Fearless ; The Smoke Child

by Lee Stone

  He was ashamed. Compared to the drivers he had led into Afghanistan he was rich and privileged. At the time, he had justified his actions because he was buying the safety of the men driving behind him in the convoy – but he knew that he had no right to trade one man’s life for another. He had been standing on the roof to protect his fledgling empire. He was there through greed, and now he was in Cuba, in the devil’s house, for exactly the same reason. Whatever his fate turned out to be, he deserved it.

  It was at least three days since he had slept. He was naked, hanging from a beam in a dark concrete room. They wouldn’t give him a lawyer or a phone call. There were no rules. There was no trial or parole or schedule. He had no release date to fixate on. He had no future.

  He remembered the window in the house in Quetta. Life’s delicate journey measures itself out in such tiny moments. If his grandfather had been born somewhere else, things would be different. If his grandmother hadn’t walked past the tiny window all those years ago, Ajmal wouldn’t be where he was right now. If his cousin hadn’t got married, Ajmal might never have come to Pakistan or Quetta. If he hadn’t driven his truck through the archway at the end of the Chaman Road, and into Afghanistan, he wouldn’t have ended up in Cuba. He wouldn’t have faced the torture. He would have had a clearer conscience too.

  An inky black hopelessness had soaked through Ajmal’s heart as he hung in the cell in Guantanamo. He could feel nothing of his arms, and his wrists hung loosely from the cutting metal restraints attached to the concrete ceiling. He hung his head in despair.

  Thousands of miles away, Tyler had just dragged Ajmal’s brother unceremoniously away from the other man he had killed. It was the other man he was interested in. Charlie Lockhart. Fearless. He was in Lockhart’s house, and wherever the money was hidden, he would find it. He pulled off the dead guy’s watch to check for the famous tattoo. Just to be sure.

  It was a messy job, as blood had run down from the hole in the man’s palm. It had congealed around his watch and smeared around his wrists. Tyler spat on the man’s skin and rubbed vigorously. Nothing. No tattoo. Not Fearless. Not Lockhart. For fuck’s sake.

  Tyler put his head in his hands. Why the hell had the man said he was Lockhart if he wasn’t? It made no sense, and he could feel his anger rising. He kicked the dead man hard in the chest, which released some of his rage.

  Then Tyler sat and thought. The imposter had said something about the real Lockhart being nearby. He had said that the money was nearby, and he had mentioned another house in the village. Maybe it was true. He left the crossbow on the kitchen table and grabbed the revolver, thrusting it into the pocket of his jacket as he headed back out into the snow.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Lockhart’s Cottage, Woodridge.

  “On candystripe legs Spiderman comes, softly through the shadow of the evening sun. Stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead, looking for the victim shivering in bed.” – The Cure, Lullaby.

  Something was in the air. Lockhart was not prone to paranoia, but he felt as though Tyler was getting closer. It had been over twenty-four hours since the giant had threatened that he was on his way. The light was dying outside, and the firelight was now reflecting off the window in front of him. Moments ago, Lockhart thought he heard gunfire coming from the Lodge next door. But it could have been a car backfiring. Or just his imagination.

  Even so, it had spooked him, and he felt like he was on his guard. Still, he could see nothing in the dusky street beyond the evergreen hedge, except for the glow from the Crown and Cricket on the other side of the road.

  Since the moment he took the money from the Mastiff in the boneyard in Herat, Lockhart had known that someone would come looking for him. Now David Barr was dead, and he was alone in the house on the hill, and the snow had cut him off from the world. Lockhart felt like the time was now. The river had flowed to here, to now. And that was why he was ready.

  Outside, Tyler was looking both ways along the deserted road. Dusk was falling, and the street was deserted. He scissored over the low dry-stone wall and crouched down, looking through the evergreen bushes over the grounds to the tiny cottage in the distance.

