by J. F. Kirwan
He found a notepad and pencil by the telephone, and scrawled two words: I’m sorry. It would keep the police off-balance for a while, long enough for Lazarus to be long gone. Besides, it seemed like an accurate epitaph for Danton, whether he was sorry for what he’d done, which was improbable, or that he was just sorry that his life had been one long train-wreck.
He began walking back to town. It would be light in an hour. He thought about the girl. It couldn’t have been easy to take Danton down. Lazarus decided he needed to upgrade Nadia’s epitaph:
She could surprise you.
Lazarus had learned a long time ago how to be invisible. Not so obvious for a man his size, with his hooded black eyes and straggly black curls running down to his shoulders. Like millions of others, he’d seen the YouTube videos of a basketball play-off where you had to count the number of plays, and completely missed the guy in the gorilla suit wandering right through the scene. The psychologists said it was due to focused situation awareness, but Lazarus knew better. What if it had been a beautiful naked girl? Would people have missed her, too? No. People tuned out ugliness. In his book, not only did people see what they wanted to see, but their subconscious minds politely declined to take in what they’d prefer not to exist.
As he sat on the hard plastic bench in the bus shelter considering his next move, a couple walked past on the other side of the deserted street. His head was down, and the street light was behind him, so he would appear like a mound if they bothered to look, maybe a homeless person roughing it for the night.
Glancing through strands of his hair, he took in their hurried gait. They were both quiet. They approached a street light, and he hoped to catch a glimpse of her face, just in case. But they passed too quickly. Just as he was losing interest, the man said a few things to her. Eventually, she replied. He didn’t catch the words, just the accent.
Russian.
He pulled out his phone, found Kadinsky’s latest number, and sent a text. Kadinsky was a poker man, five card stud, so the code they shared was simple enough.
Lost a jack last night. About to play a queen, hoping for an ace, no sign of a king yet.
The reply was instant, and Lazarus reminded himself that although it was four-thirty a.m. here, it was breakfast time in Moscow.
Flush out the king.
Lazarus didn’t like being told how to do his job. His plan had been to follow the queen till she got the ace, wait while the king killed her and took the Rose from her, then return the favour. Lazarus heaved in a big breath, then typed the reply.
I’d trade an ace for the queen of hearts.
He’d already informed Kadinsky he liked the girl, Katya. Time ticked on, and Lazarus wondered why. It should be win-win for Kadinsky, he never cared for any of his girls, tiring of them quickly.
The phone beeped. If that’s the way you want to play it.
Another one quickly followed. Problems at home. Unexpected guests. En route. Fancy Chinese for lunch?
Lazarus didn’t like the sound of that. He’d been getting hungry, but now his appetite fled. Cheng Yi. Worse than Kadinsky and Danton put together.
He was about to pocket the phone when he noticed one of those little thinking bubble icons, which meant another message was coming. He waited.
Don’t talk to the queen
He stared at the small screen, then tapped in ‘As always’. He pocketed the phone and got to his feet. Don’t talk to Nadia. Why? What could she have to say, besides plead for her life? Kadinsky knew the way Lazarus did business. Once a target was sighted, they were already dead in his book. He never talked with them, just put them to sleep.
He dug his phone out again and called up the photo of Nadia, and studied it. Nothing struck him about it, just another Russian girl, could be anyone’s daughter. Sliding it back into his coat, next to the stiletto knife, he walked towards the main hotel where he predicted Adamson would be staying.
Outside the pillared redbrick entrance he gazed upwards. Only a handful of lights on, most people still asleep, though the first hints of dawn were arriving, a thin stretch of platinum clouds on the horizon rather than the dark blanket of cumulus smothering the stars over his head. He pushed through the revolving door.
Inside the Grande, the overall effect was a sombre red, burgundy carpet and walls. Everything else was dark wood, polished wooden counters and wall panelling, a few armchairs that must be more comfortable than they looked judging from the cracks in their leather cushions. There was an old-style lift system, complete with metal cage and steel cables disappearing upwards, a red-carpeted stairwell spiralling around the lift shaft, the elevator somewhere up above.
