To the Lions

by Holly Watt

  ‘I’m going to do it.’ Selby couldn’t stop himself. ‘That is what I am here to do.’

  They let the silence hang, so that for a second he couldn’t know their reaction. Casey felt the horror flood her, the horror she had chased.

  ‘No fucking way, dude.’ Ed let excitement creep into his voice. ‘That is fucking crazy.’

  ‘What the . . .’ Casey found disbelief easy. ‘No way. No way.’

  Selby expanded with relief.

  ‘How the fuck does that actually work?’ asked Ed.

  ‘There’s this guy.’ Selby was proud of himself now. ‘You get flown out here, and he meets you at Tiska. And then we’re going to travel out to Libya tomorrow. There’s a place you go: you literally stand up on some rocks, with a sniper rifle. And you just fucking do it. You don’t get caught, they promise. And then you get the fuck out of Libya. But who the fuck ever wants to come back to Libya, anyway?’

  ‘That is the craziest thing I have ever heard,’ said Casey. ‘So fucking dark.’

  They all grinned at each other, the secret a sudden pact.

  ‘I want to do it,’ Ed said suddenly.

  ‘No way,’ Casey snapped at him. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he said. ‘It’s a one-off.’

  Selby leaned forward in his chair. ‘I don’t know if you can, mate. This guy I am travelling with, he’s pretty hardcore. He’s got his thing; I don’t know if he’d let some people he’s never met come along for the ride.’

  ‘Would he care that much though? Really?’ asked Ed. ‘I can shoot. I know what I am doing with a rifle. Just me and . . . Carrie.’

  He just managed it.

  ‘It costs a fucking fortune, usually,’ Selby couldn’t resist boasting. ‘The private jet I flew out on was insane. Off the hook.’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of cash,’ said Ed, suddenly serious. ‘Fuck, I so want to do it. Can’t you tell him we’re cool?’

  ‘I guess I can ask.’ Selby looked worried abruptly. ‘Shit, I hope he’s not fucked off that I told you. You’re meant to keep it a secret. Obviously. You mustn’t tell anyone. Promise.’

  ‘You’re paying him, buddy,’ Casey pointed out. ‘You’re in charge.’

  ‘It’s your call,’ Ed insisted.

  ‘Don’t let him push you around. Your party.’ Casey pushed it home. ‘You get to hand out the invites.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Oliver’s voice blurred. ‘Yeah.’

  Casey poured them all another drink, suddenly needing one.

  The last shot finished Selby.

  ‘Sleep in the hammock, dude,’ said Ed, hauling him up with an easy strength. They threw a thin blanket over him, and he passed out in seconds.

  ‘We may be on,’ Casey texted Miranda. ‘But stay away tonight. He’s sleeping in the courtyard.’

  ‘No probs,’ Miranda messaged back. ‘Well done.’

  Casey blew out the candles, the courtyard plunging into sudden darkness.

  For a second, neither of them could speak.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll notice if we sleep in our own rooms,’ said Casey.

  ‘I don’t think he would notice if we slept in his hammock,’ said Ed.

  ‘Well done,’ Casey whispered into the dark. ‘You did brilliantly.’

  ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings,’ he whispered back.

  She went into her room, closing the door quietly behind her, leaning against it for a second. Flopping on the bed, she closed her eyes and thought about Ed. Because she had seen his eyes flash, at the moment she asked the question. Have you killed . . .

  They had flown all the way here, just to ask that one question.

  And she knew that, just for a second, he had struggled.

  24

  They woke up early, Ed and Casey, not wanting Selby to leave the courtyard unseen. But they let him sleep, calculating that the driver would worry when he found his charge missing. You could achieve a lot, with relief.

  The old woman brought them breakfast, mouth twisted with disapproval. She swept up the broken glass, muttering under her breath. They had to ignore her, eating their breakfast under the pink blossom.

  Selby groaned awake, the purple hammock rocking as he tried to orientate himself.

  ‘Morning.’ Casey was chirpy, bringing him a fresh orange juice. ‘Ed is so excited about the trip.’

  They had decided that Ed would have the hangover, in sympathy: ‘Mate, I feel appalling. How are you? I’ve got some ibuprofen, somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll look for it.’ Casey could be so sweet.

