Formosa said, ‘No-one here wants to screw your chances, Bunny. We’re all on the same team here. And your daddy in particular would be very happy to have you back home, safe and sound.’ Barrett thought: nice point. So far he wasn’t impressed with Bunny’s down-home, patriotic spiel: it was too rehearsed, too pat.
‘I know that. But I have to be completely focused. I can’t have this shit buggin’ me, puttin’ me off. There might be less than one-tenth of one second in it when I hit that tape. It’s like Tiger Woods tryin’ to sink a putt to win the PGA, and some jerk in the crowd is hollerin’ at him. If I am … distracted, or preoccupied, if I got to watch for every swingin’ dick comes near me and worry if he’s gonna draw a piece, if I am not mentally attuned, I can lose the whole thing. Such a big piece of this is in the mind. Leg speed alone won’t do it. I knew a boy at school who had more natural God-given speed than I did, but I always beat him when it counted because he had too much else happening in his head. He was a brains trust, a math whiz; he couldn’t concentrate on running the way I could. This other thing, the math, was always actin’ against it. I learned early to rid my mind of everything else, but everything else, and that was the difference.’
‘I’m not going to stop you from concentrating,’ Barrett said, ‘Just from getting killed. We don’t have to be paranoid about it – just sensible. Cautious.’
The slow smile spread across Delfranco’s broad face as another stick of gum disappeared into his mouth. ‘If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, I think this is a slight case of overreaction. How do you know someone out there plans to kill me, man? Shit. How do you know that?’
Barrett said, ‘It’s true, we don’t know for sure, but a threat has been made, a contract offered, and the FBI …’
‘FBI? Shi-it. Fart’n’Barf, Incorporated. Those guys …’ he shook his head, smiling. ‘They wouldn’t know.’
‘Their information is a lot more accurate than ours.’
‘Man, this is so goddamned crazy. What is this FBI shit? Could be the aliens are after me too. Ain’t no-one going to touch me – no-one.’ He sat up straight, pointing a finger at Barrett. ‘Hey. They never got that guy, that writer, did they?’
Barrett said, ‘You mean … Salman Rushdie?’
‘Yeah, Sal-man Rushdie. He had every Muslim in the entire world after his unhappy ass.’
‘Salman Rushdie didn’t exactly stand up in front of a hundred thousand people to be picked off by a sniper. He hid, and kept moving, for ten years. And he’s still not out of the woods.’
‘Ten years. Shit, man.’ Bunny looked at the floor, slowly shaking his head again. It must have seemed an impossibly long time for him. Ten or so years ago, while still in short pants, he had just outrun his father on a dirt track. He lifted his head again and levelled a shiny, brown-eyed gaze at Barrett. ‘Salman Rushdie lives like a hunted animal. Yeah, well. That’s his gig. I ain’t gonna be hidin’ and runnin’ away from some goddamned lunatic cracker, I can promise you that. Any case, these assholes are all hot air, in my opinion. Piss and wind.’
‘A million bucks buys a bit more than piss and wind, Bunny,’ Barrett said.
‘Maybe.’ Again, the listless shrug. ‘So, what’s the deal – you gonna wear me like a glove, Mr Barrett Pike?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
The slow grin came back to Delfranco’s lips. ‘Then tell me this. How you gonna keep up, my man?’
It was Barrett’s turn to smile. ‘Let’s hope I don’t have to. Any particular reason you want to make it tough for me?’
Delfranco’s grin faded. ‘Yeah. Well … you do your job, and let me do mine.’
‘For me to do mine properly, I need your cooperation, Bunny.’
‘You got my cooperation, up to a certain point. But keep outta my personal space, man. Don’t crowd me out. Make like a … like a spook. Make like you ain’t there. Then we all be happy.’
‘I’ll try to make myself invisible. Have you moved your gear into the village yet?’
‘Nope. I’m in a hotel, until Thursday. That’s official move-in day.’
‘Two nights.’
‘Yeah, two nights.’
‘Which hotel?’
‘It’s, ah … the Sebel Town House, in Elizabeth Bay, I believe.’
