here?’
Oliver frowned a moment, as though he had to translate what she
was saying. He shook his head.
'Good.’ Priya kicked the front door shut. Pulled a pair of latex gloves
from her pocket and put them on. Horrified, Oliver scrambled away
from her, his feet slipping and squeaking on the marble floor. His
prominent Adam’s apple worked frantically, bobbing up and down
above his collar.
At last he got the words out. 'What are you . . . what is this?’
'What do you think it is?’
'I don’t know. A robbery?’ Even as he said it, he seemed to relax a
little. You’ve come to steal from my father?’
Priya nodded. 'Not just him. The whole island.’
Oliver stared at her for what seemed a long time, as if translating
again. Then he shook his head, disbelieving. Finally he grinned. When
he spoke, his voice bore the same note of admiration as Eldon’s.
'What a fantastic idea.’
The gunman dragged Donald into the living room. His accomplice
took Angela at knifepoint, forcing her to lie down on the floor next
to her husband’s body. When she tried to look at him the man slapped
her face.
'Please,’ she cried. 'Please don’t do this.’
She heard a snigger from the gunman, as though he took an active
pleasure from her distress. The other man bound her hands behind
her back, using some sort of plastic cuffs. His flesh gave off the hot,
meaty stench of ingrained body odour. Her skin crawled every time
he touched her.
'See if he’s alive,’ she implored them. 'Don’t let him bleed to death.’
'Shut up.’
'Please,’ Angela said again. 'We have hardly anything worth stealing,
but take it all. Just let me see my husband. Let me help him, if I can.’
The gunman shook her head. 'Will you get the message? He’s dead
as a dodo.’
'Why did you shoot him?’ she asked.
'The stupid fucker came at me,’ the gunman said. 'I had no choice.’
No choice. The fallback of every Nazi, every Stalinist, every craven
bureaucrat. Angela could scarcely contain her disgust. She fell silent.
Rested her cheek on the carpet and felt a tear squeeze from her eye.
By tying her up and keeping their faces hidden, she understood
that they didn’t necessarily intend to kill her. But it gave her little
comfort. At that moment she would have welcomed death. She had
nothing left to live for.
Nothing, except perhaps for the first tiny spark of a desire for
revenge.
Liam stood outside Dreamscape, the ski mask in his pocket. He tipped
his head back and shut his eyes, savouring the warmth of the setting
sun. The brilliant orange glow through his eyelids seemed like the
colour of success, the colour of victory.
A gentle breeze had sprung up, stirring the thick air, flavouring it
with the faint tang of salt water. The distant cry of gulls took him
back to the summers of his childhood. Grim holiday camps on the
north-west coast: soggy chips, dreary skies and an aching, pulverising
boredom.
After tonight he would never know boredom again. He would anticipate
its onset and spend his way out of it.
Priya and Eldon had gone next door a couple of minutes ago. Liam
wondered how Priya intended to play it with Oliver Felton. He regretted
not being able to watch her in action.
At the sound of an engine he opened his eyes. Allotti was in the
Ford Explorer. Liam directed him to park outside the footballer’s
residence, tight up to the boundary wall. The wall was of brick construction,
about seven feet high, topped with some kind of decorative tile.
No deterrent to a serious intruder. The real security had been provided
by live-in bodyguards, but they’d accompanied the footballer and his
family to Rome. Only the father-in-law living there now.
There was an intercom, but Liam decided not to use that. With
no plausible reason to bluff his way in, he felt a different approach
was called for.
He put on the mask and drew his gun. A 9 mm Glock 17, with a
silencer. He racked the slide to make sure there was a round in the
chamber, then tucked it back into his belt.
He clambered onto the bonnet of the Explorer and up onto the
wall. Allotti climbed up alongside him. They paused for a second and
examined the house. A couple of first-floor windows were open, but
there was no one in sight.
They dropped down onto a small area of lawn that ran alongside
the driveway. Followed a concrete path to the front door, where Liam
stopped and listened. He could hear music playing inside. Some kind
of opera.
He led Allotti to the corner of the house, made sure it was clear,
then crept along the path towards the rear. Allotti’s breathing, muffled
by the mask, sounded like a poor impersonation of Darth Vader.
Liam peered round the corner. A stone terrace ran the full width
of the property. In the centre there was a round aluminium table with
two chairs. Terry Fox was sitting in one and had his feet propped up
on the other. He was angled away from them, reading a magazine
and sipping a glass of red wine.
He was wearing blue swimming shorts and leather sandals. For a
man in his early sixties he looked in good shape. The muscles in his
arms and legs were still well-defined, and he had only a slight paunch.
