Their complacency was underlined by the lights blazing from every room in the open-plan retreat, no curtains or blinds to obscure their view of the village and mountains across the valley, but importantly nothing to obscure our view of them behind all that glass. Their attitude was marked in the way they went about their routines without variation and without care for who was watching. Sure, we’d seen how efficient they could be – when a crowd closed up in the village, or a passing car slowed, or someone got too close on the slopes; they were professional in an instant, a moving cordon, warding people away, assessing threats with hawk eyes and ready to pull various armaments from under their clothes. But up here they acted like a bunch of middle-aged businessmen on a jolly away from their families.
‘Bedroom light is out,’ said McCartney.
‘That’s Bob in bed,’ said Lennon.
I scooped snow underneath me and sat down, the barest sliver of my hood protruding. I loosened the straps holding the rifle securely to my back, lifting it over my head and laying it on the edge of the upturned snowboard. A perfect match for the surroundings, it was Plasti-Dipped white and grey over its normal dusty sand colour and, like my suit, hung with torn strips of white fabric, collecting snow.
I shuffled in, getting comfortable, pulling my goggles off, looping them into one of the straps on my chest. I switched on the big Schmidt & Bender scope and flicked up the lens protectors.
‘In position,’ I said quietly.
‘Check,’ came three hushed replies.
I put my cheek against the freezing stock, blinked a couple of times and watched the scope’s illuminated reticle dance over low eaves piled with snow, so close I felt I could touch it, deep shadows beneath. I swept across until I found the front door, placing the red dot on the handle.
I’d sighted the rifle in for 400 metres. I moved my eye up to the thermal imager on top with its laser rangefinder and got a reading: 427 metres from the scope to the front door, not bad going at all. I took a reading on the gusts blowing down the valley. Even with the suppressor the shot would be loud, but at this distance and with the wind blowing towards me, it wouldn’t be heard inside the house. I adjusted the scope for the added distance and wind, tiny soft clicks, then locked it back in, I’d been using the rifle long enough to know it instinctively.
I put my eye back to the scope and panned across from the door, checking the outside first. Beyond the porch and covered deck, the obscene Rolls Royce Cullinan sat side-on. I traced over the empty ski rack on the roof, down over its ridiculous wheels, and over to a Range Rover that I hadn’t seen them use yet, just peeping out from a timber garage. I worked my way around it and saw a small mound of snow piled against a log store. I zoomed in on the scope.
‘McCartney, I can see your boot,’ I whispered.
A slight twitch of the snow and it was gone. I moved the red dot up the long low roof, deep with white, overhanging huge windows. The top floor was black, I squinted down the scope at the dark room but couldn’t make anything out, no show tonight folks. I raised my head, flicked on the FLIR night-vision scope and zoomed in. The snow disappeared, everything morphed into shades of grey, a shadow of a bed, a slight shade variation on top of it.
‘Looks like Bob’s in bed.’
‘Sting’s in the kitchen,’ whispered McCartney.
‘Copy,’ said Ringo. ‘Had eyes on Bono but I think he’s gone back in the lounge.’
I continued to check the upper floors, then dropped back to the better scope to cover the ground floor, sweeping across the lit windows.
‘Yep, he’s filled his glass,’ I said. ‘Watching TV with Tony Hadley.’
In my circle of vision, a bodyguard threw a log on the fire then slumped in a chair over on the far side of the room. Boy George, who our intel had told us was a roid-rage English thug with a string of hate crimes behind him. He took a gulp from a bottle as I panned across an enormous, garishly decorated tree. Another two bodyguards sat on a low-backed retro sofa that probably cost more than my car, hunched forward over a coffee table, cards in hands. Behind the sofa, another guy was pouring a drink from a bar against the wall.
‘Car just passed me,’ said Lennon.
‘Coming up?’ I asked.
‘The BMW, heading into town,’ she said.
‘Didn’t come from the house,’ said McCartney.
