by Karl Hill
They had arrived.
63
Sands waited for them at the main entrance, at the top of the three marble stairs. Falconer had chosen not to greet Mr Lincoln at the present time. Later, he’d said. Let him settle in first. Sands was excited. He’d given instructions to this man over the years, paying him fortunes to arrange executions. A real-life professional assassin. Now they were to meet, face to face. But it was bittersweet. It was Lincoln who had wanted to meet. If Lincoln was worried, then they should all be worried.
He waited, as the two Range Rovers pulled up. They parked directly opposite the front doors. Sands watched as the driver of the first car got out, and opened one of the rear doors. The man he knew as Lincoln emerged. He stood for a second, taking in the surroundings. Two other men got out of the car, waiting. The driver beckoned Lincoln up the stairs, towards Sands. Lincoln approached. He was a big man. Six-two. Maybe taller. He wore a simple dark jumper, close fitting, accentuating the hard muscle beneath. Blue jeans, running shoes. Thick dark hair cropped short, harsh cheekbones, flat cheeks. Dark clever eyes. He moved with an easy, almost languid gait.
He was accompanied by the driver, two others following.
“Mr Lincoln, I’m Norman Sands. We’ve had significant dealings. It’s good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Can I tempt you to a refreshment?” Sands nodded to a man standing to one side, holding a silver tray with a single fluted glass of champagne. “It’s Moet. Mr Falconer’s particular favourite.”
“Maybe later. Mr Falconer?”
“He’s the boss.” Sands gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m merely the message bearer.”
“I understand.”
“You know, I’ve often wondered where you’re from. We’ve never spoken. I mean, real speech. I detect an accent. Irish?”
“Scottish. People sometimes get confused.”
“Of course. I don’t know much about Scotland. It’s cold, I hear. All year round. And the Scottish mountains of course.”
“Of course. You have your desert. We have our mountains. Both lethal, for the unprepared.”
“Quite so, Mr Lincoln. Please, let me show you to your room. You’ll maybe want to relax a little. It’s 3pm now. Mr Falconer would like you to join him for dinner at six. If that’s all right?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Please, follow me.”
Sands led the way. Rarely did they have guests. In fact, in all his time here, it had never happened. Now suddenly, he had to cater for Lincoln and also the Japanese, who were expected later that evening. Plus, Falconer had hinted there might be another.
At the very least, it would be an interesting evening.
64
With Sands leading, and another behind him, Black was escorted through a wide cathedral-style hall, the sun bright and streaming through an arched glass ceiling. Doors on either side. Walls white and smooth, adorned with dazzling oil paintings. The floor a subtle ivory marble. Furniture gleamed. Exquisite, delicate.
“That’s made from real tortoise shell,” explained Sands, pointing to an intricate cabinet – “French. Mr Falconer loves his French furniture.”
They made their way through and into a curving corridor, like a tunnel of glass. The view was of desert. More doors, until reaching a short flight of stairs, leading to a single solid wooden door with ornate hinges.
“You ought to supply a map,” remarked Black.
“One gets used to it,” replied Sands. “This is your room. Or should I say rooms.” He opened the door – a large bedroom, bright, airy, spacious, one side entirely glass. “The next room’s a comfortable living room with a television, plus you have en suite and your own sauna. Enjoy your stay, Mr Lincoln. I’ll be here at 6pm.” Sands left. The door clicked behind him. Black noted the man who had accompanied them remained outside. Mr Falconer liked his security.
Black turned to the glass wall, considering the view, the expanse of desert sand. He was in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by his enemies. Unarmed. Without any real plan.
He would probably die in this God-forsaken place. He’d make damn sure he didn’t die alone.
There was a soft knock at his bedroom door at 4pm. Black answered. It was one of the men he’d travelled with in the Range Rover. He was carrying what appeared to be a suit and shirt, wrapped in polythene, draped over his forearm, and a pair of shoes.
“Sorry for intruding,” he said. “Mr Falconer likes his guests to be well dressed for dinner. He thinks you might appreciate a change of clothes. No disrespect intended.”
“None taken. I hope they fit.”
“Mr Falconer is rarely wrong about such things.”
“I’m sure.”
“Mr Sands will be here at 6pm to escort you to the dining room.”
“Thank you.”
Black took the garments. He noticed the guard was still sitting at the opposite wall outside. Black nodded. The guard merely looked back, at him and through him. Black closed the door. He’d showered, watched some mindless crap on television. It hadn’t escaped him he was a prisoner. Probably wise, from Falconer’s point of view. If his game really was child trafficking, the less people snooped around, the better.
The curtains were electric, able to be drawn by the push of a button. Black preferred them open, less claustrophobic. He doubted anyone was looking in through the massive window forming one side of his bedroom. The sun was setting, giving the room a subtle orange cast. The landscape was flat desert, punctuated with dots of cactus and prickly scrub. He changed, regarding himself in a full-length mirror. Black had been given a dinner suit, white evening shirt, black bow tie, black shoes. A perfect fit. The last time he’d worn an outfit like this, he had killed several men.
