by Karl Hill
Two and a half hours later, he arrived at the village of Durness. He enquired about the ferry times; one was leaving at noon from a jetty at East Keoldale. He had time to kill. Durness was sparse, a cluster of bleak buildings clinging to the land, the brisk Atlantic winds whistling. He changed into his mountain boots and took his rucksack, loaded with a litre bottle of mineral water, and ordered a late breakfast at the only restaurant – sausage, eggs, bacon, a round of toast, a pot of strong coffee. He sat by the window. The clouds had cleared a little, allowing some pale sunshine to filter through. The air felt damp, the breeze bringing a misty rain from the sea and over the cliffs. A young couple entered, laughing, talking loudly, and sat two tables up from Black. Their accents were English, maybe from London. They seemed oblivious their conversation could be heard by those around them. Tourists. Light rucksacks slung across their backs, which they dumped at their feet. Talking about nothing. Black switched off, thoughts inward.
He had killed two men. A young woman was dead. He had listened to the news on the drive up, but there was no mention. Too early? Perhaps. But the deaths combined were both brutal and unusual – a man shot, the other with a broken neck, a woman with at least twenty stab wounds. All in the one location. Three different styles of attack. That was easily front-page news. He had called the police. They would have arrived, confronting carnage. And then what? If it had been covered up, then that involved considerable influence. Influence emanating from the very top, reflected Black with a chill.
Death followed him. He had a knack for violence. He had been trained to endure, to cope, to kill without compunction. A lifetime of blood. His mind drifted inevitably to other moments in his life. His wife and daughter had died because he had killed certain men. He had been attacked randomly by a psychopath one winter’s evening, and reacted exactly as he had been trained – with extreme violence. And the consequences were devastating, his family murdered. It was on him. His hands dripped with their blood. Black knew why he sought danger, why he sought the destruction of evil men.
Penance. And something more fundamental. Something he craved.
Death.
He gazed out at the scenery before him – the open sky, the endless stretch of sea beyond the cliffs. He took a deep, reflective breath. So be it. If people tried to kill him, he would take great enjoyment in returning the compliment.
And Black was a hard man to kill.
13
The passenger boat held a maximum of twelve people. Black stepped aboard, sitting on one of four wooden benches running starboard to port, exposed to the elements. The interior was not designed for comfort. A wind had whipped up. The rain was suddenly heavy. The waters were choppy; the boat rocked back and forth. Black held on to a side railing. The skipper, a small man, lean as a whippet, wearing an oversized black donkey jacket and black woollen hat pulled past his ears, smiled a toothy smile. Black smiled back.
“Thunderstorm,” said the man.
Black nodded. “Looks like it.”
Two other passengers boarded. The young couple from the restaurant. Black watched them. Both athletic, clean-limbed, clutching their rucksacks. The young woman waved at Black. She was dark-haired, tanned skin, flashing a brilliant white smile. Black gave a half-smile in response. The couple sat together, started chattering.
The skipper waited another five minutes. The engine rumbled into life. The little boat pulled away from the jetty. The journey was short. Ten minutes. In the space of that time, the rain turned to sudden hailstones. Above, rolling black clouds covered the sun, the daylight rendered to a dreary grey. Black pulled the hood of his mountain waterproof over his head, and watched the sea.
The boat docked at a makeshift wooden pier. The three passengers disembarked. A minibus waited for them. Every hour, so the timetable said. They got in. They were met by a cheery driver, dressed in a blue uniform and blue cap. The cost was five pounds, there and back. He would drop them off at the lighthouse, then pick them up. He immediately launched into a history of the area, shouting above the grind of the engine. Black gave a wintry grin. It was no use talking the place up. It spoke for itself. Remote, desolate, brutal. Nothing else. You loved it, or hated it.
The road was a single track stretching up and skirting the cliff edge. The weather did not improve. The bus bounced and lurched over a range of potholes. The road weaved its way around the cliffs. Sixty feet below, the sea boomed as it crashed against the rocks. Black could see it was shaping up to be a wild day.
A half hour later, the bus stopped, a hundred yards from Cape Wrath lighthouse. They trooped out, all three passengers. The couple immediately set off for the obvious tourist attraction, which was the lighthouse itself. Black had other thoughts.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” said the driver. Black acknowledged by a wave of his hand.
