Bad Turn

by Zoe Sharp

  I approached the far side of the parked truck by a circuitous route, keeping well out of sight of the BMW and its occupants. The first thing I checked was the rear doors of the container, but even if I could have opened them without being seen, the latches were secured with hefty padlocks.

  Scratch that idea.

  Instead, I worked my way along one side, wedging a nail, point upwards, between the concrete and the tread at the front of each tyre. I guessed they were more likely to drive out than reverse when there was no obvious reason to do so, but I added my last couple of nails to the backs of the wheels under the rig itself, just in case. I knew truck tyres were inflated to an incredible pressure compared to those on a car—over a hundred psi. As soon as the truck moved off, it was probably going to suffer multiple blowouts. Maybe not immediately, but enough that it would not get far. Or so I hoped.

  I hesitated a moment. Thinking about it, I had no idea how far the truck might be able to travel. The nails would eventually cause the tyres to deflate, but because they were solid, they might also plug their own holes. The spikes on a police stinger, I knew from experience, were hollow so the air would come out immediately.

  As I stood, gazing at the huge truck, something an old biking mate of mine once told me came drifting back to mind. I made my way back into the rubble and returned with the half a ratchet strap coiled in my hands. The ratchet itself was missing, leaving only the hook and a longish length of dirty canvas strap with a frayed end.

  I tiptoed to the front of the trailer where it was connected up to the cab and located the red brake line. I looped the hook around it and back onto the strap, then ran the loose end down to one of the inside wheels, where it would be less likely to be spotted. I wedged the strap firmly under the tyre. It was the best I could do, with what I had at hand, to slow them down.

  Another twenty minutes of inactivity inched past, during which time I returned to my uncomfortable lump of stone and the two men lounged in comparative comfort inside their luxury SUV.

  I envied them the plush leather seats, even if they didn’t start the engine or switch on the lights. I couldn’t see more than the odd glimpse of the interior through the front screen, but it didn’t look like they talked much to pass the time. Orosco liked the sound of his own voice. Schade, on the other hand, valued silence.

  I would have put money on Schade winning that one.

  Suddenly, more headlights—two sets this time—turned off the road and onto the track. They were moving a lot faster than the truck had done, suspension crashing as they thundered past and sending up a swirl of dust into the air.

  I covered my nose and mouth with the sleeve of my shirt. The last thing I could afford to do right now was have a coughing fit.

  I fished my smartphone out of my pocket but hesitated over waking it up. The light from the screen would give away my presence and position. Much as I wanted some evidence of what was going on, I knew I couldn’t risk it. Reluctantly, I shoved it away again.

  The two vehicles braked to a halt in the yard. I saw the pair were big Nissan double-cab pick-ups, their paintwork dark and gleaming. They pulled up side by side, at right-angles to the BMW. For a moment or two afterwards, nobody moved. I peered at the glass but both had tinted windows so it was impossible to see inside.

  The doors on the BMW opened. Orosco was first out, as if he couldn’t wait to stamp his authority on the deal. As he stepped down onto the concrete, he did a little rearward jerk of his shoulders that pushed his chin out at the same time. Perhaps he thought it made him look more determined, a tougher proposition. What spoiled it for him was then having to wait, not patiently, while everyone else debussed.

  Schade followed suit more slowly. Then the doors on the Nissans opened as if choreographed. Four guys got out together. They were dressed in variations on a theme in black. Although their hands were empty—as far as I could tell—their jackets were unzipped or unbuttoned. They were all dark haired and olive skinned. Two had moustaches, one a beard, one was clean-shaven.

  They all took their time checking out the surrounding area. I concentrated on staying very quiet and very still, merging my body with the landscape around me.

  After a couple of elongated seconds, the bearded man detached himself from the group and came forwards. His body language was open and unthreatening. It was only as Orosco moved to greet him that I recognised the man as the Syrian, Khalid Hamzeh. After that, it didn’t take me long to identify the clean-shaven guy as the one who’d fired the RPG at the Sikorsky, back on Isola Minore.

