Fearless ; The Smoke Child

by Lee Stone

  The wall he was slumped against felt like cold metal; his hands were tied behind his back. The room smelled of engine oil and he had the sense that it wasn’t very big. If there was a door, it would take him an age to find it in the dark, and it would certainly be locked. So, he rested his aching head on his knees and listened to the sound of the rats scrabbling in the corner.

  *

  Meanwhile, Lockhart had been taken to one of the noisiest parts of the ship. Below deck, the sailor had led him past the engine room which sounded like hell, and into the nearby crew quarters which sounded like a slightly muffled version of the same.

  The ship’s cook added the tomatoes to a stew which smelled good, and Lockhart was ushered to sit with eight other men who were playing cards and shouting boisterously at one another around a big table. Several asked him questions in English; Where was he from? Why was he driving tomatoes across the Caspian Sea? Lockhart was charming and evasive in equal measure.

  The sailors were good humored, and before too long, the cook started to dish out the stew, along with Azeri bread and sausage. Lockhart was handed a plate just like the others and tucked into the food. As the journey across the Caspian Sea continued, the sailors were happy. They were all Azeri men, and they were on the way back to their homes. At one point the youngest of the men fell off his seat as the boat rocked violently, and everyone laughed.

  The sailors’ happiness was infectious, and Lockhart remembered that he was a tourist making his way through the world. For the last few days he had felt like a fugitive, except for the few moments when he had prayed with Rosalina and Jeyhun. He wasn’t religious, but the moment had been calm and wonderful.

  Now these noisy sailors were having the same effect. As the night drew on, they drank tea and smoked cigarettes. The engines rumbled in the background, but their voices became slower and deeper. Then one of the older men began to speak, and all the others listened.

  The sailor closest to Lockhart leaned into him and spoke into his ear.

  “He is telling a story,” he said.

  The youngster disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged with a kettle of tea and several candles. As he went about lighting them and placing them on the table, another sailor turned off the harsh fluorescent light above their heads. The men’s hard faces flickered in the soft light, and the sailor began his tale.

  “Yüz il əvvəl,” the sailor began.

  “One hundred years ago,” the shipmate next to Lockhart translated. The older guy’s deep, rich voice continued in his native tongue.

  “A young sailor set off from Baku to seek his fortune” the translator continued quietly. The story was an odyssey about an Azeri boy who had set out to sail to Iran, but was sent off course by a cruel wind which blew him all the way to Russia.

  The sailor’s tone was hushed as he described the boy’s brave fight with bears, how his few belongings were stolen from him by a traveling conman, and how for a time he had been enslaved by an evil witch.

  But Azeri boys were made of stern stuff, and the boy soon outwitted the witch who met a grizzly fate with another bear. The sailors cheered at the news, and the translator told the story with so much gusto that Lockhart became captivated by the story too.

  The boy had ended up in Moscow, where he was given a job in the Tsar’s palace. It was so cold in Moscow that the Tsar’s heart was made of ice, and one day the boy spied the Tsar beating a young servant girl. The boy’s heart was filled with rage. The sailors growled about the indignity of it all, and the man next to Lockhart shook his head angrily as he translated the story.

  The heroic boy took matters into his own hands by rescuing the servant girl and stealing the Tsar’s sapphires and rubies. The Tsar’s army chased him across the whole of Russia, but he outran them all and ended up back at his little boat on the shore of the Caspian Sea.

  The sailor boy lifted the girl into the boat and rowed them out into the break waves. Then he took a sapphire and threw it into the sea, which turned a beautiful blue and offered him safe passage back Baku. Then he threw a ruby into the sky, and the heavens turned red and the sunset far quicker than usual.

  The Tsar’s army was plunged into darkness. The wind had so much mischief with the blinded army that it forgot to blow the boy off course, and he and the servant girl sailed safely back to Baku with his treasure. The sailors cheered at the news.

  The man who was translating gave Lockhart an excited thump on his shoulder as he interpreted the triumphant ending to the story.

  Then the sailor who was telling the story held up his hands to call for quiet. The others looked at him across the big table. Most of them were still drinking mint tea, for which they seemed to have an endless thirst.

  “Inşa nəhəng bir qala” the sailor whispered in the flickering light, his voice hoarse from years on the sea.

  “The boy and the servant girl built a giant fortress, and they were married,” murmured the translator. “They bought justice to Azerbaijan and ruled over its people for years.”

  The final part of the story involved the Tsar trying to overthrow the young sailor’s fortress and being beaten and enslaved. He ended his days working for the servant girl, who was kind and fair to him until his icy heart melted and he died.

  Eventually, several of the sailors left the table to go back to the engine room and to attend to their jobs on the ship. The translator offered Lockhart a bed in a cabin. He explained that there were always free beds, because some crew were always working.

  Lockhart thanked him and offered him the rest of his sack of tomatoes.

  The cabin was further away from the engine room, and quieter than the mess that he had been sitting in for the last few hours. The food had been hearty, and the company had been warm, and Lockhart felt relaxed.

