by Andy Maslen
“Another hour or two – plus we should really give the paint some drying time – we don’t want it coming off in transit.”
“I see. Perhaps I should make a call to my shippers. We can have them come tomorrow – would that make life easier?”
“Well it would – but is that going to set our schedule back?”
“Let me worry about the schedule. Which is fine, by the way. We have plenty of time in hand.”
“In that case, yes, if you can give us until the morning, I can guarantee everything will be sorted out and ready to go no later than six.”
“Good. Well, don’t let me keep you. I have some calls to make.”
Gabriel excused himself and headed for his room, taking the stairs two at a time. He was keeping handwritten notes on a pad of notepaper from the hotel. He updated his record, then it was time to rejoin Shaun in the workshop. He marched through the kitchen, hoping Maitland wouldn’t have any more requests for him or catch his eye. He glanced down – the notebook was in Maitland’s left hand while he dialled with his right. Names and numbers, too small to make out at this distance – an address book or contacts book. Something to think about later.
Back inside the neon-lit workshop, the smell of ozone and burning metal was stronger than ever. Shaun was wiping his hands on a rag soaked in white spirit, the volatile alcohol adding its own top notes to the aroma of cooling steel and paint.
“Well?” Shaun said. “What do you think?”
Gabriel took a long look at each of the brackets. He walked round the harvester twice, hands behind his back, hemming and hawing like a four-star general inspecting a piece of kit, before speaking in a deep, gruff voice:
“Hmm. Fine piece of work, soldier. Your country will be proud of you. Where are you from, son?”
“Oh, gee, Sir, ahm from Arkansas. Jest a cotton-pickin pig farmer, but I saw y’all were recruitin’ an’ signed up quicker’n a wet hen heading fer the coop.”
“Yes, well, very good. Keep up the good work. Dismissed.”
“Thank you kindly, General, Sir. Kin ah go and git me some collard greens and pork rinds now?”
This last sally was too much for Gabriel, who cracked first, snorting with laughter at Shaun’s all-too-believable redneck accent.
“OK, you win. Again. What’s next? You want to get those M2s buckled down onto this glorified spud-picker or what?”
“Sure. I been thinkin’. I reckon you offer up the parts and I’ll ease ’em into position and get the first bolt home. Fix the other bolts in place, then go round at the end and tighten ’em all up with the wrenches over there. I already picked out the ones we need, nice quarter-inch ratchet drives and half-inch sockets.”
Together, they slipped into an efficient process, fitting barrels, receivers, tripods and trigger mechanisms into the brackets welded to the harvester.
“This is nice work, Shaun,” Gabriel said. “Seriously. Everything’s slotting home like they designed this thing to hold a .50 cal.”
“Thanks, man. I tell you, it’s what kept me out of trouble when I was growing up. My friends were all getting shitfaced round the back of the minimart, drinkin’ hooch they got their older brothers to buy for ’em. Me? I was helping my Dad weld up old Pontiacs and Buicks. I learned to fabricate parts for cars before I learned to drive ’em.”
“He’s a good teacher.”
“Was. He died last year.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What was it?”
“A .38 full metal jacket. He ate his revolver one Saturday night.”
“Jesus? How come?”
“PTSD, I think. They’d never have given him a diagnosis like they do now. But he was in ’Nam, funnily enough around the same time as that sonofabitch Meeks. He saw stuff, did stuff. Like we all do, I guess. But he wasn’t right, my Mom said, not after he came back. Ran the bodyshop. But every now and again he went on a bender that’d last for two, maybe three days. This last one, I guess he couldn’t take it any more. She found him the next morning in the shop. He’d put a sack over his head so he wouldn’t mess up the cars. He was always a proud man.”
Gabriel could hear Shaun’s voice thickening.
“Come on. You can tell me some more stories about your old man when we’re sitting somewhere with a couple of cold ones. Right now we have work to do.”
“Sure, sure. You’re right. And remember, you’re buying. I reckon we can get plenty of beer for a hundred bucks.”
They went round the brackets, now bearing the weight of the gun parts, and tightened the nuts until nothing moved, rattled or vibrated, no matter how hard they shook the frame of the harvester.