  Selby sat up, hazily. He didn’t look much like the chief executive of Cormium, that morning.

  ‘Do you want to give your pal a call?’ Ed went on. ‘I can tell him the way.’

  They hustled him into calling his driver, shouting out directions in the background.

  It took only minutes for the black Land Cruiser to turn into the courtyard. The man’s eyes glittered with annoyance as he erupted from the car. He was tall, even taller than Casey had realised, with huge shoulders. Despite his size, there was precision in every motion. You’ve served in an army, Casey thought. The military edge was there, indefinable.

  ‘Oliver, we needed to move out this morning. Early.’ His voice was a jumble of accents.

  He was wearing ancient jeans and a black vest. There was a large tattoo on his arm.

  ‘Yeah, you said.’ Even hungover, even in a fleapit of a Djanet motel, Selby would not apologise.

  ‘We need to get going.’

  This man could be charming, Casey sensed, but the charm had been switched off today. And Selby didn’t like it.

  ‘I’ve told what’s-her-name to get us some coffee,’ said Casey brightly.

  ‘We need to go,’ the man interrupted. ‘We don’t have time.’

  ‘I want a fucking coffee,’ said Selby.

  ‘Your trip sounds intense, man.’ Ed got up from the swing seat and moved towards the hammock.

  ‘The trip . . .’ The man’s voice broke off.

  ‘Your trip out to Libya. Sounds pretty wild, what you get up to out there.’

  The man spun towards Selby. ‘You told them?’ There was real fury in his voice.

  Selby lashed back instinctively. ‘It’s fucking fine. They wanted to come. It’s cool.’

  ‘You can’t be—’

  ‘We’ve got money,’ Ed broke in. ‘We’re happy to pay.’

  ‘No way,’ said the man. ‘That’s not how it fucking works.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Casey’s voice was an icicle in the dust of the courtyard. ‘We already know what you’re doing. And Ed’s happy to pay whatever it costs.’

  ‘I’ve got twenty thousand bucks on me,’ said Ed. ‘It’s easy.’

  ‘And I want them to come,’ Selby said flatly.

  ‘Whatever he’s told you, it’s bullshit. Who the fuck are you, anyway? What the fuck are you doing in Djanet?’

  ‘Do you need to know?’ Ed’s voice was diamond-hard. ‘I’m Ed and she’s Carrie, and I really don’t think you need to know anything else.’

  For a moment, the man watched them, cat and mouse. Casey forced a grin on to her face.

  ‘I’m Carrie.’ She walked forward briskly, holding out her hand.

  ‘Josh.’ Oliver completed the introduction so carelessly that Casey saw real rage in the man’s eyes.

  He was Joshua Charlton, Casey thought. Almost certainly. Or at least that was his name at the moment. Ten per cent of Mostgrave. They had got that bit right, at least.

  He shook her hand without wanting to, and spoke over her shoulder.

  ‘We need to go. The roads are risky at night.’

  ‘I’ll need to pick up my stuff from the hotel,’ whined Selby. ‘I haven’t packed.’

  ‘The mechanic dropped off our car this morning,’ said Casey. ‘We’re packed up, all ready to go. Amina was expecting us to leave today anyway.’

  They took the silence that met this for a sort of assent. They dran
k the coffee fast, and moved towards the black pickup.

  They didn’t see the knife coming. One second they were walking towards the cars; the next, Selby was up against the wall, Charlton’s knife panther-fast to his neck.

  ‘You don’t tell anyone,’ he whispered. Casey could see the blade, right up against Selby’s jugular. She felt all the air flood out of her body. ‘Do you hear me, Oliver? You never tell anyone again. Or you will be killed. I promise you. If you ever tell anyone again, I swear to God, you will fucking die.’

  Selby couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

  ‘Do you fucking understand?’ Charlton spat. ‘Never ever again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Selby found the words. ‘I won’t . . . I won’t tell anyone.’

  Charlton dropped him, wheezing, to the ground.

  He turned to Casey and Ed.

  ‘Fuck off, the pair of you. And don’t you ever say a word to anyone, or you’ll regret it for ever.’

  They watched as the man spun the black pickup in a rage, missing Amina’s flowerpots by inches.