He sat on a heavy leather chair in the living room section of his suite. There was nothing to do but wait. He picked up a magazine, idly flicking through some pages. The National Geographic. He tossed it to one side.
Black knew all about fear. He’d experienced it in its many manifestations. It wasn’t that he was impervious to it. He merely had a knack of dealing with it differently from the norm. Or so he imagined. He had seen men collapse and cry in the heat of battle. He wasn’t critical of such a reaction. He knew he was different. Perhaps it was in him. Perhaps he had been trained to think a certain way. But he possessed a state of mind that allowed him to step outside himself, and watch as a dispassionate observer. That way he could act, and react objectively, without judgement being clouded.
He did so now. He watched himself, and laughed grimly. How the fuck do you get out of this one, Captain Black?
He had no answer. Actually, he did. There was probably no way out. He would die, in this beautiful house, under a desert sky.
But death would be welcome. Black looked at himself again in the mirror, and acknowledged a sad and bitter fact.
He had nothing to live for.
His reverie was interrupted. Another soft, respectful knock. It was 6pm.
Time for dinner with Mr Falconer.
65
Black was taken to another section of the ranch, to the dining room. The décor changed as he passed through corridors, rooms, as did the style of furniture. The man called Norman Sands escorted him, referring to him as Mr Lincoln, which Black found somewhat surreal, if not grimly humorous. He was followed by two men, who said nothing.
The dining room had a distinctly Japanese feel. In one corner stood a human-sized samurai statue, dressed in full regalia. Black sat at one end of a long marble dining table. There were four places set. Sands sat on one side, to his right. The two men each moved discreetly to the corners of the room behind Black.
“Mr Falconer will be with us any second. There’s to be another guest, though I haven’t been told who it is. He likes his secrets.”
“So it seems.”
Black’s nerves tingled. He was about to confront his enemy. There was cutlery on the table. Suddenly he had access to a knife. It would
do little good. He’d be shot in a millisecond.
French doors to Black’s left shoulder suddenly opened. A man entered, followed by two others, who stationed themselves in the two opposite corners of the room. The man sat at the other end of the table. He was dressed formally, like Black. Dinner suit, bow tie.
“Good evening, Mr Lincoln,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr Falconer.”
Black appraised him. A man maybe mid-sixties. Tanned, very fit looking. Full head of glossy, dark hair. Lean. No excess fat. High, almost aquiline cheeks, intense blue eyes.
“I hope your room was to your satisfaction?” Falconer spoke quietly, a metallic undertone. A man keeping his emotions under check.
“No complaints. And a guard too? Prudent to be security conscious.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I hope you don’t mind the evening suit. I always believe you should be dressed for dinner. It creates an air of elegance, where otherwise such an air would not exist.”
“I agree.”
“Can I offer you a drink?”
“I’m partial to a whisky. Glenfiddich?”
“Perfect choice. In fact, I’ll have one myself. And one for Mr Sands. How do you take it, Mr Lincoln?”
“Neat.”
“Excellent.” He glanced at one of the waiting men, who seemed to derive exact information from the gesture, and left the room.
“I hope you like Japanese cuisine. I have a contingent from Japan arriving shortly, and hired a cook for the evening. Mr Sands is still in shock at the cost. Sometimes, the cost is unimportant, if the occasion merits such extravagance. Don’t you think so, Mr Lincoln?”
“I suppose it depends on the occasion.”
Falconer nodded, pursing his lips, as if considering Black’s response.
“I think we can say this occasion is special.”
“I would like to hear what Adam Black knows about us,” interrupted Sands. “You said he talked before you killed him. What did he say?”
“Please,” said Falconer. “Let’s at least wait until after we’ve eaten. Let’s be civilised. Our guest has travelled far.”
Sands shrugged. “I just thought…”
“Stop thinking for one minute, Sands.”
The man entered the room, carrying a tray, upon which were three short glasses. He placed one at each setting.
Falconer raised his glass. “A toast. To what, Mr Lincoln? New friendships?”
Black lifted his glass, nodded. “To new friendships.”
They drank. Falconer beckoned one of the waiting men over, who leaned in, close to his ear. Falconer whispered something. The man left.
“Talking about new friendships,” said Falconer, “a fourth will be here very shortly. Not so much a new friend. More a very old and dear friend. I think you’ll like him, Mr Lincoln. You have no objection?”
“Of course not.”
The hair on the back of Black’s neck prickled. A sixth sense warned him – trouble! He had no idea where this was going. All he could do was keep cool, see it through, wait for an opportunity. If one should arise.
“How do you like my little ‘abode’?”
“Impressive. You can’t be more private than in the middle of a desert.”
“Privacy is important. Especially in our line of work. Here, there’s little prospect of people interfering. And if anyone feels brave enough to try, then we call in a professional like yourself. To clean up, so to speak.”
The man entered the room again, carrying a black box, tied with a white silk ribbon, which he placed on the table before Black.
“For you, Mr Lincoln. A gift, for all the many services you have performed for us over the years.”
Black looked at Sands, then to Falconer.
“Please – open it.”
Black took a deep breath. Carefully, he untied the ribbon, opened the lid.
