by Tony Masero
“We shall require an initial payment of fifty percent of the total in U.S. dollars. Once this is received the hardware will be transported by container ship and by our own airfreight. We propose that delivery be made in three stages. Outstanding payments on receipt will be made on delivery by electronic transfer. Security remains our problem only until the armaments are within the country. Once the border is crossed, it then becomes His Excellency’s responsibility. I hope this will be acceptable.”
A moment of discussion follows. The high-pitched voice rises above the babble. “How would you like the initial payment to be made? In cash, by check, or transfer? Payment can also be made in gold or uncut diamonds, if you prefer.”
McBraith smiled to himself. The prospect of twenty million in notes or gold bars arriving at his door was farcical. “An electronic transfer made to the off-shore account detailed on our quotation will be sufficient.”
Mtubu speaks for the first time. A strong voice, deep and resonant.
“It shall be done as you wish. But you will understand, Mr. McBraith, that if any of the armaments are unserviceable, or if delivery is faulty in any way, then it shall be you personally that will be held responsible.”
“I can assure, your Excellency, that all our goods are insured to be of the highest quality. If there are any complaints, then full recompense shall be forthcoming. That is our company’s no-quibble guarantee.”
Mtubu purses his thick lips and slowly twists the gold rings on his fingers, one after the other. “Let there be no misunderstanding here, Mr. McBraith. Anything, if anything goes amiss...” he glowers darkly across the gap between them. The threat traveling with all the icy certainty of a cast spear. “It will be you that I shall hold responsible.” He points a ringed finger directly at McBraith. “And you, I shall claim recompense from.”
McBraith confidently holds his gaze. “Then, sir, you may have my personal assurance as well.”
Florida. Third home. Why not? Five bedrooms and a pool. Yeah. Robert will like being next door to Disneyland. McBraith smiles at the prospect.
Chapter Seven
Habib Hamid untangles the earphones.
The room is laden with cigarette smoke. The technician takes the earphones from him. Habib ponders for a moment, and then nods. Satisfied.
“It is well.” The others relax and breathe a collective sigh. “They have agreed the sale.”
Four others in the room: IT specialist, waiter, cab driver, social worker. In reality, all are a cell. A cell that is only one part of a larger determined army of malcontents. All with one aim. A holy goal. Freedom through terror.
Habib. Golden skinned. Smooth and handsome. Slender and unsmiling. A winner. At home equally in the consulate or the beds of his many female conquests. A sheik. He leads from family position and proven skill. A ruthless commander whose pain at the invasion of his country is deep and burns relentlessly in his breast.
“Hikmat!” He jerks his chin in the direction of the IT technician. “We shall need comprehensive confirmation of the shipping and payment details. You understand? We must have everything. It is vital. We are going to pull this off successfully, and there can be no room for error. It will be our greatest victory.”
Hikmat. Slim and tense. Nods his head sharply in accord. He is chain smoking and nervously lights another whilst one still smolders in the ashtray. “This is possible, Habib. As long as they keep me in the computer center, I have access to everything.”
“Keep the bugs in place as long as possible. Do we know when they next sweep the room?”
“It is once a week. We have time.”
“Abid.” The Social Worker. Middle-aged thinker. Committed through intellect. “You must plan. We will need many men for this. The logistics will be complex. Use all our resources.”
Abid strokes his thick gray moustache thoughtfully. “It may be we shall have to call on others.”
Habib nods agreement. “Without doubt. When you are ready, tell me what you need and I will make the necessary contacts.”
“Although,” continues Abid, “it is possible that we could operate with comparatively small forces. Transport will be a greater problem, I think.”
Habib brushes aside the difficulty. “That is for you to decide.”
Nada. Kohl eyed. The art student. She would love Habib, but such a thing is not possible. “And for me?” She is forward. Too long in the West, but too useful to be admonished. “You will confer with Abid. There will doubtless be papers needed. Identities. Forgeries. Take your orders from him.”