  The two of them shook hands, Hamzeh clasping Orosco’s forearm with his left. Whatever explanation Orosco had given the Syrian for our abrupt departure from the house in Tuscany, it had clearly not affected their relationship.

  My mind raced. Hamzeh had complained about Kincaid cutting off his supply line since he’d taken over the business. With this clandestine exchange, it seemed that Orosco was determined to maintain the status quo. Why was he so determined to supply chemical weapons to these people, when his son-in-law was so equally determined to break that trade? Or was that fact alone enough of a reason?

  When they spoke, the two men were close enough together not to be loud about it. From my vantage point, I could hear their voices but not the words. The tone sounded amicable enough, though.

  I scanned back across the other men, the vehicles, the open ground surrounding them. They were tense, but only in the way professionals are—alert to the possibilities.

  Hamzeh gestured to the container. Orosco shrugged his agreement and led him and Mr Clean-Shaven to the rear with Schade, who unlatched the doors. Nobody even glanced at the area behind the cab.

  Moustache One and Moustache Two took up a halfway position at the front of the truck, where they could keep a watchful eye on proceedings but also see their own vehicles.

  Whatever brief inspection of the merchandise Hamzeh carried out must have been satisfactory. He climbed down from the back of the truck and shook hands with Orosco again. The two of them walked back to one of the Nissans. Hamzeh produced a slim laptop from inside and flipped open the lid. The glow from the screen lit up both their faces. Hamzeh spent a little time tapping at the keys, then swivelled the laptop towards Orosco for him to check. A money transfer, I assumed. Whatever happened to briefcases filled with real cash?

  After a moment, Orosco nodded and Hamzeh snapped the lid of the laptop closed. Schade handed over the truck keys. Hamzeh threw the keys to Clean-Shaven, who caught them one-handed. There was more brief murmuring, then Moustache One went with Clean-Shaven to the truck, while Hamzeh and Moustache Two got back into the Nissans.

  I didn’t need to stay for the rest, especially as I had a good idea of what was about to happen. They would want somebody to blame, and I’d rather it wasn’t me.

  I crawled backwards from my position, keeping low among the rubble until I was far enough away to hurry back to the Mercedes. I realised that as soon as I started the engine, they would hear me. I climbed in, set the key in the ignition and waited, window down, for the right time to make my escape.

  The truck engine started with a roar of revs, louder than the other vehicles. I reached for the key but already I could see lights as one of the Nissans turned onto the track. If I moved now, they’d see me.

  Shit.

  The truck must have tried to pull in behind the pick-up. It barely made a few metres before there was an explosive bang and everything stopped. The Nissan on the track braked hard and I heard the transmission whine as it slammed into reverse. There was shouting and then, almost inevitably, the first shots.

  I cranked the Merc’s engine and had just reached for the gear lever when the barrel of a semiautomatic was thrust through the open window and placed, quite carefully, against the side of my head.

  57

  Very slowly and smoothly, I moved both hands to the top of the steering wheel, where they could be seen. The muzzle of the gun nudged my temple and a voice growled, “Keys!”

>   With a sinking heart, I reached down again, switched off the Merc’s engine and removed the key, all without moving my head by more than a millimetre.

  A gloved hand extended through the window. I dropped the key into it and the hand withdrew. So did the gun. It took me a second for that to register, another before I could unfreeze my muscles enough to act.

  By that time, the passenger door opened and a man slid into the seat. He was still holding the gun, and it was still pointed at me. For the first time, I turned my head far enough to look at him.

  “Hello, Schade.”

  He handed the Merc’s key back to me. “Don’t just sit there, Fox. Drive.”

  A hundred questions ran through my head but now was hardly the time. The shooting in the yard behind us seemed to have stopped. Considering Orosco was one against four, I didn’t think that boded well for him.

