by Mark Dawson
HICKS PREPARED himself, dressing in the suit that Logan had left in the wardrobe. He grabbed the shoulder rig, together with the Sig Sauer P226 nestled inside the holster. He spent ten minutes obsessively checking the weapon to ensure that it was properly functional. He had expected that it would be. He looked up as he reassembled it and saw that Milton was watching him. The two men shared an understanding: it was a routine that both used to distract themselves from the uncertainty of an impending operation.
HICKS WAITED in the lobby. It was midday now, and the sun was burning bright. A Mercedes GLE pulled off the road and glided up to the entrance. The doorman bent down to speak to the driver, and then came inside.
"Mr. Logan?"
"That's right."
"Your car has arrived."
Hicks followed the doorman outside and allowed him to open the rear door for him. Hicks stepped down and slipped into the car.
There were three men waiting inside for him: the driver, big and with a blond ponytail that was trapped against the seat behind his broad shoulders; a passenger next to him, shaven-headed and with broad shoulders; and a third man, sitting in the back, next to him. He looked to be in his late fifties, although he appeared fit and strong. He had a full head of hair, although it was greying a little at the temples, and his face was broad and flat. His eyes were dead, and, when he looked at Hicks, the feeling was disconcerting.
"Mr. Logan," he said. "I'm Major Albert Lane-Fox. I work for Tactical."
Hicks felt a flutter of nervousness. That could be a bluff. What if Logan had been lying, and he had met this man before? What if that wasn’t his name?
He nodded to the men in the front. “Tango and Cash?”
"They work for us, too. Shall we go for a drive?"
Hicks nodded. The driver touched the gas and the Mercedes pulled away.
"Where are we going?" Hicks asked.
"Just for a drive, Mr. Logan. I'd like the chance to talk to you about what you said."
ZIGGY PULLED away. Milton was lying across the seats in the back.
"They're going south," Ziggy reported.
"Stay well back."
"I know what to do," he said indignantly.
Milton knew that he did not know, that his experience in surveillance was most likely derived from Hollywood, but there was nothing else for it. He couldn't drive the car without being seen, and they needed two vehicles so that they could swap in and out of the pursuit and minimise the possibility that they might be made by whoever was in the other car. It was far from ideal. Hicks was in a car driven by men who were most likely skilled in counter-surveillance, and the only team he could assemble to follow them comprised a one-legged police officer and a middle-aged computer hacker who had delusions of being Popeye Doyle.
Needs must, he thought. He had no other choice.
He took out his phone and called Josie.
"I'm on the move," she said over the phone's speaker. "Where are you?"
He poked his head around so that he could see the satnav.
"On the expressway headed south. Just coming up to the bridge over the Paranaque river."
"I'm on Quirino Avenue."
That was east of them. It ran parallel to the road that they were on.
"Get ahead," Milton said into the phone. "Can you get onto the expressway at Victor Medina?"
"No," she said. "Not there. The Longos Flyover."
"Good," Milton said. "Let me know when you're there. We'll stay on them until then."
LANE-FOX WAS quiet for the first ten minutes as they started to head south. Hicks knew what he was doing: he wanted him to know that he was in control, that the conversation would begin when he wanted it to. Even though he could predict the behaviour, it didn't make the silence—and the two big men in the front of the car—any less disconcerting.
"Thank you for your message," Lane-Fox said at last. "It was unexpected."
"I didn't expect to have to deliver it."
"Well, as I say, we were grateful for the warning. It seems that quite a few men escaped. Are you sure that Mr. Milton was among them?"
"Yes," Hicks said. "I'm quite sure."
"How's that?"
"Because he's tied up in a trailer north of Manila."
Lane-Fox cocked an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yes. Really."
“You found him?”
“I did. Yesterday evening.”
"And yet he only escaped yesterday morning."
"He was working with a female police officer. I was watching her. She led me to him."
"And the officer?"
"Not a problem any longer.”
"You continue to surprise me, Mr. Logan. Your resourcefulness is impressive."
"That's very kind of you. But I'd like to discuss it with Mr. de Lacey if I might."
"It doesn't work like that," Lane-Fox said. "He's a busy man, especially so soon after his release. You see me first. If I think what you have to say would be of interest to him, maybe you get to see him. If not, you don't."
JOSIE MERGED onto the expressway and picked up speed. It was a three-lane road, and she indicated and made her way over to the fast lane. She put her foot down and saw the rental that Ziggy had hired from the airport just a few hundred feet ahead. She closed up until she saw the black Mercedes GLE that had arrived to collect Hicks from the hotel.
Her phone was on the seat next to her. It was on speaker. "I'll take over," she said.
Milton acknowledged her, and Ziggy touched the brakes to slow down.
Josie went by, and, as she passed them, she exchanged a quick glance with Ziggy. Milton was in the back; she couldn't see him.
THE CAR picked up speed. Hicks realised that he had no idea where they were going.
Lane-Fox spread his hands. "So what would you like to discuss with him?"
"I thought that he’d be interested to hear that I can deliver Milton to him."
"For the second time."
"That's right."