‘Okay. Can I ask you not to go wandering around the streets while you’re there? If you want to see the sights, give me a call and I’ll be happy to take you on a tour. No sense in tempting fate, is there? Elizabeth Bay’s not far from Kings Cross, which is a hot crime area. People are mugged and murdered there routinely. You have a mobile phone?’
‘Never leave home without it.’
Barrett handed him his card, and for a second or two there seemed some doubt as to whether Delfranco would accept it or not. In the end he did, examining it with an air of distaste and a slightly raised eyebrow. Barrett said, ‘I’d appreciate it if you would call me before going out anywhere, Bunny. Will you do that?’
‘Sure, man, you got it. You want to be a tour guide, fine by me.’
‘And I’d better have your number too.’
‘No problem.’
‘I got that,’ Langley said.
‘Fine. After Thursday, when you move into the village, it gets harder. Homebush Bay is a long way from the city, and the road that goes there will be bumper-to-bumper. Access from the river is limited. Ideally, I should stay with you somewhere there, in the village.’
Delfranco didn’t seem to care about that as he slipped another piece of gum into his mouth. ‘That’s your biz,’ he said, and shrugged.
‘But that’s easier said than done,’ Barrett said. ‘The complex was designed to house a certain number of athletes and officials, and no doubt every last inch of space is spoken for. I don’t know if they can squeeze in one more, even if the authorities will allow it. There might be a broom closet spare.’
‘There’s the hotel on site, right on Olympic Boulevard and directly opposite the new train station,’ Langley said. ‘It’ll be booked solid, but we might be able to pull some strings, get you a broom closet there.’
Barrett had forgotten there was a new hotel in the complex. ‘Good thinking. I’ll get on to them. It would be mighty convenient if I could set up an operations room there. Okay, let’s leave it at that for now. I appreciate your time, Bunny.’
‘That’s my pleasure, sir,’ Delfranco said. He was being both polite and faintly disingenuous. They stood up, and when they shook hands Barrett again noted the soft limpness of the man’s grip. It felt as if his hand were being enfolded in warm velvet. There was an air of lethargy, almost of sleepiness, about Bunny Delfranco, and Barrett had to remind himself that this man could burn up one hundred metres of cinder track in 9.73 seconds, even if it was hand-timed and with excessive wind assistance.
‘You will call,’ Barrett said. ‘When you want to go out.’
‘Said I would,’ Delfranco replied, and gave him the slow grin. Don’t count on it, buddy.
‘I’ll drive you back to your hotel,’ Langley said. ‘And then I’ll say good-bye. From then on, you deal only with Barrett and his people.’
‘Oh, incidentally,’ Barrett said to Langley. ‘On that subject, I’m engaging the services of Geoff O’Mara, if there’s no objection. We used to work together.’
‘Tex O’Mara?’ Langley said. ‘No problems.’ To Delfranco, he added, ‘O’Mara is a top operator. Knows the security business inside out, back to front.’
Delfranco nodded wearily – an undisguised expression of indifference, verging on impatience. ‘He from Texas?’
‘Yeah,’ Barrett said. ‘Texas, Queensland, maybe.’
The athlete didn’t smile, or react at all. Barrett could see that Bunny, the target, was the only one in the room not taking a serious view. He didn’t give a flying fig about Geoff O’Mara, where he came from, who was on board and who wasn’t. He was an Olympic athlete, and this was all a real drag. He was gone from this place; he had already emptied h
is mind of the whole deal. Looking at his reactions, hearing his words, Barrett was convinced Bunny was not playing straight. It was the same feeling he’d had with Mai Ling. He felt the urge to slap his chops, force a reaction. He decided to make an impression, even if it meant overstepping the mark.
‘Bunny,’ he said, ‘listen up, good and hard. We’re not doing this for practice – do you follow? This is the real business. Maybe you’re right; maybe there’s no danger. Let’s hope so. However, chances are there is a man out there – an expert assassin – who wants to take you out. As you may have noticed, a number of people are going to some trouble on your behalf. Your own father considers your situation serious enough to put up a lot of money to ensure your safety. The least you can do is respect his concern, get with the program and not dick us around pretending there’s no issue. Are you receiving, loud and clear?’