Habib is uncomfortable with her. He lusts for her. She is dressed in western fashion. In a black top showing her midriff and tight fitting trousers that leave little to the imagination. Only his purpose keeps him from taking her. The result of his frustration is a cold abruptness.
Isam, the cab driver waits patiently. A hulk of a man. Sitting quietly in the corner, rolling an open can of Coke between his hands. He knows his task. He watches Habib’s back with devotion. They have known each other since childhood. Studied together. Played football together. Watched tanks roll over their homes together. And killed together.
Habib allows himself a momentary display of vengeful anger. Bunches his fists. “God willing, with this strike, we shall prepare the way for many widows amongst the invaders.”
His eyes flash and the others rise as one in the light of his passion.
Chapter Eight
Chayne pushes the boat out. Watches the mother and son as they grip the sides nervously. He smiles at their concern.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not so deep.”
“Keep still, Robert.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
Clem lifts the oars over the side. They are heavy and it is difficult for her to position them in the rowlocks. She giggles at her own clumsiness. “I’ll never get the hang of this,” she calls.
Chayne hunches down at the end of the restored dock. “Easy. Take your time.”
Lost Boy patters by in the bushes behind. Chayne hears him, but doesn’t turn.
“I see a fish, Mum!” Robert leans over the prow, looking down. “See here! Look at him go.”
“Sit down, Robert. You’ll fall in.”
“No, I won’t. Did you see it, Chayne? He’s a whopper.”
“I’ve seen him.” The kid is warming to him. It is a strange moment for Chayne. A woman and her child playing on a lake. A shared moment. New experience. He wonders what it would be like to have this every day.
The dog barks twice. Alarmed.
Chayne swings around. Eyes raking the undergrowth. A quick look at the boat drifting in circles as Clem, laughing, tries to control it. Safe enough. The dog pads back along the dock and into the dark of the wood. The overcast sky gives little away. Patchy sunlight. No contrasting folds of light and shadow, just a two dimensional backdrop. He waits, sensing the air.
Lost Boy barks again. Chayne swings in the direction. Sliding through the undergrowth. Moving quickly and silently.
Something looms in the shadow. A moving bush! It flops out of sight. Lost Boy growls angrily.
There is a scream from the lake.
Chayne hesitates. Indecision. Fun or danger? He swings around and lopes back the way he came. Clem is reaching out into the water, the boat leaning dangerously low as she hangs over the edge. Robert is nowhere to be seen, but a widening circle of ripples tells the story. At the run, Chayne launches himself from the end of the dock. Hits the water in a shallow dive. The lake shallows are clogged with reeds and he struggles to make his way through. Hits deeper water. Fast crawl.
“Where?” he calls up to Clem. She looks at him wild-eyed. Staring. Almost as if he is not there. She points. Down. Under. The water is clear, although stained a peaty brown. Weak sunlight trickles through in mobile beams. He sees the boy at once held trapped on the bottom. Struggling. His clothing caught in an old coil of discarded barbed wire fastened to a sunken concrete post. Robert looks up at him,
eyes rolling in terror, precious air bubbles flowing from nose and mouth. Quickly, Chayne pats his cargo pants pocket. Knife. He slices through the trapped T-shirt. Clenches the blade between his teeth and gripping the boy in both hands, pushes upwards.
They break surface in an explosion of spray.
Chayne offers the gasping boy into Clem’s waiting arms. Then, he swims to the stern and guides the boat to shore. Clem drops to the dock, clutching the boy to her, sobbing with relief. Chayne clambers through the weeds and hoists himself ashore.
“We’d better get him inside,” he says.
She nods, squeezing the child to her. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. Robert looks at them both dumbly, eyes still wide in shock.
“Here,” Chayne says. “Let me do it. I’ll carry him.” Quietly, trustingly, she offers him the child.
“All right, old son. Let’s get you indoors. We’ll soon have you dried out and raring to go again.”
