by Tom Bale
natural depression. This, combined with the thick vegetation that grew
along the western perimeter fence, meant that very little of the camp
was visible from the road.
The shout was still echoing through the air when Joe sprinted down
the bank and back up towards the bushes on the adjacent corner. A
distant part of his mind prepared for the sudden punch of a bullet,
followed by oblivion.
But it didn’t happen. As he got closer to the fence on the western
side he could hear movement from the road beyond. Thudding footsteps
and a harsh, desperate panting. Someone running fast towards
the bridge.
The older guard shouted again, real venom in his voice. The rhythm
of the footsteps altered. Joe found a patch of bracken and carefully
parted the fronds, easing himself amongst them until he could see
through the fence.
The runner was directly in front of him, about thirty feet from the
bridge. Joe recognised the grey suit of the Cadillac driver. His face
was pale and glistening with sweat. He stumbled to a halt and almost
collapsed. The older guard hurried towards him while the fisherman
remained at the bridge, holding his pistol in a two-handed grip.
'On your knees,’ the guard commanded.
The driver obeyed like a man who was only just in control of his own
body, dropping to the ground with a thump that made Joe wince. Then
another masked gunman ran into view. This one wore a black boiler suit,
with a utility belt that held a two-way radio and half a dozen plasticuffs.
He stopped behind the driver, aiming his gun at the back of the
man’s head. He was obviously out of breath, and his gun hand was
unsteady. If he fired now, it would be a messy execution.
But the guard shook his head. 'Not here. Take him back, let Liam
decide what to do with him.’
The gunman muttered something, shoved his gun in his belt and
took out one of the plastic restraints. He cuffed the driver’s hands and
pulled him to his feet. The older guard conferred briefly with the fisherman,
Gough. Then he rejoined the gunman and they escorted their
prisoner away.
Gough returned to his original position on the bridge, next to the
van. He took off his mask but kept his gun at the ready. The incident
with the driver had obviously made an impression. He looked a lot
more alert than before.
Joe found himself replaying this afternoon’s incident on the beach,
wondering if there was some clue he had missed. He realised that
Gough must have been reconnoitring the island. He’d probably had
the gun on him, even then. If Joe had escalated the row about litter,
both he and Jaden might have ended up dead.
Joe was conscious of the loathing he felt for the man who’d run
Angela Weaver off her bike. Reluctantly he concluded that there was
no way he could sneak up on the bridge. Any thoughts of retribution
would have to wait.
He turned away, descended the grassy slope and followed a route
parallel to the road. This corner of the camp was open ground, dotted
with bushes and the occasional small pond. It was a good running
surface, the grass springy and soft, although he had to watch out for
molehills and rabbit burrows. The last thing he needed right now was
a broken ankle.
While he ran, he analysed what he’d seen so far. The guns and
two-way radios showed this was a serious, well-organised operation.
The masks and the cuffs implied that the gang were intent on taking
prisoners, rather than killing indiscriminately. That meant the island’s
residents could still be alive, in which case Joe’s objectives were clear.
He had to find them, and help them escape.
He also had no illusions about his own predicament. If he was
caught, there was a fair chance they would kill him.
Angela Weaver had advised him to come to terms with his anger.
Learn to live with it, she’d said, whether dormant or awake. She’d
even suggested it might be there for a purpose.
Well, she got that right, he thought.
And now it was very much awake.
Twenty-Nine
The sound of voices swam into range as Liam and Eldon climbed the
stairs. They’d tied the maid’s ankles and gagged her with a cloth, then
shut her in the boot room as an extra precaution.
The kitchen aside, the house was a lot more traditional than
Dreamscape: thickly carpeted, with dense wallpaper and dark wood.
It might have been built to endure harsh Ukrainian winters; on the
balmy English coast it felt gloomy and stifling. The faint aroma of
cigar smoke added to the impression of a fusty old gentlemen’s club.
They reached a wide landing. The first door to the left was closed.
They heard the American speaking, then a burst of laughter from
McWhirter. Liam nodded to Eldon: Are you ready?
Instead of affirmation, Eldon’s eyes betrayed panic. 'Four against
two,’ he whispered.
'It’s okay,’ Liam said. And it really was. He wasn’t faking how calm
he felt.
He turned the handle and threw the door open. He was first into
the room, and for a second he wondered if Eldon would let him down,
just turn and run. Then he felt movement at his side, saw the shock
on the faces of the room’s occupants, and he knew it was going to be
all right.
Valentin Nasenko was seated behind a desk so imposing that his
laptop looked the size of a playing card. The American visitor, Travers,
was seated opposite, staring over his shoulder at Liam.
