by James Craig
‘If he tries to get in touch with you,’ Ward said tersely, ‘let me know immediately.’
‘I doubt that there’s much chance of that . . .’ It took the inspector a moment to realize that she was no longer there. Letting the phone fall to his side, he watched the tramp as he continued down the road, heading in the direction of St James’s. Somewhere behind him, Eva and Dom bickered good-naturedly about the effectiveness of the latter’s efforts to remove the last of the broken glass from the floor. Tuning out their squabbling, Carlyle’s thoughts quickly returned to Hunter and his new life on the run. ‘Good luck to you, Captain,’ he said to himself, ‘wherever you are, wherever you go.’
EPILOGUE
Balthazar Quant burst into the office, unannounced, saying breathlessly, ‘Did you just see the email from Bianca?’
Sitting behind his desk, Gerry Durkan was busy studying the form for the upcoming Cheltenham Gold Cup. Tapping on his iPad, he affected to ignore the arrival of his minion.
‘Bianca’s email,’ Balthazar repeated. He sounded as hyped-up as a five year old at 3 a.m. on Christmas morning.
‘No, I haven’t read it,’ Gerry grunted. ‘What’s it say?’ Reluctantly leaving thoughts of the turf behind, he watched Balthazar hop from foot to foot in excitement. Calm down, he thought, don’t piss on the carpet.
‘Looks like Bianca’ll be back from Indonesia the day after tomorrow,’ Balthazar squealed. ‘She says she’s raised just over 290 million dollars from new investors.’ He did a little jig of joy. Surely now, the bonuses would start to flow again. ‘That should just about cover our shortfall.’
‘More than cover it,’ Gerry corrected him. ‘Given that; the joint venture from Hell, the Hydra SPV, has just gone tits up, and we don’t have to throw any more money into that black hole, we should be quids in.’
‘Crisis averted.’ Balthazar, his face flooded with relief, looked as if he was on the point of tears.
‘Indeed.’ Returning to the screen, Gerry pondered the merits of a flutter on Sands of Time at 14 to 1. He’d been hearing good things about the thoroughbred and the odds had already started to shorten. His luck with the bookies hadn’t been great recently but that, too, could change.
It was amazing how much the business outlook could brighten in a matter of weeks, or even days. Earlier in the month, he had been facing not only financial ruin but also bodily harm: a trip to A&E at St Margaret’s Hospital, courtesy of Manny, had seemed inevitable. Now, however, both his physical and economic security seemed assured. He might not have the diamonds, but no matter. They were small beer compared to the money Bianca had raised. Macroom Castlebar Salle’s finances were stabilizing; even Nathanial Ridley of the Ridley Cranes empire was making noises about coming back into the fold. Gerry was having lunch with the boy next week. A couple of bottles of Krug and a visit to Madame Lo’s Gentleman’s Club in Bruton Place and Nat doubtless would be fully reintegrated into the MCS family. Less amenable to rejoining the fold, Bob Biswas had taken his Ghatak Commando and retreated to Antwerp in order to plot some form of revenge. Biswas was still convinced that Durkan had been the brains behind the City airport robbery, but threats of retribution from the other side of the North Sea rang hollow. And Gerry would not sit around waiting for Biswas to strike back. He, more than most, knew that attack was the best form of defence.
As Mrs T herself might very well have said: never complain, never back down and never, ever, stop fighting.
He would deal with Biswas in good time. First things first, however. Taking five thousand pounds from his online betting account, he backed Sands of Time. On the nose. ‘Was there anything else?’
Finishing his little dance, Balthazar stepped in front of the desk.
‘The new security guy.’ Balthazar mentioned the name of Joe Isaacs’ replacement. Durkan had chosen him personally; a very nice guy with a quiet manner and a stellar CV. The new guy had worked for both MI5 and also a Chinese telecoms giant that was busy taking over critical infrastructure projects all over the world, giving him a good understanding of both the past and the future.
‘What about him?’
‘He wants to know if he can speak to Isaacs about his operating protocols.’
‘Protocols?’ Frowning, Durkan glanced at the postcard on his desk. It had arrived this morning. On the front was a selection of images of the Historic Quarter of Valparaiso. On the back, in careful script, was a simple message: Thank you and goodnight. A nice analogue touch in a digital world, it made the terrorist-turned-financier smile. Tonight, Delia would put it in the confidential shredding bin before going home, and then it would be gone for ever. ‘As far as I’m aware, Joe didn’t have any “protocols”.’ Durkan tapped his temple with an index finger. ‘He kept it all up here.’
A look of dismay descended on Balthazar’s face. ‘So what do you want me to tell the new guy?’ he asked.
‘Tell him he’s in charge,’ Durkan smiled. ‘If he wants to start from scratch, that’s fine by me.’
‘Okay.’ Balthazar retreated from the desk.
‘And one other thing,’ Durkan murmured, returning to the horses. ‘Find out who he would use for some rather sensitive work in Belgium.’
On Drury Lane, the refuse collectors were going about their Sisyphean task. As the inspector approached, he caught the eye of his near neighbour from Stukeley Street.
‘Lost anything today, Inspector?’ the bin man chuckled, lobbing a large green sack into the back of the lorry as it idled outside The Sun pub.
‘Not as far as I know,’ Carlyle grinned.
‘You can still give us a hand, if you want.’
‘It’s okay.’ Carlyle paused on the kerb, waiting for a taxi to pass. ‘Thanks for the offer though.’ Shoving a hand into the pocket of his jeans, his fingers brushed against something small and hard, like a piece of grit. Taking it out, he was surprised to see it sparkle in the weak sunlight. Then he remembered the tiny diamond he had recovered from the flat on Goswell Road. To his untutored eye, the object in his hand looked pretty much like a piece of ordinary glass; certainly it was not worth all the bloodshed and pain that he had seen over the last few weeks. Stepping into the road, he tossed the stone into the back of the rubbish truck and continued on his way.
Sitting on his bed, stripped to the waist, Legionnaire Second Class Daniel Hunter idly watched the sunlight streaming through the window. Beside him sat a FAMAS assault rifle, waiting to be cleaned, a small bottle of pure alcohol and a selection of clean rags. In the far corner of the room, a group of new arrivals were laughing and joking in a language that Hunter didn’t immediately recognize. Otherwise the barracks was empty. It was a rare day off and most of his comrades had already left the base to sample the delights of nearby Castelnaudary, such as they were. Hunter had no interest in joining them. Picking up the weapon, he let his mind empty of all thought and began stripping it down.
