Quick

by Steve Worland

  They look at each other for a moment, then both lean forward to exchange a kiss—and bump foreheads. They laugh awkwardly, before completing the kiss. It’s short and sharp.

  ‘Okay, I gotta skedaddle.’ She flashes him a grin then gallops down the stairs.

  ‘See you.’ Billy turns and walks to the edge of the balcony. He looks down and follows her as she runs out of the palace then sprints along the long red carpet. ‘If she looks back we’re meant to be together.’

  She keeps running, doesn’t do it.

  ‘Just one little look then be on your way.’

  She stops running.

  Billy inhales expectantly.

  She pulls off her high heels, then runs on.

  He exhales unhappily. ‘Come on, just one glance, that’s all I need.’

  She looks back—and blows him a kiss.

  He grabs it, and blows one back to her.

  She catches it like it’s a frisbee and pushes it to her lips with a grin, before turning and continuing on her way. He watches until she rounds a corner and disappears from view. He can’t remember experiencing such a feeling of happiness.

  He glances down at the guests walking up the red carpet and scans the crowd, searches for Claude, can’t see him. He pulls out his phone and dials. It is answered. ‘Pfft, leave a message if you must.’

  ‘Where are you, old man?’

  The tracking app.

  The bespoke software Interpol installed on both their phones before they began the investigation, which Billy had to re-install after replacing the phone he destroyed at Ski Dubai. He pulls it out, launches the app and waits for it to pinpoint the Frenchmen’s phone. Of course he knows that if Claude’s out of signal range it’s not going to work.

  A blinking dot appears on the map. It seems Claude, or at least his phone, is miles away from Monaco. In fact it’s still in the Alps. Billy takes this in and his feeling of happiness instantly evaporates.

  What the hell is going on?

  ~ * ~

  23

  The wheels of Billy’s Iron Rhino courtesy car skid to a halt on the gravel roadway. Claude, or his phone, is close. At least that’s what the tracking app tells him.

  The Australian pulls the Renault onto the shoulder, parks it and climbs out. It’s dark but he holds a flashlight borrowed from the Iron Rhino garage. ‘Claude?!’

  There’s no response.

  He scans the area. There’s nothing immediately visible except for a whole lot of trees. Actually, it’s more like a dense forest. The Frenchman could, literally, be five metres away and Billy wouldn’t know.

  The Australian calls Claude’s phone, listens for a ringtone and watches to see if its screen lights up the forest. He hears and sees nothing. He swipes back to the phone’s tracking app, tries to decipher which side of the road the dot is situated on. He cannot work it out.

  ‘Eeenie meanie—ahhh, screw it.’ He turns left and searches the trees. ‘Claude? Are you—in the general vicinity?’ He hears no response.

  The wind rises and the Australian smells something. A sharp aroma, the combination of burnt plastic and burnt leaves. The breeze came from the right. He turns in that direction and crunches into the woods, flicks on the flashlight and sweeps the beam across the foliage.

  ‘Claude? Are you here?’ The Australian’s right foot slams into something hard. He bends to look at it. It’s a small tree stump that has been snapped off at its base. It’s been hit by something large but there’s no sign of the trunk. He stands, trains the light on the ground, searches for it.

  There. To the far right. He moves towards it. ‘Claude?’ The flashlight’s beam hits something and reflects red back at him. It’s the rear brake lens of a Renault Clio, like the Iron Rhino courtesy car Billy drove out here. It’s about fifteen metres away but buried so deep in the brush that it was undetectable from the roadway.

  Billy moves to it. The only part that isn’t burnt out is the rear. Heart in mouth, he looks inside the cabin, prepares to be horrified by what he finds.

  No one is inside.

  Relived, he stands and searches for the Frenchman. ‘Claude?!’

  ‘Pssst!’ The sound is very low.

  Billy turns, scans the area with the torch, confused. ‘Claude Michelle?!’

  ‘How many Claudes do you think are out here?’ The voice is a hard whisper.

  Billy is relieved but can’t see him. ‘I thought you were toast. Literally—’

  ‘Keep your voice down and turn off that light.’

  Billy whispers. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Billy does it. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘To the left.’

  Billy turns. His eyes adjust to the low light and he sees the Frenchman. He sits with his back against a large tree and looks straight head. He does not turn to the Australian. Billy moves towards him. ‘Why are we whispering —?’

  ‘Stop moving.’ Claude’s right hand rests on his thigh. His index finger extends and he points at something in front of him.

  Billy follows it—then freezes in surprise. ‘Oh fuck!’ He stares at a hulking shape that sits a metre from the Frenchman’s feet. It’s a black panther and it’s enormous, the size of a man. The big cat purrs loudly as it tilts its head and locks its shining, golden eyes on Billy. The Australian takes a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘I read about this guy. How long have you been —’

  ‘Two hours. He won’t leave.’

