by Karl Hill
He watched numbers 3, 5, 6 and 10 on his monitors. They were listless, as indeed they all were. The four being sold were all about six years old, as far as he could tell. He would gee them up. They had to be natural. Smiling. Or at the very least no frowns or surliness. Tomorrow night, at seven, the hidden cameras would beam their smiles to all sorts of people. Lampton didn’t know how much money changed hands, nor did he care.
But he’d been told the younger they were, the greater the price. He could understand that.
Sands joined Falconer in the dining room. Falconer was eating alone, which he preferred. He sat at the head of a long broad dining table, crafted from Venetian grey marble, around which were placed sixteen matching high-backed chairs. It had arrived only the day before. Bought in specially for the Japanese billionaire and his entourage. No expense had been spared. The cost: $75,000. Pocket change to a man like Boyd Falconer. A chef specialising in Japanese cuisine would be hired for the evening, at $3,000. He’d arranged for Japanese stencils to be hung on the white walls, ten in all, each original, each costing $50,000. And so it went on. Sands knew what everything cost. It was his job to know. Over $1,000,000 had been lavished on the room. A day’s earning, he estimated.
But the worst, at least in Sands’ view, was the samurai armour, fastened around a mannequin, placed in one corner, complete with sword and helmet. Made from black iron lacquered plates, gold-plated chain mail and blue silk. In Sands’ view, it was crass and clumsy, and could offend. The cost was offensive too, at over $450,000. He’d hinted as much, and was told in no uncertain manner by Falconer to shut the fuck up.
Falconer was eating a plate of steamed vegetables and a baked potato. He sipped from a stem glass of still mineral water, bottles of which were imported from Switzerland. On a far wall opposite was a large screen. With a flick of a remote, it could retract into a specially adapted housing, and a wooden panel would slide down, rendering it undetectable.
Falconer was gazing at it, which he did most mealtimes. There were screens in almost every room in his ranch. On the screen were numbers, names, places, flow charts. Sands was meticulous. Falconer was more so. He knew everything about each of the items. Where they came from: age; name; cost of procurement. Also, source – the name or names of those who supplied the item initially. Then the names of each individual involved in the often-complex chain of handovers between the initial abduction to the final delivery into the sub-level. And after that, the details of those who purchased. Names, addresses, everything.
Falconer kept records of all his clients. Detailed information. From billionaires to United States senators; from government officials to CEOs of multinationals; from dictators to movie stars. Falconer knew everything about everybody. Details were documented, recorded, archived. To be accessed at the press of a button. As such, he was unassailable. Untouchable. In over fifteen years, he’d stayed under the radar of the FBI and the state police. People in high places had too much to lose. The way Falconer looked at it, if the intake of merchandise ever dried up, then the next obvious step was blackmail. But the appetite for flesh never diminished. It was a business which would last forever.
“Did you speak to Lampton?”
“Of course.”
“He’d better get them up to shape. A single smile gets me an extra million dollars.”
“It would recoup the money spent on your samurai warrior,” replied Sands, drily.
Falconer chuckled. “You don’t like spending money, do you?”
Sands shrugged. “Depends on what it’s spent on. What do I know after all? I’m only your accountant. I’m sure our Japanese clients would enjoy your hospitality, samurai or no samurai.”
“The problem with you, Sands, is that you know how to count it, but you haven’t got the first fucking clue how to make it. Like every fucking accountant and lawyer I’ve met. A fucking leech. Look at the sword. It’s called a katana. Said to be the finest cutting weapon in military history. Forged from Japanese steel. Once it’s forged, it’s polished. With this particular sword, the polisher spent four weeks, using special stones. To give it that mirror finish. This one has an inscription on the side of the blade. In fucking gold inlay. By a guy called Masamune. To the Japanese this guy is like God Almighty. The greatest swordsmith ever. And he’s been dead the past thousand years. The blade is so fucking sharp, you don’t feel any pain. You don’t notice when your arm’s been taken off. It’s said that those condemned to die asked specifically for the katana. Do you know why, Sands?”
