by Chris Ryan
‘What about you?’ Bald said.
‘I hooked up with some contacts in Algiers. They found me some work in Libya. They said the pay would make me piss myself. Which I nearly fucking did. Then the ragheads start rebelling, and I’m out of a job. I’m telling you, son, I can’t fucking take a dump without a revolution kicking off. Luckily I linked up with Joe here, and now I’m back in the money. And let me tell you, Johnny, I’m rolling in more cash than ever before.’
‘How long have you been in Tripoli?’
‘A year, give or take.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Son, that’s none of your fucking business.’
‘Why did Cave hire you as well as Joe?’
‘I know the lie of the land. They wanted a Mark One eyeball. That’s me.’
But in the periphery of his vision Gardner was twitching and sweating like a Yardie at a Job Centre. Something didn’t feel right to Bald. He took another deep gulp of whisky. It flooded his system, and the migraine subsided. Bald had made a discovery in Mexico City. The drugs had only a limited effect on his migraines. But booze silenced them. As long as he kept his bloodstream juiced with alcohol, he wouldn’t have to feel like his head was nailed to a tectonic plate.
After four kilometres Gardner hung a left and shunted east. The palm-fringed city avenues were replaced by cramped streets lined with modest, flat-roofed houses. They soon found themselves in a sweaty, humdrum neighbourhood. An unmanned MQ-8 Fire Scout drone swept over the rooftops. It captured little on its infra-red camera; the streets were empty except for the occasional T-shirted soldier flip-flopping from one corner to another. This part of Tripoli, Bald figured, hadn’t yet thrown its lot in with the rebels.
‘How far?’ he said.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Gardner replied.
Loose stones and dirt crunched and spattered under the Impala’s tyres. Fourie gave a low groan and began dry-heaving. He said to Gardner, ‘Pull the fuck over. I’m gonna be sick.’
‘Swallow it,’ said Bald. ‘We’re not stopping here.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Fourie was breathing hard. He curled himself up into a ball and clamped his eyes shut.
While Fourie fought his gag reflexes, Bald turned to Gardner. ‘Why’d you do it?’ he said. ‘Working for Cave to spy on another Blade?’
‘He promised me a job at the end of it,’ Gardner said, twisting his head left and right and relieving some of the tension in his neck muscles. ‘Back on the frontline. Full pay and pension, John.’
Bald laughed. ‘You stupid cunt. You really believe him? Cave will stab you in the back, just like Land stabbed you in the back. Just like he shafted me too.’
‘Land was forced out of the picture. Things are different there now.’
‘Bullshit. The Firm never changes.’
Gardner said, ‘This is it.’
Bald scoped out the street as Gardner slowed the Impala. They were in a deserted back street. A row of whitewashed houses were riddled with bullets. One house at the end of a row had collapsed, its front avalanched across the blacktop. Flames lapped from the engine of an overturned pickup. In the middle of the road lay a hand, unclaimed. A stray dog approached it. The vehicle startled the dog and it glanced warily at the Impala. Turned its back and scampered meekly off with a thumb.
Bald took in little else of his surroundings. His focus was split fifty-fifty between Fourie and Gardner. The thought scratched at his skull: they might be leading you into a trap.
No. Fourie’s tied up. I have a gun to Gardner.
But there might be a third man. Did you consider that? He might be lurking here.
Waiting to slot you.
Fifty metres further along, they hit the end of the street. It simply stopped. A carpet of desert unfolded in front of them, with banks of palm trees and wispy grass looking odd against the sand, like an old Hollywood movie lot. A dead end. At their eight o’clock was a dirt field with a mosque set a hundred metres back. The field was punctuated by electricity pylons. At their three o’clock was a half-finished compound. Work on foundations for a wall to surround a building in the middle had begun but abruptly stopped at ankle height. Twenty metres inside the planned perimeter was a flat-roofed, two-storey building with dirty, bare concrete walls. A bank of satellite dishes gazed out from the rooftop to the sky. Pots of wilting palm trees surrounded the building. Two things struck Bald. First, the front door was metal and substantial-looking. And second, there were no windows.