  He was happy below the deck of the ship as it made its way across the Caspian Sea. The wicked wind had blown him off course, but now in the company of the sailors he felt like he was back on his path. At the dinner table he had felt like a tourist once more and was ready to sleep soundly for a few hours.

  The story about the boy and his treasure had been so captivating that Lockhart hadn’t thought once about his own treasure, the blue plastic bales of cash hidden under the tomatoes in his truck. If the money in the truck went missing, he would deal with that tomorrow. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  For the last few miles, the money had felt like a heavy burden, and he was looking forward to banking it once he got to Europe. For now, though, the Journalist who had been following him was locked below the deck, and the ship was in the middle of the Caspian Sea, so Lockhart could afford to relax.

  He knew that either the giant or his pay masters would come looking for their money, like the Tsar’s army chasing their precious stones. While he had been listening to the Sailor’s story, Charlie Lockhart had reached a decision. He had been thinking about using the stolen money to keep traveling around the world, to stay one step ahead of his pursuers. But he didn’t want a lifetime on the run. There would be no fun in that.

  So there in the candlelight in the sailors’ mess, Lockhart had decided to head home and prepare for whoever the wicked wind blew across the sea to him. He knew the perfect spot. A house at the top of a hill where he could see people coming. A place he knew well, so he would be ready for whoever came after him.

  He would do what the Azeri boy had done and make his way home. And then he would stop and dig in, and wait for them to arrive. As he started to make his plans, lying on the bed in the cabin, Lockhart fell into a deep blank sleep that lasted for hours.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Baku Ferry, Caspian Sea.

  “I wish I was a fisherman, tumbling on the sea,

  heading away from the shoreline and its bitter memories.”

  - The Waterboys, Fisherman’s Blues.

  In the dark hull of the ship, the journalist was planning his next move as well. He had spent plenty of time locked up during his career and
had never been convicted. Most likely, the sailors would hand him to the port authorities who would hand him to the police as a petty thief. He would phone his editor, who was used to journalists ending up on the wrong side of the law. The editor would bribe the policeman, and the charge would disappear. The journalist would walk the streets of Azerbaijan by lunchtime.

  The question was whether the bus driver, the tomato truck and the money would be gone by the time he got out. He hoped not. He wanted his cut of what was hidden under the crates.

  Lockhart woke up three hours later to find the whole ship was juddering. The captain was maneuvering the boat towards the quay and she was complaining bitterly. Outside the cabin, the men who had been lazing around the table last night telling stories were up and about, focused and energized.

  Each sailor had responsibilities and routine as they arrived at the port and so Lockhart shouted quick goodbyes as they rushed about. Within minutes he was starting up the engine of his truck and slowly rumbling off the ship and onto dry land. Corrugated steel containers sprung up all around him and huge yellow cranes towered higher still.

  There was other traffic in front and behind him, and they snaked through the port towards a checkpoint. Lockhart had prepared a few small bundles of cash to see him through customs with a minimum number of questions, but in the end, he didn’t need them. It was early morning and he couldn’t tell whether the officials on duty were part of the worn-out night shift or the still-bleary-eyed early team. Either way, they were not going about their work with a great deal of gusto.

  A man with a dark uniform waved the tomato truck through the customs point, and before he knew it Lockhart was driving through the streets of Baku looking for a plan. The sooner he could get rid of the suitcases hiding under the tomatoes the better. The money was slowing him down, and the giant was catching him up.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Baku City, Azerbaijan.

  “Two thousand miles I’ve roamed…”

  - Otis Redding, Sitting on the Dock of a Bay.

  The banker had been sitting at his Formica desk in the back office since the bank had opened for business that morning. It was a slow day, and he was mostly pushing around files so that his two clerks thought he was busy. His seniority meant that he got the biggest desk directly underneath the bank’s only ceiling fan, but this was a dubious honor.

  The ancient fan groaned and creaked as it spun around. The banker blamed the creaking on the weight of the dust that had gathered on the blades. And he blamed the cleaner for that.

  A fly which had been taunting him for the last quarter hour finally landed on a file next to his empty coffee cup. He thumped his fleshy fist hard on the table, missing the fly by two inches but rattling his cup on its saucer.

  “More coffee,” he called gruffly, to nobody in particular. Nobody in particular rushed to fill his cup. He moaned to the fly about the standard of his staff, loosened his tie, and undid his top button. He scratched away at his beard as the fly resumed its orbit around his balding head. A dark shadow drew across the paperwork on the banker’s desk, but he didn’t look up immediately. It was only when the air brakes hissed on the other side of the window he realized how closely the lorry had parked.

  His first thought was that he was being robbed; the truck blocked up the doorway and prevented any escape. The bank was about seven miles from the ferry port, and not in the best part of town. Then the banker noticed that the back of the truck was full of tomatoes; Unlikely to be a heist, then.