‘Must be from the cabin below,’ said Ringo. ‘That’s good, means they’ve got less backup nearby.’
I inhaled, blinked a few times, put my eye back to the scope. ‘Perfect timing. Just waiting for Bono to fancy a smoke.’
I stared at the house for another fifteen minutes, cold burning my cheeks and eating up into my legs, flexing my fingers in the thin gloves, grateful most of the biting wind was being diverted above my head by the little wall I’d created. Fresh snow had drifted against the board in front of me, better camouflaging where I’d scooped out the snow. I looked to my left, it’d almost filled my tracks, reducing them to a slight depression running back to the treeline, and even that would be gone soon. We were fairly safe from watching eyes now, me in my hide and the other two huddling down, awaiting my signal.
A light came on at the house, I put my eye to the scope and watched the front door.
‘Showtime,’ I whispered.
Ringo hummed the Pearl & Dean tune in my ear.
‘Okay McCartney, you’re up.’
‘Moving in.’
I continued to monitor the lounge, no changes there. I panned back towards the garage where McCartney had emerged from one corner, submachine gun at his shoulder. He approached the house side-on, using the brickwork of the chimney to mask his approach, a blind spot out of view of the chalet’s expanses of glass that offered an easy route to the overhanging eaves. He pressed his back against the chimney and looked straight at me, even though I knew he couldn’t see me.
‘You’re looking good,’ I whispered.
He gave a slight nod. The door opened, a huge man shuffled out, shrugging on a thick bright orange ski jacket, the familiar granite shaved head scowling into the freezing air.
‘Bingo, Bono’s fag break. Everyone check in.’
‘Ringo, go.’
‘McCartney, go.’
A slight pause and then ‘Lennon, go.’
‘Okay, he’s lighting up,’ I said. ‘On my mark.’ My thumb flicked the lever to safe, I pulled on the charging handle and settled in.
The reticle wavered over his face as he sucked on his cigarette. The wind kept blowing the lighter out, he cupped his hands round it, trying a couple more times before finally succeeding. He blew the smoke up into the cold wind then pulled up his hood.
‘Go, McCartney.’
I watched Bono take another drag than panned across to the other side of the house in time to see McCartney’s boots disappear behind the chimney on the low roof. From there it was a short walk up the incline to the skylight over the master bedroom. Back to the door, Bono was picking baccy out of his mouth with his bratwurst fingers and spitting on the ground.
‘Nice work, McCartney. You’re still clear.’
‘Copy,’ he said. ‘Standing by.’
‘Ringo?’
‘Check,’ said Ringo. ‘I have four tangos in the lounge. No movement upstairs.’
‘Lennon?’
‘I’m still go,’ she said.
‘On my signal,’ I said.
I moved the reticle down onto Bono, a straight-on shot as he stared out at the dark. I pictured the shot from the other side, the white fields stretching below him, me right in the middle, the small black opening at the end of the white-painted suppressor.
My finger twitched, I flicked the safety down and hummed the Band Aid song. I got as far as the chimes clanging Bono’s doom, then exhaled and settled in. The red dot wavered over his chest, at this distance the high-velocity bullet would pretty much remove his heart or a lung. A smile twitched at the corner of my mouth. Well tonight thank God it was him, instead of me.
&nb
sp; My heart stopped, time stopped. His hood lit up as another light came on in the house, somewhere above. I eased off the trigger, sweeping up to the master bedroom. The light was on, Bob was out of bed.
‘Wait,’ I said.
Bono was stamping his feet.
‘What’s the holdup?’ Ringo hissed.
Back to the bedroom, the target was talking to an unseen person in the doorway.
‘There’s someone else in the bedroom.’
‘His cigarette is not going to last much longer,’ said McCartney.
Bono started walking across the front of the house. I had to take the shot before he got to the big windows in front of the lounge if I was to give Ringo a surprise entry. It’d be unfortunate if every bodyguard in the house saw their head of security being spread across the glass.