  Selby sat beside him in the passenger seat, almost sulking.

  Ed and Casey lolled carelessly in the hammock. But as soon as the car had turned the corner, Casey was on her phone.

  ‘Delay Selby,’ she messaged Hessa. ‘You’ve got maybe half an hour. Probably less. Follow the plan.’

  Genie from a bottle, Miranda appeared.

  ‘We didn’t turn him,’ said Casey. ‘But we may still be able to.’

  ‘Ed,’ said Miranda. ‘Get to the Palais. Keep an eye on them. Keep them there, if you possibly can.’

  ‘Should I box in his car?’

  ‘No,’ Miranda decided. ‘Not unless you absolutely have to. We don’t want anything that can connect us to the delay. It’s got to look completely coincidental.’

  Ed was gone, racing through the tangled streets.

  ‘Right,’ said Miranda. ‘They know what to do back in London. They’ll be fine.’

  Miranda had plotted it all the night before, as soon as Selby’s name was mentioned, priming the glossy business editor.

  Nicky had almost laughed. But she would do it, they knew. She could stall Selby for hours.

  Back in London, Nicky’s first call was to Cormium’s head of press.

  ‘Just wondering if you could comment on this rumour that Alphavivo has its sights on Cormium?’

  There would be a long pause, as the head of press rippled through the options.

  It was well known that Alphavivo, the biggest commodity traders in the world, had not enjoyed Cormium appearing in their rear-view mirrors. Everyone knew that. But they wouldn’t try and take over Cormium . . . Would they?

  They might though, the head of press thought. The maths was there, just about. It would be a punchy move, but bold moves were working for Cormium, and it could be the only play left for Alphavivo.

  And there was bad blood between the Cormium management and Alphavivo. Selby had worked at Alphavivo, before jumping to Cormium. Alphavivo regarded Cormium as upstarts, and Selby had done everything to irritate them, like a wasp at a picnic.

  All that meant that there wasn’t a back channel between the two companies, and no one could pick up the phone and wipe away the rumour.

  ‘I’ve not heard.’ Cormium’s head of press tried to dismiss it.

  ‘I think you need to check.’ Nicky knew people called her the Ice Queen, didn’t care. ‘Our sources are pretty clear.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  At the same time, James, one of the boys on the business desk, was messaging his opposite number at The Times, a buddy from his trainee days.

  ‘Mate, I’m getting it in the neck over this Alphavivo takeover . . . You heard anything about it? I didn’t think they’d go for Cormium.’

  ‘Whaat? Shit. No.’

  The Times would be the second call into the Cormium press office. That would really unsettle them.

  Hessa steeled herself. She picked up the phone.

  ‘Oh, hey there.’ She sounded as seductive as she knew how. ‘It’s Callie. I don’t know if you remember me . . . ? We met at Gigi’s a little while ago.’

  ‘Callie.’ Brendan knew her at once. Casey had given Hessa his number, and Hessa sneaked out of the dusty courtyard and down the road to role play over the phone.

  ‘I’d broken my shoe.’ Hessa laughed softly. ‘You were so generous that evening.’

  ‘That was a big night.’ Brendan was smiling at the memory. ‘But you ran away.’

  ‘Cinderella,’ said Hessa. ‘I had to work the next day . . . And actually, that’s why I was calling . . . Did I mention I worked at BPC? It’s one of the hedge funds off Dover Street.’

  They had made up a random collection of initials. It didn’t matter. Dozens of them operated in Mayfair, behind brushed silver nameplates and a scattering of letters.

  ‘Right.’ He sounded deflated that it was about work, so she tried a giggle.

  ‘We just heard a rumour that Cormium was being taken over by Alphavivo. I thought I would just see if you’d heard anything . . .’

  ‘Alphavivo?’ There was shock in his voice. ‘No, I hadn’t . . .’

  But he stopped. Not knowing about the machinations of his own company revealed too much.

  That call would be insider trading, of course. It happened every day.

  ‘We could even snap up a few thousand Cormium shares,’ Miranda had pointed out cheerfully. ‘Get the market moving. The share price will spike if the City decides Cormium’s about to be snapped up. We could make enough to cover the story costs.’

  ‘No,’ said Dash firmly, because in the past journalists had been a bit too clever about tipping shares, and ended up in jail.