“No idea.”
“Because when they got their heads sliced off, they didn’t know they’d died. The cut was so clean. When our Japanese friend sees all this, I kid you not, Sands, he will cum in his fucking pants. And that’s why the million dollars spent on this stuff will make me a hundred million dollars over time.”
“That, and a constant supply of children.”
“Get the fuck out of here, Sands. Get back to your profit and loss. And tell Lampton that if he fucks up tomorrow night, then I’ll shove the fucking katana up his anal passage.”
Sands nodded. Lampton might enjoy such an experience, he thought.
40
War is not about who is right, it is about who is left.
Anonymous
Black checked the ferry times. The man called Lincoln had been accurate with his times. A ferry left Largs harbour at eight. Black put on the clothes worn from the evening before – a dinner suit, and a bloodstained evening shirt. He skipped the bow tie. A tad conspicuous. He had no change of clothing, but how he looked was the farthest thing from his mind.
He placed the Walther in his inside pocket. The two Desert Eagles he put in his carrier bag which he slung over his shoulder.
He left his room, got to his car. He doubted his enemies would have tracked him here. Still, he was watchful. All quiet. The journey was about an hour and twenty minutes. Black drove, using satnav. He did not take in the scenery. His mind dwelt on other things – like whether Tricia, his friend and secretary, was lying dead in a ditch.
He arrived at 7.40am. He hadn’t been to Largs for five years. The last time he had visited was to do precisely the same thing he was about to do now. Which was board the ferry to Millport. Only then, circumstances were different. Then, he was with his wife and daughter. Then, life had been simpler. Now, everything was complicated. Everything Black touched, ended up crushed and dead.
Millport was in fact the name of the town. More like a village. The island itself was called Great Cumbrae. Black remembered little about it. The ferry would take about ten minutes, crossing the Firth of Clyde on calm waters. The thirteen-mile road round the island was predominantly flat, hugging the coast. Hence why it was nicknamed the bicycle island. The one vivid memory Black had was hiring bicycles, his daughter safely ensconced in a trailer attached behind him. Buying lunch in a little fish and chip shop. Smiles, laughter. Beyond that, nothing much. A nice place in the summer. Barren and freezing cold in the winter. A million years ago. Another time. Another world.
The ferry arrived. Black bought a ticket, drove on. There was virtually no queue. Four other cars. A handful of keen sightseers. The morning was dull, the waters choppy. Black got out of his car and climbed steps to an upper deck, watching the island draw closer. A bus was waiting to take those foot passengers. No other vehicles, as far as he could see. The approaching dock was stuck in the middle of nowhere – a car park, and fields behind low stone walls. Little else.
Everything seemed innocent enough. The ferry rumbled to a standstill; the steel door lowered onto a concrete ramp. Black drove off, easing out the belly of the boat. There was only one road. He could have turned either left or right. Whichever, he would arrive at his destination. He checked the time. Eight fifteen. He turned right, for no particular reason other than the fact that the other vehicles turned left. He took the journey slow. He paid scant regard to the passing scenery. To his right, the shifting muddy colour of the estuary. To his left, stretches of wild
grass, gorse, rocks, boulders, clumps of trees, beyond which low moss-patterned cliffs.
Black drove slowly, because he had to. He needed to think. The man Lincoln held a hostage. She could be already dead. Black had to act as if there was still a chance. But he had nowhere to go, no cards to play. He had no choice but to see it out to the end. Which at the present moment, looked gloomy. Worse. A nightmare, from which there was no reprieve.