  I fired up the engine, rammed the car into gear and took off. I didn’t switch on the headlights until we were back out on the road. Nobody shot at us, as far as I could tell. Nobody seemed to be pursuing us, either.

  Curiosity got the better of caution. “When…?”

  “Did I spot you? About ten minutes after we left de Bourdillon’s place,” Schade said. He saw my face and added, “Don’t feel too bad. I knew we were being tailed, but I didn’t know for sure it was you until we got to the lights on the bridge at Millau and I got a look at the Benz.”

  “Yeah, well, trying to follow someone solo is a bitch.”

  “You got that right,” he said. “Nice stunt with the truck, by the way. Where’d you learn that?”

  “Long story.”

  “Long drive. Shoot.”

  I eyed the gun he was holding loosely in his right hand but didn’t comment on his choice of words.

  I sighed. “OK, I’m a biker. Occasionally, big trucks like that cut you up in traffic. A mate of mine who used to work for a haulage company told me there’s usually a safety for the trailer brakes at the front of the unit. He said you catch up with them at the next lights, then ride alongside and thump the trip switch as you go past. Locks the brakes on the trailer. Or you can disconnect the red hose—same effect.”

  “But that’s not what you did back there, otherwise we woulda heard the air escaping from the system.”

  I shrugged but there was nothing to be gained by not telling him. “I tied a line around the hose and tucked the other end under a wheel. As soon as he set off, it tightened up and yanked the fittings off the end of the hose.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of teeth. “That is very cool.”

  “He’s, um, going to have half a dozen flat tyres to deal with as well.”

  Schade shook his head and laughed outright.

  “Shit, Charlie. I knew I liked you.” But the barrel of the gun never wavered.

  “Didn’t stop you taking a pot-shot at me yesterday, did it?”

  “Yeah, stopped me hitting you, though. You gotta give it that.”

  I’d already guessed as much but it was always good to have a theory confirmed. I eyed the gun again.

  “And now?”

  “And now…you concentrate on the road.”

  “I’m a woman,” I pointed out. “Multi-tasking is in our DNA. I can talk and drive at the same time.”

  “Well, I’m a guy, so I can’t talk and not shoot you unless I think real hard about it.”

  I wasn’t inclined to argue the point…for the moment, anyway. Silence fell, broken only by Schade with the occasional instruction to take this turn or that. It soon became apparent that we were heading back north.

  After half an hour or so, I risked trying again. Schade was twisted slightly towards me and slumped down in his seat in his usual rumpled pose. I wasn’t foolish enough to imagine it meant he wasn’t paying absolute attention to any false moves I might try. Which was precisely why I didn’t try anything.

  “Who are you really working for?”

  He didn’t answer right away. For a while, I didn’t think he was going to.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Helena Kincaid.”

  I hesitated only for a fraction of a second before I spoke but knew he’d caught it by the dry tone of his response.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Her safety is my main—my only—concern. What about you?”

  “Oh, I work for the only person I know I can trust,” he said. “Me.”

  “That must make life tough. When do you sleep?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t go trying to psycho-analyse me, Charlie. Better minds than yours have tried and failed.”

  I ignored the warning, pressed on. “Well, I thought you were supposed to be working for Eric Kincaid, but tonight you were down here with Darius Orosco, so let me phrase it differently. Which of them thinks you’re working for him?”

  “Now that is a good question,” he agreed. “And I guess I woulda said Orosco…right up to the moment back there when he pulled a gun on me.”

  58

  We arrived back at the chateau just as dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern horizon. After a day lying in a wood, without food, followed by a night spent mostly behind the wheel, I was desperate for a shower, coffee and breakfast.

  I thought it highly unlikely that any of those things would be on offer.