He set off in the opposite direction, away from the cliff edge. A route unfrequented by tourists. Across moorland. An inhospitable place, impossible for vehicles to traverse. An area of land comprising little more than low rolling hills coated in cotton-grass, wild bracken, gorse, sticky bogs. One hill, however, stood out in the landscape. Even as Black set off, he could see it, a mile distant. Noticeable because of the lump of rock sitting on top, protruding on the horizon like a dark wart. Memories resurfaced for Black. All of them painful. Training for those elite soldiers handpicked to serve for the Special Air Service.
Black headed across the wild lands of Scotland, towards Bastard Rock.
14
The hike across the moorland was a slog. Black was undeterred. He had experienced landscapes much worse. In particular the mountain range of the Hindu Kush, in the north of Afghanistan, hunting Taliban at night on steep, hazardous slopes in blizzard conditions. Sometimes being hunted. Walking for miles in darkness so deep, it was easy to think you’d gone blind, nerves stretched, waiting for the impact of a bullet. Or being caught in a trap, and then the ultimate nightmare. Capture.
A walk in the rain during daylight hours on Scottish moorland did not faze Black.
He made good pace. The rain slackened. Nothing seemed untoward. Yet something niggled Black. He turned back. No one was following him. The scenery was unblemished by human presence, at least as far as he could tell. If a sniper was lying flat, covered by the vegetation, then that was it. Game over. Black would take a bullet in the head, and his problems were gone. It would be sudden. Instant oblivion. His body wouldn’t be found for weeks, maybe months. Maybe never. He had to take his chances. No one would miss him, he thought ruefully. Maybe Tricia, his secretary. A few would perhaps uncork champagne, to celebrate.
Time passed. Fifteen minutes later, Black stood at the foot of a steep hill, which flattened into a plateau after about sixty feet, then rose again, maybe another sixty feet. At the top was the rock each soldier was required to kiss, then immediately turn and scramble back down. Over twenty years ago. Not easy with a full, forty-pound Bergen pack strapped to your back, clutching a standard issue C8 assault rifle. Again and again. Until you dropped. And then you dragged yourself up and carried on, staff screaming abuse in your ears. Part of SAS selection training. A very small part, but enough for seasoned soldiers to fling in the towel, there and then, and tell their instructors to fuck the hell off.
Black climbed up the hill. He reached the plateau, and surveyed the land from his new vantage. To the west, the lighthouse. Beyond that, the grey expanse of the Atlantic. In all other directions, the monotonous spread of moorland, rising and falling like the gentle swells of a great green ocean. The rain had stopped. A brief respite. Brittle sunlight glinted through gaps in the cloud.
Black continued. He wondered if he could still run up with a pack on his back. He reckoned he could. Black had made it his business to stay supremely fit.
He got to the top. There it was, five feet from him. Bastard Rock, as it had been affectionately nicknamed by the regiment. Twenty feet high, thirty feet wide. Unchanged. Black looked up. A big square monolith of pale grey sands
tone. An ugly piece of rock, providing Black and many other soldiers with unpleasant memories.
According to the will of the late Gilbert Bartholomew, Black had to look for what he needed. And what he needed was at the foot of Bastard Rock. A cryptic message. He slowly made his way round, searching for something, anything. He squinted in its shadow. There! A small arrow in grey paint, barely detectable, at the base of the rock, pointing downwards.
Black was mystified. He scanned the ground to where the arrow was pointing. A patch of grass. Nothing to make it stand out. Nothing had been disturbed. Black had an idea. He unzipped his jacket, reached round and unclipped the top of the sheath attached to his belt, and drew out his Ka-Bar knife. He thrust it into the ground. The grass was moist. It entered easily. He dug up the soil, using the blade like a trowel. He continued for five minutes, creating a hole about a foot deep. The tip of his knife struck something. Something solid. Something flat. He dug round the object, gently, teasing away the dirt. It was metal and square. He lifted out a white box, roughly the size and shape of a cigar box. It was light, the lid held shut by a single nickel-plated draw bolt latch. Black scrutinised it for a second, shaking it slightly. Something rattled inside. Black put it in his rucksack, stood, and looked back the way he had come.