His skin was the colour of mahogany, with a nest of white hairs on
his chest.
The music was louder here. The singer was possibly one of those
fat fellas from the World Cup concert, all those years ago. Opera had
never been Liam’s thing, but now it came in useful, covering the
sound of their approach.
Liam walked towards the table, with Allotti just behind him. It took
a few seconds before Fox registered their presence. First he looked up
from the magazine and stared straight ahead, across the bay. Then,
slowly, he turned his head in their direction. He had close-cropped
silver hair and the strong, rugged features of an ageing movie star.
His eyes went from the guns to the masks, then back to the guns.
His hand jerked, slopping the wine in the glass. A couple of drips landed on his chest and he glanced down, studying the wine as though
it might be the cause of this hallucination.
Then he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it in one quick
gulp. Smacked his lips together and declared: 'Well, bugger me.’
'No, thanks,’ said Liam. Your daughter, maybe.’ He moved closer,
saw the magazine was one of those glossy, celebrity-fixated rags. 'Is
that how you find out what she’s up to?’
Fox snorted. 'Funny.’ Then: 'She is in this one, as it happens. She’s
got a new puppy. And a new tattoo.’
He put the glass down, tossed the magazine aside and sat back.
Laced his fingers together and rested them on his stomach, a picture
of mature composure.
'So what now?’ he asked. 'Stand and deliver?’
Liam nodded. 'Something like that.’
Twenty-Eight
The swim was a battle, but at no time di
d Joe ever consider that it
was one he might lose. Partly it was experience, partly his training,
and partly just the way he was wired. If giving up had been in his
nature he’d have done it years ago, the day his wife and daughters
were placed out of his reach.
Eventually the pull of the current weakened and he began to make
better progress, slicing through the water with clean, fast strokes. The
island’s eastern coast was rocky and inhospitable, but Joe managed to
weave his way through without getting cut to pieces, and finally he came ashore on one of the intermittent stretches of shingle beach.
He crawled out of the water and collapsed. After resting for a couple
of minutes, he checked himself over. His jeans were torn and he’d
picked up a few scratches, but they weren’t serious. He took a look
at his phone. He had nothing to dry it with, and decided not to risk
putting the battery back in yet.
Ahead of him, the beach rose steeply for about fifty feet, then gave
way to clumps of brambles and blackthorn, growing along the side of
the high chain-link fence that enclosed the old training camp. To
reach the far side of the island, Joe would have to circle round the
coast and head inland somewhere close to the road.
He put his trainers on and laced them up. They squelched with
every step but still allowed him to move a lot faster across the beach.
He set off at a run, not yet dwelling too much on what might lie
ahead. Better to have an open mind and face each challenge as it
arose. After what had already happened today, he didn’t think there
was much more that could surprise him.
He was wrong.
Terry Fox seemed more resigned than afraid. There was a polo shirt
draped over the chair. Before submitting meekly to the handcuffs, he
asked if he could put it on. Liam felt irritated that the old guy wasn’t
begging for mercy, but he wouldn’t let it spoil the moment. Better
that everyone should surrender so easily.
Leaving Allotti to deal with Fox, Liam made his way through the
house, barely glancing at what was on offer. As he’d suspected, the
footballer and his wife had never really left their roots behind. There
was very little art on display, and what they had was mostly tat. Every
single picture on the wall was a portrait of themselves.
Liam found the control panel which opened the main gates and
let himself out through the front door. He tore off the mask and wiped
sweat from his face. He’d be glad when this stage was complete and
he didn’t have to wear the bloody thing any more.
Eldon was waiting for him by the Ford Explorer. He sounded hyper
as he described how Priya had waltzed past Oliver Felton.
'It was like he was expecting her,’ he said. 'I dunno who he thought
she was. I swear he had a hard-on.’
Liam nodded vaguely, as though this didn’t interest him much. Then
Manderson lumbered into view, and just from the grim satisfaction on
his face Liam had an instant premonition: the Weavers were dead.
'Had to snuff one of 'em,’ Manderson said.
'Who? Why?’
'The geezer. Silly fucker went apeshit on us. Threw himself at
Turner. He had to put him down.’ Manderson mimed a gun with two
gloved fingers and made an explosive sound, as though words alone
couldn’t convey the message.
Liam sighed. 'The next target is a lot more important. No casualties
unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. You clear on that?’
Both men nodded, though Manderson’s savage grin didn’t inspire
confidence. One of the many stories about Manderson was that he’d
once beheaded a man with an axe. Looking at him now, Liam could
believe it.
Once again they masked up, drew their weapons and set off on
foot. They rounded the bend in the road and Nasenko’s house came
into view.
