by Tony Masero
“It’s all right.” He is not good at this sort of thing. He can only empathize by thinking of Justine. “Loss is the hardest thing to take.”
“Such a bloody waste; great kid, loving wife. What more does the man want?” The tears are streaking down her cheeks but she is speaking normally. They are only a backdrop to the pain. “I just don’t get it. But I can’t take much more of it, I know that. The idea of him running from her bed to mine.”
She needs to tell it. He realizes there must be no one else for her to talk to. How alone can a person get. Or is it only that it’s easier with a stranger?
“Are you sure?” He is giving her permission to continue.
It pours out. “Oh, yes. I smell her scent on him. She is a very beautiful woman. I can understand that part, but she will never give him what I can. She’s a career type. Hardnosed and only ready for business. In both senses. He’ll never get a home out of it. You’ve seen him, he loves the home life. He loves his son. It’s his one escape from the type of business he’s in. It makes no sense.”
“Sometimes people forget.”
“Forget something as important as that?”
“When you have it all, you can get complacent. It seems it will never end. It’s there forever. My guess is, in his business the bucks roll in. It’s a wave. Success after success. How can you fail? Maybe he thinks he’ll never lose.”
“You know, though, don’t you? You know how you can lose important things forever.”
Chayne lowers his head. He does not want to get into his losses. They stack too high. “Yes,” he admits quietly. “I’ve seen the other end of what he sells. I know.” He feels the hole at his center and trembles on the brink. She is closer to him now. Moving nearer in her urgency. He smells the bloom on her skin warmed by the fire. He could reach out and pull her to him, forget the pain for a while. Gloss over it again in a woman’s softness.
“Do you want to keep it going? That’s the bottom line,” he says, reminding her.
She is looking at him intently, raising a hand to touch his cheek. “Right now,” she whispers, “it’s the last thing on my mind.”
He takes her hand in his. Lowers it gently between them. Makes his excuse. “I think the rain has stopped. I’m going to check outside around the house.”
She pulls back. Away from him. Feeling the affront. It is only another to add to the collection. “Right.” A little sharply. “I think I’ll turn in, then.”
“Okay, I’ll sleep here on the settee.” He is on his feet. Destroying the moment. Pointlessly, he says, “I’ll keep the fire going all night.”
Clem smiles wryly to herself.
Chapter Nine
The belt of rain sweeps down from the Scottish coastline. Moving across Europe, gathering momentum as it goes. It sinks lower. Tumbling into a meeting with bands of low pressure pushed up by unseasonal heat across northern Africa. Ominous black clouds build and raise a wind that sucks in the storm.
By the time it hits the Portuguese coast, it is torrential.
Sri Devadasi checks the glowing digits on the dashboard clock: 22:30. He is running late for his boarding. The Mungo Star will wait, though. There is nowhere a container ship crew will go without its head cook. At precisely the moment the storm breaks, Sri is entering the on-ramp for the IC17 and the Lisbon docks. Below him the high-rises on the steep hills around the city blank out as a power cut strikes.
The city is now lit only by a chain of luminous headlights that run like blood in a vein. Drains overflow. Junctions flood. Traffic lights fail. Gridlock threatens. With that strange lemming-like fear that motivates drivers at the advent of bad weather, speed is increased. Risks taken. The conditions are abominable.
A wave of spray hisses off the motorway as trucks hurtle downhill at breakneck speed. They travel in a convoy, one behind the other. Sri sees their giant bulks looming above him in the darkness as he crests the ramp. He is indicating. The flashing light lost in the headlight-blasted clouds of spray. There is a space between the trucks. Just enough. He angles his battered Fiat Uno to slide into the gap.
The BMW behind nudges urgently forward. Main beam snaps on. Dazzling lights in the rear view mirror. Whiteout. A moment of blindness. Bumper meets bumper. The BMW surges forward, then brakes, smacking the Uno out onto the motorway. It has done its job.