  ‘Did you use your electric cattle prod?’

  Claude takes a moment then sheepishly raises the taser in his left hand. ‘It only seemed to annoy him.’

  Billy smiles, then clicks his fingers at the panther. ‘Shoo! Shoo! Off you go.’

  The cat yawns, doesn’t budge.

  Claude looks at the Australian. ‘You think I didn’t try that already?’

  ‘Well I don’t know.’ Billy turns back to the animal. ‘Those teeth are really big.’

  ‘Too fucking big.’ Claude notices Billy’s suit. ‘Why are you dressed like an usher at James Bond’s funeral?’

  The Australian glances at his clothes defensively. ‘What? It’s cool. Dieter gave it to me to wear to the ball.’ He looks back at the black cat, studies it for a moment. ‘It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t?’

  ‘Oh yes, beautiful—until the biting and the ripping. Do you have your gun?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Use it.’

  ‘I’m not shooting that magnificent animal. He’s not hurting anyone —’

  ‘A warning shot! Fire a warning shot. Into the ground. To scare him off.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Good idea.’ Billy draws his weapon from his ankle holster. The big cat watches him, unconcerned. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Get on with it. I have pins and needles in my derriere.’’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ Billy points the pistol at the ground. ‘Okay. One, two, three —’

  A high-pitched wail reverberates overhead. Billy and Claude look up as a large twin-prop plane skims the tree line with its landing gear lowered.

  Startled by the noise, the panther growls and leaps straight towards the terrified Frenchman—then breaks left and disappears into the brush. Claude watches it go, then exhales roughly. ‘So that was two hours of terror followed by two seconds of absolute terror.’

  Billy watches the plane disappear over the tree line. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘I think I know.’ Claude pulls himself up. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s linked to the bastard who ran me off the road.’

  The Frenchman’s a little unsteady on his feet so Billy helps him find his balance. ‘Which bastard?’

  Claude brings the Aussie up to speed. It only takes a moment.

  ‘So you think the field’s large enough to land that plane?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘And where is this farm?’

  ‘Not far. Five minutes by car.’

  �
��Let’s check it out.’

  ‘Need to find my phone first.’

  Billy calls the phone again. Half a minute later Claude locates it lying facedown under a shrub, ten metres away.

  ~ * ~

  Billy pulls the Renault onto the roadway. ‘Which way?’

  Claude points. ‘Straight ahead. And no lights. Don’t want them to see us coming.’

  The Australian nods and leans forward to focus on the road. It’s extremely difficult to see anything through the darkness.

  They drive on for a couple of minutes, before Claude points again: ‘Park here. Try and get it as far off the road as you can. We don’t want anyone to know we’re here.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Billy turns the car off the road, navigates the shoulder, then winds down the window and shines the flashlight on the ground so he can see where he’s going. He drives the car a good five metres off the road then slots it behind a tree. The Australian doesn’t need to ask which way to go next because the blinking lights of a taxiing aircraft intermittently illuminate the forest to the right.

  They climb out of the Renault and quickly move towards the lights.

  ~ * ~

  Wearing their helmets, Schumacher, Hunt and Senna stand in front of the farmhouse and watch the silver Fairchild C-123 Provider taxi along the grass field towards them, its twin Pratt & Whitney turbo fans throbbing in unison. It’s a short, stubby aircraft, about twenty-five metres long, designed to airlift troops and cargo to and from short, makeshift airstrips. It was deployed most notably during the Vietnam War where it was also utilised to spray Agent Orange defoliant to clear the forests of leaves and deprive the Viet Cong of tree cover.

  Senna takes it in. ‘Why does that thing look so familiar?’

  Hunt knows. ‘It’s the same plane they used in Con Air.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I love that movie.’ He smiles under his helmet. ‘“Make a move and the bunny gets it.”‘

  The C-123 swings around, momentarily sweeps them with prop wash, then powers down. With a hydraulic whine the rear hatch clunks, then splits in two. The top section rises and the bottom ramp drops until it lies on the ground.

  Senna takes a breath. ‘Okay, here we go. Be ready.’

  The others nod, check the pistols they each hold, then turn and watch two men walk down the ramp towards them.

  One is tall, the other short. They both have tattooed arms and look like they’ve done hard time. They also hold nine-millimetre pistols. The taller of the two speaks first. He has a thick Russian accent. ‘So, I see everybody has a gun.’

  Senna steps forward. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’

  The short one also speaks with a Russian accent. ‘What’s with the helmets?’

  ‘No one needs to know who we are. So, are they here?’

  The tall Russian smiles. ‘No, I flew this whole way and forgot them. What do you think?’

  ‘That I’m in no mood for your humour.’

  The short Russian glances at his partner. ‘Is it ironic that the funniest thing here are those helmets?’ The two share a grin.

