by Jo Black
‘It would be better if you came back. What is your quarrel with Smythe beyond the historical?’
‘I blew up his boat,’ Alex said walking towards the door.
Alex walked out into the courtyard; he walked up the drive to where a Rolls Royce was parked. The driver got out and opened the rear door.
‘Get in Aleksandr. Don’t worry. We’re not planning to spirit you away. It’s just frightfully chilly out tonight so I’d rather conduct our business in comfort. Nice nip of brandy for you eh? What do you say?’ Alex got in the back of Smythe’s car. The driver closed the door behind him. Smythe poured two double shots of brandy into crystal bowl glasses. ‘Take either. I know you don’t trust me. If I’ve poisoned it I’ll have no way to know which glass you’ll choose, so we’re both playing a sort of drinking Russian roulette.’ Alex stared at the two glasses. He picked the one closest to him. ‘Good choice, you’d assume that I’d think you’d pick the glass closest to me, but then if I knew that then I would have pre-empted it making the choice rather redundant.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something?’
‘Rather symbolic of our current situation. I can give you a choice, but we have to assume I already understood what your decision would be, rendering me giving you that choice rather redundant as well. Bottoms up.’ Smythe raised his glass and drank from it. Alex raised his and sniffed it. ‘Not convinced eh?’
‘No, I was just merely reflecting how cheap you are. You pick this up in a mini-market?’
Smythe flashed a fake smile. ‘Terribly impressed I was with your little activity down on the old AutoRoute today. It’s all over the news. Serb militia gang spring wanted war crim’ from his van in a daring and brutally violent heist. Exciting stuff. Expect the Hollywood film of it is already being penned. Bravo. Suppose you’ve got the odious genocide committer in your little piggy shed have you? I bet Harry is enjoying his company this evening.’ Alex sipped his brandy. ‘Cheap it may be, but warms your cockles on a nippy winter’s night, don’t it?’
‘Like Listerine.’
‘So here we are. Just wanted to thank you really.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Despite best efforts, thanks to you having your little French Guild chum on board, we couldn’t get near Radic. I suppose had Charles not decided to turncoat on us we could have used his skills to do something interesting, he was terribly macho on that motorcycle wasn’t he? A modern day Steve McQueen. But no, really the fact is, thanks to your Russian persuasions, you were the only person Radic would have trusted to co-operate. And we couldn’t risk his memoirs falling into the wrong hands, so action had to be taken.’
‘You haven’t got him yet, or his memoirs. I fear you may have counted your chickens before they’ve hatched my old chum.’
‘Yes, problem that isn’t it? You see we know once he’s given them to you then the tactical situation may not be to our benefit and provide suitable leverage towards negotiation. And we didn’t want to get embroiled in all that nonsense chasing after your little lady again.’
‘You mean you can’t get at her.’
‘Well. Can’t or won’t is academic, the time is here and now. Needs must, adapt we shall.’
‘You cooked this whole thing up with Mikhail didn’t you?’
‘We knew your friend Nish had finally got Radic cornered, was only a matter of time. The only person who could have persuaded Nish to do the right thing was you, and the only person who could persuade Radic to play ball was a friendly face from the Slavic horde. So we put the ball in play, so to speak, and you obliged us in having a good kick around with it. Jolly good all round. Of course, there are other matters beyond this little episode at play, but still. All seems to have worked out terribly well.’
‘Has it now?’
‘The writing is on the wall Aleksei. You’ve made your bed with Mikhail, and got us what we want, all you have to do is get Radic to hand over his little bundles of notes and everybody can go back to being friends. I may even forgive Charles his little petulance.’
‘So what exactly do I get out of this?’
‘A seat at the new table. All sins forgiven. You can go back to doing what you do, with the benefit of us having gift-wrapped your betrothed to you on a silver platter.’
Alex frowned. ‘I don’t follow...’
