‘I understand you are still grieving his loss…’ said Napier, snapping away from his morbid reverie. ‘How is Melissa these days?’ he ventured carefully.
Lindegaard did not look at him. Instead, his attention wandered over to the window and the magnificent City panorama spread out before him.
‘She is still the same,’ he said eventually. ‘Though now she is trundled around in a specially designed wheelchair. It pains me to look upon her once-beautiful face, now all twisted with the damage to her face muscles. Her eyes – oh, those eyes that used to hold such a glorious mischievous spark – they are but blank orbs now. I’m not sure what she actually sees of me, or whether she recognises me at all. I’m told they are still trying to aid her communication via all manner of computers and gadgets, but I fear it is all in vain.’ He shook his head. ‘It was for the best, what you did, Robert…’
Napier steeled himself. Swallowed down the lump in his throat. ‘I’d rather not talk about it, Mr Lindegaard.’
‘I know how close you two were. How you were planning to get married. No one blames you, you know. A relationship cannot survive under such severely testing circumstances.’ He put his hands behind his back again, straightened his spine. ‘And I admire your dedication to me, to the organisation. Your loyalty was much appreciated, and choosing to leave Melissa and head and steer our crucial business operations in New Mexico was key in your promotion to your position as my right-hand man, Robert. I need trustworthy people like you. People who share my ambitions…’
‘Thank you, Mr Lindegaard. I appreciate your faith in me.’
‘But I find I cannot so easily get over my brother’s death. The entire business is grieving his loss. The likes of Jeremy will never be seen again. Yes, I grieve his passing, Robert; I grieve so much it burns my chest.’ He thumped his breast with a tightly-balled fist.
The murder had thrown the organisation into temporary turmoil, its sense of direction hanging very much in the balance. The two brothers, Dale and Jeremy had been close partners in the business, but it was the elder brother Jeremy, who carried the greater responsibility – and respect, if he had to be honest, thought Napier – gave it its sense of direction. Evidence strongly suggested a competitor was responsible, but the blame fell squarely on CSL, its leaders rounded up, convicted and jailed, the organisation fractured and disbanded. If they thought that was the end of the matter, they would be wrong. To twist the knife in Lindegaard, CSL had seemingly risen from the grave with a new leader, Charlie Sharland, and this time had progressed under his leadership from little more than a nuisance on the periphery of operations to a perceived dangerous force.
Except no one knew who this Charlie Sharland was. He’d become a sort of Scarlet Pimpernel, a ghost, a smoky apparition. A myth, almost. So potent was his name, people hardly dare speak it in front of Lindegaard.
‘I have had enough of playing games,’ Lindegaard continued. ‘You know damn well what I mean, Robert, so let’s not pretend. I want CSL wiped out, eliminated, every last one of them.’ He raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘This time for good.’
Silence fell between them as the words sank in and Napier digested them. ‘Completely?’
Lindegaard nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘Completely. I want the parasites to be stripped from my skin, dashed to the floor and stamped upon till they are crushed out of existence.’
‘I think I understand you, Mr Lindegaard.’
‘I don’t think you do, Mr Napier. I want them dead.’
To hear it said so bluntly caused Napier to suck in a breath. ‘Dead?’
‘Do I hear an echo?’ Lindegaard growled. ‘I said dead. It’s gone far enough. It is time for an eye for an eye.’
‘I understand your frustration, Mr Lindegaard. But you cannot say such things and mean them…’
‘I mean it, Robert. I want them dead. To the last man and woman. Whoever they are, wherever they are.’ He gave a groan that seemed to emanate from the depths of his grief. Sighed heavily. ‘This has gone on long enough. I cannot afford the time and effort of having to deal with them in such a piecemeal way. It is time for direct action.’
He’d heard such bluster before. Many times. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Lindegaard, but we don’t yet know where they operate from or who they are.’
Lindegaard faced the window again, his eyes searching the city as if trying to locate something. Or someone. ‘Yes, we do.’ He turned his head and spoke loudly into a machine on his desk. ‘Send in Villiers,’ he ordered.
