart shot a look at the two clerks with their million-dollar suitcases. They’d given away his name for twenty dollars five minutes before they’d become millionaires. They looked uncomfortable and scurried off without another word.
Just then, the banker’s frustration boiled over. He leaned over the journalist and took the half-eaten tomato from his hand.
“Nobody said you could eat my tomatoes” he growled, before throwing it to the floor and stamping on it, grinding it into the pavement with his heel. He threw his suitcase into the cab of the truck and climbed in after it. He fired the ignition and roared off towards the highway, presumably to begin a new life in the sun. Lockhart smiled and wondered when he’d calm down and start smiling. Even the angriest of men would have to smile at a million-dollar suitcase, eventually.
Then it was quiet. Lockhart pressed the banker’s key fob and a dusty Vauxhall bleeped nearby. He eyed up the journalist for a moment, considering what was best to do with him. He was another problem that needed sorting.
“Need a lift?”
The journalist shrugged, and they both got into the car. Neither of them had thought about a destination, so Lockhart turned the ignition and rolled out onto the highway. He headed vaguely West. He aimed roughly towards England. They drove for ten minutes before either of them spoke.
“So, you bribed someone to learn my name,” Lockhart said as the road flattened out for a stretch. He could see scattered tail lights for miles ahead. “Why is that?”
“Because I’ve been looking for a new name, and I like the sound of yours,” the journalist replied.
“You like my name?” he asked. He stole a glance at his passenger. The journalist explained that his editor in Spain had been receiving death threats over the Iran story. Credible, state sponsored threats.
“So, I have to hide out for a while. I need a new place and a new name, and I like yours.”
Lockhart was thinking. “Me too. I like my name. And the thing is, it’s mine.”
Why did the journalist think he could take his identity? What was he missing?
“Yes, but you don’t need it,” continued the journalist. “You’ve been hiding your name from everyone. You’ve got a truckload of dollars and you want to keep your name a secret.”
Lockhart began to understand. “So, you thought you could take it?”
“You’re smuggling drugs, or guns, or something,” the Spaniard explained. “I know you are. You must be. So, you don’t need your name; in fact, you don’t even want it.”
He was wrong about smuggling, but it was true Lockhart would be better off without using his name. David Barr had seen his passport in Kandahar, so whoever came looking for the money would come looking for Charlie Lockhart.
“I need to hide somewhere until my story is published and I’m no longer threatened, so I can hide in England. You have a passport and a social security number and a bank account which are no use to you when you get home, but they would be very useful to me.”
Lockhart considered the situation. It was true that he wouldn’t use his real identity when he got back to the UK. He had spent hours in the truck trying to remember if he had mentioned his real name to anyone in Kandahar, but he hadn’t. Only Barr had seen his passport. But he knew that someone would come after him, and it seemed sensible to use a new name just in case.
“What if I say no?” Lockhart asked.
“You don’t want someone like me knowing your business,” replied the journalist. “I’m no good at keeping secrets.”
It was a threat, and yet Lockhart suddenly felt like maybe the journalist wasn’t such a bad guy. He was just streetwise, keeping himself safe and driving a hard bargain. They had a bit in common.
“There’s a reason that I won’t be using my name” Lockhart warned him, changing through the gears as the traffic slowed up in front of them.
“Whoever is after you cannot be as bad as the Iranians” argued the journalist. Lockhart shrugged. He wasn’t convinced about that. He had been battered and bruised and shot at and chased, but he hadn’t lost his faith in people. He was still trusting and inquisitive and his heart was still searching for the good things in the world. Rightly or wrongly, he put his trust in the journalist.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Boyukshor Lake, Baku.
“And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows.”
– Tom Petty, Free Fallin’
The banker had got two miles from his work before it happened. He had just pulled off the Boyukshor Highway and onto a badly maintained road north of the lake. He was still grumbling to himself about having to share his cut of the money with the two junior clerks and moaning about the broken radio in the lorry cab. He’d taken his eyes off the road for a second to adjust the tuning, and when his eyes came back to the road, there was a man standing in the middle of it.
The man looked tall and solid. He was rooted to the tarmac, with a cell phone in one hand and a pistol in the other. He looked calm despite the lorry hurtling towards him. He knew he was a great shot. He was in a classic weaver stance; feet shoulder width apart, strong leg forward, body leaning into the target.
He burst the tire cleanly with his first shot. The truck veered sideways and into a concrete service drain. Not ideal, but Tyler could improvise. Tomatoes spewed across the tarmac and turned it blood red.
The truck’s engine had cut, but the rear wheels were still spinning by the time Tyler got to the back of it. He had ignored the cries of pain coming from the cab at the front. He’d learned a long time ago that guys who shout the loudest rarely die first. He’d seen it in Iraq first hand; back when he was quicker to risk his neck for his colleagues. Before he realized that every man was ultimately out for himself.
