by Karl Hill
His assistant, Norman Sands, sat at one end of the couch. He was dressed casually – blue jeans, white tennis shoes, open-necked shirt. A spindle-shanked, middle-aged man, a tousle of receding dark hair, skin unnaturally pale for the climate he was in, silver-rimmed spectacles. Born and bred in Wichita, Kansas. He was a chartered accountant by profession, and looked every bit of it. He lived at the ranch in a separate outbuilding. He had worked for Boyd Falconer for ten years, and knew him better than anyone. Which was not a lot. He had a laptop sitting on his knees. He waited for the race to finish.
Falconer switched off the television, using a remote. His horse had come in first. He’d won about $200,000, but he displayed little emotion. He had other things on his mind. “Speak,” he said.
“Your friend is anxious. Two men have already been killed. The couple he arranged to… take care of things, haven’t communicated. He’s getting nervous. He’s asked that you intervene. He’s… what’s the expression? He’s reached out.”
“Where the fuck does he get these people,” muttered Falconer. “Incompetents. Now I have to clean up after him.”
Sands cleared his throat.
“What the hell is it that you’re trying to say?” snapped Falconer.
“With respect, I don’t think they were incompetent. He would have picked them specially for this job. It may be he underestimated the target.”
“Perhaps. Now it becomes our problem. Which means it becomes your problem. He should have been taken care of at the girl’s flat. Who the fuck is this guy?”
“A nobody. An inconsequential. It will be taken care of.”
Boyd turned to meet Sands with a glittering gaze. “Well, this inconsequential is becoming a pain in my arse. So, Norman, put a fucking lid on this, or I swear to Christ I’ll put a fucking lid on you. If we can’t resolve this, we’ll lose a fortune. And you know how I feel about losing money. So, if anyone’s reaching out, it will be me. With an iron fist.”
Sands fidgeted on the leather couch. “We have a more pressing problem.”
Falconer had picked up a newspaper from a low mosaic-topped coffee table constructed cleverly in brass, steel and bronze, and was skimming through the sports pages.
“What.”
“The doctor was called this morning.”
“So?”
“It looks like No. 4 might have measles.”
Falconer looked up from the paper, stared into some indeterminate space before him.
“Are you kidding me?”
He tossed the newspaper away, picked up the remote, pressed five digits. The image of the racecourse vanished, to be replaced by a chart on the television screen. There were names, locations, figures.
“No. 4 is due out next week. We have $16 million riding on that one.” He turned back to his assistant. “How bad is it?”
“She has a rash.”
“A rash?”
“It’s over most of her body.”
“Shit. We’ve got clients who’ve paid their money and are expecting quality goods. Good clients. Japan. People we can’t let down. Is it infectious?”
“By the nature of the disease, yes. But we’re okay. The others haven’t been infected, and No. 4 has been quarantined. Lampton’s on it.”
“He’d better be. Monitor the situation. I’ll speak to the clients. This’ll need the personal touch. I’ll tell them there’ll be a slight delay. We’ll chuck in another one for free.”
He studied the screen.
“No. 9. Too old. It’s not worth much. $1,000,000. Maybe less. We can write that one off.”
Sands tapped the keyboard of his computer, inputting fresh data.
“About the other situation,” continued Falconer. “The inconsequential. This has to be dealt with. Get it done. The Grey Prince has asked for help, so we do what we do, and give him the assistance he needs. Speak to Mr Lincoln.” Falconer chuckled. “He’ll break his fucking balls.”
“It’ll cost. Mr Lincoln is not cheap.”
“Do I look as if I give a fucking shit.” His mood shifted abruptly. Sands had learned this of his employer. Unpredictability. Violent mood swings. “We can’t have some fucking idiot fishing about our business. If our clients hear even a whisper, then it spreads like an infection. Like the fucking measles. Before we know it, this inconsequential becomes a nightmare. So deal with it. What’s his name?”
Sands checked his computer, running through a variety of secure emails he’d received from Glasgow.
“His name is Adam Black.”
“Then Adam fucking inconsequential Black needs to be destroyed. Him, and everything about him. Man that is born of woman is of few days. Especially when he fucks with me. Do it.”
Falconer switched the television back to the sports channel. Sands was dismissed. He nodded and left the room. He had an important message to send. To a man regarded as the best in his field.
Mr Lincoln.
17
Black returned in time to catch the hourly bus.
“Where’s the other two?” asked the driver.
Black shrugged. “Probably enjoying the view.”
The journey back went without incident. Black had searched both his assailants to discover nothing much. Him – a wallet containing £300, a set of car keys, a mobile phone, loose change. Her – nothing except a mobile phone. Both phones required passwords. Black had tossed them and the keys. If they had a car, and it was parked locally, then eventually its abandonment would spark interest. Black doubted if anyone, including the police, would find much. Probably rented, under assumed names. Though it would initiate a search of the area. Black was unperturbed. He would be long gone. He kept the money. Waste not, want not. No use on a corpse.