Behind the long counter, next to a small brass bell, was a skinny young man in trousers and white shirt buttoned to the top without a tie, no belt, and spiky black hair. He was reading something below the counter, presumably his iPad or phone, and didn’t notice Lazarus at first, then nearly fell backwards off his stool as Lazarus walked over and stood right in front of him.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I’d like a room,’ Lazarus said.
The young man – David, according to his badge – tapped a screen and shook his head, looking very serious. ‘I’m afraid we’re full, sir. I can phone some other hotels to see if they have availability?’ He beamed like a cartoon character.
Lazarus already knew the hotel was full. It said so outside the entrance.
‘I was playing cards with an American gentleman, last night. Bill, I believe.’ Lazarus gambled on the name, assuming Adamson wouldn’t use his real surname, but might keep his actual forename in order to have the right reflex.
‘Anyway,’ Lazarus continued. ‘Bill mentioned he was checking out today.’ He leaned forward, smiling. ‘Quite a sharp card player, you know, so maybe he was bluffing.’
David didn’t flinch at Lazarus’ proximity. Instead he slowly withdrew, trying to maintain his cartoon smile. Lazarus deposited a twenty-pound note on the counter, right next to David’s hand, which then moved like a spider stalking a fly, hooked it with nimble fingers, then made it vanish beneath the counter.
‘Ah, yes, Mr. Parks. Keeps to himself. I did wonder what he did while he was over here.’
‘It’s always the quiet ones,’ Lazarus added, jovially.
David frowned at his screen. ‘He’s not due to check out until… Ah, why yes, you’re absolutely right, he’s just this minute filed his express check-out form, all paid up, so he’ll be leaving this morning.’ He looked up, the beaming smile fully functional again. ‘In fact he’ll probably be down in a minute, the key-card-activated power in the room just went off.’
Now it was Lazarus’ turn to retreat slowly, while thinking fast. ‘Really? Ah, well, the thing is…’ he laughed, as if embarrassed. He heard the lift cage doors opening somewhere up above.
Lazarus reached into his pocket. ‘The thing is…’ He leaned forward again, lowering his voice so that David had to lean in. ‘The thing is, I actually owe him some money from last night, quite a sum in fact, and I’d rather, well, let’s just say you and I could split the difference.’
David stared at him a moment, his wide smile competing with a deepening frown, while Lazarus gave him his most trusting brothers-in-arms look. The lift began its descent.
David’s frown smoothed. ‘Of course, sir. Discretion is part of our service. There’s a rest room just over there, to your right.’
Lazarus stood back, nodded to David, and walked quickly into the rest room, keeping the door open just a notch. He heard the lift doors open. Adamson didn’t address the clerk, just walked straight through the revolving door. After a moment, Lazarus came out.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll take a short walk, watch the sunrise, then come back to check in.’ He held out his hand to shake David’s, and deposited a fifty-pound note into the boy’s palm, in return for which Lazarus received what he reckoned would be the lad’s only authentic smile of the day.
Lazarus didn’t
catch up with Adamson, due to another gut-wrenching episode, though this time he only dry-retched. He hoped that was it for a few hours. He started walking again, and arrived in time to see Adamson and two men loading a large rubber dinghy that looked built for speed. Hiding behind a dive shack, he set his phone to search, and found Adamson’s phone, using one of Kadinsky’s stealth programs, and tagged it. Adamson’s GPS was on. Lazarus linked his own phone to a satellite so he could track Adamson even when either phone was out of network range. Then he heard them rev the engine and surge into the first hint of dawn. The king had gotten away. For now.