  Inside the cottage, Lockhart grabbed a couple of tumblers and found a bottle of twelve-year-old Glenlivet. It was a decent single malt. He walked back through to the main room and sat down on one of the chairs near to the massive stone fireplace. It was much too big for the house. He poured himself a glass, and had a swig. Then he grabbed a second glass and filled it with more whiskey. He placed it on the opposite side of the table. He was certain that Tyler would be coming.

  There was no way Lockhart would give Tyler three hundred million dollars which didn’t belong to him. And there was no way that Tyler would take no for an answer. Stalemate. Lockhart knew that it would turn ugly, but even so he wasn’t going to make the first move. He would give the giant the chance to walk away. Otherwise, he figured that he would be no better than Tyler himself. Lockhart knew that he had a job to do. He had to get Tyler off his back, and he had to ensure that the money ended up where it was meant to be. Where it was needed most. He also owed it to Rachel, and David Barr to put Tyler straight.

  There was no option for Lockhart to be afraid. His old university friend Laurent had once convinced him that death was nothing to be afraid of, anyway. Laurent was French, and borderline insane. Lockhart shared a flat with him for almost a year, and there was never a dull moment. After a few bottles of wine, he would fly into a rage about the indignity of his life, and the terrible choices which had led him to where he was today. Most times, the end of his sentences would descend into French profanity accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Laurent had a penchant for the dramatic and enjoyed throwing things around.

  Lockhart had taken to him immediately. He was all Camel cigarettes and Pastis and philosophy. Looking back, it was all a sham, but Lockhart had been barely out of his teens and knew next to nothing about the world.

  Girls had loved Laurent’s brooding looks and his drunkenness. Lockhart suspected that half the reason for his cigarettes and his red wine and his disheveled appearance was to lure women to his boudoir. In reality, his dad was rich and utterly bourgeois. He was ready to welcome his son into the family firm as soon as he tired of being a romantic.

  But Laurent’s philosophy was genuine enough. He would quote Sartre and Camus at will, and rant about the futility of life. In quieter moments, he would listen endlessly to Jacques Brel, and fret over the nature of everything. Lockhart found his restless soul enjoyable company. It was during one of those quiet moments that Laurent had said to Lockhart, “Death is the most frightening of all the bad things, but is nothing to us. When we exist, death is not yet here, and when death arrives, then we do not exist anymore. You will never know death.”

  Laurent was an Absurdist – he thought it was stupid that people spent their lives scrabbling about trying to make their place in the universe seem significant. They were kidding themselves. The universe was cold and empty and couldn’t care less about them. It was a fairly bleak conclusion.

  Lockhart didn’t believe in Absurdity any more than he believed in Bahá’í book of Hidden words, but he enjoyed listening to the theories that people clung to as they tried to find their place in the order of everything.

  Laurent had explained that people looked towards the future for hope of better times, but deep down they know that the future is death. So, their lives were an absurd paradox. Lockhart felt like he was in the middle of that paradox as he waited for Tyler to arrive.

  “Reject fear of death, because death is inevitable” Laurent had told him. “Don’t try to make sense of the universe, because there is no grand plan to understand. Do whatever you want, because actually none of it matters very much. Ignore the usual rules, and play by your own.”

  Tonight, that was exactly what Lockhart was planning to do. Outside in the snow, Tyler had reached the outside of the cottage and was skirting low around the sandstone
exterior, trying to find an easy way in.

  Lockhart smiled to himself about how certain Laurent had been about everything. Lockhart felt like he was still searching for his place in the world. He was still a tourist. Maybe his destiny was to travel, and never to find a place to rest. Since David Barr had died, he had known that his days in Woodridge were numbered. He could feel the river trying to dislodge him again. That suited him fine.

  He stood up and went back to the window. It was dark now. Maybe the Giant wouldn’t come tonight after all. The snow had stopped suddenly, and a few of the brightest stars were trying to pierce their way through the blanket of cloud. Lockhart was about to go back to his chair when he happened to look down and notice the set of prints in the snow. They were massive, and pushed tightly against the stone wall. They were fresh too. Somebody big had been skimming the cottage. Tyler had arrived.

