66 Metres

by J. F. Kirwan

The girl’s head jerked in Nadia’s direction with a startled look. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but Nadia guessed most men coming here didn’t care.

  Nadia put her finger across her lips, and gestured for the girl to continue. The girl’s eyes went large when she noticed the Beretta in Nadia’s other hand.

  ‘Can I turn over yet?’ the guy asked.

  The girl looked to Nadia who shook her head.

  ‘Not yet,’ the girl said.

  The girl carried on massaging, but her hands stayed well out of the erotic zone. Nadia crept forwards, picked up a towel and put it over the end of the nozzle of her Beretta, then manoeuvred it into position, between his buttocks.

  He flinched, then relaxed. ‘That’s different,’ he said.

  Nadia kept her voice level. ‘Actually there’s a Beretta pointing straight up your ass. If you move, I’ll pull the trigger.’

  His muscles came alive for a moment – not so flabby after all – then he relaxed again. He didn’t try to get up.

  Nadia glared at the terrified girl who had backed against a wall. ‘Get out,’ she said.

  The girl fled.

  ‘If that’s really a Beretta, you’ll blow my brains out,’ he said.

  ‘Too much gristle. Bullet should make it to your heart, though.’

  ‘What do you want, Nadia?’

  He was good. Smart and cool, not such a frequent combination. But she needed to keep control of the situation, ask the questions. ‘There’s another guy –’

  ‘Danton. Mean. Sadistic. Tortured your buddy Sammy, then smashed his skull in with a hammer.’

  Nadia’s trigger finger tensed. So, he already knew. She noticed his left hand twitch, a small grey ring around his little finger.

  Nadia pushed the gun a little further to remind him who was in control. ‘I said don’t move.’

  The hand stilled. Was there something inside it?

  ‘Again, Nadia, what do you want?’

  Dammit, he was taking charge, even with a gun up his ass. ‘To live. That’s top goal on my list.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ he said.

  Tricky answer. For a moment she considered she might have picked the wrong one out of the two. She could kill him now. But she’d not been able to kill Janssen even when he’d been shooting at her. In any case, she had no silencer, and there were now two witnesses. She’d have to kill them, then the other one around the corner, and then the kid… A bloodbath. Never going to happen. Anyway, the police would descend on her, and she’d spend a short spell in prison until one of Kadinsky’s goons got to an inmate and soon afterwards she’d have an unfortunate accident. And Katya would already be long dead by then.

  But what if she killed this CIA agent afterwards, on the way back to his hotel? Plan B. But she wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. At least not yet. Maybe in self-defence, if the situation arose again, she could pull the trigger. But not in cold blood, not assassin-style, not like…

  She pulled back the gun. Plan A, then. ‘Take him – Danton – out of the equation.’

  ‘That is on my list, believe me.’

  She did, because he must have been the one who’d ratted out Danton.

  ‘I mean kill him before I retrieve the Rose.’

  Silence. Then: ‘You don’t like to kill, do you Nadia? Does it occur to you you’re in the wrong business?’

  ‘Don’t profile me. Besides, don’t like and don’t do aren’t the same thing.’

  ‘How did it feel when you shot Janssen in the face, Nadia?’

  Nadia did a double-take. So, he’d been there during Sammy’s interrogation. And Sammy had lied, to protect her, to make out that she was stronger than she seemed, whether to this guy or to Kadinsky. It couldn’t have been easy. Thank you, Sammy. But then anger flooded in.

  ‘How did it feel watching Sammy being tortured, asshole?’

  ‘There you go again. Unprofessional. It’s just business, Nadia. Enough, I’m starting to get cold. Retrieve the device tomorrow, I’ll take care of Danton.’

  And then it would be just the two of them.

  She asked the next question, knowing she wouldn’t be able to trust the answer. ‘Is killing me on your list?’

  ‘No. But I’d bet good money it’s on Danton’s. But I will do whatever it takes to get the device.’ He lifted his head for the first time, and turned to face her. ‘Will you?’

  She thought about it, and about Plan B. ‘What are you holding in your left hand?’