‘Take the fucking shot,’ whispered Ringo.
I panned up to the bedroom. A boy, maybe four or five, walked into the room rubbing his eyes. Bob ruffled his hair, a woman sat up in bed.
‘Shit. Abort.’ I flicked the safety back on. ‘Abort.’
‘What do you mean, abort?’ said Ringo.
‘I mean fucking abort.’ I followed Bono’s progress, he’d stopped at the edge of the porch. Upstairs, the kid climbed in bed with his parents.
‘We can’t abort,’ said McCartney. ‘Any second now Bono will walk round here and I’m perched on the roof like a bloody robin.’
‘We go, now,’ said Ringo. ‘Take the shot.’
‘There’s a kid in there.’
Silence over the radios for a moment.
Finally Ringo spoke again. ‘We’re going in.’
‘I said there’s a fucking kid in there, his family have turned up for Christmas. Must have arrived while we were gearing up. This is done, we’re out.’
‘I’m not saying goodbye to my fee because someone got squeamish,’ said McCartney.
‘Harrison, think about this,’ said Lennon.
‘There’s no more time,’ said Ringo. ‘Fuck this, we’re going in right now.’
Movement flashed by the doorway, Ringo was at the corner, about to make his entry. Bono was still over the other side of the decking. I panned back to the far corner of the house, could see Ringo, submachine gun up, ready to pop round the corner guns blazing.
‘Ringo, you take one more step I’ll drop you.’
His head spun, I could see him squinting into the darkness.
Bono finished his cig and fired it off the deck into the snow, walking back to the front door. Metres from him, Ringo wasn’t moving. I flicked the safety off, centred the cross hairs right on Ringo’s chest, squeezing ever so slightly. ‘If you move a centimetre I’ll shoot you now.’
‘Did you care this much about the children on the streets of Iraq?’ asked McCartney. ‘Or is it just the white children?’
‘A kid’s a kid,’ I hissed.
Bono paused outside the door, took one last look around, and disappeared inside. The door slammed behind him. Round the corner, Ringo dropped his submachine gun, letting it dangle by the straps, holding his hands up to his head.
‘There’ll be another opportunity,’ I said.
‘When?’ asked Lennon. ‘We’ve been planning this for over a week. Intel says he’s leaving for Switzerland in a couple of days.’
I stood, flicked the lens protectors down on the scope, slung the rifle onto my back. ‘Rendezvous at the car as planned. Out.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Tiburon
The waves crashed, I pressed my back against the wall and shuffled sideways along the slippery deck, out of the worst of the ceaseless walls of water washing over the railing and assaulting the superstructure. I shivered in my T-shirt, no time to get my jacket, no point now, I was soaked to my bones. I wasn’t overly bothered by it, but it was another good pair of trainers ruined.
Katanga waved at me from the doorway then slammed the door shut, peering out from the porthole.
The horizontal rain highlighted the soft glow from the windows above. Somewhere up there, Miller was at the wheel, rum in hand, squinting into the darkness. I looked forward at the white water over the bow, swamping the forward deck crane and washing around the raised cargo hatches, spraying across the front of my car.
I clung to the railings as I edged around the number two deck crane, watching the furious sea nervously. The boat surged down the slope of a wave, hit the bottom, climbed the next, every crash of water threatening to dislodge me and send me sliding over the edge.
Why the hell would King have come out here, on deck, in the middle of the night in a storm? I looked back at the door. Had Katanga tricked me into going out here, where I’d be washed overboard, or even shot and thrown over, without anyone noticing?
Then I saw it. Difficult in the rolling seas, obscured by the rain and waves and due to me concentrating on not going over the side, but in the darkness at the bottom of the trough it was just visible. A tiny, dim light in the darkness.
My car’s interior light.
Someone had been in my car while it had been on deck, sometime since I’d locked it. King? Or like me, moth-like, had he been drawn to the light, too?