  Senna doesn’t join in. ‘Can we get this done please?’

  The tall Russian nods to his comrade, who moves up the ramp and disappears into the belly of the aircraft.

  Senna picks up a briefcase beside him and turns to the others with a surprised whisper: ‘What are they so happy about? They’re Russian.’

  ~ * ~

  ‘It’s the plane from Con Air.’

  From the tree Claude took cover behind earlier in the day, Billy looks through the binoculars. He focuses on the Three Champions, each with a weapon in hand, and wonders which is Juan-in-a-million. He must have driven fast to get here from the ball, must have left when Billy did, though he is a racing driver and they never believe speed limits apply to them.

  Claude can’t see much without the binos. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘There’s a briefcase. The guy with the Senna helmet is holding it.’

  The Frenchman reaches for the binoculars. ‘Let me see.’

  Billy pulls them out of reach. ‘Hold on, there’s—there’s a van. A big one. White. It’s driving out of the plane. It’s an ugly-looking thing—oh, Senna’s opening the briefcase, and he’s showing the tall guy from the plane what’s inside.’ Billy passes over the binoculars.

  The Frenchman pushes them to his eyes, focuses. ‘And that van is called a Renault Trafic by the way.’

  ‘Really? That’s the name? Trafic? In case you forget where you’ll be stuck when you drive one?’

  ‘It’s a very practical utility vehicle.’

  ‘Which fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.’

  ~ * ~

  Senna holds open the briefcase as the tall Russian peers inside. It is filled with a dozen velvet rolls.

  ‘The wholesale value is ten million, as agreed.’

  The Russian nods and picks up one of the rolls, unravels it inside the case and exposes at least one hundred loose diamonds. He reaches into his pocket, draws out a loop, a pair of tweezers and a small flashlight. He pushes the loop to his eye, turns on the torch, holds it between his teeth then picks up one of the diamonds with the tweezers and inspects it in the light.

  Senna watches him. ‘They are all WS1 or WS2.’

  ‘Every one?’

  ‘Check them. I have all night.’

  The Russian checks another stone, then another, then rolls the rocks back up in their velvet home, then opens a second roll and checks three more diamonds, then does the same with a third roll. He’s fast but seems to know what he’s doing. Satisfied, he nods at Senna and points at the white van his short comrade just drove out of the aircraft. ‘It’s all yours.’

  Senna turns to Hunt. ‘Check it.’

  Hunt moves to the van, slides open the side door.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Can you see inside?’

  ‘No.’ Claude can’t see into the Trafic because Hunt blocks his view from this angle.

  ‘Let me see.’ Billy plucks the binoculars out of Claude’s hand and lifts them to his eyes. ‘Come on, move you mofo—oh ...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He moved.’ The Australian studies the interior of the van. It contains a great number of one hundred-litre barrels and just as many fifty-kilogram bags. ‘Oh shit.’ Billy yanks the binoculars from his eyes, visibly shaken.

  The Frenchman takes in the Australian’s expression. ‘What?’

  Billy passes the binoculars to Claude, who focuses them on the white van. ‘Migod.’

  ‘That’s a big fucking fertiliser bomb, right?’

  Claude lowers the binoculars and nods, stunned. ‘It is, conservatively, ten times larger than the bomb Timothy McVeigh used to destroy the Oklahoma Federal Building in ‘96.’

  ‘That’s really not good.’

  ‘You could level the Empire State with what’s in that van.’

  Billy’s expression is grim. ‘This just got real.’

  ~ * ~

  After a moment Hunt turns from the van and nods to Senna. ‘All looks good.’

  ‘Check the plane.’

  Hunt hotfoots it up the ramp. A long moment passes, then he exits, again nodding. ‘I’m happy.’

  ‘Okay then.’ Senna turns and passes the briefcase to the tall Russian.

  The tall Russian gestures towards the van. ‘Keys are in the ignition.’

  Senna nods and holds out a folded piece of paper. ‘Deliver the plane here.’

  The tall Russian takes it with a smile. ‘Always a pleasure.’ He turns and moves back up the C-123’s ramp, his short compatriot in tow.

  ~ * ~

  Billy turns to Claude. ‘So that was a trade, right? The huge fucking bomb in the ugly van for a briefcase full of stolen diamonds.’

  Claude looks through the binoculars again. ‘I believe so—oh, they’re leaving. The van and the plane. Now what?’

  ‘We follow
the huge fucking bomb.’ The Australian pivots and moves back into the forest, the Frenchman right behind him. They keep their eyes on the van as it traverses the farm’s driveway, then lose it behind thick foliage. Without the van’s headlights the forest instantly turns pitch-black. Billy clicks on his flashlight, keeps the beam aimed at the ground so they’re not seen. Behind him he can hear the plane’s turboprops run up for take-off.