A knot of cold dread formed in his chest.
Placed upon soft, cream silk linen, was something he recognised.
A Venetian face mask.
66
The men waiting behind Black stepped forward, arms raised, pointing pistols at him.
Sands screeched his chair back, stood, confused. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Calm it down,” said Falconer. “Sit. No need to panic.”
Sands looked at Falconer, to Black, back to Falconer, like a bird caught between two cats. He sat, tentatively. “I don’t understand.”
The doors opened. A man entered, who sat at the table, at the fourth setting.
Black knew him instantly. The man he had followed to Westcoates Hall. The man he thought had died in the fire. The wife beater. But so much worse.
Lord Reith.
“We meet again,” said Reith. He turned to Falconer and Sands. “Gentlemen, please let me introduce Adam Black.”
Sands stared, aghast, blood drained from his face. “But where’s Lincoln?”
“Good question,” said Falconer. “Where is Mr Lincoln?”
Black sat back in his chair, finished off the whisky. By now the other two men had stepped forward from the far corners of the room. Four guns trained on his head. There wasn’t really ever a plan. He just hoped he might get lucky. Looked like lady luck had run out.
“Lincoln has departed this world,” he replied. “He’s probably in hell, deliberating over his many adventures. No doubt you’ll meet him soon.” He fixed his gaze on Reith. “I thought you were dead. Shame. How’s your hand?”
“The fire killed just about everybody. The glass in the conservatory warped and broke. I got out. The first thing I did was phone Boyd, to tell him you were alive. Then he emailed you, to agree to seeing you. To catch you in our little web. And now you’re here, with us. Not for long, I’m afraid. How did you manage to find out about our ‘gathering’?”
Black gave a crooked smile. “Gathering? Is that how you describe it? You got careless.”
“Expand, please.”
“It’s not rocket science. We met at your chambers at the High Court. I stabbed you through the hand. I’m sure you recall. I noticed you were wearing a ring. Then I watched a video of a bunch of depraved fuckers raping a little girl. And guess what I saw. Same ring. So, I made a mad guess that you don’t only abuse your wife, but also kids. Turned out not so mad after all. I followed you. You led me to your lair. The rest is history.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Falconer. “You are one clever boy! But maybe not so clever. You’re here now, about to reach a sorry conclusion. What did you hope to achieve?”
Black shrugged. “To kill you. To kill you all. Why wouldn’t I? They kill vermin, don’t they? I felt it was a public service, to eradicate filth.”
“And now you’re going to lose everything,” intoned Reith.
“Wrong. I have nothing to lose. That’s why I make such a dangerous enemy. I won’t stop.” He swivelled his gaze to Falconer. “Until every one of you is fucking dead in the ground. Like your cosy little paedophile ring in Scotland. Burnt and dead.”
“Good luck with that,” replied Falconer. “I think maybe you’ve overstretched yourself this time. Know your limitations, Black. Too late for you.”
“What now?”
“Now you die,” said Falconer. “Not here. We have guests shortly. Blood on the carpet would be a little uncivilised.”
“And not quickly,” added Reith. He gave a ghoulish grin. “I’m going to make you suffer.”
“Looking forward to it,” said Black. “But do it right. Because make no mistake, any chance I get, I will fucking destroy you.”
“What an amazing man,” said Falconer. “Truly. You have no conception of the position you’re in.” He flicked a glance at one of the waiting men. Black sensed a looming presence. A thunderous blow to the back of the head. His world flipped out of focus, then darkness descended.
67
The world was a blur. Shapes, images, nothing made sense. The room spun, the ground beneath him undulated. He was floating on
the swells of a great ocean, body succumbing to a sweeping drift. Sounds penetrated his head, voices, or echoes of voices, muffled, stifled. Gradually, he gained focus, the sounds became distinct, the world stopped moving. Two men were talking. Sitting on chairs, both facing him.
He was in a room. An entire wall was devoted to monitors, each showing in sharp clarity the interior of a kid’s bedroom. He was sitting. He tried to move. Both wrists were handcuffed to the arms of a chair; his ankles taped to its metal legs. His head ached. Worse than ached. A drum was banging between his ears, and every beat brought a fresh wave of pain. His movement brought the conversation round to him. He recognised one of the men. The lean, pale face of Reith – High Court judge. Dressed in similar style to Black – dinner suit, bow tie, white shirt. The other he did not know. Wearing what looked like hospital overalls, the type a surgeon might wear. Thin, verging on skeletal, wispy blond hair, darting eyes, chin disappearing into his neck. A ferret, thought Black. The comparison made him smile. Which amazed even himself, given his situation.
“What do you find so amusing?” asked the man.
“I was just thinking,” said Black, licking his lips, trying to find his voice, “how much you resemble a ferret. You are one ugly fucker.”
Reith laughed. “Ignore him, Stanley. Don’t let him get to you.”
The man called Stanley stood. He placed a set of keys on a hook on the wall above a desk, picked off another set. “I have to go and check up on things. Enjoy.”
“I shall.”
Reith turned his full attention to Black, sitting back in his chair, scrutinising him, as if he were assessing a painting, or a sculpture.