“OK,” said Shaun. “Now I just need to spray it and we’re good.”
“How many coats do you think it needs?”
“For a decent job you want a couple, minimum. But I guess we’re in a hurry, plus it’s just a bit of farm equipment, not someone’s pride and joy. I’m going to spray it on nice and thick and use that hot air gun over there to give it a basic set to stop runs. The Old Man would whup my ass if he saw me doing it but hey, times change, don’t they?”
“Oh, yes. They really do.”
“So, stand over there and switch on the compressor for me would you? I got the gun loaded already.”
When Shaun had finished, the harvester still looked much like it had before. A little bulkier in places, a few more lumpy components here and there, but they’d placed them where they butted up against genuine parts and the overall effect was of another dull but effective piece of agricultural equipment such as you’d find in millions of farms across the world.
It was seven in the evening by the time Shaun and Gabriel reconvened in the farmhouse kitchen. They were sitting at the table with Maitland at its head. He spoke first.
“Excellent work. This was always going to be the most delicate part of my plan, but I have to say, you two have done a thoroughly good job. I doubt anyone but a farmer could see what we’ve done and last time I checked they aren’t employing any in UK commercial air terminals.”
He stopped, looking at both men in turn. Was it a joke? Was he expecting them to laugh. Gabriel neither knew nor cared. He was thinking about getting a drink, listening to some music and spending a few hours away from Maitland and his wearying drive.
“Can I ask you a question, Sir Toby?” Shaun asked.
“Of course, Shaun. You’re an integral part of my team in the US. Ask away.”
“You have the .50 cals. But Venter didn’t have any spare ammunition for them. You, I mean, we, ran through his stock yesterday. How are you going to get some more?”
“That is a very good question. Being ex-Delta, you’ll be aware that your security agencies – I forget all their initials – are somewhat diligent in monitoring unusual purchases or movements of ammunition outside of military circles. What I need would trigger enough red flashing lights to light a Christmas tree. So that puts the dear old US Army out of the picture as a supplier.”
“Russian, then?”
“Again, not an unintelligent question. But the calibre is wrong. As I’m sure you once knew, the Russian bear likes 12.7 mm rounds and I’m afraid they’re not compatible.”
“Well, what then? You’re not planning on manufacturing your own, are you?”
Maitland allowed himself a short bark of laughter.
“Ha! Very droll. No, no, I have something much better in mind. My daughter, Lizzie,” he looked at Gabriel, “is a young lady of many and varied talents. As we speak she is probably having lunch with a man called Trevor Roberts. He is a Warrant Officer First Class in the Royal Logistics Corp. Mr Roberts is under the illusion that Lizzie has fallen for him. Impressed by his uniform, perhaps, or his physique. Certainly not his mind.”
“Where is he stationed?” Gabriel said, though he had a shrewd idea already.
“That’s the beauty of it all. He’s stationed at MOD Kineton.”
“Which means, what? I’m sorry, British army bases ain’t my strong suit,
” Shaun said.
“Gabriel, would you care to enlighten Shaun about where our Mr Roberts is posted?”
“MOD – that’s Ministry of Defence – Kineton is the UK’s supply base for the entire armed forces. Every rifle cartridge, anti-tank round, shell and missile is stored there. Last time I had the tour, there was ammunition worth close to £15 billion on that site.”
“Indeed. And Warrant Officer Roberts is no doubt just discovering the pickle he’s got himself into. You see, he has a little gambling problem. It wasn’t too serious before we identified him, but Lizzie can be very persuasive. They’ve been living the high life on my money: casinos, cars, designer clothes, jewellery, trips to Monaco, Royal Ascot. He’s in deep – I think Lizzie told me his debts have reached six figures. And now she’s turning the screw.” He adopted a whiny falsetto that was as disturbing as it was unconvincing, “‘Oh, Trevor, I do love you but I can’t bail you out this time. Daddy’s cut off my allowance because of our love. If you could just do me a teensy favour, I’m sure I could get Daddy to reconsider … ’ She will spin him a story about my links to a Russian oligarch – not entirely untrue, as it happens – who is planning some sort of coup in one of those faraway Russian republics nobody’s ever heard of. I have come up short on a provisioning contract and need, guess what?”