The lackeys, McWhirter and Yuri, were standing at either side of
the room. McWhirter looked like he was going to pass out. He grabbed
the edge of an antique roll-top bureau for support.
Yuri wore a tiny, bitter smile. His hand reached slowly towards his
pocket, but stopped when Liam turned the gun on him. 'Uh-uh.’
'Who are you?’ Valentin demanded. He half rose from his seat,
waving his arms as though shooing away cattle.
'Sit down,’ Liam ordered. 'Hands flat on the table. The rest of you,
face down on the floor, hands behind your backs.’
For a second, nothing happened. No one spoke. No one moved.
Liam fired the Glock, aiming for the wall a couple of feet above
Nasenko’s head. The bullet struck a small framed watercolour of a
Ukrainian landscape. The shell casing rattled across the floor and
came to rest at McWhirter’s feet.
Valentin blinked rapidly. He sat down and placed his hands on the
desk.
The American sniffed, as though he didn’t think much of English
hospitality. He looked from Yuri to McWhirter.
'We better do as he says, gentlemen.’
Priya consulted her watch again. It was only a few minutes since Eldon
had gone to join Liam and already time was dragging.
But there was a plan to adhere to, and she had to accept that. She
knew it was prudent to keep the prisoners in their own homes until
the whole island was secure. She just hadn’t foreseen that she’d be
the one left to babysit.
Of course, the Felton house was supp
osed to have been empty. It
wasn’t really Liam’s fault that their reconnaissance had been inadequate.
He’d argued that surveillance risked more than it gained, and
Gough’s little confrontation on the beach had proved him right.
'You’re eager to get on with it?’
Oliver’s voice made Priya jump. She glanced at him but said nothing.
The silence resumed, intensified by the whirr of the air conditioning.
They were sitting in the principal living room on the ground floor,
a massive space with a minimalist decor of marble, steel and leather.
There were no soft fabrics and virtually no colour. The overall effect
was bleak and impersonal. She couldn’t imagine anyone truly relaxing
in here.
Oliver Felton continued to watch her. His confidence had been
growing from the moment he’d realised they weren’t going to kill
him on the spot. He seemed entranced, not just by her, but by the
situation.
She remembered what Liam had said: a sandwich short of a picnic. Not a phrase she’d heard before, but its meaning was clear enough.
And it certainly seemed appropriate. Her impression was that Oliver
had a whole range of issues. He was a voyeur. Socially inadequate,
withdrawn, perhaps slightly autistic. He also displayed various tics and
gestures that she’d seen before in people with obsessive-compulsive
disorders.
In short, he was a mess.
After a minute or two he tried again. You’re waiting for a signal of
some kind. Confirmation that the other residents have capitulated?’
It was phrased as a question. Priya couldn’t help but shrug in
response.
Oliver smiled. He was sitting very precisely in the centre of a black
leather sofa, his long thin legs pressed together. His arms were also
together, partly because of the restraints on his wrists. His hands, one
cupping the other in a fist, rested on his knees. It was a posture that
invited him to curl into a ball, but he seemed to be resisting that urge,
holding his head abnormally high.
'The Weavers will be easy enough,’ he said, 'though Donald has a
fierce temper on him, especially since his son ended up as roadkill.
You know about that?’
Priya nodded.
'I bet Terry Fox was a tough nut in his younger days, but that was
a long time ago. His bitch of a daughter will be fuming that she missed
out on the excitement. Think of all the photo spreads. My Robbery
Hostage Hell!’ Oliver giggled, then grew thoughtful. 'If there’s anyone
you have to worry about, it’s Valentin Nasenko. No one hates being
robbed more than another thief.’
'Nasenko’s a thief?’
Oliver frowned, as though he expected better of her. 'Of course he
is. Growing up under a communist regime, it wasn’t hard work and
entrepreneurial spirit that made him rich. He was just in the right
place at the right time. By accident or good fortune he was able to
plunder state assets and get away with it.’
He paused for breath, licking his lips. And good luck to him. Most
of us would do it if we had the chance. But be aware – just because
Nasenko stole and bribed and extorted his way to a fortune, it doesn’t
mean he won’t be livid when someone does the same to him. It’s a
curious moral universe these men inhabit.’
Priya nodded, as though she took his ravings seriously. 'These men?’
'Oh, I fully include my father amongst their number. I mean, he
came from family money, took their wealth and grew it spectacularly.
But it’s tainted with blood, every last penny.’
He must have seen that she didn’t understand, and he laughed.
'My God, you’re either very naive or you haven’t done your research.
The family fortune was built on arms dealing. They call it the “defence
industry”, as if that fools anyone. I mean, when you’re in the factory,
watching a rocket launcher being lovingly packed in a crate, you don’t
stand there picturing how wonderful it’ll look on someone’s mantelpiece.