‘Come on, I think you do. Do you really think your relationship would have renewed had she maintained her M.I.6 credentials, and you had carried on being the Kremlin’s favourite apparatchik? I think not. No, I think you’ll find the emotional trauma she has suffered, combined with the, skilfully, I may modestly add, fabrication of her naughty dealings with Mister Bishop that have discredited her so successfully in the eyes of H.M Government has, I feel, contributed towards her decision to renew her marital bond. Who knew I had such skills in reconciliation...’ Smythe sipped his brandy.
‘So you orchestrated all that for what, my benefit?’
‘For our benefit...yours and mine. Everyone wants something Alex. We’ve given you what you want, now you can perhaps return the favour. She is after all, your most precious of things, is she not? I would have thought returning her to your homestead was deserving of a little gratitude and recompense.’
‘So what, we just all kiss and make-up. Is that what you think?’
‘Brave new world Aleksei. Times they are a changing. We need to change with them. There’s a lot of opportunities on the road ahead, don’t you want be a part of our bold new future? Or do you prefer to linger in the past? Marxism. Really Alex, the Soviet is never coming back. Embrace your skills and profit from them. Don’t be a slave to bettering the lot of the proletariat. They’ll never thank you for it. Look at the politicos. Fickle as a fickle mob they can be, the dirty ol’ proles. Exploit them, as they deserve to be exploited.’
Alex finished his brandy. ‘Is that how you sold it to Hunter?’
‘Hunter didn’t need any selling. He’s a ‘murican. He still believes in The American Dream. Give him a nice suit, a shiny badge, let him stand around in The White House feeling important, and he’s happy as the proverbial pig in shit.’
‘So the choice?’
‘Ah yes, that...well. We’d prefer to avoid any un-pleasantries, but if you decide to decline our fair bargain then your choice of venue, a slaughterhouse for piggys, is a rather appropriate place to be your graveyard.’
Alex smiled. ‘To deliver a threat David, you have to actually have something to threaten with.’
‘Ah yes. You do. I agree.’ Smythe knocked on the window to his driver and nodded at him. The driver spoke into his radio. The tree line lit up and Alex realised the entire of the farmyard was surrounded with over a hundred armed men. ‘Quite ironic that your execution squad will be your former company comrades. Merriweather doesn’t have your tactical ability, your panache, or your flair for mayhem, but he’s very biddable. Even with his deficiencies, I believe a ten to one ratio should just about do it.’
‘Very good Smythe. It seems you’ve finally learned something.’
‘I’m a keen student of your techniques dear boy. Took a while, but I think I might be getting the hang of these mercenary war lord shenanigans.’
‘Stick to selling the means Smythe, you’ll find it safer and more profitable than using the tools from your shop.’
‘So, what’s it to be? Maybe you want to call the wife, assume she’s wearing the pants now while you’re wearing the panties.’
‘Keep your fantasies to yourself Smythe. I’m not interested.’
‘Tell you what. Give you until sunrise. Seems fitting after all we’ve been through together. Pistols at dawn eh me old fruit?’
Alex finished his drink. He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you Smythe, you laid the whole thing out and let me walk right into it. How I didn’t see it coming, I don’t know.’
‘Slowly boiling water with a frog in it. You don’t notice it’s boiling until it’s too late to jump out. And you were so focu
sed on your emotions for your betrothed that you took your eye off the ball. Women are always the downfall of great men. It is a weakness. Love addles the brain into a stupor. She made it easy for me.’
Alex nodded. ‘I guess she did...’
‘Until morning?’
‘You’ll get your answer at first light.’ Alex got out of Smythe’s car. He walked back to the farm complex; he was greeted by Nish, Vane, and Vincent. ‘He gave us until first light. Merriweather and the old crew are in his pay.’
‘He knows how to pull someone’s chain. We either get wasted by all the former members of The Company, or we waste them. Either way he wins,’ Nish said.
‘So what’s the plan? You do have one,’ Vane asked.
‘I think he might have us...’ Alex said with some trepidation. ‘I need time to think.’ Alex walked away to a quiet corner. The others walked over to the table. Radic was sat laughing to himself.