Lost in a wilderness of spray, Sri hurtles uncontrollably into the path of the oncoming juggernaut. There is a scream of hydraulics. Pointless at that speed and in these conditions. The crunch of the Uno being crushed beneath the massive wheels is the sound of plastic egg boxes breaking. Jacknife. The truck slides in a locked right angle, carrying the flattened remnants of the Uno beneath it. They aquaplane together on the slick tarmac, punching overtaking cars aside, tumbling them into a chaos of crippled steel.
It is mayhem. The locked truck batters into its convoy companions ahead. Driving one into the other in a chain reaction of destruction. Spinning headlights catapult through the dividing barrier onto the opposite lanes. Glowing orbs of red brake lights rotate and burst, fracturing amidst the rainfall. Windscreen glass shatters in explosive halos of diamond glitter. A dam of battered metal builds catastrophically at the foot of the hill beneath the hissing pall of rain.
The BMW driver watches from the parked safety on the ramp entrance. A little excessive, he thinks. Who would have thought it? There is no doubt it was written so. Some things are destined to be. He buttons the in-car mobile phone. Habib Hamid answers.
“What have you to tell me, Isam?”
“There has been a fatal accident on the motorway. It may be some time before I can return home.”
“Thank you, my brother.” Habib cuts the connection. He lays aside the phone. “It is well.” He smiles at the others in the room. “God is with us. The weather will delay the ship’s departure. Everything is working to our advantage. Is our replacement prepared?”
Abid raises his gaze from the laptop before him. Smooth’s his gray mustache with finger and thumb. His eyes unreadable, reflecting the screen. He nods confirmation.
“The paperwork?” asks Habib.
“All is ready.”
“Excellent. Then let us proceed.”
One hour later an Algerian replacement chef presents himself at the Harbor Master’s offices. His papers are checked and stamped. Everything is in order. He may board the Mungo Star.
Chapter Ten
Darkness. Gray dawn cracking the horizon.
Chayne eases the Cherokee to a halt outside the main house. Switches off the ignition. He has seen them safely back onto the Edinburgh motorway. McBraith will meet them halfway. Shepherd them home. Chayne is alone again.
Clem was worried. She did not want him to stay by himself at the cottage. He has reassured her. He spins a convincing yarn as to how it is probably only poachers lurking around after the deer. McBraith concurs. Chayne lets them think what they will. He has his own agenda now. Things to do. Time for the gamekeeper to earn his pay.
Inside the cottage, he lifts the holdall from its place at the bottom of the cupboard. Unzips the sealed plastic freezer bags. Smell of grease and metal. Camo gear. Sidearm. Holster and Ammo. Night vision. Armored vest. The duplicate kit. Unregistered. All the things he should have handed in. But didn’t.
Why hadn’t he? Who knows? Some things from the past you can’t just let go of. These are his tools. The only skill he ever learnt that has counted for anything. Justine would have understood. If she had lived.
Chayne looks in the mirror. Camouflage face paint stripes his face below the woolen hat. The eyes that stare back feel at home behind the broken dark green streaks. He slips on black cutaway leather gloves. Tapes down the pocket flaps. Slides the serrated edge of his knife into its sheath. Checks the Walther P99’s fifteen-round load.
He sits. Unmoving in the corner. Emptying. Watching the thin light grow behind net curtains. A dove-gray sky beyond the diamond panes. Pearly white. Focused. His mind is clear now.
; The warrior is ready to hunt.
He takes great pains to leave the house unseen. He knows he will be watched. It takes him over half an hour of careful maneuvering to make it to the nearest trees. The ground is still soaking from the rain. He is tracking up the grass, but there is no avoiding it. Once amongst the trees it is better. A soft pine-needle bed deep beneath his feet. He glides into the undergrowth. Sliding with whatever shadow there is. Freezing momentarily. Then moving on. His ears and eyes razor alert.
Chayne has his spot marked out. Now that he knows it is a professional opponent out there, the thinking is easier. What would I do in his place? He circles the lakeside wood. Finds his place. Sinks down. And waits. Patiently.
Time passes unnoticed. It’s a trick. Time no longer matters. Unmoving. In a blank mindset. Only the externals work. Eyes crisscrossing the terrain. Lips slightly parted to aid hearing. Flexing muscles in a patterned order down the limbs. Working against any stiffening in the dampness.