Within a minute the lift door opened and a man stepped out. A tall, thin and singularly unremarkable man, save for his white face and shock of red hair. He wore an ill-fitting suit, looked uncomfortable in it. Lindegaard insisted his executives wore suits, but the red-haired man was obviously unused to the practice, the suit a limp off-the-peg affair.
‘Mr Lindegaard,’ the man said with a crisp, confident voice that belied his appearance.
‘This is Dean Villiers,’ said Lindegaard to Napier. ‘A man who knows all about CSL.’
Villiers didn’t offer to shake hands and looked at Napier suspiciously.
‘So who exactly is this Dean Villiers?’ said Napier, as if the man standing before him wasn’t in the room.
‘I used to be involved with CSL, when they first started up.’
He raised a brow. ‘Really? In what capacity?’ Napier asked.
‘That’s no business of yours,’ he returned.
‘And you trust this guy?’ Napier asked of Lindegaard.
‘Let’s say he has provided us with information that will eventually lead us straight to the heart of CSL’s latest operations, straight to its leaders, and straight to Sharland.’
‘Sharland!’ burst Napier. ‘He’s a liar. I know CSL and how they operate. They have a close-knit community of dedicated people, so dedicated only a limited number of people actually know who Sharland is. I’ve been trying to get a handle on them for years. And this guy walks in and lays their heads on a platter? He’s pissing up your back.’
‘I don’t piss, Napier,’ said Villiers.
‘Mr Napier!’ he retorted.
Lindegaard lips broke out into a slender smile. ‘Gentlemen, so glad you seem to be getting on well. Robert, Villiers is as good as his word. His financial settlement has ensured it so. We now have a name that will give us the way in, and through Villiers we have insider knowledge on how CSL works. But we need to do this carefully.’
‘And what are we doing carefully, exactly?’ said Napier, scowling at Villiers. He didn’t trust the man. They’d had many people in the past come forward with names and leads, gagging at the prospect of high rewards, but they all proved hollow and fatuous. CSL was like a clam – you just couldn’t get inside their operation. Not until now, at least, it seemed. ‘We’re doing our best,’ he said.
‘What are we doing?’ Lindegaard echoed. ‘Your best? It’s not good enough, obviously. You let them run rings around us. I can’t allow that to happen. They are laughing at me, Robert. Laughing! You are going to wipe them out, like I said. They mess with me once too often and they pay the price. I have means at my disposal that can put this to bed once and for all.’
‘Meaning what?’ He looked from Lindegaard to Villiers’s smug face.
‘Didn’t I just say what I wanted?’
‘You say you have the means. What means are we talking about here, Mr Lindegaard?’ Napier asked.
Lindegaard’s chin lowered as he studied Napier. ‘I thought you were trustworthy. I thought you had the best interests of the company at heart. My interests.’
‘And so I do. And that means not rushing into anything foolhardy…’
‘You call me a fool?’
‘You know I’d never do that. But you have to tread carefully and not give in to your – your grief.’
‘I want revenge, Robert. They are animals and should be treated like animals. Are you telling me I do not have your full support in this?’
Villiers was grinn
ing. ‘Are you scared of the prospect of coming down hard on them, Mr Napier?’ he said.
Napier felt his insides getting all heated. He eyed Villiers coldly. ‘I say we tread carefully...’ he repeated.
‘Carefully!’ Lindegaard said, waving his hand. ‘Enough of being careful! It is time I took things into my own hands. There is no alternative, Robert. I have spoken, and it is what I wish.’
Napier narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if he should protest further, but Lindegaard’s stern countenance told him bluntly that he shouldn’t even try. ‘You have my full support,’ he said evenly to Lindegaard.
Lindegaard motioned for Villiers to leave the room, which he did at once, offering Napier a meaningful glance backwards as he did so. They waited till the lift door had closed and were alone again.