‘Something funny Radic? Nish asked.
‘You stupid fucks. You don’t get it.’
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter what he offer you. You are all already dead. We are already dead. He’s here to kill me. Radic. Nobody is leaving here alive. He got you out so he could kill me. You stupid fucks do it for him!’
‘Bullshit. What about your insurance policy?’ Vane asked.
‘What you think? It will be all over news that Serbians got Radic out. My people know I escape. He fucking slaughter us here in pig house and nobody ever know it. If he kill me in prison everyone know Radic dead, my people do something, but now, he fuck Radic and they not know until they do all they want then insurance policy is expired. He play you like fucking bitches.’
Nish walked over to Alex. ‘Is he right?’
‘Smythe offered to trade. We give him Radic, we go free on good terms.’
‘So he set us up to get Radic out?’
‘It appears that way.’
‘And why did you not see this?’
‘I don’t know Nish. I was focused on the wrong thing. I thought they were trying to stop the dossier, keep Zara and Bishop quiet. They were just using them as bait to get us into play.’
‘And we walked right into it. Rather you led us into it.’
‘No Nish. You did. The minute you fucking grabbed him, that’s what kicked this chain of events off. They knew you were about to snatch him. That’s why she was taken, that’s why they framed her, the whole thing was simply about Radic.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the dossier was bullshit. Just money accounts and shell companies. Whatever he has got on them is what they are protecting. We were the only people who could get to him, and the only people who could get him out. He’s played every single one of us. You with Radic, me with Zara, Hunter and Vincent.’
‘Well I ask again, how did Smythe get past you?’
‘Because that’s what The Devil does Nish. You just never seem him coming...’ Alex stared out the window. ‘We’ve been playing his game all along. Every move.’
‘So what now?’ Vincent asked Alex.
‘We play a different game, one where we choose the rules.’
66
As the first cracks of dawn light spilled through the dirty broken windows into the large slaughterhouse main hall, the red phone rang and pierced the eerie silence. The shrill tone of the ringer echoed around the empty space to no response before finally falling silent again.
Smythe stared at the complex bathed in a deep swirl of frosty morning mist. ‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.’ Smythe smiled to himself. ‘Let it begin,’ he commanded.
Merriweather took out his radio and muttered quietly into it before returning to Smythe’s side and raising his binoculars to observe the desolate scene. From the dense tree lines bordering the wide open snow covered fields surrounding the farm, streaks of smoke from the trails of R.P.G’s arced across the void before striking into the building, exploding into the old walls and sending showers of debris outwards in large orange explosions. As the first salvo concluded, a propane gas tank inside the building ruptured in a bright flash of explosive orange before setting light to more tanks. Within minutes the entire building was ablaze, feeding a large column of smoke that hung around the still air of the building, becoming denser by the minute.
Smythe sneered out a satisfied smile as the fire took hold. ‘Make sure you finish them,’ he hissed. Merriweather gave the second order. In a large circle around the target building, over one hundred of Merriweather’s armed men emerged and began to converge on the hundred yard line surrounding the building. As they reached firing range, they raised their carbines and began to empty magazine after magazine into the building, riddling its burning shell with peppering fire — covering all the walls. They reached the hundred yards mark and stopped, plumes of cold condensation rose into a fog bank from off their carbine barrels, the echoes of the rapid staccato fire sent scores of black crows from the trees. As the gunfire fell silent all that remained was the crackling and moaning of the building steels buckling under the fire’s increasing temperatures, the popping of glass, cracking and spitting of wood. Smythe stared at the funeral pyre with satisfaction then amidst the silence came the echo of music from the old P.A loudspeakers set high on poles around the site as the crackling of an old Edith Piath song carried on a breeze.