  The driver didn’t look much like a farmer as he sauntered out of his cab at a leisurely pace. He was nearly six foot tall, but looked friendly enough. He ran his hands through his dark hair and took a good look around before heading into the bank. He pushed through the aluminum swing door and looked around for service. There was an air of confidence about him which marked him out from regular customers. The banker got up from his desk and walked over to greet him, mostly out of curiosity. He held out his hand, and the driver shook it.

  “I want to open an account with a cash deposit,” the driver said.

  One of the two juniors looked up, eager to help. The banker scowled at him and ushered the driver into his office. He was shrewd enough to realize that a guy with an English accent wanting to open a cash account in Baku was probably up to no good. Which meant there would be something in it for him. He flicked a switch on the wall and the filthy creaking fan wobbled to a halt. Then he showed the Englishman to a well-used chair and turned to close over his office door. A bit of privacy would be useful if his instincts were right.

  “I’d rather you leave the door open,” the stranger said.

  The banker shot him a questioning look.

  “The cash is on the truck, and I can’t carry it all in by myself.”

  There was a long pause, during which the banker gradually sat up straighter, re-buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked and shouted an instruction to the juniors without waiting for a reply. The driver was rich, English, and in need of a bank account. The banker’s day was getting better by the minute. The coffee arrived with a clatter as the junior’s hand shook slightly as he served his boss. The banker sent him out to carry the suitcases in from under the tomatoes. His eyes grew wide as he watched his two staff carrying in suitcase after suitcase, and then opening each one to reveal the blue plastic bales inside. His shirt had started to stick to him and he pulled down his tie and undid his collar again. The driver said nothing.

  It had to be drug money, as far as the banker could work out. Dirty dollars which he could wash clean, for a price. His mind was working overtime, trying to work out his best angle. His best pitch. His best scam. Still the driver said nothing. It was unnerving him.

  Even with their electronic note counters, it took the two clerks the best part of an hour to slit open the bales, count the notes and add them to the vault. Once, the driver stood up and looked at the vault, as if he was checking how secure the bank was. He needn’t have worried; the front office would blow away in a strong gale, but the back room where the money was kept was as strong as any other bank in the world. Thick concrete walls and a modern steel lined safe. Pretty much impenetrable. The driver had taken one look at it, nodded and sat back down.

  Eventually, one clerk came back into the banker’s office, looking shell-shocked. He handed his boss a small piece of paper, with a total written on it.

  $299,997,538.00

  The junior walked out without saying a word and closed the door over behind him. After a moment, the banker cleared his throat, and made a pitch. He talked about the difficulties of moving such large amounts of cash. The problems with administration. The suspicions which might be raised. There would need to be an administrative charge to compensate for the difficulties.

  “How much?” asked the driver.

  The banker heard a soft bleep on the other side of his office door. He glanced for a moment at a tiny yellowing monitor on his desk. A tall woman in a burka had just walked in, but the clerks were dealing with her. This was not the time to get distracted. This was the deal of his life.

  “Ten percent,” he said gruffly, looking down at the figure in front of him.

  “One percent” was Lockhart’s reply.

  The banker thought about it. Three million, US. It was like he’d just won the lottery. Three million meant a new life, and a luxurious one at that. But one percent seemed low. He pushed for more, but the driver wouldn’t budge. He tried to meet him halfway but the driver stuck stubbornly to one percent.

  “I could report you to the authorities,” he bullied.

  Lockhart looked at him calmly and said, “I could strangle you with that cheap tie if I wanted to, and nobody would come running in here to save you. Least of all those two out there.”

  The banker’s eyes flicked back to the black-and-white screen. The clerks were deep in conversation with the woman in the burka. It was true that he treated them badly, and
it was also true that they probably wouldn’t step in to help. You reap what you sow.

  “But I will not strangle you, and you will not report me,” the driver continued. “You will take one percent, which is more money than you’ve ever seen in your life until today.”

  The banker nodded, defeated. The driver was right; it was a lot of money. Even so, he was envious of the other ninety-nine percent beyond his grasp. Then the deal got worse.

  “By the way, you will take your one percent, and split it three ways with the two guys outside. They look like they do most of the work around here.”

  It horrified the banker. He would be a million dollars better off, but somehow it ruined it to know that the clerks would be as rich as him. He called the two clerks in and explained the situation. They hurried off to pack three suitcases with a million dollars each, unable to believe their luck.

  The banker kept an eye on them as he bashed angrily at his keyboard validating the transaction, making sure that the driver had two hundred and ninety-seven million dollars in a legitimate European account in the name of Charlie Lockhart.

  Once the bulk of the deposit was locked away and the banker’s fee was counted out, the clerks and the banker each took a suitcase and locked up for the day. Before they left the office though Lockhart reached forward and swiped the banker’s car keys from the desk. In return, he flipped him the keys to the truck.

  “One more thing,” Lockhart demanded. “I need your car.”

  No negotiation; it was part of the deal. The banker shook his head miserably. This was the crummiest million dollars he had ever earned.

  “It’s not all bad news,” Lockhart smiled, as the four men walked out of the bank together. “You can keep the tomatoes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  “I’m sticking with you, cos I’m made out of glue.”