Shaun’s mouth opened a little and he raised his head. Light dawning.
“.50 cal ammunition.”
“Give him a medal, Gabriel. Yes, a few thousand rounds of those little monsters. Armour-piercing incendiary tracer: my Russian friend needs them. In quantity. And unless Mr Roberts delivers, his Turkish ‘bankers’ with whom, incidentally, I also have a business relationship, will proceed to make him very uncomfortable indeed. So I think it’s safe to say, we will have our ammunition.”
“Won’t he get caught?” Gabriel said.
“Oh, very probably. But by the time he does, I shall be in charge. And at that point military, and indeed civilian, justice will be mine to dispense. I may reward him with a pension, I may send him somewhere dangerous. Let’s see how things play out, shall we? Now, unless there was anything else?”
“No, we’re good. We’re heading out. Shall we meet down here at five-thirty tomorrow morning?”
“I suppose we must,” Maitland said, sighing. “But I promise you this, Gabriel. When we’re back in England I intend to sleep the sleep of the just. These dawn starts will be the death of me.”
Gabriel and Shaun grabbed jackets and wallets and left Maitland in the kitchen, already extracting the notebook and sliding his thumb across his phone’s screen. They headed for their rooms, after agreeing to leave in an hour.
Chapter 29
It took them forty-five minutes at a fast walk to reach a bar they’d clocked on the drive to the Home Depot. It was like a million others all over the US. A single-storey building, windows painted with welcome messages and happy hour prices in gold paint. Inside it was lit with red lamps on the tables, hanging shades over the four pool tables at the back and downlighters over the dark wooden bar, scarred with keys, knives, tools and whatever else its patrons had dumped on it over the years.
“What are you boys having?” the bartender asked, smiling at each of them in turn. Gabriel guessed she was early thirties, but long hours working this and maybe another job made her look older. She was wearing tight jeans, black and white chequered baseball boots and a tight white T-shirt with a slogan on the front across her chest: “Drink at Ray’s or get the f*ck out!”
“I know what’d I’d like to have,” Shaun said under his breath. “I guess we’ll have a couple of beers, Miss.”
She turned and bent to grab a couple of frosted mugs from the glass-fronted fridge behind the bar. The two men, and a handful of others ranged along the bar, watched as her jeans tightened over her bottom. Placing the beers on the bar, she touched Gabriel on the back of his hand, “You want to start a tab?”
“I think that is exactly what we’d like to do.”
“OK, then. I just need a credit card and we’re good to go.”
“We’re cash customers, I’m afraid. Look, you don’t want to keep ringing up for two beers at a time all night. We’ll just sit here like good boys and settle up with you at the end. Scout’s honour!”
Gabriel held up three fingers in a goofy approximation of the Scout salute. Whether it was this or his English accent that charmed her he couldn’t be sure, but, “OK, but don’t you move from those stools or I’m gonna have to call the cops,” is what she said.
Then she was away down the other end of the bar to serve some trucker types in baseball caps with team logos and plaid shirts.
“So listen,” Shaun said. “You’re, like, totally on board with Maitland? I mean what he’s got planned in England?”
Gabriel paused for a second. Considering. Could be a trap set by Maitland to test his loyalty. Or maybe Shaun was fishing for some other reason.
“Of course I am. Why do you ask? Aren’t you? You’ve been driving him all over since he got here.”
“Oh, you know, I’m just a country boy at heart. Till I joined up I’d never been outside Arkansas. We used to call folks north of the Mason-Dixon line foreigners. What y’all get up to in Europe ain’t going to bother me none. I’m doing this strictly for the money.”
“Listen, can I ask you something in return?”
“Sure buddy. Ask whatever you want.”
“What would you think if I told you, maybe I wasn’t quite so onboard with Maitland as it looks?”
“I would say us vets get a shitty enough deal as it is from the Government, so a man’s got to find his corn where he can. If you’re just doing this for a payday, I ain’t got a quarrel with that.”