Without Bald prompting him, Gardner hit the brakes and brought the Impala to a halt forty metres from the gate. The silence was disturbed only by the rattle of the car’s overcooked engine and the thrum coming from the electricity lines strung across the road. Bald looked over his shoulder at the street behind them. The houses were bullet-riddled. There was an absolute absence of people and cars and noise.
Bald looked at Gardner and said, ‘This is it?’
‘This is it.’
‘What the fuck is this place?’
‘It’s an opium den,’ Fourie said.
forty
1417 hours.
Bald did a spit-take.
‘An opium den, in the middle of Tripoli?’
Fourie said, ‘Plenty of them around now the slant-eyes have moved in. Look around you, lad. We’re no longer the big power in Africa any more. All the contracts are with the Chinese these days. They bring in the manpower and the industry and the influence. All the oil and the mineral rights. The Chinese have those sealed up too. Everyone else is left fighting over the scraps.’
Bald scanned the compound. Part of him wondered why an opium den would need a reinforced door. The other part of him was already thinking about the assault. It would be hard to approach the building unannounced. To its east and south was nothing but desert and exposed terrain. To its north was the dirt field and the mosque. To its west was the road.
Bald flicked his eyes down at his Aquaracer. 1419 hours. The handover’s happening at 1420 this afternoon, Cave had said. Those words made Bald swell with confidence and adrenaline. This had to be the right place.
Bald said, ‘How’d you find out about this place?’
Gardner shrugged.
Bald turned his gaze on Fourie. ‘Did Cave tell you?’
Fourie kept his mouth zipped. Bald didn’t press the issue but he was wondering about the amount of int that both his fellow Jock and Gardner seemed to have. Cave had briefed them on Laxman and the Intelligent Dust? Maybe, Bald thought, the two of them had been offered the same five-million-quid reward. Speculation. He scratched his balls. He was thirsty as fuck.
Bald asked Fourie, ‘What’s he coming here for?’
Fourie coughed up a hoarse laugh. ‘Sipping tea and doing yoga. It’s an opium den. You go inside and get off your bloody nuts. You prick, what the fuck do you think he’s doing here?’
‘So he’s not making the handover here?’
Fourie shrugged his ignorance. ‘Maybe he just fancies doing some Big O with a bunch of slant-eyed pricks? Your guess is as good as mine.’
With the engine turned off the temperature in the Impala quickly skyrocketed. Bald felt the heat creep and crawl over his body, like an anaconda. He studied the layout of the building again, and decided that he’d have one good chance to slot Laxman, and that was when he arrived. That front door looked pretty impenetrable, and with the building lacking windows, it was probably badly lit inside and host to an unknown number of people. If they were running a hop-shop it was more likely than not that they’d be armed, and if they were off their fucking faces on poppies then they’d be ready to use their guns as well. Which made busting inside the building an altogether bad fucking idea.
No. Bald would wait for Laxman to rock up to the building and double-tap the cunt in the back of the head.
He was warming to the idea. And killing a man in Libya had certain advantages over Florida. There were no cops here any more, for starters. He wouldn’t have to worry about his photo being sent t
o every police department and airport in the country. Fuck it, with the war rumbling on he doubted anyone would find Laxman for several days. And when they did, they’d assume he’d simply run into the wrong mob.
Crude. But effective.
Bald grinned at Gardner. ‘How about we make you more comfortable, mate?’ He dangled the length of cord in front of Gardner and said, ‘Give me your hands.’
Gardner turned side on to Bald and scowled. The gaping wounds on his right temple and nose had formed sticky welts that had hardened at the edges like black tar. Bald dug the Makarov’s muzzle hard against the head wound. Gardner hissed in agony.
‘Give me your fucking hands, or I’ll paint the dash with your brains,’ said Bald.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ Gardner said.
‘The only mistake I ever made was not properly cunting you in London.’