  Lockhart paced briskly out to the kitchen and picked up his mobile. Time to go to work. He grabbed the phone and called the number which he had preset for when this day arrived. It rang twice before a woman’s voice answered.

  “Reservations?”

  Lockhart explained he needed to book a flight, and went through the process of getting the seat reserved.

  “Just me” he told the woman at the end of the phone.

  “Gatwick to Hong Kong. Six hours?” he looked at his watch. “Yes, that should be fine.”

  He paid and thanked the woman before putting the phone down. He never traveled first class, but he knew that the airline would put up with him arriving at the last minute if he’d paid more. With his Gatwick flight booked, he took a pen and paper from the kitchen table and wrote “Heathrow, 10.34pm”. It looked random enough. He left the bogus note in plain view on the kitchen table.

  Tyler was having no luck. The front door looked too solid to break down. There was no point smashing a window at the front because it might be seen from the road. He skirted round the back of the house, still staying close to the stone wall that surrounded the cottage. He had covered two thirds of the building, and he hadn’t found a weakness. A familiar frustration was starting to build as he felt the handle of the old revolver smooth and cold in his hand.

  Inside, Lockhart had returned to his own sofa, and was rolling his tumbler in his hand, watching the whisky coat the inside of the glass. The trap was set. It was up to Tyler now whether he chose to walk into it. Lockhart heard a smash in the kitchen as the back door caved in. Tyler was nothing if not predictable. Lockhart took another sip of his whiskey, and stayed exactly where he was.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Lockhart’s Cottage, England.

  “If I have a bag of rocks to carry as I go,

  I just want to hold my head up high”

  - REM Walk Unafraid

  Tyler had broken into houses all over the world. Sometimes in training, sometimes in combat. The basics were always the same. Assess the situation before you rush in. Find the weakest spot for entry. When you go in, go in hard and fast. Keep moving and act decisively, and always know the quickest way out. Just in case.

  Once Tyler had made up his mind, he pulled the revolver from his jacket pocket, and stepped out to face the back door. It was away from the road, and less solid than the oak door at the front. He guessed where the lock would be, and smashed his foot into it with all of his might. It felt like the whole house shook as the door gave way. Tyler had put all of his weight into the blow, and a less experienced man might have tumbled into the kitchen when the door gave way. But not Tyler. He was well balanced and he stepped into the house deftly, keeping low and strong.

  The kitchen was clear, so Tyler moved forward into the cottage. He spotted a note on the kitchen table. It was a flight time. He smiled and ripped the top sheep of the pad of paper and scrunched it into his jacket pocket. Final call for passenger Lockhart. He expected to find the living room empty too, but it wasn’t.

  There was a tall guy sitting in a comfy chair staring at him. The man was in his early thirties, looking as if he had been expecting him to drop in. Tyler could have saved himself some trouble and just rang the doorbell. Most men would have sprung up the stairs to get away from the danger, but the tall guy just sat there looking relaxed. Tyler’s expert eye swept the room, and noticed the second whiskey glass in front of Lockhart. One man, two full glasses.

  “Where’s your friend?” he asked, pointing the revolver up the stairs to cover himself. He kept his eyes on the guy near the fire though.

  “The drink’s for you,” Lockhart replied. He wondered how the hell Tyler had got his hands on a weapon in such a short space of time. “I had a feeling you would be on your way. Why don’t you sit down?”

  Tyler took a moment to weigh up the options. The man in front of him hadn’t flinched. He didn’t need to check for the tattoo. He knew he’d found Fearless, and he could see how he had picked up his nickname. He had the revolver in his hand and the man on the sofa looked unarmed, so he took a seat and sniffed at the glass.