Each rucksack contained ammunition and weapons. High-powered hand cannons – Desert Eagles .50 calibre. As powerful as a semi-automatic gets. Expensive equipment. Not for the faint-hearted. Black was grateful the man who’d fired into his female friend had used a KelTec model. Probably because of its low recoil and light weight. Easily carried in the pocket of a rain jacket. If he’d used the Desert Eagle, it would have cut through the woman’s body like warm butter, and sliced Black in half. Unlucky for them. Lucky for Black. Black loaded the weapons into his rucksack.
Whoever wanted him dead wanted it bad.
When he arrived back at Durness, he went straight to his car, changed, and drove off. He reckoned the couple would have been instructed to check in. When they didn’t, possibly at a pre-arranged time, somewhere alarm bells would start to ring. His flat would be watched, for sure. And on the assumption they had informed their masters that he had travelled north, to Cape Wrath, others might follow. And maybe the road down to Glasgow was being watched, if they were well organised. Which they were. Plan for the worst. As such, Black could not go back. Not yet.
He headed in the opposite direction. The coastal route around the very north of Scotland. Part of the so-called North Coast 500. Five hundred miles of Highland wilderness along narrow, meandering roads. Black headed for the town of Thurso. His wife had been born and brought up there, in a rambling old country house on the outskirts, by a small stream near a wood full of Scots pine and slender silver birch. Black remembered it well, from when they visited. A million years ago. A different time. The house now belonged to someone else, to strangers, sold when his wife’s mother had died, her frail heart broken at the loss of her only child and grandchild. Black thought about them every day. The sadness did not lessen. Nor the rage. Nor the guilt.
He needed somewhere to stay, somewhere his presence would not attract attention. Thurso was big enough for him to disappear for a day, perhaps two. The drive was uneventful. Black hardly noticed the scenery, the clear white sands of the shoreline and endless choppy expanse of the North Atlantic to his left, sweeping green hills of grass and gorse to his right. The rain fell harder again. Clouds gathered. He passed places no bigger than hamlets with quaint and eccentric names. Places he knew little about – Tongue; Bettyhill
; Melvich; Scrabster. He reached Thurso. The rain now was a downpour. It had been about two years since he had last visited. The place hadn’t changed. Being perched on practically the northern most part of the British Isles had given it a rugged, windswept appearance. The streets and lanes looked the same – robust stone-built houses, grey and brown; a scattering of shops. No frills. Simple, straightforward.
Black booked into the Royal Oak, a hotel close to the centre and a hundred yards from St Peter’s Church, a ruin over a thousand years old. He made sure to park his car a distance from the hotel, in a secluded back street, where it wasn’t noticeable. But if they were dedicated enough, they would find it eventually. Black would ensure his time in Thurso was brief.
The first thing he did was to get something to eat. The hotel dining room wasn’t yet open. He ate haddock and chips in a nearby fish restaurant, and had a cup of tea. He sat at a table well back from the front window. He was the only customer. He took time to reflect.
He had disposed of a man and a woman less than three hours earlier. They had been armed with pistols and had tried to murder him on the Scottish moorlands. Black had returned the compliment, erasing their existence. His training had kicked in. Second nature. He had to accept the fact that he was adept at killing people. A thought flitted through his mind. One he tried to shut out, but which obstinately refused to leave – that when he killed, it was more than instinct. Something else. Something dreadful. Enjoyment? The word brought a chill.
Which was why maybe he had volunteered and was gladly accepted in such a fighting force as the SAS, who embraced young, maladjusted men with a penchant for violence. Men who thrived on conflict. Men who liked to kill. He lifted the cup of tea. His hand trembled, the slightest tremor.
Killing still wasn’t easy. No matter how used one was to the theatre of war, there was always aftershock. Reaction. Black took a deep breath, tried to rein in his emotions, focus on the present, just as he had been trained. But after an act of extreme violence, it could still prove difficult. He sat, calmed himself. The waitress smiled at him. Black smiled back. He finished off his tea, paid the bill, and went back to the hotel and straight to his room.
He opened his rucksack and removed the box he had unearthed beneath Bastard Rock. Gilbert Bartholomew’s legacy. Black drew the curtains, and placed the box on the bed.
He clicked open the latch, and lifted the lid.
18
Boyd Falconer gave his explanations to Koboyashi Kaito via video link.
Falconer was sitting in the living room of his ranch. He had dressed for the meeting – he knew exactly what his Japanese clients liked – order, neatness, correct behaviour. Structure. For the occasion, he wore a light powder-blue cotton suit, white shirt, navy tie, black brogues. Image was everything. It was three in the afternoon, Arizona time. Hot. Way too hot for what he was wearing. Cotton was breathable and smart. He’d increased the air con.
Kaito listened, his expression inscrutable. If he felt anything, he chose not to reflect it in any facial mannerisms. He remained rigidly still. He was currently on a short holiday in a town called Karuizawa, an hour from Tokyo, where he kept a forest lodge. Kaito had homes dotted all over the world, as would befit a shipping billionaire.