  Schade had not expanded on his cryptic comment about Orosco’s behaviour back at the industrial yard. In fact, he’d refused to say much more at all. It didn’t matter how much I’d verbally poked and prodded him. His manner was calm yet implacable, as if he wasn’t happy about delivering me to my own execution, but was determined to see it through anyway.

  It was not altogether reassuring.

  We pulled up next to the drawbridge, in much the same location as the last time I’d arrived. I turned off the engine and waited.

  Schade didn’t make any immediate moves. Then he tucked the gun back into the rig under his jacket with a sigh that sounded almost regretful.

  “OK, let’s get this over with.”

  “Get what ‘over with,’ exactly?”

  He didn’t reply to that, simply gestured for the ignition key. Without any viable alternative, I handed it across.

  “Just out of interest, wouldn’t it have been easier to shoot me and dump my body in the Med before you set off, rather than drag me back up here?”

  But he just gave me a brief, impassive glance, eyes blank behind the lenses of his glasses, and climbed out of the car.

  Without the key, I wasn’t going anywhere. Hot-wiring something as complicated as a new-model Merc was beyond my skill-set. I sighed and got out after him.

  We made it as far as the inner courtyard of the chateau before Eric Kincaid appeared from the main doorway. I guessed he was surprised to see me. Not because of anything in his face, which remained almost as expressionless as Schade’s had been, but because his first reaction was to pull a gun on me.

  When he spoke, though, it was to Schade.

  “I thought you said she took a shot at you and high-tailed it?”

  I glanced across at Schade myself. “I took a shot at you, huh?”

  “Yeah, like they were going to believe I missed.”

  “Oh, so it was OK for me to miss?”

  He shrugged. Kincaid let his arm drop but did not put away the gun.

  “What happened?”

  “She threw a spanner in the works,” Schade said. “Told you we shoulda brought her in on it.”

  “Should have brought me in on what?”

  Kincaid ignored me. “What happened?” he demanded again, through clenched teeth this time.

  Schade sighed. “She sabotaged the hand-off with Hamzeh.”

  “How bad?”

  He cracked a smile. “Oh, she’s thorough, I’ll give her that.”

  “So they know. He knows.”

  “Yup. That’s about the size of it.”

  Kincaid swore under his breath. My temper snagged and tore.

 
“Will somebody—please—tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  Both men stared at me for a few moments. Then Kincaid finally put away the gun and nodded towards the doorway leading to the stone steps. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s grab us some coffee. You’re going to need it.”

  He led the way back to the dining room on the next floor. The staircase was lit from wall sconces that must have been designed originally to hold flaming torches. Now, low-wattage bulbs threw out a feeble glow. I paused to allow Schade to go ahead of me, but he waved me on with a knowing look.

  Yeah, I don’t trust you further than I could throw you, either…

  Upstairs, we sat around the large table again. Schade poured three coffees from the pot on the side. Either they were expecting us, or they kept it going all night. With the lights on in the room, the sky outside the window looked a deep, starless black.

  “Darius was doing a deal with the Syrians,” Kincaid said at last, his voice flat. “He thought he was handing over a truckload of merchandise—”

  “What kind of merchandise?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t need to know the details.”

  “Oh, I really think I do,” I said. “I mean, we already know they have RPGs and assault rifles, so what else are you supplying that’s so hard to get, they’re hell-bent on seeing this deal through? Why can’t they simply buy whatever it is somewhere else?”

  Schade flicked his eyes to Kincaid. “Told you she was good, dude.”

  “First off, I wasn’t supplying them with anything. The relationship was in place when Darius was in charge. I’ve been trying to wind it down ever since I took over.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, however much Darius wants the profit, I…have no desire to deal in NBC equipment.”

  NBC was a military acronym. It stood for Nuclear, Biological, or Chemical. I’d done all the drills back in the Army, struggling to run in full NBC suit and gas mask. They’d made us practise getting the mask on and changing canisters inside a chamber flooded with CS, just so you knew when you’d got it wrong.