  He was more used to bourbon than scotch, but he was cold to the bone and he wasn’t fussy. He took a gulp. It was earthier than the malts at home. As the man in front of him raised his glass, Tyler caught a flash of a tattoo on the underside of his wrist. Lockhart saw him looking, and reached over the table, pulling up his sleeve.

  It was there; the tattoo describing the man’s blood type and his Arabic name. David Barr’s ghost driver was alive in the flesh. Tyler was closer to the prize than he had been since Kandahar.

  “You’ve come for your money.”

  Tyler looked up and nodded. Why was the man so calm?

  “You’ve probably come to kill me too.”

  Tyler shrugged at this. It was probably true.

  “Do you have it?” he asked.

  Lockhart has spent a long time planning this moment. Depending on the next few seconds, things could be really good, or really bad. In truth, he knew they would go bad. But he had to give Tyler a chance to walk.

  “The money is banked,” he said simply. “It’s not here and you can’t get it without my help, so you might as well put the weapon away because you can’t use it.”

  Tyler scowled, but he believed what Lockhart said. He was living in a tiny house, and didn’t look afraid, and he was obviously a smart guy. He put the gun down on the table between the two men, closer to himself than Lockhart. Daring him to try and snatch it.

  Lockhart knew the easiest way to get rid of Tyler would be to give him the money, in return for him leaving and never returning. But it wasn’t his money to give. He hadn’t asked for the three hundred million dollars, but he’d ended up with them. It wasn’t his place to hand them to some crooked soldier. So instead, he offered Tyler a deal.

  “There is three hundred and twelve million dollars in the account” Lockhart told the massive guy who was crammed into the seat in front of him. “I don’t want any of it because it’s not mine. Three hundred million belongs in Afghanistan and I’m taking it back.”

  Tyler’s face hardened.

  “That leaves twelve million. And that’s my deal. If you give me an account number, I’ll wire you twelve million dollars right now, and then you walk away.”

  “So, you stole three hundred million dollars,” the giant told Lockhart, and now you’re offering me twelve million, and I’m supposed to just walk away?”

  “You followed me to Herat?” Lockhart asked, taking a sip on his whiskey. Tyler nodded.

  “Well then you must have seen what happened on that road. You must have seen the scorch marks and the burnt-out vehicles. I was hijacked by three jeeps, and then nearly burned by some trigger-happy Thunderbolts.”

  Tyler had heard as much from General Lang.

  “So, I’m stuck in the middle of the desert with no credentials and a truck full of stolen cash. What option did I have?”

  As Tyler sat in front of the open fire, he could see what Lockhart was driving at. He and Lang had worked hard to stay anonymous, and this was the first chanc
e the guy had been able to offer to repay the money.

  “I got stuck with the money that you stole,” Lockhart explained to him. “And now I’m giving it back to the schools and hospitals that need it.”

  He gave Tyler a hard stare, but the hulking American didn’t seem to have any crisis of conscience.

  “So, you give me the interest and think that we’re all square?” Tyler asked.

  Lockhart nodded and said, “You stole a load of money, and you lost it. What I’m offering you is twelve million to disappear. One-time offer, take it or leave it.”

  Things seemed to be going ok. Tyler couldn’t get at the money in the Baku bank without Lockhart, so he wasn’t about to kill him. The game had begun. After a year stuck in Woodridge, Lockhart was enjoying the adrenalin rush.

  Tyler reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Not much signal. He sent a text to Lang explaining the situation. If it was up to Tyler, he would check the money was wired, and then leave the country. He would be rich enough not to care about what happened to the man and his whiskey and his fire and his tiny house. But it wasn’t up to Tyler. It was Lang’s call.

  The two men sat in front of the huge fire in silence. There was nothing to talk about until the text came back. Lockhart threw another log into the flames, more to pass the time than anything else. He used a heavy poker to prod away at the heart of the fire and to move the log into a good position. The wood was dry and seasoned, and it caught quickly. The poker glowed red, and Lockhart left it lying on the stone hearth.