“I tore my T-shirt.”
“Then we’ll just have to get you another one.”
“Can I have a camo one. You know, like an SAS soldier or a Navy SEAL?”
The three of them walk around the lake and back to the house. Chayne has one ear open. He is listening for sound of Lost Boy following. He does not hear him.
The boy is in bed. Hot chocolate and his Game Boy. Clem stands in front of the fire. Arms folded, looking at the floor. Chayne has changed his clothes. He waits. She shudders.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him,” she mutters hoarsely. “He’s all I have.”
He pours her a glass from the decanter. “Here. Take it.”
She drinks. The liquor seems to wake her. “Thanks again for all you did.”
“There’s more.”
She looks at him questioningly.
“Somebody is out there. They’ve been watching the place for a while.”
Frown. “What? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know who they are or what they want, but they’re out there. I caught a glimpse just before Robert fell into the lake.”
Clem presses a hand to her head. “Oh God, no.” She sighs. “What next?” Looks at him. “Is it a break-in? Vagrants? What?”
Chayne shrugs. “Best stay indoors for a while. Keep the doors and windows locked. I’ll try and find out what they’re up to.”
“Should we call the police?”
“Up to you. But it may be nothing. Could be just someone sleeping rough.”
“Would you mind looking around, then? I’ll call Charles and let him know what’s happening, if I can get hold of him, that is. He’s tied into some big deal at the moment.”
He ponders on that. “Could it be related?”
“You know what he does?”
“I know.”
Clem swallows the rest of the whisky. “Then you know more than me.” Edge of bitterness. Something moves in Chayne. Should he interfere? Might be important.
“Tell me,” he says.
She raises her eyes. Watches him for a moment. Decides. “He’s screwing his secretary. And now I’m thinking of leaving him. That’s it.” A pause. Anger. “It pisses me off!”
“Okay. We’ll talk later. Right now, I’m going outside to look around. See if I can find Lost Boy and whatever else is out there. Will you be okay on your own?”
She nods and he is gone.
Chayne slots shells into the shotgun. Slaps it closed and moves off down to the lake. All is quiet, not even the sound of birdcall. Light rain is beginning to fall. It coats the grass with a dew-like covering. He searches for tracks. Nothing. Just dank woods and a mist of rain. He brushes aside the undergrowth with the barrel of the gun. Finds the spot where he saw the shape move. Something was there all right. The grass is depressed, flattened.
“You’re good!” he calls aloud. Rooks flap above him in panic at the noise, cawing alarm calls into the sky. “Really. Very good. But I’ll find you in the end. You want to talk, now’s the time.”
He backs away to the lakeside. The water is behind him.
Something vibrates against his leg. The mobile warbles in his thigh pocket. It’s McBraith.
“What’s happening, Chayne?” Tense. Worried. “Clem called. She says there’s someone hanging about up there.”
Chayne keeps his eyes fixed on the trees. “There’s somebody here all right. Anything you need to tell me?”
“Me? What can I tell you?”
“You made any enemies lately? Somebody who might want to harm your family?”
“No. No, there’s nothing. Everything is going fine.”
“No investigator keeping an eye on your wife, anything like that?”
“Good God, no! What on earth for?”
Chayne believes him. “All right. I’m checking it out now. We’ll let you know.”
“Listen. I’d come right away, but I’m in the middle of a very big contract, it’s imperative I’m here. Can you handle it? Tell me if not.”
Expanding circles pattern the water. The rain is getting heavier. Nothing else moves. “I can handle it.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Get the police if you need to.”
“There’s nothing much to tell them yet. Nothing they’d consider driving all the way out here for anyway.”
“Take care of my family.”
“Got it.” He snaps the mobile shut.