"And were you to do that, am I right in thinking that it wouldn't be free?"
"Like you say, I've already discharged my obligations under our previous agreement."
"Indeed you have. So this is new work?"
"I don’t do this for charity."
“Can you prove that you have Mr. Milton?”
Hicks took out the phone that Milton had collected from Logan. He opened the photo album and tapped the one that they had taken in the hotel parking lot that morning. Milton was in the trunk of Hicks’s rental. His hands looked to be secured behind his back. The marks on his face were visible.
Lane-Fox examined the photograph and then made an affirmative noise. He leaned forward and told the driver to pull over. There was a gas station ahead, and the man indicated and turned into the forecourt.
"Would you mind stepping out of the car for a moment?" Lane-Fox asked. "I'd like to make a quick phone call."
“Not at all,” said Hicks. He opened the door and stepped out into the boiling midday sun.
THE MERCEDES indicated that it was about to exit the expressway. Josie dabbed the brakes and watched as it slowed down and turned onto a ramp that led to a gas station.
"They've turned off," she reported. "There's a Petron gas station. I can't follow."
She looked over at the station as she drove by. The car had pulled over and, as she watched, she saw Hicks get out.
"Hicks is out of the car."
"Copy that," Milton said. "We'll take over."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Head north. I'll see you up there."
HICKS CROSSED the forecourt to the gas station shop and bought himself a can of Coke. He popped the top and waited in the shade for Lane-Fox to finish his conversation. He guessed that he was speaking to de Lacey. He knew, if that was correct, that the success or failure of Milton's plan depended on what was being said right now. He had no idea whether he had been convincing. He had been on edge the entire time, fighting down the paranoia that eve
ry comment and every question was a test designed to trip him up. Everything was predicated on Logan having told Milton the truth. Maybe he had been lying. For all they knew, Logan might have been operating from a cabin aboard the Topaz. And if the paranoia was justified, if they knew that Hicks was lying... well, whatever might come next would not be pleasant.
The car horn sounded. Hicks looked over; the man with the shaven head had lowered his window and was beckoning him over.
Lane-Fox opened the door as he approached.
"Get in, Mr. Logan."
Hicks did as he was told.
"Mr. de Lacey will see me?"
"He will. Now, actually. How would you like to see the yacht?"
He closed the door.
The car pulled away.
81
THEY TURNED around and retraced their route back to the north. Lane-Fox didn't speak again until they reached the signs for the Alphaland Marina Club.
"The yacht is at anchor," he said as the driver turned off the road. "We'll transfer across to it."
The driver edged between rows of hundred-thousand-dollar sports cars until he reached a disembarkation point near the water. Hicks had seen the marina's clubhouse from the windows of Logan's hotel room. It was built on pilings in the middle of the water and accessed by a covered bridge. The man with the shaven head got out and then came around to open the door for Hicks.
"Sir," he said, indicating that Hicks should get out, too.
"Are you armed?"
Hicks nodded.
"Please."
Hicks unbuttoned his jacket, reached in for Logan's Sig Sauer and handed it to the man.
"Thank you," Lane-Fox said. "You'll get it back afterwards."
The four of them made their way through the marina to the water's edge. There was a tender waiting for them. It was a beautiful vessel crafted from mahogany and metal, its chrome fixtures glinting in the early afternoon sun. The rear of the craft was taken up by a U-shaped leather banquette, and Hicks sat down with the driver on one side of him and the passenger on the other. He had noticed the subtle bulges under the jackets of both men that indicated that they were armed. That was no surprise, but it was a reminder to him that he was vulnerable.
ZIGGY BROUGHT the car to a halt at the entrance to the yacht club.
"It's clear," he said.
Milton raised his head. They had a view down to the water and, as he watched, he saw a brown and white tender with five people aboard skim across the water toward the big yacht anchored in the bay.
"Not much we can do now," Ziggy opined redundantly.
He was right.
Hicks was on his own now.
HICKS STARED at the yacht as they bounced across the gentle waves toward it. The vessel was large and, despite that, still managed to look sleek and graceful. It had sugar-scoop windows and a glass lounge that seemed to blend the yacht more seamlessly into the water. Crew in white shirts and khaki shorts busied themselves on the decks, making their final preparations. Deckhands cleaned the outside of the boat. Sun-loungers were set out on the teak deck, the towels placed out on them rolled in tight, neat cylinders.
The tender approached the stern of the yacht. A deckhand threw out a line and the pilot caught it, looped it through a tow-eye and knotted it tight. The tender was brought up close and secured, and the passengers were encouraged to disembark.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Logan," Lane-Fox said. "This way, please."
Not all the men he saw were deckhands. Hicks saw four other men, big and with close-cropped hair, who could only have been de Lacey's private security detail. They were dressed in dark suits, they wore dark glasses and headsets and had noticeable bulges beneath their arms indicating shoulder holsters and handguns. One of the men hovered pointedly as Hicks clambered aboard, fixing him with an even, professional regard.
Lane-Fox led the way through a wide aperture at the stern of the boat and into the interior beyond.
Female stewardesses busied themselves, tidying and cleaning in anticipation of their departure.