Time passed. The scenery changed. The wild grass became gardens. Houses, holiday cabins, rows of static caravans. He passed an old hotel of red brick behind black railings set in a low stone wall, then more houses. He was approaching the centre. The road was set further back from the water, and to his right, he passed a flat grass park with swings and chutes and a yellow roundabout. The road veered right, then left. He got to the centre. Pubs, another hotel, small quaint touristy shops with fluttering buntings and bright garlands. He saw the sign – The Oyster. It was open. Black drove by slowly. Large windowpanes on either side of a central glass door, between narrow terraced houses. A counter on one side. On the other, tables and chairs. Some people were there already. Black pulled into a space on the side of the road a hundred yards further up. Eight thirty. He cut the engine, tried to focus. He had no plan, as such. But then he rarely did. This time, another life depended on his actions. If indeed Tricia was still alive. Black had to follow this through. He sensed however this played out, death would be sitting nearby.
But Adam Black and death were close acquaintances.
He got out. Thankfully, the road was quiet. Dressed in dinner suit and a red-stained shirt, he didn’t blend in.
He made his way to the café. He went straight in. Looked about. A woman behind the counter, hunched over a sizzling frying pan, cooking up bacon and eggs. A younger girl helping her. The place was plain, needing a new lick of paint, new linoleum on the floor. The walls were dotted with forgettable paintings in cheap frames. There were three people. A couple at the window. An individual sitting in the corner at the back.
Black settled his gaze on the man. The man smiled, raising a hand. Black nodded in return but did not smile.
He made his way over and sat on a plastic chair on the other side of a Formica-topped table.
“Mr Black?”
“Mr Lincoln.”
41
Black regarded the man before him. Difficult to estimate his height given he was sitting, but Black reckoned he was about six feet. Wearing a beige overcoat, a dark close-fitting pullover underneath. His features were neat, forgettable. He was thick in the neck and shoulders. Clever pale-blue eyes. His expression was calm, a secret half-smile raising the corners of his mouth.
Black, having confronted dangerous men all his life, could trust his instinct. The man exuded menace. It seeped out of his pores, it crouched behind his easy smile. At this precise moment, his instinct told him – beware! This man is one fucking lethal individual!
He had a mug of coffee on the table in front of him, and a folded newspaper.
He gestured to the coffee. “Can I get you one?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m glad you could make it.”
“You’re American?”
Lincoln’s smile widened.
“How perceptive. I’ve been trying for years to bring the accent in, to get it just right. You know, the type your British newsreaders use, without any inflection? And I thought I’d cracked it. Then you come along. I’m impressed, Mr Black.”
“Don’t be. Spotting a phoney accent is the least of my talents. I have other ones, which you might not like as much.”
Lincoln nodded. “And I believe you. You’ve had an interesting career. Spectacular. And getting a medal. You’re a hero, Mr Black.”
“That’s very kind. I think you’re wanting me to like you. But that won’t work, Mr Lincoln.”
Lincoln gave a look of mock indignation. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t kill people I like.”
“You’ve killed a lot of people.”
Black gave the merest shrug. “I try to restrict it to scumbags. You know – sick fuckers, evil bastards. People like yourself.”
Lincoln leaned several inches closer, both elbows resting on the table, hands clasped under his chin, his voice reduced to barely above a whisper. “I’ve killed many men. And women.” He leaned in closer still. “And children.”
Black met his gaze, but said nothing.
“When I read about your wife and child being shot in your own home, you know what I thought?”
“I’m dying to know.”
“Professional. The hits were clean. I think they were dead even before they knew it. Which is a flaw I have. If I’d been given the contract, I’d have taken my time. Maybe ten minutes with your wife. Get to know her a little better. And I’d have given your daughter extra attention. Let her really feel it. So she knew, beyond any fraction of a doubt, that she was going to die. Make her absolutely terrified. Make her confront it, Mr Black. The whole thing becomes more… fulfilling.”
Black rested back on his chair, studying Lincoln’s face. He gave a thin-lipped smile.