And saw them approach.
15
The fundamental component of a Special Forces operator is aggression. And a touch of fucking madness.
Observation by Staff Sergeant to new recruits of 22nd Special Air Service Regiment
Taking roughly the same path as Black, the young couple approached. They were maybe a hundred and fifty yards distant. The female waved up at him. Black was easily visible from where he stood, at the pinnacle of the hill, at the foot of the rock. It was impossible for him not to be noticed. Black waved back. He watched them carefully, their movements, their mannerisms, the way they walked, the way they regarded their surroundings. Every little detail was important. They weren’t making any effort to conceal themselves. He couldn’t hear them, but they looked as if they were chatting to each other, unconcerned, enjoying the ramble. The picture of innocence.
The only way down the hill was the way he had climbed up. The other side of the hill was steep, verging on vertical. The type of descent that could lead to a broken neck.
Black made his way down, zigzagging to prevent strain on the ankles. He got to the plateau. Flat, and about the size of a tennis court. Short, wild grass, and clusters of small rocks. He sat on the edge, took out the bottle of water from his rucksack, took a sip, and waited. The rain started again, a sudden drizzle. The sun was gone, hidden by clouds the colour of old bruising. The air felt heavy. The skipper was right. Black sensed thunder looming.
The couple reached the foot of the hill, in plain sight. They looked up.
“Ahoy there!” shouted the man, raising an arm, his manner careless, unconcerned. To Black’s mind, he was maybe thirty. Perhaps younger. Clean-shaven. Brown hair cropped short. Regular, forgettable features. Maybe six feet. Lean and muscular. “Is it worth the climb up?”
Black responded, smiling. “Depends what you’re looking for.”
“Is it just a big rock?” shouted the woman. She too was about thirty, strong and fit. Athletic. Black noted that neither seemed out of breath after the mile hike through the moors. “We thought it was some sort of monument!”
“No monument! A big chunk of sandstone!”
She looked at her partner. They exchanged glances. They didn’t move. Hesitation, thought Black. The man gave the slightest shake of his head.
“We’ll not bother!” shouted the woman, her laughter ringing up through the rain. “Seems too much like hard work! If you’re coming down, we’ll walk you back!”
Black nodded grimly. Of course you will. They had reacted as he would have done. Climbing up the hill was disadvantageous, with Black looking directly down at them, perched as he was at the edge of the plateau. You don’t attack an enemy uphill. Too many variables, and essentially, the other side always has momentum. And momentum can make all the difference. Basic rule of combat. And more obviously, if they’d walked all the way to get here, they would have climbed anyway. Perhaps he was being paranoid. But Black had learned that in his world, paranoia was essential for self-preservation. And when Black thought something didn’t add up, he was usually dead right.
Black stood. He had to follow this through. Play act.
“Sure! Why not!”
He started the descent, keeping one eye on his footing, one eye on the couple. They had separated, unnaturally so. Classic positioning. Soldiers were taught in Special Services to function in small groups, and never in close proximity with each other, making them difficult targets in the event of attack.
Black made his way down gradually, nerves taut, thinking. The conversation between the pair had stopped, both intent on Black’s descent. The rain got suddenly heavier. Thunder rumbled.
Black was six feet from the bottom.
“Some weather,” he said, casually. He stopped, leaning back against the incline of the hill, and stooped down, as if adjusting the lacing on his boot. The woman was closer to him, standing directly beneath him. The man was fifteen feet to her left, standing further back. Black watched her out the corner of his eye.
Maintaining a cheerful smile, as if in slow motion, she pulled a pistol from a side pocket of her rain jacket.