He emerged from behind the shack, pulled out a small pair of binoculars and switched to night vision mode. Adamson looked uneasy, one hand gripping the rope running around the boat, the other buried in the folds of his coat, probably seeking the comfort of his gun. Like a man who knows death is on his tail. The sleek rubber dinghy ploughed into the surf, two well-built roughnecks near the prow. Lazarus caught a glimpse of a golden badge sewn onto one of the two men’s wetsuits: a trident, an anchor, and an old-fashioned pistol. So, they were Navy SEALs. That complicated matters.
Lazarus glanced at his watch: 06:05.
He sat down on a wooden bench and considered his options. He needed some new plans, back-ups in case there were any more surprises. Some people had to walk in order to think, others had to write things down or type into a laptop, or talk them through with friends or colleagues. Lazarus needed to sit. Still as a statue. At 06:25 he intercepted a police call to a local inn. He knew the police codes, and this one meant a possible rape. At first he thought it wasn’t connected, but the more he listened, he realised it had been Danton, the bastard. Ten minutes later he heard the siren clear across the bay as a car rushed out towards the southern promontory, to the house where they would find Danton’s corpse.
Once the police identified Danton, which might take a while given that half his face had been blown off, the Royal Navy would be called in and the place would be swarming with police. Eight more hours, maybe, because British police were cautious. The divers should be back in one, maybe one-and-a-half hours.
He texted Kadinsky: Getting hot here. Played the Jack, still holding the King. Lots of Clubs, maybe a flush later.
There was no reply. Which could mean anything and nothing.
Lazarus needed to organise transport. He surveyed the boats tied up nearby. Most were sailing dinghies, but a few were speedboats. One in particular looked like the business, and a youngish man was preparing it for a trip.
Lazarus got up, ambled over to the steps leading down to the water, and found a small rowboat. Using slow, careful strokes, he neared the Dragonfly, and hailed the man about to cast off.
‘I need a ride,’ he said, ‘money is no object; speed, however, is important to me.’
The man stared a moment, then replied. ‘Sorry, I’m on urgent business. Some other skippers will be here around eight.’
Lazarus could see there was no changing his mind. ‘Okay, I’ll wait. Would you mind shoving this little boat backwards, it’s a bit hard to manoeuvre.’
The man’s brows knitted together and he sighed, but he leaned over the side of the Dragonfly, reaching for the rowboat’s stubby prow. Lazarus lunged forward and seized the man’s wrist, almost pulling him out of the boat, making him yelp. At the same time Lazarus propelled himself into the speedboat, sending the rowboat backwards with a noisy wash of water. He ended up with his back against the opposite side, facing the man, who didn’t move, because the barrel of Lazarus’ gun was pointed at his chest.
‘If you call out I will end your life,’ Lazarus said. ‘This gun makes little noise. I can drive this on my own, or you can drive it for me. Your call.’
‘Where do you want to go?’ The man got up.
‘Just take us out for now, nothing fancy, nice and slow.’ There was something about the man that made Lazarus wonder – he didn’t seem so surprised by what was happening.
‘I need to call you something,’ Lazarus said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Ben,’ he said.
Ben started the engine, his blue eyes narrowed beneath a fringe of unruly hair. ‘What’s yours? I’m supposing you’ll kill me anyway, so you could always tell me your real one.’
A refreshing riposte. Under different circumstances, Lazarus thought he could grow to like this young man. He decided to accord him this one favour.
‘Alexei,’ he said.
As they left the harbour and hit deeper swells, Lazarus’ phone tracker program confirmed that Ben was heading in the right direction; he clearly knew where they were going, and so was somehow involved. During the trip neither of them spoke, the hissing spray drenching them every ten seconds as they crested each wave. But at one point Ben piped up, yelling over his shoulder.
‘How many bullets do you have in that toy gun of yours?’
Lazarus couldn’t think of a good reason to lie. ‘Six,’ he said.
‘Good,’ Ben replied, then said no more.