‘I don’t trust him, and I don’t like him,’ said Lindegaard, ‘which is why I want you to be careful in your dealings with him. He knows far more than is healthy already, and his betrayal of CSL came too cheaply for him to be trusted beyond the scope of this immediate operation.’
He eyed Lindegaard, trying to work out how he should respond. The man’s face was soaked in hatred and he looked deadly serious. There was nothing but to play along with him for now. His temper would blow out soon enough. CSL was really getting to him to spark such an emotional reaction. ‘This won’t be easy,’ he said.
‘I never said it would. But desperate times, Robert…’ He lowered his head thoughtfully. ‘This latest incursion by CSL into the Heights – it has to be yet another of their targets. Any idea who they are after this time?’
‘The truth is we don’t know. It could be any number of possible targets we’re watching. Trying to second-guess them is never easy.’
Lindegaard angled his head. ‘I see you think me hard, Robert, my methods so unlike those of my brother Jeremy. But, you see, we are under attack. We must protect ourselves and our interests. CSL will not go away very easily. My biggest fear is that they are indestructible, remaining to irritate me like cockroaches after a nuclear war.’ Lindegaard shuddered as if a cold draught had crept up his back. ‘Which is why I want them crushed, Robert. Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost. I not only want them crushed, I want to see them crushed, and I want to be the one who crushes them.’ He wandered slowly over to the window again and faced the city. ‘You’re the one man I trust,’ he said. ‘Do a good job and you’ll be well-compensated, Robert.’
‘You have my word, Mr Lindegaard.’
‘I can rely on you? You will not flinch? The future of my entire operation depends upon it.’
‘You have my word, Mr Lindegaard.’
A flicker of a smile wafted over Lindegaard’s lips like a shallow breeze wafts a field of grass into movement, then drops just as quickly. ‘You are a good man, Robert. I know you will not fail me in avenging Jeremy’s death. And what happened to poor Melissa.’
‘I will not fail you. It’s my job, Mr Lindegaard. It’s all in a day’s work.’
Lindegaard smiled. ‘Talking of Melissa, will you visit her while you are over here in London?’
Even the sound of her name caused him to catch a breath. ‘I don’t think that’s wise, Mr Lindegaard.’
‘No, perhaps not. One must keep one’s attention on the job in hand, eh?’
‘That’s my feeling, too, Mr Lindegaard,’ he admitted.
Lindegaard didn’t see the moistness in Napier’s eyes.
6
The Private Kind
He was jolted awake by someone making a loud exclamation suffused with mounting terror.
Samuel Wade’s hand immediately darted to his coat pocket and the gun, his body flushed with adrenalin, instantly alert. Years of training had made it so. His being always as tight as a coiled spring under tension whether at home or abroad, on leave or at the front.
‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’
Wade blinked away sleep as the woman’s shrill voice stirred yet more urgent exclamations.
‘What the hell…?’ said the man headed for Northampton.
It didn’t take long for Wade to see what was causing the commotion. For a few seconds even he was taken aback, bludgeoned speechless by the unbelievable sight.
The bus was at a standstill. Strong sunlight pierced the coach, lighting it up as people were roused from their individual torpors and began to rise from their seats, bubbles of concerned murmuring filling the air. The sunlight was disconcerting enough – sunlight stronger than anything the months of June and July could muster – but this was the middle of February and only mere hours ago they had been in the grip of a winter rainstorm. But what was more alarming was what was attracting the rest of the passengers. The view through the windows.
Wade blinked, thinking this must be some kind of dream, that he wasn’t yet fully awake. Because what was out there couldn’t be real. It simply couldn’t be real.
The coach was standing in what appeared to be a vast open scrubland – a veritable desert – the cracked earth, reddish-orange in colour, was littered with dry, low-lying bushes and rocks that stretched as far as the eye could see, the boundary between ground and sky melted and fused together by the hazy, shimmering distance. Strips of white cloud sat in a pristine blue sky, and judging from the lack of shadow the sun was high overhead.
Wade was on his feet and pushing down the aisle through the stunned occupants towards the driver in an instant. But the driver’s cab was empty.