Langley shifted uneasily in his chair. This time Delfranco didn’t grin. ‘Loud and clear, Mr Pike,’ he said, voice flat, eyes dilated, a vee-shaped set of veins in his forehead thickening sharply. ‘We done now?’
‘No, we just started,’ Barrett said.
15
‘Good evening, sir,’ the sweating and smiling Alex said, extending his hand across the counter as Edward made his way to a table, his yellow shades perched atop the Titleist cap and a camera slung over his shoulder. This evening he was wearing an aquamarine casual shirt with a flying banana Screensaver motif, and tan pleated duck pants, the type that came with a belt. Alex was char-grilling some meat and fish, and the flames roared high. ‘So nice to see you again. Hungry?’
‘You bet your ass I’m hungry,’ Edward said, shaking the Greek’s bony paw. It was early, just after six-thirty, but Edward was in the habit of dining at that time. ‘Whatcha got on tonight, buddy?’
‘Ah, lamb cutlets,’ Alex said, turning them over with a long fork. ‘Best ones only, from the market. I buy them personally, myself. And some nice blue eye, very sweet. You like blue eye?’
‘Blue eye? Sure I do,’ Edward said. ‘Blue eye’s fine. But bring me a whole bunch of stuff first – olives, uh, hommus, whatever, and some of that warm bread. But don’t bother with the tzatziki – I’m not into yoghurt.’ He handed over a bottle of red wine he’d purchased from the liquor store a few doors along from the restaurant.
‘Of course, sir,’ Alex said, and raised a finger. ‘Hold the tzatziki.’
‘Hold the tzatziki,’ Edward said, grinning. Amazing the way people everywhere liked to ape American talk. He sat down facing the oil painting, placing the camera on the table, and wondered why Alex would want to leave a paradise like that for this grungy shit-hole. Maybe it wasn’t as much of a paradise as it looked. Maybe everyone there was primitive and dirt poor, like they were in Nicaragua. No matter where you were, someplace else always looked more attractive – until you got there. Then you saw it was shit. Edward was no different: he had yet to find anywhere in the States he could call home. Denver was all right, but it got fucking cold in winter. He was thinking, maybe he’d give a Hawaii a shot, once he picked up this pay packet. He’d never been there. Tropics were fine, wonderful, without the bugs and insects, the stinking swamps, children begging everywhere, bodies rotting in the bush, the filth and the goddamned fucking malaria that plagued you for the rest of your goddamned life. Being infected with that cunt of a disease was the greatest misfortune of his life, with the possible exception of falling into the hands of Milo-fucking-Caspar, chief CIA spook and cunt of cunts. Caspar had made Edward into what he now was: an ex-soldier, ex-advisor, ex–human being at large. He had made him into a jackal, scratching out a living wherever he could, killing people for money because he could. He wondered if there was still a price on his head. If so, how much? What was he worth dead? Fuck Caspar. If Edward saw him walk into this restaurant right now, he would not hesitate to shoot the bug-eyed little bastard, make him eat gunmetal and then blow his head right away. Edward had done his duty, then Caspar had shit on him from a great height, sending assassins into his camp – assassins Edward himself had trained. What a dirty, treacherous cunt he turned out to be. Thinking over these things, going back, Edward felt the old anger rising, and noticed his right fist clenched tight and trembling, bone-white. He took a few deep breaths and calmed himself down as Alex arrived with some food and the uncorked bottle of wine.
Eating black olives and pieces of the warm bread dipped in hommus, and sipping his Krondorf shiraz claret, he checked out the back of the restaurant. The same crew of chain-smoking, coffee-drinking, bead-worrying Greeks sat at the same table, everyone yammering and no-one listening. They were clearly part of the furniture. Edward didn’t mind Greeks, the way they did fuck-all day in, day out. It really wasn’t much of a life, no more a life than a hound dog’s, but what the fuck? He wouldn’t mind a piece of that action, or non-action, on one of those islands – Rhodes or … yeah, Rhodes. Or … what was the other one? Crete, maybe. Santorini, that was the one. Santorini. White stone buildings, a hot, blinding sun, nothing to do all day but sleep and sit outside some bar on the esplanade sinking beers, eating the big dinner and then fucking tourist girls every evening … Yeah, that would be cool. Maybe that was a better option than Hawaii. Greeks didn’t normally give a toss what you were, as long as you were cashed up and didn’t break their laws. They were easy going if you didn’t dick with them.