Gardner reluctantly twisted in his seat so that he was looking out of the side window and his hands were tucked behind his back and presented to Bald above the gear shift. Bald bound the cord a dozen times around his wrists, forming it into a strangle knot. He pulled the cord tight enough to cause Gardner discomfort. Then he slipped out of the car and went round and flipped open the driver’s door. He made Gardner step out onto the boiling asphalt and then dragged him to the passenger side and roughly shoved him into the seat.
‘John, for fuck’s—’
‘Shut up and start choosing a fucking religion. Because once I’ve done Laxman, I’m gonna do Fourie, and then I’m gonna do you.’
Gardner fell silent. Fourie was silent too. Bald slammed the passenger door shut. Then he settled into the driver’s seat and fired up the Impala. Beautiful cool air flushed out of the air con and gushed over his face and iced his sweat. A moment’s relief from the business of taking a human life.
Then he waited.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Bald heard it before he saw it. The unmistakable shotgun throttle of a Jeep Grand Cherokee. Silver bodywork. Bulky chassis. An on-road people carrier masquerading as an off-road SUV. It was big and brutal. It bubbled into view on the horizon and bounced recklessly down the road, beating the most direct line to the compound, the V8 engine working itself into a rage. Bald blinked cooled sweat out of his eyes. It was now just a hundred metres away.
He squeezed his fingers round the Makarov’s wooden grip. Safety engaged, hammer cocked for a single-action shot. Violence was brewing in his blood. He felt his ears throbbing with the sound of his own breath and the terrific thump of his heart. An image in his head fuelled him. Bald slotting Laxman and telling Cave the good news. He pictured himself on a business-class flight to Monte Carlo, shitcanned on Laphroaig single malt and losing count of the zeros in his bank balance and the women on his arm.
Fifty metres.
So close now.
Just seconds.
Bald felt various parts of him contort, like a boa constrictor around a rat.
The Grand Cherokee’s wheels sneezed dust and spat out rocks, and its bodywork winked reflected rays at Bald, momentarily blinding him. The growl reduced as the Cherokee slithered to a halt beside the opium den, twenty metres ahead of the Impala and facing in the opposite direction. Its engine snorted and promptly stuttered and died. Bald had one hand on the Makarov. The other on the wheel of the Impala. His foot on the pedal. He was ready. He looked ahead as Laxman climbed out of the Cherokee. The Indian was small and frail. His hair was matted and his suit more crumpled than an old man’s face. Bald couldn’t see his face, only the back of his head.
Laxman stretched his legs and arms. But otherwise he didn’t move. Bald’s hand lingered on the door catch. He watched as the door of the den yawned open and a figure emerged, a wire-mesh of shadows. The figure stepped tentatively out into the sunlight. Paced the ten metres to Laxman at the Cherokee. Bald recognized the Chinese prostitute from the brothel in Clearwater.
Bald stayed in the car, his face obscured by the forty per cent tint of the window. Fuck me, he thought: Laxman likes this whore so much he’s brought her along for the ride. Only she wasn’t dressed like a hooker any more. Gone were the high heels and the short skirt. Now she was wearing a pair of tight blue jeans, white blouse and wraparound shades. She flashed a seductive smile at Laxman, leaned into him and kissed him on the lips. Then she dipped a hand into a black grab bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a phone. Looked like an iPhone. Checked her messages, slipped the phone back into her bag. Then she took him by the hand and began leading him towards the door.
Bald went to get out of the Impala.
Fourie said, ‘You shoot Laxman now, you’re making a big mistake.’
Bald froze his hand on the door catch.
‘I’m being paid to kill the guy. End of.’
‘It’s not as simple as you think, John.’
Bald looked to his right at Gardner. The guy was leeching sweat.
‘It’s true,’ Gardner said. ‘There are things you don’t know about.’
Laxman was ten metres from the door. Five million quid strolling away from him. He pushed at the catch and said, ‘I’m not listening to any more of your shit.’ Eight short metres between Laxman and the opium den.
‘It’s not a load of shit.’ Gardner’s voice was strained and flat and serious. ‘You want to know the truth? We weren’t sent here to spy on you.’