Do you?’
He sucked in the excess saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
Priya looked away.
'Of course you don’t. What you’re picturing is how effectively that
weapon will obliterate a peaceful little village suspected of harbouring
terrorists.’
Priya nodded. Her radio buzzed, but with Oliver in full flow she
ignored it. She sensed he was building up to something.
'If you’re in the arms trade, your product is death. Maybe the drones
on the production line can delude themselves that they don’t contribute
to the suffering in the world, but the men at the top know exactly
what they’re doing. Some struggle, then learn to live with it. Some
never have a problem in the first place.’ He smiled. 'My father falls
into the latter category, and that’s why you’re welcome to his money.’
She stared at him, wondering if she’d misheard. Her radio buzzed
again. She had to answer, or Liam would think the worst.
Angry at the interruption, Oliver began to rock back and forth,
pressing his arms down hard on his thighs, digging his elbows into his
groin.
On the radio, Liam told her: 'Terror’s Reach is ours. We’re moving
the non-essentials to Dreamscape.’
And mine?’
'Keep him there. I want to talk to him.’
Priya put the radio down. Oliver was rocking faster, the forward
motion nearly tipping him on to the floor. His eyes gleamed with an
unnatural fervour.
You look disappointed,’ he said.
'Not really.’
You’re jealous of someone. They’re not giving you the respect you
deserve.’
'What you said about your father’s money. You mean that?’
'Of course I do.’ Oliver stopped rocking, but his elbows remained
wedged into his abdomen, concealing – or perhaps assisting – his
arousal. “I’ll open the safe for you, if you want.’
After half a mile or so, Joe knew he had gone as far as he could while
staying parallel to the road. From here the training camp veered left,
while the road towards the residential part of the island turned to the
right, with the woods in between.
As he crossed the uneven ground a cluster of buildings came into
view. They looked oddly familiar: a terrace of half a dozen modest
dwellings that might have been plucked from a council estate in 1970s
Belfast or Armagh, complete with a sectarian mural on the gable-end
wall. There was even a small playground, with a roundabout and a
set of swings. Within the confines of a military establishment, it looked
eerie and out of place.
Just beyond the playground a picnic table rested on a weed-strewn
patch of grass. There was a man sitting at the table. He wore a blue
jacket and a bright red scarf. The sight of him made Joe’s stomach
lurch – until he realised he was looking at a dummy. A mannequin,
presumably used during training exercises, now frozen in time and
place, redundant.
Feeling foolish, Joe turned away from the houses and approached
the boundary fence.
There were thick bushes on both sides that would
give him cover as he cut his way through the wire. From here he
calculated that he was only a couple of hundred yards from Valentin
Nasenko’s property.
He took out his multi-tool and knelt down. And immediately sensed
someone watching him. He spun, looking first at the picnic table,
half-convinced that the dummy in the red scarf would have gone. But
it hadn’t moved.
Then he noticed he was overlooked by the last house in the terrace.
There was a figure behind the curtains in the upstairs window. Another
mannequin.
Get a grip, Joe told himself. He turned back and started work on
the fence.
Liam stayed close to the door, from where he could cover the prisoners
while Eldon applied the cuffs and patted each man down for
weapons and phones. They found a gun on Yuri, a Sig 9 mm automatic
pistol. More surprising was that the American had an illegal
folding knife in his jacket.
Didn’t trust your hosts?’ Liam asked.
Travers smiled ruefully, but said nothing. Of the four men it was
McWhirter who looked most afraid. He was visibly upset, casting
desperate glances at Valentin and then at Yuri, as if he felt sure that
one or both had it within them to produce a miracle solution.
Once they were all secure, Liam made Yuri, Travers and McWhirter
sit in a line against the wall. With their hands tied behind their backs
they had no way of rising quickly to their feet. He left Nasenko at his
desk, his hands cuffed from the front.
Liam sent Eldon to search the house for more phones or weapons,
then radioed an update to the other teams. He pulled up the chair
vacated by Travers and sat down, swinging a foot up on to the table.
He waited a moment, relishing the knowledge that he had the undivided
attention of everyone in the room.
'I hope we all understand what’s going on here,’ Liam said. 'Keep
it civilised, and no one has to come to harm.’
'You won’t get away with this,’ McWhirter said, his voice an octave
too high.
We will hunt you down,’ Yuri added.
But it was Valentin who remained cool and businesslike. 'What do
you want?’
'It’s nice and simple,’ Liam said. You open up your vault. We empty
it. We leave. You claim on your insurance. Nobody loses.’
'Nice and simple,’ Valentin echoed. You think I can allow this to