A shift. He feels it more than sees it. The ground moves.
A bed of grass. A camouflage mat that shuffles forward inches at a time. Down by the lake, behind the boat shed. Moving towards the house. Check-in time.
He parallels. Silently keeping slow pace with the mat and the man that lies beneath it. Worried rooks rise above, rasping their calls at each other. The mat freezes, drops, instantly becoming part of its surroundings. A deer. A young doe. Alone. Tentatively coming down to the water’s edge to drink. Chayne watches the beast. Afraid now to move and disturb it. Protected by the shed and out of the deer’s vision field, the camouflage mat crawls back into the tree line.
The deer moves off. Head up, it scents the air. Turns towards him. Even downwind it stills smells or senses him. A nervous hop. Stepping daintily over tangled branches from a fallen pine. Then through the trees and away. Chayne has lost visual now. He calculates and slides full length, bisecting a line of contact.
He reaches his destined position and waits for the movement. There is none. Lost him. Have patience. Slowly, slowly. Let it unfold.
The click is all too recognizable. A .9mm bullet sliding into the chamber.
“You want to lift them for me?” American.
Chayne unfolds slowly. Hands raised. Waiting.
“Shame about the deer, you would have had me otherwise. Okay, turn around.”
He is standing there. A living bush. Braced, firing arm extended. The Glock at full reach. “You’re pretty damned good, sir. What are you? Ex-Special Forces?” Hard-lined features. A hooked nose and high cheekbones. Daubed with green camo patterns. Shaved head. Gaunt body on a slender frame. He has the look. Been there and done it.
“Once upon a time,” Chayne admits.
“It was that damned butt, wasn’t it?”
Chayne nods.
“Shit! I must be getting old and stupid pulling a stunt like that. The one smoke in three weeks.”
“We all do something dumb one time or another.”
“Yeah, but it’ll get you dead every time. Mind losing the sidearm? Left hand only, please.”
As Chayne removes the weapon and drops it, the American changes to a two-handed grip. Still focused on Chayne. Center section. “Thought we’d better get acquainted before you rooted me out anyway.”
“You knew I’d come, then?”
“Uh-huh. After the dog.” He shrugs. “Sorry about that by the way, but you understand.”
“I’d have done the same.”
“Bet you would. So, sit a spell. Let’s have a powwow, get introduced.”
They squat. Three-meters apart. Not too much, nor too little.
“Name’s don’t matter much, but you can call me Peak.”
“Chayne.”
“Okay, Mr. Chayne. So what’s the score here? How come they hired a pro minder like you?”
Chayne leans back against the tree bole behind him. Easing his hamstrings. Waves his raised hands. “Hey, hey. Hold on a minute. I’m the legit one here. You’re the intruder. Besides, I’m no minder. Gardener stroke gamekeeper, if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever, pal. You all seem a bit too clever for my liking.”
“Clever is as clever does. What’s the CIA doing in the backwoods of place like Langroith?”
Peak cracks a smile. Perfect teeth in a blackened face. “Boy, you are the sharp one aren’t you?”
“Just a hired hand.”
“Don’t look like it from where I’m sitting.”
Chayne decides. If he were going to do anything, he would have done it by now. And anyway, he was getting cold. “Well, we can sit out here for a week in the wet playing with each other. Or we can go inside, have a coffee like civilized soldiers and get this thing sorted.”
Peak eyes him speculatively for a moment. “’Kay.” In a swift movement, he clears the chamber and holsters the Glock in his chest holster. Chayne notices he leaves the safety off, though.
“You mind?” Chayne asks, indicating his own weapon.
Peak nods. “Let’s just lose the load though, until we know each other a little better.”
Chayne obliges. Shelling the cartridge case into his breast pocket.
“Lead the way, Mr. Chayne.”
Peak unfastens and dumps his wet camouflage mat at the cottage door, whilst Chayne brews the coffee. “Damned glad to get out of that thing. Seems like almost a part of me now.” He sits, bringing with him into the kitchen a dank odor of mud and grime.