(Translated from French)
* * *
No! No regrets
No! I will have no regrets
All the things
That went wrong
For at last I have learned to be strong
* * *
No! No regrets
No! I will have no regrets
For the grief doesn’t last
It is gone
I’ve forgotten the past
* * *
And the memories I had
I no longer desire
Both the good and the bad
I have flung in a fire
And I feel in my heart
That the seed has been sown
It is something quite new
It’s like nothing I’ve known
* * *
No! No regrets
No! I will have no regrets
All the things that went wrong
For at last I have learned to be strong
* * *
No! No regrets
No! I will have no regrets
For the seed that is new
It’s the love that is growing for you
Under the feet of the men stood in a circle around the complex, a high-pressure irrigation hose sprang to life spraying a walled fountain of accelerant that soaked them through. Before they had time to react an arc of buried pyrotechnic flares exploded from the soil in a fountain of red sparks, the bright phosphorous fuelled heat immediately caught the fog of accelerant igniting a huge explosive cloud that engulfed the entire circle of men as flames shot fifty feet in the air, the flares spewed a thick bank of fog smoke that sucked inwards drawn by the building fire’s current as it sucked in more air to fuel its growth. Smythe and Merriweather watched aghast as tortured screams pierced the fog in ghoulish echoes before the spectre of his men set fully alight running in panic out of the fog, desperately trying to douse the flames covering them, screaming as the fire burned them alive. As the last of them emerged and succumbed to their cremation, the sudden bark of three large capacity V8’s echoed and rumbled from within the building. Smythe and Merriweather turned their attention back to the building, inside; the doors to the heavy steel cargo shipping containers dropped open. From the darkness the roar of the V8’s revving angrily spilled out before the piercing eyes of a pair of high intensity Xenon gas-discharge headlights lit up. One by one, the Audi S8’s emerged from the smoke and flames surrounding the containers, executing tight right tail-sliding turns onto the snow to exit the courtyard in procession. As they emerged from the smoke heading in Smythe’s direction, a phalanx of black motorcycle riders sp
ed alongside, riding single-handed. They accelerated ahead of the Audis and their hands rose aloft as Smythe and Merriweather stared with horror at the emerging threat. The motorcyclists reached Smythe’s Rolls Royce; parked at the end of the drive, as they rode past they flung Molotov cocktails at Smythe’s car. The bottles collided against the bodywork smashing the glass bottles and showering Smythe, Merriweather, and his small coterie stood adjacent to the car with the propellant, engulfing them in liquid-borne flames. They screamed as the burning petrol seared through their clothes and skin as they flailed in all directions into the snow-covered fields before dropping to the ground and writhing around attempting to douse the fire engulfing them. As the middle Audi approached it slowed to a stop to the side of where Smythe was lying on the ground, prostrate, smearing muddied snow over his face to sooth the burning pain. The soft whir of an electric window lowered. Smythe looked up through his one good eye, the other now sealed shut by scorched red and black flesh. Alex looked down at Smythe; his face raw to the bone on one side, covered in mud tinged dirty snow. He gazed down upon him, staring as Smythe choked and gasped for air.
‘Go on, finish me...I dare you!’ hissed Smythe. ‘Angel of Death! Do your master’s work!’
Alex took a deep satisfied inhale of breath and gently released it. ‘We both know you’ll suffer more this way. Goodbye Smythe.’ Alex raised the window, put the car in gear and accelerated away. Smythe watched as the red spots of taillights blurred into the morning mist before the engine’s song faded into the distance. Smythe struggled to his feet and surveyed the burning carnage around him. The faint snivelling of Merriweather some feet away. He traced the noise to its source and found Merriweather clutching at the snow crying pitifully for help. Smythe grabbed a clutch of Merriweather’s hair in his hand and dragged him by it, eliciting a scream. Smythe turned him to face the carnage as charred burning remnants of his host lay scattered around the field, piercing the pristine white snow with bloodied trails and blackened skin. Smythe pulled Merriweather’s burnt face to look. ‘I want you to see what your failure has cost, Merriweather. Take a good look! Imprint this scene on your memory. This is what your failure leads to!’ Smythe dumped Merriweather at his feet, gave him a healthy derisory kick to the ribs before turning and staggering off in the direction of the main road.