  ‘Insurance,’ he said. ‘And if you’re thinking of waiting for me outside, or entering my hotel, don’t. There’s a lot more to killing than being a good shot. Besides, I’m betting only one of us has a silencer.’

  She wasn’t winning this, at best she was breaking even. This guy probably had twenty-five years in the field, a seasoned pro. If she had a serious amount of money, she’d ask him to kill Kadinsky. This one might be able to pull it off.

  ‘You know my name. What do I call you?’ she asked.

  ‘Bill.’

  She turned and walked to the door.

  ‘Send the girl back in here, please,’ Bill said, turning his head back. ‘It’ll be best all round, trust me.’

  Nadia closed the door behind her, walked back to the reception, and found the girl there with the older woman.

  ‘He’d like you to finish the massage,’ Nadia said to the girl. ‘Thank you for your co-operation,’ she said to the older one, then left.

  Outside, she wondered what more she could have expected. She was an amateur compared to Bill. She’d actually kidded herself she could frighten the guy. Anyway, at least she’d gotten the measure of one of her opponents. Definitely freelance, otherwise he would have threatened her with how his CIA buddies would track her to the four corners of the globe if she harmed him, that kind of crap. No, a lone wolf, razor teeth. Also, she now knew the name of the other one, though not what he looked like.

  She began walking, considering scenarios. Number one was that Jake had shopped her, and SAS or whoever would descend on the Scillies in the morning. But she was sure that if he’d done that, police would have been scouring Hugh Town for her right now. What she hoped was that he’d help her retrieve it, for his own reasons. And then… well, then it would get difficult.

  Back to the other scenarios. Even if Bill killed Danton, he would try to take the Rose from her, and that meant killing her. But she had no idea of what her alternative might be, no strategy. It occurred to her that she was bringing others into this deadly game. Pete, Ben, even Elise. She had no right to do so. Jake, yes. But only him.

  She got up and headed back to the inn.

  She had found Bill, so maybe she should go find Danton, take the game to him. But that meant walking into his lair, the torturer with his hammer… She shivered, imagining Sammy’s last moments, before his beautiful head of hair was caved in. Could she kill Danton in cold blood? She thought of Sammy, those pictures on the news, and walked on, arriving at her temporary home. Maybe she finally could. She’d got the measure of Bill, to an extent. She didn’t really want to try the same with Danton. She had a feeling that if he got near enough to her, it would all be over. He was a torturer. He liked things up close and personal. If she could keep distance between them, she had a chance. And then a thought occurred.

  She wondered if Danton could shoot.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Danton’s leg hurt like hell. He shifted his weight, though he knew that when it was like this, changing position made no difference. Trying not to clench his teeth, he took a sip of whiskey from his hip flask, savouring it as it warmed the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and remembered. A headline car crash fifteen years ago: he’d bet his younger brother Paul that he could top 250 kmh on the autobahn. He’d won the bet, but some fucking asshole, high on coke, a prick who never even saw what hit him, entered the motorway going the wrong way. Paul had time to scream once. Danton had woken up on an operating table, an enthusiastic surgeon beaming at him.

  ‘Yo
u were dead,’ the surgeon said. ‘Four minutes. It’s a miracle!’

  Danton glanced around, but Paul wasn’t anywhere to be seen; Death had claimed him. That was when the pain kicked in.

  Eighteen months with his leg in a stainless steel scaffold, twenty pins piercing his skin, running all the way through his calf and upper thigh, trying to re-establish the form of a shattered leg that by rights should have been amputated. The surgeon had been a reconstruction specialist, Danton’s luck the guy had been working at the hospital that night. So now he could walk – run even – and lift weights, but the pain resurfaced every now and again with a vengeance, as if Death knew he’d been cheated and exacted a heavy price.

  Drugs didn’t work, except morphine, and then he couldn’t function. In any case the docs wouldn’t prescribe it any more. But he knew how to get hold of it, and had a stash just in case. Five years earlier one of the docs concluded the pain was more in Danton’s head than real. Danton had thought a lot about killing that particular doctor. He fantasised about it when his leg hurt, like right now: he’d strap the guy down, and begin sawing the doc’s leg off just above the knee, and through the guy’s screaming, would ask in a calm voice if the doc could truly feel anything, if it was real, or was only in his head.