It didn’t make sense, any of this. He turned to see other passengers wiping their incredulous eyes, mirroring his own thoughts that somehow this was still the product of a dream gone bad.
‘Where are we?’ said the man who’d arrived late for the bus. ‘Where the bloody hell are we?’
The young man, headphones being slowly stripped from his ears stared dumbly out of the window, blinking. ‘This ain’t the motorway. What’s he think he’s doing? The man took a wrong turn somewhere.’
‘A wrong turn?’ It was the suited businessman entering the discussion. ‘You think this is a wrong turn, you moron? Take a look outside – it’s a fucking desert!’
‘But we don’t have deserts…’ the young man said, his mouth hanging open.
‘Exactly!’ said the businessman, barging his way to the front of the bus towards Wade. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Wade brusquely. Then he noticed the driver’s cab was empty. ‘So where is he? Outside? I’ve got to get to Edinburgh.’ He scowled at his watch and blinked. ‘It’s stopped. Hey, anyone got the right time here?’
Wade opened the cab door and sat in the driver’s seat. He searched the control panel.
‘What are you doing?’ said the businessman. ‘Do you know where the damn driver is?’
Wade pushed a button, and with the rushing sound of compressed air the double doors of the coach opened.
The heat hit them at once as the searing sunlight flooded in and lay like a smouldering carpet on the coach’s floor near the cab. Wade ignored the businessman, whose young, blonde-haired partner came to his side and took his arm, drawing him closer to him. He shrugged her off and followed Wade, who was already stepping off the coach, his shoes crunching on the dusty gravel road.
‘Hey, my watch has stopped, too!’ said the young man with the headphones.
Wade took a few steps away from the coach and narrowed his eyes, shielding them against the glare of the sun reflecting off the baking ground.
This was still a nightmare. He was back in the Middle East. And his heart raced wildly, like a chained dog out of control and trying to tear itself free of its shackles.
‘Do you know what’s going on?’ the businessman said coming to Wade’s side.
Wade shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well someone sure knows something, because someone’s screwed up real bad and they’re going to pay big time for it.’ He stopped talking and studied the strange, unfamiliar landscape. ‘So where exactly are we?’
Wade shook his head s
lowly. ‘One thing’s for sure, we’re not in Kansas anymore…’
‘Kansas? Are you crazy?’
They heard other people getting off the coach, their voices hushed, awed by the sight.
The sun beat down on them like a white-hot hammer. Wade bent down to a red rock and touched it. Picked it up and squeezed it in the palm of his hand, feeling it dig into his flesh. It felt so real. Warm and real. He tossed it away. It clattered against other rocks and pebbles and came to rest near a clump of small round scrubby bushes, their bleached, leafless, tightly rolled balls of stems looking as if they would be brittle to the touch. Acres of similar plants stretched out into the far distance, the appearance one of a grey, frozen sea.
The older man and his wife joined the two men.
‘What’s going on,’ said the man. ‘This is a desert. How’d we end up in a bloody desert?’
‘But where are we?’ the woman asked. ‘You don’t get on a bus going to Northampton and end up in a desert miles from anywhere. I’ve got to be dreaming…’
‘Then we share the same dream, lady,’ said the businessman, reaching down and wiping dust off his immaculately polished black shoes. He saw his partner climbing down the steps of the coach. ‘Get back inside, Cheryl, I’ve got this covered.’ The woman turned meekly around and stepped back onto the coach.
‘So you’ve got it covered, have you?’ said the older man.
‘Sure. There has to be a rational explanation for all this.’ He turned to see Wade walking quietly to the front of the coach and followed him.
This didn’t make sense, thought Wade. The road they were on was little more than a dirt-track only just wide enough to accommodate the bus. It cut across the desert as straight as an arrow towards what looked like a range of purple-coloured mountains many miles away, a scarf of cloud wrapped around the tallest peaks. Turning to face the rear of the bus Wade saw that the road took an equally straight line, fading into the bubbling haze.
Armageddon Heights (a thriller) Page 5