It sounded the goods. And there was nothing to stop him, after this. He rested his hand on his black leather belly bag. In it he usually carried his wad of greenbacks, phone, maps, travel documents and his set of five passports fastened tightly together with rubber bands, but tonight it also contained a pearl-handled, fully loaded Smith & Wesson .44 magnum auto, courtesy of Mick Dawes. As far as Edward could tell, it hadn’t even been fired – the firing mechanism, chambering action and bore were absolutely pristine. Back at the house, under his bed, were extra .44 rounds, three M-79 grenades, a Mark V Weatherby bolt-action rifle and a box of ammunition made especially for it – high-velocity, flat-trajectory, hard-hitting .270 magnum loads, with enough knockdown power to stop an elk in its tracks from five hundred yards. They were ideal for a one-shot kill, and would certainly take care of Titus Delfranco once he got him in his sights. Edward was not trained as a sharpshooter, he was not a dead shot, but he was a fucking good shot – never worse than three-inch groupings at the army range. And the Weatherby was a beautiful weapon, perfect for his needs. Ideally, he would hit the target from as far away as possible, and at night, but it might not work out that way. You had to be ready for anything in this line of work. The last thing he wanted was to shoot him up close with the handgun, because getting away would be a total nightmare unless he managed to nail him on his own. The handgun was really for defending himself if it came to a shoot-out, the rifle being too heavy and unsuited for rapid firing in a toe-to-toe combat situation, cops coming at him in numbers. It was a last resort, his Alamo, and he hoped like hell he wouldn’t be faced with the need to blast his way free with it. This was not a goddamned suicide mission.
Walking towards the city after his meal he gave some thought to the best way of going about this. First of all he had to locate the target, then flush him out in the open. Television was a help: on the previous day’s news they’d run a piece on the arrival of the world’s fastest man, and there he was, leaving the airport pushing a trolley of luggage, surrounded by an entourage of trainers and ass kissers. Edward had photographs, but seeing him on the screen was like fixing him in his crosshairs. He would love to know where the man was holed up. One thing he had found out from a simple phone call to SOCOG – the athletes would not be taking up residence in the village near the Homebush Bay stadium until Thursday. That meant he was in a hotel somewhere, and being Titus Delfranco, beloved son of Supreme Court Judge Julius Delfranco, he would not be at the YMC-fucking-A. There was a time-consuming method for finding out these things: you went through the telephone book, calling all the good hotels and, pretending to be a freelance sports journa
list, asked if the fastest man alive was there and available for interview. And they’d probably tell you. Half the journalists in the world were here right now, so why couldn’t he be one? The thing was to take advantage of the high levels of excitement and confusion. It was essential to lock onto the target early, get to know him, his behaviour patterns, the little quirks and foibles that could be his undoing. Find his vulnerable spots, and make full use of them. Hit when the time was right. Edward had found the Internet useful in this context: Bunny was vain enough to have a home page, which Edward had downloaded at a cyber cafe. Interesting reading, and might just provide the key to the whole deal coming off like Slick Willie Clinton on Viagra. Seemed Bunny liked greyhounds, raced some back home …
Edward was heading towards Circular Quay and the famous Opera House, doing the tourist thing. The plan was to have a good look around, maybe treat himself to a ferry trip. He had no idea where the ferries went, how the transportation system worked, but what the hell – a boat ride was a boat ride. He’d heard a lot about Bondi Beach, but could you catch a ferry there? He’d find out. Along Hunter Street, he stopped at a bank of public telephones, found one containing the Yellow Pages and ripped out the Hotels section before continuing on his way. By this time it was nearly seven-thirty. Then he turned a corner and walked slap-bang into an automatic teller machine mugging in progress.
Hard Yards Page 16