  Danton took another swig and pocketed the flask. Trouble was, he knew the doc had been partly right, because there was one foolproof way to make the pain disappear. When Danton killed, the pain vanished. Sammy had kept him good for a few days. But the pain had returned quicker this time. He needed another fix – Nadia, Adamson – they would keep him good for weeks. With the very thought of it, the pain eased off a little, and he opened his eyes.

  His surroundings were homey: faded wallpaper peppered with old photos of people long dead; beaten-up sofa; scratched wooden table with a stained tablecloth; and a teak desk marred by chips knocked out of it over the years. Everything was old, decaying, like Mrs Higgs, the widowed white-haired owner, though she stood pretty straight and was no pushover, as evidenced by her short speech outlining her conditions when he’d phoned her after finding the small ad in a local newsagent.

  ‘Payment in advance in cash, plus one week’s deposit. Breakfast is at 8am, dinner 8pm – not 8:15 or 7:45. No visitors allowed under any circumstances, and I deadbolt the front door at ten-thirty sharp every night.’

  He didn’t mind. The small B&B was secluded, at the end of the southern promontory, the closest house a kilometre back towards town. Nobody walked this way. His small bedroom looked out over the deserted single-track shale road that ended at Mrs Higgs’ place. To the right was the sea, black waves crashing onto black rocks, creamy froth visible in the moonlight glinting through heavy clouds. Down in the dining room, where he sat, the thick beige curtains were closed. It reminded him of his aunt’s home, where he’d been made to sit quietly as a child, with toys too young for him at his feet, while his mother had listened to the woman’s endless prattle, making him feel like he was trapped inside a doll’s house. He’d never been comfortable around old people. He never wanted to get to that stage, preferring to die while he could still screw and push weights and scare the crap out of people younger than him. Humanity should be more like the animal kingdom; when you’re too old to fight, you get taken out of the game. He had no pension and no illusion of being around to draw one, not in his line of business. Still, Mrs. Higgs seemed okay, like she could still kick ass when required.

  She’d cooked him a good meal, and now he sat facing a mug of tea while she was in the kitchen washing and wiping dishes and pans, cleaning up meticulously, maintaining a discipline. He could respect that. A twinge of pain brought him back on track.

  Nadia. She’d seemed ordinary at first, but as he’d watched and followed her, he could see she had a purpose, marking her from the other tourists plodding about. He’d followed her to the dive shack, seen her with the blond-haired guy; there was some chemistry there, for sure. Good for you, Nadia, one last fuck before you die.

  The beach had been crowded, so he’d had no trouble surveying her. Danton blended with the tourists, unlike Adamson, who stuck out like a sore thumb. When he’d seen the CIA schmuck, Danton had wanted to confront him there and then, but instead he’d tailed him back to his hotel, then he’d gone to the inn where Nadia was staying, and had a beer. That’s when Lazarus had called.

  ‘How’s the seaside?’ Lazarus asked.

  ‘A bit cheesy.’

  ‘Seen any girls you fancy?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘When are you going to make your move?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. Don’t forget the present for Mom.’

  ‘How could I?’ Danton ended the call.

  The afternoon had been taken up with getting hold of a gun – an antique but functional Luger, for Christ’s sake, all he could rustle up on this sunburnt rock. The dude had been reticent about the ammunition, though. Danton had made up a story that his great-grandfather had been a POW and had lost his Luger without ever firing it, and it would mean a lot to him, given he was ninety-four and suffering from emphysema.

  After that, he’d searched for digs, dropped off his bag and come back into town, where there had been an unexpected bonus. He’d popped back to the inn and overheard a couple of girls, a blonde and a brunette, chatting nearby. He was propping up the bar and they were at a table behind him, but he could see them well enough in a wall mirror. His ears pricked up when they mentioned Nadia.

  ‘So, Jake’s screwing Nadia?’

  Blondie didn’t answer, just looked sullen.

  The brunette continued. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing. His life.’

  ‘So why are we diving the Tsuba tomorrow?’

  The blonde sipped her drink. Her eyes flared. ‘There’s something about her, Fi. I don’t know, I’m worried.’