Hicks thought it all a little vulgar. It was all about status. A yacht like this was hardly practical, and the costs of running it must have been exorbitant, but it served other purposes. More so than a multi-million-dollar residence, or an Italian sports car, this was the ultimate projection of wealth. It was also the perfect location for business meetings where illicit transactions might be discussed.
Lane-Fox led the way to an open area where another man was speaking on a telephone. The new man had his back to Hicks, but, as he turned, Hicks recognised him at once. He was tall, with a pot belly that signified good living, a sun-beaten face, and greying hair that was swept back from a wide forehead. He was wearing a pale blue suit with a crisp white shirt and cravat. His eyes glittered, matching the sunbeams that sparkled off the water.
Hicks recognised him at once: Fitzroy de Lacey.
De Lacey finished the call and put his phone into his pocket.
"Bertie?" he said to Lane-Fox.
"This is Logan."
De Lacey's face broke into a broad smile. "Mr. Logan," he said. "A pleasure to finally meet you."
"Likewise, Mr. de Lacey."
"Although in less than ideal circumstances. We're leaving tonight, as you might be able to tell. But we certainly can't leave until we've sorted out the unpleasant surprise you dropped on us. I'd like to talk to you about it, if I may."
"Of course," Hicks said.
"Come," he said. "I'll show you the boat."
82
THE MERCEDES had been handed over to a valet who had driven it around the back of the buildings that lined the boardwalk. Ziggy found it easily enough: there was a private car park where an array of expensive cars were kept while their owners went about their business in the club. The lot was open, and inadequately guarded by a single man in a booth. His attention was facing outward, away from the cars in his charge, and it was a simple thing for Ziggy to walk between a Hummer and the Mercedes, shielding him from the unlikely possibility that the guard might turn and look into the lot. He reached into his pocket for the small device, flicked out the antennae with his finger, switched it on and slapped it inside the wheel arch. The magnet attached with a satisfying clunk and, without waiting any longer than necessary, Ziggy turned and made his way back to the car.
"CAN I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee?"
"Coffee, please."
De Lacey spoke to one of the crew members, then turned back to Hicks. "They'll find us. Let's take a walk."
They climbed a curved stairway that was surrounded by scalloped silver leaf and equipped with an ostentatiously expensive hand-carved banister. The deck above was dedicated to the dining room, with Baccarat crystal chandeliers, a vast table and alligator hides and kudu horns on the walls.
"Do you like my little boat?"
"I'm not sure I'd describe it like that."
De Lacey smiled, evidently pleased to be able to show off the benefits of his riches. "I bought it from a Russian," he said. "I would have commissioned one myself, but I didn't want to wait. We can accommodate eighteen guests. Perfect discretion. Unmatched privacy, obviously. It's difficult to think of a better place to conduct a business meeting than in the middle of the ocean, away from prying eyes. The security is world-class, too." He rapped his knuckles against a broad, tinted window that wrapped around the superstructure. "Bulletproof. Ultrasonic guns and an anti-missile system, too. Practically impregnable."
"It's very impressive."
They walked on, climbing to the bridge deck. The yacht had been equipped with a stunning infinity pool, and, as de Lacey stopped and turned back, Hicks was able to look out between two vast sun canopies across the water to the sea and, beyond that, to the verdant hills of the coast.
De Lacey sat down at one of the shaded tables and indicated that Logan should do the same. He did, and, as he settled back in the comfortable chair and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun, a uniformed waiter arrived with a si
lver platter that bore two cups of coffee, a sugar bowl and a plate of biscuits. He placed the cups and saucers on the table, left the sugar and the biscuits in the middle, and, with a barely noticeable dip of his head, he left them and made his way back down to the lower deck.
"So—Milton. Tell me what happened."
"There was a jail break. He was one of the ones to get away."
"A jail break? Really?"
"There was a fire alarm. The doors opened automatically."
"They do that? I would've left them locked in to take their chances. The men in there are scum, Logan. It would have done the world a favour."
Hicks ignored that. "There was a riot. The guards were overwhelmed. They had to send the army in eventually, but it was too late by then. They lost several hundred, including Milton."
"But you have him?"
"Yes."
"Might I ask where?"
"There's an old shabu factory north of the city. I did some business out here a few months ago. It's still there."
"That's where he is?"
"Taped hand and foot and shackled to the wall. He's not going anywhere."
"Can I ask how you managed that? Milton is a very resourceful man."
“Yes, he is. But not everyone is as careful as he is. The police officer who arrested him evidently changed her mind about his guilt. She visited him in Bilibid on three occasions. I was told about it."
"What's her name?"
"Hernandez."
"Who told you?"
"Mendoza."
"Ah, yes. The tame policeman. What happened to him?"
"Milton killed him."
If de Lacey was surprised, he masked it. "Is that so?"
"Mendoza was sloppy. Milton found out that he arranged his transfer from Quezon to Bilibid. And there was a situation with the owner of the hotel where we staged the murder. Mendoza very clumsily tried to clear things up. So, yes, Milton knew he was involved. Hernandez set up a meeting with Mendoza and Milton ambushed him."