Lazarus had often wondered if any of the people he’d killed over the past twenty years would be good company for Sasha. Most of them had been scum, the rest had pleaded for mercy like babies. This one, though…
The pain in his gut erupted, like a knife jabbing, his brow immediately slick with sweat despite the cool air. He fought hard not to puke, instead coughing into his handkerchief. Blood. Quite a lot of it. Luckily Ben was occupied with some nasty swells. The pain passed, and Lazarus breathed easier. The obvious occurred to him.
The doc had lied to him about how long he had left.
Chapter Nineteen
It was taking forever to arrive. Adamson was fed up with the boat pitching up forty-five degrees as they crested each swell, only to surf down the slope on the other side, the twin engines ramping up then descending in a soporific rhythm. He began to feel seasick. Watch the horizon was the age-old advice, difficult to follow when he only glimpsed it every seven seconds, and when he did all he saw an endless carpet of white-topped steel-grey waves, cold spray blasting his face like a needle-shower. Charlie and Bud, the two SEALs at the front, seemed perfectly at home. Charlie tried to light a smoke, then gave up and flicked the limp cigarette into the sea.
Adamson was wet and cold, the leather of his shoes ruined. Forget it, just get the Rose. His forearms and wrists ached from gripping the boat’s guide-ropes to stop himself toppling out the back. At one point, Bud, the SEAL whose name he hadn’t been able to remember earlier, asked if he wanted them to slow down. Adamson shook his head. Time was chasing him. He was AWOL, his family on the run to South America, the Kilanoa family getting impatient, and if things went pear-shaped, the bare islands of the Scillies offered few hiding places.
Bud stood tall as they surfed another two-metre swell, squinted into the distance, then sat down again. He’d seen something. Adamson wasn’t about to attempt any such manoeuvre. It was another five waves before he spotted the orange and grey outline of another boat, more or less stationary, three people aboard. He checked his pistol. Hard to shoot in this roiling seascape. As he looked up, Bud was facing him, prepping an underwater sled. The body of it was flat like a stretcher, two long struts with black webbing between them, at the front a white fibreglass cowling with twin headlamps facing forward, an opening for a water jet angled downwards and backwards. The sled meant they could go much faster underwater. Strapped to each strut was a spear-gun and a rack of short metal spears.
Bud looked up, saw Adamson’s pistol, shook his head once, and pointed to a long white box tapered at one end, strapped to the floor. Adamson smiled. A rifle. He put his pistol back in its armpit harness.
Bud moved closer, just as the boat turned into a wave, showering them with water that stung Adamson’s eyes.
‘You want them dead or alive?’ Bud asked.
Adamson had given it plenty of thought. In the US, assuming he ever got extradited back there, the jail sentences for treason were often longer than for murder. The less wit
nesses, the better. Besides, when he was tanning on the beach with Sandy and Arnie, he didn’t want to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his days.
‘I want it clean.’
Bud studied him a moment, then nodded. ‘Once we get the device. Until then we leave them alive, keeps our options open in case there are complications.’
Hadn’t there been enough complications already? But Bud was right. Stay professional, get the job done, then clean up. No witnesses. No traces.
‘Agreed.’
‘That means you need to keep control up here while we’re underwater. They’re moored. You’ll need to keep the engine running, one hand on the wheel, the other on the rifle. You can handle a rifle, right?’
Adamson’s stomach lurched as they sank down the trough of a bigger than normal wave.
‘I grew up in Texas.’
Bud gave him one more appraising look, then returned to the front of the boat.
As soon as Bud had turned around, Adamson took a lungful of air and swallowed it down, suppressing the urge to retch. One hand on the guide-rope, he dropped onto his knees and bent forward to open the rifle case. Spray drenched his face again, but he was glad for it, it kept him sharp. The rifle was a simple, large-bore affair, waterproofed with a thin skin of rubber. It reminded him of the first gun he’d been given, at the age of seven. Growing up in Crystal River had its advantages. He’d shot his first ‘gator at the age of ten.
The boat slowed. Voices, shouts from the men on the other boat. Then Charlie bellowed back at them.