Falconer continued, unflustered by Kaito’s lack of reaction. Falconer had dealt with difficult situations before. This was just one more, a hazard of the profession he was in. He could afford to be confident. He had products which few others could provide.
He explained that due to unforeseen circumstances, there would be a delay of maybe two, possibly three weeks, before the product could be transferred.
“But an agreement was reached,” replied Kaito in perfect English, his tone the embodiment of reason. “You have my money. A date was set.”
“Quite right, Mr Kaito. The funds were transferred exactly as requested. You kept your side of the bargain with the integrity and honour I would expect from a man such as yourself. It is I who has failed in his obligations. I hope and pray that this doesn’t sour our future relationship.”
Kaito gave the slightest of nods. Almost undetectable. It didn’t escape Falconers attention.
“And as a mark of respect, I would like to offer you a gift. The photograph and details are being sent to you now.”
Kaito didn’t move. Thirty seconds later he was handed a document. He examined its contents. He turned his attention back to Falconer. “A gift?”
“Yes, indeed. To be delivered simultaneously with the main acquisition.”
“I accept this gracious gift,” said Kaito. “But no delivery.”
Falconer frowned. “I’m not quite sure I understand, Mr Kaito.”
Kaito regarded Falconer for several seconds.
“I will come to you. As a guest. You said two or three weeks? I shall visit in three weeks. That way there are no further delays. It will… what is the expression? Help to concentrate the mind? Then I can pick it… sorry, them… directly. No hiccups.”
Falconer hadn’t expected this. He’d never had a client stay at the ranch. Still, $15 million was a lot of money. And Kaito was a man he’d made a lot of money from over the years. But there was protocol.
Falconer sighed, raising both hands in placation. “That isn’t our standard policy, Mr Kaito. The transfer takes place through intermediaries, as you know. This ensures our preservation. Our protection. The whole basis of these transfers should be arm’s length. That way, we can continue to prosper.”
“Sometimes, exceptions must be made.” Suddenly Kaito’s face broke into a wide smile, flashing white teeth. “To ensure continued prosperity. For both of us, Mr Falconer. I don’t want to be disappointed.”
Falconer returned the smile, though strained. “Very well, Mr Kaito. If this is what you want.”
“Thank you. A little flexibility makes all the difference, don’t you agree? But Mr Falconer, you haven’t explained the reason for the delay. I’m curious, you understand, given you have $15,000,000 of my money.”
Falconer responded in his silkiest voice.
“Nothing to concern yourself with, I promise. I felt the merchandise needed a little more training. When we sell goods to our most trusted clients, we have to be sure those goods are premium quality. The one you’ve chosen needs a little more time. To press out the wrinkles. Squeeze out the remnants of rebellion. You will thank me for this, I promise, Mr Kaito. You will thank me.”
“But the package will still be fresh?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. Three weeks, Mr Falconer.”
The screen went blank. Falconer turned to Sands, who had been standing quietly to one side.
“You heard him. Three weeks. He’s coming here.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“It had better be.”
“Regarding the other matter. I’ve made contact with Mr Lincoln. He’s already in the UK. I’ve given him the details of the target.” Sands hesitated.
“What is it?”
“I’ve done some digging. Mr Lincoln wanted to know as much as possible about Adam Black.”
“So? I’d expect nothing less. He’d be a fool otherwise. And Mr Lincoln is no one’s fool.”
“When he got the details, his price doubled.”
Falconer gave Sands a long stare. “Why would he do that?”
“Because it wasn’t incompetence. The people hired by the Grey Prince were good. It’s just that Adam Black was better.”
“Stop talking riddles. What the fuck are you trying to tell me?”
“Adam Black is ex-special services. He’s trained. He’s a killer. Maybe we should be worried.”
19
Black opened the box.
It contained two items. A sealed envelope, wrapped in a transparent polythene bag. And a matchbox. Black slid it open. Inside was a memory stick.
Black removed the envelope from the bag. Handwritten in black biro, on the front, and in clear block capitals, was his name. More specifically, C
APTAIN ADAM BLACK. Little doubt as to who it was meant for, he mused. He opened the envelope, pulled out the letter inside. The contents were similarly handwritten – neat, precise. Black went over to a chair by the window, sat, and read.
Captain Black,
If you’re reading this then you’ve fulfilled the instructions in my will, and I’m dead. You’re probably a hunted man. My deepest apologies. But the truth is, of all the people I’ve met in my life, I believe you are the best equipped to deal with the situation. Which is why I chose you, Captain Black.
An avenging angel.
You’ll not remember me. I served briefly in the 22nd Regiment under your command in Afghanistan, 2001. Helmand Province. I was there for less than a month. An IED caught the Snatch Land Rover I was driving, flipping it right over. You’ll recall how useless these vehicles were. Two of my friends died instantly, and I was trapped, both legs smashed. I survived. Because of you, Captain Black, and what you did that day.
I never returned to active service, and left the army six months later with a disability pension. But I followed your career. You were something of a legend. You probably still are. And I saw, first hand, what you’re capable of.