“I mean, I am onboard with it, but, you know, he’s got some far out ideas. Politically, I mean.”
“You want some advice?” Shaun asked. “Take the money, take the job, take the pussy, take it all. But if he gets in your face, then that’s the time to sound the retreat and skedaddle. He’s got a funny turn of mind, from time to time, you notice that? One minute he’s Lord Mucky Muck and the next it’s all, ‘kill, shoot, destroy’. Man, I tell you, I seriously believe he may be a few rounds short of a full mag, know what I’m saying?”
“I do, I really do. But I guess I’ll stick around for the ride. Hey, you want another beer?”
“Line ’em up.”
Gabriel caught the bartender’s eye and signalled with upraised fingers for two more beers.
“So,” she said, looking at the scar on his face and running her finger down the thin silver line of skin. “Where does a handsome boy like you pick up a nasty old thing like that?”
“Oh. Er, I was mugged. In England.” No, in actuality I was slashed across the face by a Serbian militiaman with the point of a very sharp bayonet. A centimetre closer and he’d have ripped my face off.
“Mugged, huh? And you looking so fit an’ all. I find that kind of hard to believe.”
“Don’t believe a word, Miss,” Shaun said. “He’s a filing clerk. That there is the worst paper cut in British history.”
She turned her attention to Shaun.
“How about you, Butch? You have any interesting little scars a girl could take a look at?”
Shaun half-turned away from her and pulled up the left side of his T-shirt, revealing a puckered pink ribbon of scar tissue extending up from his hip bone for a couple of inches.
“Ooh, baby, that looks like it must’ve hurt plenty. Bigger pieces of paper where you work, huh?”
“No, ma’am. That there is a bullet wound. Took one in Iraq. I was Delta Force – deep cover.”
“Delta Force? That’s like, what? The Avengers or something?”
“The Avengers? Heck, no! Delta’s the elite. We were the elite, I mean. US Army through and through. Just, you know, better.”
“Well, I stand corrected. Listen I got to get back to serving drinks or the boss is going to can my ass. But you want to grab a dri
nk later? I get off at one. And my place is just round the corner.”
“Me? Sure! Absolutely. Gabriel, I …”
“Go ahead,” Gabriel said with a smile. “I’m not your boss.”
“Great,” Shaun said. He turned back to the bartender. “I ain’t moving from this spot.”
They carried on drinking, swapping stories back and forth for a couple more hours. Then Gabriel eased himself off the stool.
“I’m tired. I’m going to head back to base. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be late, we’ve got an early start, remember?” He winked.
“OK, buddy. Take care now.”
Gabriel turned back at the door to see Shaun watching the bartender as she worked her station, serving beers, mixing drinks and bantering with the patrons, farmers, truckers and a couple of executive types, from out of town Gabriel assumed. He figured Shaun would be staying the night with her, which meant he’d have a clear field of operations for what he had planned next.
Gabriel walked parallel to the road all the way back to the farmhouse, keeping well away from the hard shoulder and the lights of the oncoming traffic. He knew the American police took a dim view of anyone walking anywhere, but he imagined that a lone Englishman walking along the I-75 at close to midnight would earn him more than just a polite rebuke.
It was almost one in the morning when he arrived back at the house. He walked a circuit of the building, looking up at all the second floor windows. No lights to be seen anywhere, not even the dim glow of hallway lighting seen through a half-open door. He wanted to know what – or who – was in Maitland’s notebook and this was probably his last chance to find out.
He opened the kitchen door with a key and slipped inside, closing the door noiselessly and thanking Venter for maintaining the hinges. Took his boots off and headed for the stairs. They were carpeted and none of the treads emitted so much as a squeak as he sprang up the staircase in a zigzagging motion, keeping to the edges of the stairs where the wood wouldn’t flex. The carpet continued into and along the upstairs hall, making his progress easy as well as silent. The first two doors were his and Shaun’s. Then there was a gap where their bedrooms extended along the other side of the wall. Another two bedrooms and a bathroom at the far end.