“Smells like it too. You want to take a shower?” Chayne puts full mugs on the kitchen table. “Sugar?”
“Fuck you and I’ll take two.”
They sit facing each other across the Formica. Two dirty, paint-streaked men. Muddy boots patterning the floor. Sizing each other up.
“Bosnia? The Gulf?” asks Peak.
“Everywhere.”
Peak chuckles. Raises his mug. “Do or die.” Chayne raises his in an answering salute.
“Okay, here’s the score.” Peak is suddenly serious. “Maybe I’m not supposed to breach security like this, but hell, I always was a bold and reckless fellow, and you seem a reasonable guy. Could be these folks up here need someone like you around right now, and I’m sure as hell not going to fool around with you in the bushes every damned day. Besides, I’m up here only to observe, so it’s no big deal.”
“You working alone?”
Peak runs a tired hand across his forehead. Mud flakes. Falls on the table. “Say, you haven’t got any fruit have you? Anything will do. I’ve been living off survival packs for weeks, and man, you know how that stuff binds you up. Could really do with a little roughage and light relief, if you know what I mean?”
Chayne fetches a plastic supermarket bag of red apples from the shelf. Spills some on the table.
“Lord! That looks good. Alone? Well, we’re all buddies now, aren’t we? It’s a joint op.” He marks exclamations with his fingers. “‘The War on Terror’. So it’s you Brits and us. But right now, it’s me on my lonesome in this particular neck of the woods.”
Peak bites, juice running down his chin. “Mm-mm! What we have is certain report of proposed terrorist activity. This guy McBraith, big arms dealer, right? He’s dealing with some dubious people in darkest Africa right now. The word is that a group, no ID as yet, might be some Iraqi leftovers, are making a play for the goods in question. We don’t know how or when, just that it’s in the offing. My part’s to look and learn. If they make a show, I’m to get back info with the who and what.”
“But why up here? You really expecting something to go down locally?”
“This is a major load we’re talking about here. Armored vehicles. Missiles. The works. The guy’s equipping an army. Who knows? There’s a lot of open country out there. Big coastline. Might be.”
Chayne thinks it’s unlikely. Ever since the serious importation of drugs into the country, HM Coastguard has kept satellite surveillance and helicopter flybys over the more obvious landing areas. And something this big would need prime do
cking space and the infrastructure to back it. “Well, the McBraith’s are back down in London now and I don’t know when they’ll be back. Afraid your presence really put the wind up Mrs. McBraith.”
“Mm, I tend to have that effect on the ladies. Can you cover it?”
“I’ll say it was poachers. They already half think that’s the score anyway. Can you get the local police to lay in a backup to the story?”
“Sure can do. Would be best to keep things cool with McBraith. We don’t want to frighten anyone off if this thing is going down.”
Chayne drains his mug. “Right. Now. You want that shower, you’re welcome, you know.”
“Man, there is nothing I would like better, but no thanks. I’ve got a sat-phone contact coming up and I still need to keep a low profile in the neighborhood.”
“Okay. But drop by when you feel the need.”
“Obliged.” Peak scoops up a few more apples, which disappear into his cargo pockets. Then with a wink and a casual wave, he slips out of the cottage as quietly as he came.
Alone again. Chayne thinks it over as he showers. An eventful few days. Peak. What does he think of him? Sharp enough, but careless. First the discarded cigarette-end, then exposing his mission to unvetted personnel. Sloppy. Against all the prime directives. Wouldn’t happen on my watch. Still, it was himself who had been looking down the wrong end of a gun barrel. Maybe he was getting slack himself. Too long out of the loop.
McBraith, then. What about him? Dragging his family into the red zone. Cheating on his wife. Too full of himself by half. And Clem. How does she stack up in all this? Desirable, certainly. Lonely. Fragile in her distress. The two of them. Clem and Robert. Were his emotions playing with him?
There was a time when it wouldn’t have even entered his head. Such thoughts. But now? A budding family. Ready-made. No. He shakes the thought savagely from his mind. Wrings its neck with an angry sense of guilt. It feels too much like walking on a grave.
He is coming down now after the adrenalin rush of the hunt.