  ‘Oh, you hadn’t heard?’ Hessa sounded disappointed. ‘I just thought you might know . . . Oh, shit. I’ve got to run to a meeting. But talk soon, right, Brendan?’

  ‘Right.’ She could hear the cogs turning.

  The Post’s business journalists were checking in with their usual sources. You heard anything . . . Suppose it would make sense . . . Thought you might be doing some of the analytics for Alpha . . . Cormium a bit overstretched after they snapped up that . . . Guess Alphavivo must have seen an opportunity . . . And it would be the last time they could . . .

  Nicky hadn’t told them it was a trick. James especially needed putting in his place. It would do him no harm to spend the day chasing his tail. Nicky glowered at him across the desk, and he redoubled his efforts.

  Then the share price began to move.

  Alphavivo would never shut down the story, because it made them sparkle. And Cormium couldn’t, because they didn’t know where it had begun.

  Selby, in his room in the Palais a thousand miles from anywhere, had a hundred phone calls crashing in, as Cormium pretended not to panic.

  So Josh, hammering on his bedroom door, was told, ‘I can’t fucking go anywhere right now. No, I’m not messing you around. I fucking promise. I know about the light, on that road. I know. But I just can’t leave this hotel for now. I could lose my company. Honestly.’

  And Josh, both annoyed and pacified, stalked off to ramble around Djanet.

  Back at their courtyard, Casey and Miranda were thinking aloud.

  ‘There’s a tattoo on his arm of a black eagle . . . A military insignia. Must be,’ Casey said. ‘And there was a sticker of the South Africa flag on his car . . .’ She was searching frantically, the hotel’s wifi creaking. ‘There.’ She stopped. ‘It was that one. From the old Parachute Brigade in South Africa. He must have been involved with them. Or the new regiment, in some way. There must be a way . . .’

  She was scrolling again, Miranda pacing the floor in frustration.

  ‘There.’ Casey pointed, at one Josh Charlton out of hundreds of Joshua Charltons around the world. This one had served, just a few years ago, in the South African army. ‘His name is on someone’s old fund-raising page. No photo, but it
must be him. And he must know some of the guys in 44 Para out there.’

  Miranda was already on the phone.

  ‘Aisling’ – that was the Post’s smart Africa correspondent, based out of Johannesburg. ‘Can you start sending me a list of as many men as possible who’ve ever served in 44 Parachute Regiment. Or connected to it in some way. Drop everything else – I’ll tell Dash – and just keep the names coming.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Aisling, and the phone went dead.

  Within minutes, the names started snapping in. From cuttings, from memory, from countless helpful sources.

  ‘What did you make of Selby?’ Casey was scrolling through search results. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Tough. Cold. He wants the nameless girl in a silvery hotel room,’ said Miranda. ‘Not reality.’

  ‘Maybe that’s how they all want this death,’ Casey said. ‘Pre-packaged, rolls of meat, supermarket cold. They don’t want to see the abattoir.’

  ‘How about him?’ Miranda pointed. ‘Killed in a car crash, two years ago.’

  ‘Married,’ sighed Casey.

  ‘Or this guy,’ Miranda said, ‘blown up in Afghanistan.’

  ‘No,’ Casey winced.

  ‘No,’ agreed Miranda, ‘not unless we have to.’

  And then another name appeared, and they both knew.

  ‘Him,’ said Miranda. ‘He’s absolutely perfect.’

  Casey walked to the café in the square. She pulled out a novel and ordered a mint tea. A donkey meandered past, ribs nagged to bloody sores by huge panniers. A boy scolded it on, and Casey flinched, and looked away.

  It seemed like hours before she saw the dark-haired man appear, at the far end of the square. Before he’d seen her, she was on her phone, deep in a half-sided conversation that, eventually, he would overhear.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ she grumbled, when he was close, ‘I can’t believe how slack everyone at Wynford Mortimer is getting. You used to be so much more efficient. It’s so fucking irritating.’

  She cut off the call, half-recognised him and grimaced.

  ‘The stupid accountants are being so bloody disorganised,’ and she laughed at herself. ‘I could scream.’

  Let him come to you, she thought. It’s all got to come from him this time.