He had been patrolling outside Basra with three other guys. The patrol had been ambushed, and one of them ran off the road into the soft cover. Just like you’re trained not to do. Just like protocol says you shouldn’t. He landed on a mine which ripped his foot off. He screamed like a child. He’d lost nearly everything below his knee.
Tyler and another guy ran into the minefield to help. Just like you’re trained not to do. But they couldn’t listen to that screaming and do nothing. Couldn’t block it out either. So, Tyler and the other guy rushed in. The other guy hit a mine as well. So now they had two casualties. But the second guy didn’t scream. He just lay quietly with half of his body gone and a chunk out of his head and life oozing from two bloody stumps just below his waist.
The guy who had fucked it all up was still screaming. When Tyler reached him, he was pissing blood and was trying to tourniquet himself. Difficult to get a tourniquet on yourself back in Iraq because they weren’t issuing the one-handed Velcro versions back then. In Afghanistan, there were stories of guys wearing loose tourni
quets on each limb before setting out on patrol because the risk of getting something blown off was so high.
Tyler strapped up the guy in the minefield as best he could, got him to apply a bit of pressure to the stump under his knee. Called for medevac. Whacked in morphine, mostly to shut the guy up. Then he took his chances and pulled the casualty out of the minefield and back to the patrol vehicle. He heaved the injured guy into the back. He didn’t go back for the quiet guy. Minefields are designed to draw you back in. Besides, there was no point.
Then Tyler had clambered through the vehicle to the cab. And that’s when he found the driver with a bullet in his head. Sitting quietly, no trouble to anyone.
So, Tyler had learned to watch out for himself, then watch out for the quiet ones, and to do whatever was necessary with the ones who screamed the loudest.
He and his commanding officer had gone back to the village after dark that same day. Killed everyone they found. Sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes children. Sometimes in their sleep. And they reported nothing. Just like you’re trained not to do. Just like protocol says you shouldn’t. It felt great.
Now the road in front of Tyler looked like a war zone. The bright red debris from the tomato truck looked like a bloodbath, and the guy at the wheel was still shouting for help. He could wait. Tyler checked his cell phone, which was beeping like crazy. About an hour ago, the GPS tracker signal he had been tracing had become much stronger. Much more precise.
The last few days had been frustrating because the tracker had been buried deep inside one of the tight blue bales of cash. Burying it away was smart, because it was guaranteed to stay with the money during transit. But by the time the chip had been surrounded by dollar bills, wrapped tightly in plastic, hidden in suitcases, thrown into the back of a truck and covered with tomatoes, the signal had become muffled. Very hard to chase accurately. Each time Tyler had got close, the truck and its fearless driver had rumbled on to the next town.
An hour ago, though, things had changed. When Tyler had gotten off the Ferry earlier he had headed straight for the Highway and torn off towards central Europe. It seemed like the sensible thing for the truck driver to do, so he put his foot down and tried to make up some ground. He stopped for gas after about thirty miles and saw that the tracker was going wild.
The signal had become accurate enough to track its location on Google Maps. It was bleeping next to a bank in Baku when the signal had improved. Not good news. If the driver had banked it, the only way Tyler would get it back would be by persuading him to transfer it to him. Not impossible, but Tyler wasn’t good with gentle persuasion. He didn’t have the patience for it.
By the time he was back on the road and hurtling towards the bank, he could see that the dot on his screen was moving away from the bank, and straight towards him.
So, Tyler had done the obvious thing. Found the first blind corner between them, set up an ambush and waited. He shot out the front tire, and now he had things under control at last. He climbed into the back of the truck and started plunging his hands into the tomatoes. Like a fairground game, trying to find hidden treasure. But there was nothing hiding beneath the fruit. Where the hell was the money?
There was no way that all the cash could be in the cab, but Tyler’s GPS kept bleeping so he went to investigate. He ignored the driver who was making a racket, begging for help. The guy seemed to have impaled himself on the gearstick just below his chest. The metal shaft couldn’t have hit anything vital because the guy was still gurgling and complaining.
Tyler opened the suitcase on the passenger side and rummaged through it. There was maybe a million US dollars inside, but nothing more. Chicken feed. His rough hand groped around inside the case, feeling for the tracker. Bills spilled over the side, falling into the footwell and blowing out of the cab altogether. Some flew into the air, others stuck to the mashed tomatoes on the road.
Tyler found what he was looking for. He grasped the tracker device and pulled it out of the case. It was an unassuming gray box with a tiny red LED blinking in one corner. It was about the size of a deck of cards, but heavier because it was packed with batteries. Tyler threw it hard at the driver.
“I haven’t followed you for six days just for a million fucking dollars,” he growled. “Where’s the rest?”
The banker whimpered, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t mind bullying his staff, but in his heart, he was a coward. Someone had shot him off the road and now he was dying at the wheel of the crummiest truck he’d ever driven. The day couldn’t get worse.