Black didn’t hesitate. He leapt, using the hillside as an improvised springboard, Ka-Bar knife in one hand. The woman took a step back, shocked. Not what she was expecting. She raised the pistol, but too late. Black cannoned into her, hard. They both tumbled on to the long grass. Black thrust the knife up and through her throat. Blood arced into the air, a sudden red rainbow. She spasmed. Her hand jerked open, releasing the pistol. Black retrieved it, rolled her on top. Just in time. Gunshots. He felt her body reverberate as it absorbed the impact of four bullets. Her male companion approached, firing two more. The woman’s head exploded, Black momentarily blinded with segments of bone and brain. He lifted his hand, fired, more in hope than accuracy. The man recoiled, clutching his shoulder, dropping on his backside. Black pushed the dead woman away, stood, aiming the pistol at the man, who was sitting up, head bowed, taking short, sharp breaths, the top of his shoulder blown off. The man tried to aim his pistol, but his arm was wavering, uncoordinated. Black kicked it out of his hand. The man groaned.
Black loomed over him.
“Who are you?”
The man raised his head, staring fixedly at Black. His shoulder was a ruin, blood pumping in small, short bursts from shredded veins.
“Finish it,” said the man, his voice a dry croak.
Black pressed his foot against the man’s chest, pushing him flat to the ground, keeping his weight on him.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
The man gave a ghastly smile. “Fuck you,” he mumbled.
Black adjusted his footing, pressing on the man’s shoulder. The man screamed. Almost in symphony, the sky rumbled. Black waited five seconds. The man took a deep, ragged breath.
“I can do this all day,” said Black. “Until your blood runs out. No one can hear you.”
“I need to get to a hospital.”
Black nodded. “I agree.” He pressed down again. The man inhaled sharply, releasing a low moan. “Talk.”
“I don’t know anything. We were given instructions. All verbal. We followed you from Glasgow. We were to find out what you were doing, then kill you, and report back.”
“That’s not very sociable. Report to who?”
“I don’t know.”
Black made a movement, about to put his weight again on the man’s wound.
“No, please! The contact didn’t give us his name. Not his real name. But we know him as something else.”
“What?”
“The Grey Prince.”
“Colourful. How do you contact him?”
The man coughed, his lungs bringing up phlegm an
d speckles of blood. “Please. I need to get to a hospital.”
“How do you contact him?”
“Mobile number. That’s all I have. When the job’s done, I call him. He knows my voice. He doesn’t call us. Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please help.”
“Of course.”
Black shot him in the head.
He had something. A name – the Grey Prince. It meant nothing to Black. But it was a start. Plus, he had the estate of the late Gilbert Bartholomew in his rucksack, whatever the hell that was.
Black left them where they lay. They wouldn’t be found for a good while. Let the wildlife feast.
16
The Arizona climate was a dry heat which suited Boyd Falconer perfectly. He had developed asthma as a young child, his mother was a chronic smoker, and then his aunt, after his mother died. In all the places in the world he had visited, and he had visited many, this was the easiest on his lungs. He rarely used his inhaler here. When he’d made his first $10 million, he decided to build a ranch deep in the Sonoran Desert, two hundred miles south of Phoenix. Two hundred and fifty acres of nothing much. Miles from anywhere. Privacy was high on Falconer’s list of priorities.
Now $10 million was loose change. Human trafficking had proved highly lucrative for Boyd Falconer. But it was just the start. Over the years, Falconer had honed his skills, perfected his expertise. Now he offered a very specialised, niche market product to the wealthy and powerful. And it was a global demand.
Falconer sat in the middle of a large, sprawling, semi-circular cream suede couch, in the living room of the main house. The room was huge. The oiled Georgian oak wood flooring was dotted with plush Bokhara and Kilims rugs. Falconer had them imported from Uzbekistan and Iran. Bespoke Italian furniture; exquisite white marble table lamps. The ceiling was a cluster of rippled cupolas, and from each, suspended Venetian crystal chandeliers. One side of the room was a series of large windows framed in aluminium extrusions, offering a view of the front courtyard. Triple strength bulletproof glass. Afternoon sunshine streamed through. Facing the couch, set in a column of pale-blue quartz, was a television the size of a small cinema. Falconer was watching horse racing. A man in his late sixties. Deeply tanned. Hair swept back, dyed deep black. Lean, ropy muscle. His face oddly stretched and tight – a consequence of cosmetic surgery and chemical peels. He was dressed in jogging trousers, T-shirt, running shoes. He was soaked in sweat. He had just come from his state-of-the-art gymnasium, an annex to the main house. He’d completed a ten-mile run on the treadmill. He did this every day. A slap in the face to his asthma.
