by James Munro
"We must go," said Tania, and left the car. Boris followed, carrying Simmons like a parcel.
"Good-bye, Craig," he said. "Do svidanye," and trudged off down the beach.
Tania kissed him on the mouth, demanding a response. There was none.
"Good-bye, Craig," she said. "I wish I had known you when you liked women."
Then she too went off to the dinghy.
They watched as the outboard sputtered, saw the faint silver wake cut its way to the power boat, then listened to the deep, muted roar of her engines as
her mast lights dwindled and died.
"This is a very deserted road," said Hornsey.
"You want to do it now?" Istvan asked, anguish in his voice.
Craig said: "The longer we put it off the harder it'll be."
"Wait," said Istvan, and turned to Hornsey. "I have people lean contact," he said. "Businessmen. They would pay perhaps ten thousand pounds for this money."
"No," said Hornsey.
"Twenty thousand," said Istvan.
"No."
"They would be very discreet. They would not distribute more than a hundred thousand pounds' worth in one year." Hornsey was silent. "Twenty-five thousand," said Istvan. "It's the top price to pay for hot money."
"You can't buy this money," Hornsey said. "You couldn't buy it for a million. It has to burn."
"At least let me keep the cases," Istvan said. They let him.
They dug a hole on the beach, filled it with crumpled notes, soaked them with petrol siphoned from the car, lit it with a wad of notes lit like a torch. One by one they dropped the sheafs of stiff, elegant paper into the flames, watched them writhe into glowing ash eager for the next consignment..
Istvan held his hands to the flames.
"I used to dream of being warm in Siberia," he said. "It was a lovely dream. This is a nightmare." He scowled as Hornsey went to the car for the last consignment.
"They promised me I would be rich," he said.
"They lied, for they were going to kill me, but they promised—and a Hungarian lives on promises. Now I have nothing."
"You're lying," said Craig. "You took some when I left you in the safe. I heard you."
"A trifle," said Istvan.
"You've still got your tools."
"How can I use them again? I stole a million. There are no more worlds for me to conquer.
Hornsey came back, and the last of the money soared up in golden heat.
"You'll drive me back to Tangier?" Hornsey asked.
"Of course," said Craig. "I'm very grateful to you." Istvan sniffed.
"That night—I should have killed Simmons," Hornsey said.
"He hadn't led you to this," said Craig, and pointed to the heap of glowing ash.
"No. You did that," said Hornsey.
"When I thought you were one of us? After he—" Hornsey nodded. "I had to do it, Craig. That money had to burn."
"That's why you phoned the bank? To make sure we were getting on with it?"
"That's why," Hornsey said. "You did my job for me. We've won, Craig." He paused. "I thought you'd have killed Simmons."
"I thought so too. But he had to live."
"And Brodski?"
"Boris killed him." He hesitated. "I could have liked Brodski."
His hand flashed to his chest, came out with the Smith and Wesson, spun it by the trigger guard,
then replaced it under his coat in a blur of speed.
"Killing's all I know," he said. "It's time I learned something else."
They went back to the car, and Craig backed and turned away from a million pounds of ash.
Istvan said: "This Medani's father we visit. Will he have women with him?"
"I suppose so," said Craig. "Chaps like him used to have two or three hundred in the old days."
"Belly dancers?" asked Istvan.
"I dare say he could find you one. After all, he'll be grateful to you."
"I find such gratitude very consoling," Istvan said. "Only a woman can give me rest now."
Craig thought of Kamar.
"I don't think you'll find Berber women restful," he said. "But by God they make you feel like a man."
FB2 document info
Document ID: 226a6c12-27bf-47cd-bda1-bc70177cf5c7
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 18.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.10, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
James Munro
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