I edged further out and looked up. Miller’s head was just visible through the spinning clearview windows. Into the next trough, his eyes would be up, scanning the horizon way above me as we angled down, deeper into the sea. I went for it.
A short distance, I sprinted across the deck, trainers skidding on the metal plates. As I approached, I saw the passenger window had been smashed. I slid behind my car, dropping to my knees, grabbing the rear wheel and clinging on. We hit the bottom of the trough, the Tiburon groaned in pain beneath me. The keel shuddered, every rivet and weld working overtime. Water crashed, we rose again. Seawater cascaded under my car, I held on and poked my head up.
Miller was fuzzy through the windows but hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed position, didn’t seem to have noticed me. Now I was out of reach of those dim spotlamps bolted to the superstructure, there was no one to see me if I did go over the side, certainly no one would care. I crept backwards, one hand on my car’s door handle, the other pulling out my gun. I brought it up and looked in through the broken window in one movement.
The interior light had been switched on manually, I was dismayed but not surprised to see my favourite car full of seawater. I don’t know if I was more upset about that or the tiny cubes of glass washing around the passenger seat and still dropping from the doorframe with every movement of the ship. The former meant stripping my car, the latter was easier to fix but the implication was far worse – someone had done it to get inside. For what, I didn’t know – I’d removed the valuable cargo hours ago, everyone knew that.
The glovebox was open, its contents washing around in the footwell, several soggy OS maps which I’d used to plot the route from the Alps to La Rochelle. Another of Dorset, which I’d used to check over the roads in and around Poole and up to the Army base. The centre console box was open too, its contents on the driver’s seat, sweet wrappers, vintage Ray Ban Aviators, and some Nurofen: hardly interesting.
Someone had smashed my window to turn over the inside, looking for something. Surely not King, why would he do that? He’d been in my car enough times, we’d lived together for a while for God’s sake, he’d have no reason to go rooting around in my car.
Various cargo straps lashing my car to the deck prevented me from opening the doors, so with another look up at the wheelhouse, I pushed through the window. I dragged myself through the falling cubes of glass and lay across the front seats to get my breath back as waves broke over the bow and spray slammed the windscreen.
I angled myself round, turning to look in the back seat. Nothing to see there: my G28 rifle, out of bullets, my bloodied snowboarding jacket, mostly avoiding the worst of the seawater blowing in the window.
Something moved in the boot – the boot which should have been empty. It poked up above the headrest and then bobbed down again.
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br /> I held my pistol close, hugging the driver’s seat, looking through the gap in the headrest. I reached down, pulled the lever to slide the seat back, then stretched out my left arm, reaching the lever to flip the back seats down.
I pulled, the waves crashed, we tilted, the rear seatback folded down. My finger was ready on the trigger but straight away I could see I didn’t need it.
King was dead.
Chapter Twenty-four
Tiburon
I gave King a once-over in the dim light of my phone torch. The wet, matted hair, the lack of other wounds suggested he’d been knocked on the back of the head. I put my fingers to the torch to have a look at the cause of the wetness, then brought the light close to his head for a better look. He’d been knocked on the head damn hard. Obviously King hadn’t smashed my car, he hadn’t ransacked it. He’d seen something, or someone, and, cat-like, his curiosity hadn’t done him any favours.
I switched off the torch, throwing the phone onto the driver’s seat, lying there in the dark, legs still in the front of the car, head in the boot with King, staring at nothing. I don’t know how long for, time was immeasurable, just the rolling sea and the constant crash of waves.
Ever since Justin had died, I’d still considered King my brother. An estranged brother maybe, since he hadn’t wanted to work with me, even see me, for a long time. Always said seeing me made him remember. He was right – I’d begged and bribed, knew he wouldn’t turn me down. He’d given in, and this is where it’d led him. If I’d told him the real reason I wanted him here he’d never have agreed. Yet another person I loved now dead, another victim of my hubris, my arrogance, my overwhelming desire for revenge above all else.
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