They were less than ten feet from the edge of the property when
a man in a plain grey suit wandered out through the gates, cupping
his hand around a cigarette as he lit up. He glanced in their direction,
saw three masked men carrying guns, and reacted faster than
they did.
He didn’t freeze or do a double take, and he didn’t run back into
the house. He took off along the road, heading towards the bridge.
Maybe thought his chances were better out in the open. He’d probably
forgotten how isolated it was here.
Manderson dropped into a shooting stance, but Liam grabbed his
arm. He didn’t want gunfire out in the street; not when they hadn’t
yet taken Nasenko.
'Go after him,’ he told Manderson. At the same time he undipped
his radio and called Pendry.
'The American’s driver is coming your way on foot, with Manderson
on his tail. Make sure he doesn’t get away.’
It took Joe several minutes to round the curve onto the north-east
coast of the island. From here the mainland was in clear view. Joe
could see the point on the ridge opposite where he had formed his
plan to swim across. In the soft evening light the narrow strip of water
in between looked deceptively benign.
The foliage along the top of the beach grew thickly enough to conceal
him, but after another hundred yards it began to thin out. Eventually
he reached the last of the bushes and made the unfortunate discovery
that he didn’t know the island as well as he’d thought.
He was trapped. Caught in a corridor between the sea to his right
camp extended to within a few yards of the road. The only way Joe
could move was directly ahead, across a patch of open ground. The
bridge lay beyond it, about fifty feet away. The fisherman from earlier
in the day was on the bridge, lounging against the Citroen van. The
other guard was pacing up and down the approach road.
Joe reviewed his options. The light was fading, but it wasn’t dark
enough for him to sneak past. In any case, the ground underfoot was
a mixture of soil, sand and pebbles. If he tried to move quickly they
would hear him. If he moved slowly he would be seen.
That left two choices. One was to breach the fence and go across
the training camp. The other was to take the direct route. Rush the
two men and overpower them.
A big decision. Before Joe could make it, the man pacing the road
reached for something in his pocket. A two-way radio. He listened,
then made a brief reply. From this distance, Joe could see that he was
in his forties, plump and sandy-haired.
Replacing the radio, he shouted, 'Gough’ and gestured at the fisherman,
who picked up on the note of urgency and propelled himself
away from the van. The older one relayed a message, then both men
drew ski masks and pistols from within their fluorescent jackets.
Joe froze, wondering if he’d been spotted, perhaps by a hidden
accomplice. Had there been another guard, posted somewhere along
the route he’d just come?
He prepared for the worst – not afraid; just angry with himself.
Angry at the prospect of failure.
But the guards showed no awareness of his presence. Both put on
their masks and took up positions behind the van. They were facing
inland, as though expecting a threat from the interior of the island.
Joe had no idea what was happening, but it put paid to any thoughts
of a direct assault. Pitching the short blade of his pocket knife against
two handguns would be suicidal.
That left just one option, for which his multi-tool was far better
suited. He shifted up to the fence, lay flat and used the wire cutter
to create a flap large enough to crawl through. It took him a couple
of minutes. He was confident the guards couldn’t see or hear him,
but that didn’t stop him glancing round every few seconds.
He wriggled through the gap, his wet clothes slithering across the
grass and weeds. He’d just got clear of the fence when one of the men
shouted: 'Hey!’
Liam watched Manderson set off in pursuit of the American’s driver.
There was no question of waiting for him to return. He and Eldon
would have to take Nasenko on their own.
The routine was the same as with Terry Fox. They hurried across
the drive, keeping a sharp eye on the front of the house. Crept along
the path at the side and reached the back door. Liam checked his
gun, took a breath and opened the door.
He stepped into a boot room. Saw wet-weather gear and fishing
rods and a pile of inflatable beach toys. There was a toilet or shower
room to his right, and the kitchen lay straight ahead.
Liam entered the kitchen. It was empty apart from the maid, a
thick set Hispanic woman. She was cleaning a marble worktop, putting
real effort into it. When she saw him she dropped the cloth, slapping
her hands over the counter as if groping for a weapon. Liam was
impressed. In this house even the maid fancied herself as a warrior.
He pointed the gun at her face and shook his head: Don’t be silly.
Eldon cuffed her hands behind her back, then Liam took a step
closer, prodding the gun into her ample belly.
'Where are they?’
The maid’s eyes flashed. 'Yuri will kill you.’
Liam shoved the gun in harder, and she groaned. Her whole body
was trembling with fear and rage.
'Where?’
Another moment of defiance, then she flicked her head upwards.
'Office,’ she said. 'Up the stairs, turn left.’
Once inside the training camp, the ground fell away into a large