Chayne starts a concentric search. Widening out from the point of first contact. He moves slowly, ignoring the rain. It’s like slipping into an old familiar coat again. Offensive mode. Repressing the distraction of Clem and the boy. Concentrating on each leaf, bush, blade of grass and tree branch. Waiting for the slight aberration. The clue that jars. One thing out of place. But he sees nothing. This guy is good. No footprints. No broken undergrowth. Nothing in the beds of pine needles. Just that one error. The cigarette butt. His one mistake. If nothing else, at least he is human.
Soaked through now, he moves back towards the house. The boat is drifting. He left it beached in the reeds. The shed! Cautiously, he approaches. This will be the message, he thinks with a sinking feeling. It is how I would have done it. Knows what he will find as he pushes the door open. Lost Boy. Teeth bared, eyes rolled back to white. Stiff legged on the floor. Broken neck. A silent kill. Laid out on the same spot he found the cigarette butt.
Yes, breathes Chayne. That’s how I would have done it. Take out the early warning system. Tell them you are close by and invisible. Instill fear. Guerrilla tactics. This is not just an intruder. He’s like me. Trained.
But this time it is different for him. He is on the receiving end. He liked that damned dog too.
It is getting dark and the rain begins to fall in a heavy sheet.
Clem unlocks the kitchen door when she sees him through the spattered glass panel. “Anything?”
He shakes his head, water sprays from his forehead. “Not yet.”
“Come in, you’re soaked through again.” He leans the shotgun beside the door and moves to the fire. Water hisses as it drips from his clothes onto the tiled surround. “I’ll get you a towel.” She is back in a moment, a large bath towel in her hand. “What do we do now?” she asks.
“It’s his game at the moment. All we can do is defend our perimeter. But I don’t think he is going to come in after us. He could have done that anytime, earlier and easier. His brief is to watch.”
“But why? What’s he after? It’s only one of them, is it?”
“I believe so. Least that’s all I’ve seen. Just the one. As to the rest, that would only be speculation.”
“Did you find the dog?”
Chayne shook his head. Best not to tell her about that right now.
“Dry yourself off. Are you hungry? I’ll get us something to eat.”
“I’ll check over the house first. Make sure everything is shut up tight. Is Robert okay?”
“He’s asleep now. He’s okay though. I think he enjoyed his little adventure a lot more
than I did.” Smiles. Weakly.
“Do you want me to stay here tonight?”
Clem compresses her lips. Shrugs apologetically. “Please. I’d feel a lot safer.”
“Okay. No problem. I’ll get some dry clothes from the cottage.”
“No,” she says, hurriedly. “Don’t go. Charles has clothes here. Something will fit.”
It is dark now. Just the firelight. She is bringing in a tray with sandwiches and coffee. Chayne has stripped off his shirt and is toweling himself in front of the fire. He sees Clem watching him from the doorway. Her eyes shine in the firelight as she takes in his muscular torso gleaming wetly in the glow. He knows she sees the scars. Puckered skin. Corrugated in the sidelight across his body. War wounds. Ugly trademarks. He turns away, rubbing his hair. His head covered by the towel.
“I found a jumper and some tracksuit bottoms,” she says laying down the tray and taking the clothes from over her arm.
“Thanks.” He shrugs into the woolen jumper. Coyly. Turns his back and drops his trousers, swiftly slipping on the bottoms. She likes what she glimpses.
He moves across the room. Shutting curtains. Pulling them tight. They sit on cushions in front of the fire.
“Better?” she asks.
“Fine.” He raises the coffee mug in a silent toast. “How about you?”
“Just worried. It’s funny how it all comes at once.”
“Troubles?”
“Uh-huh. All the shit with Charles, Robert nearly drowning, and now some crazy out there somewhere.”
“He’s not crazy. He knows very well what he’s doing.”
“We’d better drive back tomorrow. I’d go tonight, but not in this weather.”
“That’s wise, I think.” Chayne mumbles around his sandwich.
They finish the food in silence. Watching the flames curling in the log fire.
“I can’t bare it much longer,” she bursts out suddenly. Tears are starting in her eyes. He sees the sparkle in the firelight. She hunches her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