The tracker hit the banker’s head, but he didn’t react. Too much pain elsewhere for the blow to register. Adrenalin pumping through him to try to deal with his injuries. Tyler jumped out of the cab and walked around the hood over to the driver’s side. He opened the door and pulled the driver out by his collar. This time he screamed as he felt the gear stick sliding out of his wound.
His legs didn’t work, and they dragged like lead weights out of the cab and through the tomato puddles as Tyler pulled him round to the back of the truck. He threw him inside the canvas trailer with incredible strength so he slammed against the back wall.
Tyler clambered in after him. He needed to know what had happened to the money. The truck had stopped near a bank, so the driver might have deposited the rest of the cash. But Tyler was worrying that he’d been chasing a million dollars across Turkmenistan while David Barr had limped out of Afghanistan in the other direction with the rest of the three hundred million.
The guy in the back of the truck wasn’t living up to his nickname.
“Not so fearless now, are you my friend?” Tyler taunted him.
He had hoped that the guy would have reacted to the mention of his name. He didn’t. He checked for the tattoo on the guy’s wrist. Nothing there. He wasn’t Fearless. Tyler didn’t know who the hell the guy was. But he definitely had a million dollars, and he definitely had the tracker. So, he knew something.
Tyler grabbed the banker’s hair and pulled his head back. The guy was in no condition to fight back. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling and his slack jaw lolled forward. His breathing was labored. Tyler took a tomato from the nearest plywood box. He balanced it on the lips of the guy’s partly open mouth, and then whispered in his ear, “Where is the rest of the money?”
The banker whimpered again, but just like in the cab he said nothing coherent. He was frightened and bits of his insides were leaking out from the wound under his chest. He was close to delirious. Tyler smashed his fist down on the tomato, which exploded into the banker’s nose and throat, blocking his airway.
The force of it shocked his body back into subconscious action, and his lungs fought back, coughing and rasping the burning juice back out of his airway. Tyler tightened his grip on the hair at the back of the man’s head. He was already balancing another tomato. He was already getting into a rhythm.
“Where is the rest of the money?” he asked, louder this time.
Another pause, and then another violent explosion from Tyler. He rammed the tomato down the guy’s throat and then replaced it with another. The banker hardly coughed this time. Hardly struggled. His eyes had become bulbous and watery.
Tyler continued to balance the tomatoes and smash them down the guy’s throat. He carried on shouting about the money, but now he wasn’t waiting for a reply. He was just angrily smashing away. Teeing up tomatoes on his lips like a golfer at a driving range. Swinging his fists down again and again.
Eventually the guy was stuffed with the fruit. Stomach, windpipe, mouth, cheeks, nostrils. Seeds were running down his face and over his blood-soaked shirt. His lips were ripped, and he’d lost a couple of teeth.
Tyler flung the banker to one side, exhausted. He’d been cooped up in the car all day, and he felt better for the workout. He slid out of the back of the truck and round to the cab where he gathered as many dollar bills as he could, and rammed them back into the suitcase. He’d retrieved a million, but it didn’t feel great.
The rest of it was banked safely in Baku or hidden away with David Barr. Either way, the tracker was smashed, and the trail had gone cold. He made a phone call and then headed for Baku Airport.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Airport Highway, Baku.
“If I could start again a million miles away,
I would keep myself, I would find a way.”
– Nine Inch Nails, Hurt.
Lockhart looked at the journalist. Despite all of his antics along the way, he had only ever been a fly in the ointment. The real problem was Tyler, the giant guy who had chased him from the marketplace in Mary. When he had tried to force his way onto the bus outside the motel, Lockhart had been smart enough to pull his collar up and his hat down. He didn’t want the guy getting a good look at him. But their eyes had locked for a moment, and Lockhart knew that the giant had meant business.
He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would give up easily either. Especially for three hundred million dollars. The longer Lockhart ran, the longer Tyler would chase him. The longer they chased him, the longer he would live in fear. Lockhart needed to turn and fight. He needed to fight on his own terms, so he was heading home.
After Lockhart and the journalist had come to an agreement, there wasn’t much more to say. Occasionally, the journalist would throw out a question as they drove along the highway, but generally he was a mute companion. The plan they had agreed was simple. The journalist would fly into the UK as a tourist. Lockhart would drive back through Europe and meet the journalist later in the month.
Lockhart was looking forward to the trip; a chance to trundle along without the burden of three hundred million dollars on his back. The journalist didn’t ask what had been in the back of the truck, and Lockhart didn’t tell. He was glad that the money was gone. Now he had a chance to see a bit more of the world.
Lockhart looked over at the journalist, who seemed to be deep in troubled thought. He had ditched the burka and was now wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He was looking forward to a new disguise as an Englishman called Charlie Lockhart. It was a name which meant nothing to the Spanish or the Iranians. He had written an explosive article that implicated members of his government with deals in Iran. There were several factions who would like to keep him quiet at any cost. Until the story was published, and the consequences had played out, the journalist would live quietly in a tiny English village in the middle of nowhere, pretending to be someone called Charlie Lockhart.