Cold air blasted out of the vents at Bald. The kind of cold that burns up your flesh. He watched the Chinese woman usher Laxman into the building. He watched the door close.
He watched his big chance disappear.
Gardner said, ‘We were sent here to kill you.’
forty-one
1429 hours.
Bald had been hanging on by a very thin thread ever since Mexico. Now he felt the thread snap, and the whole of him tumbled loose and went into freefall. It was like HALO-ing into deep space. Nothing solid under his feet – only blank, uncertain blackness. A Chinese man pulled the door of the opium den shut and to Bald the landscape somehow felt more isolated. A thought assaulted him like a cold, bracing wind.
I’m in the middle of nowhere.
Gardner looked at his lap, grimacing like he’d just pissed himself. ‘Cave told me about the Intelligent Dust,’ he said. ‘He said that Laxman had arranged to make a handover to the Pakistanis, and you were supposed to slot him in Florida.’
Bald chewed glass.
‘He said you needed to be taken care of. Once you’d done the mission.’
‘Why?’ said Bald.
‘Tying up a loose end.’
‘His words, or yours?’
Bald felt a voice spear his brain. A voice he had heard before, and one he never wanted to hear again. Danny Cave. Smug and chummy and fake as a pack of Serbian smokes. Bald remembered something he had said on the phone earlier. ‘The Firm takes care of its own, John Boy.’
But Bald wasn’t part of the Firm. Never had been. He said, ‘So he sent you both here? To tie up a loose end.’
‘No. Just me.’
That made Bald jump in his bones. He swivelled around at Fourie. The guy was slouched low on the back seat. He looked sapped of energy, like he’d just given blood, and way too fucking much of it. He was grinding his teeth; Bald could hear the squeak of enamel rubbing against enamel.
‘Cave doesn’t know about Bill?’
‘Of course not,’ said Gardner. ‘Like you said, he’s cancer to the Firm.’
‘Then why’s he here?’
Fourie hocked up something gobby and gross in his throat. He played with it in his mouth before swallowing it again. ‘I got word from the lads at the checkpoint that Joe had rocked up in town.’ He spoke sluggishly, barely parting his lips. ‘I thought, fucking weird. Because all the other lads had already been here for a while.’
‘What lads?’
Fourie rolled his eyes, as if he was explaining a simple maths problem to the thickest kid in the class. ‘The Firm had a bunch of guys over here. Ex-Blades, like
you and me. We’d all been hired to train Gaddafi’s personal security.’
Bald choked on air.
‘It was part of the oil deal struck between Libya and the UK,’ said Fourie. ‘They’d give us first dibs on the oil interests and in return we’d help train the guards for the Gaddafis. The Colonel, he likes his bodyguards to be from the same tribe as him. It’s an Arab thing. So we’d train them and teach them the ropes.’
‘Putting your training to good use.’
Fourie laughed. ‘Welcome to the real world, John.’
‘Blades helping a tyrant. Brilliant.’
‘Pah. It ain’t the first time and it won’t be the last, so stop getting your knickers in a twist. We’re just soldiers, Johnny. We don’t get to make big fucking moral judgements or wonder about the politics. We do what we’re told, and at the end of the day we cash our cheques and we go and get pissed.’
Bald was facing forward. Eyes on the building twenty metres away at his one o’clock. Then he spied movement at the mosque on the other side of the road from the den, at his eleven o’clock. A huddle of figures dashing across the dirt field away from the road, away from the den and Bald, in the opposite direction. A dozen of them, maybe more. Civilians. Women and children. Unarmed. Not a threat. Bald relaxed a little. He watched them trudge across the dirt field. It tapered towards a series of low buildings in the middle distance.
Now Gardner spoke up. ‘Bill found me in the hotel. Early this morning.’ He paused. Eyed the hip flask in Bald’s lap. Bald passed it over to Gardner. He took a long sip.
Fourie said, ‘I knew he had to be here for a special mission. One ex-Blade flies in by himself, with no support, just as Tripoli goes to hell in a handcart? It had secret op written all over it.’