“You know, I hadn’t given it much thought. But now you mention it, I think you’re right. I think fulfilment is exactly how I’ll feel when I tear your fucking throat out. A sense of achievement. One less cockroach scuttling through the sewers.”
“We’ll see, Mr Black. We’re not so dissimilar, you know.”
“How’s that?”
“We’re both killers. And we both enjoy it. When the trigger’s squeezed, when the knife slides through the throat. Don’t tell me otherwise.”
Black pursed his lips, as if considering the observation.
“Your problem is that you talk too much. Men, real men that is, don’t discuss killing the way you do. They tend to keep quiet about these things. Which means that you’re either a bullshitting coward, or a psychopath. Or maybe both. I suspect both.”
“Mr Black, for a man in your position, you have great spirit. And I can’t help but admire that. But time ticks on. And time is precious. Time is money. My employers pay me to solve problems. And right now, you’re a problem.”
“You’re a problem solver. I’m one step up.”
“How so?”
“I’m a problem eliminator. Where is Tricia?”
“She’s safe. But if you do something stupid, she’ll never be seen again. It will be one of those unsolved disappearances you can watch on Sky Television. A life for a life, I’m afraid. Yours for hers.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Let’s go. I have a Glock in my inside coat pocket. I’d rather not use it here. We’ll walk to your car. You’ll drive. I’ll give you directions. It’s not far.”
Black rose from his chair. They left together, Lincoln following a foot behind him.
“Lovely coffee,” he shouted breezily to the young girl behind the counter.
“Thanks,” she replied, a weary smile on her face. “Have a nice one.”
42
They walked to Black’s car, Lincoln remaining a step behind. The car bleeped as Black turned off the alarm. He got in first. Lincoln got in the passenger’s side. He pulled the Glock from his inside coat pocket, silencer attached. He pressed it into Black’s side. “I don’t want to kill you here, Mr Black. It would be messy, and cause me considerable inconvenience. Also, I have plans. So please drive, and don’t try anything stupid.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to Tricia.”
Black started the car, pulled away. The road was still quiet. He drove, keeping the speed slow, steady. His situation was bleak. Yet he felt detached. Black knew all there was about fear. It affected men in different ways. He had seen its manifestations many times on the battlefield. For Black, his senses sharpened, his awareness expanded. He observed almost as a bystander. Picking up details, focusing on movements. Planning. Searching for weaknesses. Searching for a way out.
This ti
me, he saw nothing. Except his dead body buried in some shallow grave in some desolate corner of Millport.
But one thing he could guarantee. He was no easy kill. Lincoln would have to work hard for his money.
He drove past sections of terraced houses, more shops, then the houses separated out – impressive rambling structures with long front gardens. Then the houses stopped, and suddenly the wild grass and gorse and rocks re-appeared. They had left the town. Back to the wildlands. The only constant was the churning waters of the Clyde estuary at his right hand.
“Who do you work for, Lincoln?” asked Black suddenly.
“It’s not important.”
“But they’re paying you. How much are you getting?”
“A very large sum of money. Thanks to you, I’ll be enjoying the warm weather and fresh lobster for a few more years.”
“I have money. Over a £1,000,000. It’s yours. Tell them you killed me. I’ll take Tricia, and you’ll never see us again. That way you get double pay. For doing nothing.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Very devious, Mr Black. But you forget. I enjoy my job. I’d feel cheated if I didn’t complete the task.”
“Of course. Fulfilment.”
“Exactly.”
“You had your chance.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr Black.”
Black drove on.
Five minutes later, he saw a house to his left, set back from the road, accessed by a single lane barely better than a dirt track.
“This is it,” said Lincoln. “Time for a reunion. Drive in.”
Black did as he was instructed. The car bounced and lurched over ruts and furrows. He reached the side of the house and parked beside a vehicle he knew well. A red Volkswagen Beetle. Tricia’s car.
Lincoln pressed the gun harder into Black’s ribs. “Get out, please.”