  ‘For Jake? Good grief, Elise, he’s fucking her, why –’

  The blonde stamped down her glass, drink spilling onto the table.

  ‘I still care, all right? My problem. Drop it, and don’t you dare say anything.’

  After that, they talked about the wreck, the Tsuba. Apparently diving it was Nadia’s idea. Danton put the pieces together. She’d taken it from the heist in Penzance, and crossed to the Scillies. There would have been Navy and police vessels intercepting any boats inbound from Penzance. The Rose must be at the site of the wreck the girls mentioned, the Tsuba. It was the only explanation as to why Nadia was still here.

  He’d taken one last look at the blonde, got his hip flask filled, then paid up and headed back to Mrs Higgs’ place.

  She’d leant him her old man’s slippers. Danton wondered if she was like this with all men who stayed there, temporarily replacing her dead husband, filling a void. He’d asked her to respect his privacy, and to stay out of his room, though he’d locked the Luger in his bag just in case. He needed to fire it, to see if it worked, to feel the recoil so he could adapt to it. A thunderstorm was brewing, which might provide good enough cover. He preferred live targets, didn’t like shooting at tin cans, that was for kids. But there were no animals bigger than a mouse around, just him and Mrs Higgs.

  The pain spiked again, making him wince. He massaged his thigh just above the knee.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Schmidt?’

  He hadn’t heard her enter. That was careless. Pain was no excuse. ‘A headache, Mrs Higgs. A bad one, I’m afraid.’ Had she seen him massage his leg? She didn’t glance at it, instead holding his gaze.

  ‘I have some paracetamol,’ she said.

  ‘No thanks. I think I’ll go upstairs, lie down for a while.’

  She nodded indifferently, and he climbed the stairs to the top floor with its round window, from where he could see the road leading to the distant glow of Hugh Town.

  Inside his small room, he sat on the soft single bed, his left leg on top of the duvet. The stairs creaked, so he’d have plenty of warning if she came up them. He reached down to his bag
, unlocked and unzipped it, dug towards the bottom and pulled out the box containing the Luger and nine rounds of nine millimetre parabellum ammo. He twisted around and aimed the empty Luger toward the path outside, lining up the iron sights with the single street light about thirty metres away. The Luger was accurate to fifty metres, and he reckoned he could shoot that straight; he made it to the local gun club in Frankfurt once a week.

  He put it down on the bed next to his leg, and recovered his hip flask. He picked up a bullet, held it to the light, and admired the smooth finish, the texture, its silken touch. How easily it would slip through skin and organs, splintering bone inside the body. A true work of art.

  His plan was straightforward. Nadia would retrieve the Rose. Adamson was clearly working off the books, and so was here for only one reason, to take it for himself. So, let him take it from Nadia. Then he could kill Adamson and take it from him. The Luger was just a precautionary measure, in case things got out of hand. A nice stranglehold around Adamson’s neck, crush his windpipe, watch him choke to death on the floor, his eyes wide in the full knowledge he was dying. Adamson had a gun for sure, but people can’t shoot for shit when they’re in blinding agony. Those films showing heroes taking aim whilst fatally wounded are full of crap. You’re lucky if they don’t stink up the place. Unless of course they were used to serious pain.

  But just in case, one parabellum for Adamson, one for Nadia. Maybe one for the boyfriend – Jake – if he got in the way. The rest? He’d need them all to stop Lazarus, if things turned grim. He snapped each cartridge into the magazine.

  Danton preferred to know why he was killing somebody. It wasn’t a deal-breaker if he didn’t. But he understood consequences – what goes around comes around. He’d been intrigued about the device – the Rose – and had done some online research on his phone during the journey over. Not the usual sites, of course. The paranoid military geeks – he knew one from the gym, always sucking up to the hard-asses, trying to act the big man – had pinged him about it, sent him a link, the type that only whackos and the CIA read. Rose was short for Rosetta, a translator device, originally part of Reagan’s Star Wars defence programme, most of which got shut down, but this one lingered on. Bottom line, it could detect and track any nuclear sub in the world, triangulating via spy satellites, and send commands with full authentication codes. Nukes-on-demand.