by Steve Reeder
“Are you sure you won’t come with us, Simon?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks, but I’ll pick you up in March at Johannesburg International, right?”
“Yes, the eighteenth. Don’t forget me,” she demanded fiercely.
“Not in a million years, honey,” I said. “Texas, here we come.” We shared another kiss to remember each other by and I shooed her through the gate. She had tears in her eyes, and I was not far from it myself. As she disappeared from view I very nearly changed my mind. I was going to miss her badly over the next few weeks.
I didn’t wait for her plane to take off. I had a plane of my own to catch.
The big Tiger Triumph off-road bike flew across the hot desert, the suspension untroubled by the windswept sandy ridges. I passed the burnt-out wreckage of the helicopter just after midday and soon saw the old fort dead ahead. All those days of hard slog were covered in a matter of hours.
I stopped the bike just short of my thorny shelter. How desperate I must have been to think that hiding behind this scrub bush would do any good.
I hit the kill switch and the rumbling triple cylinders became silent. I was strangely reluctant to allow the mechanical intruder into this sinister place of death. I stood the bike onto the side-stand and walked down to the fort. Not a sound could be heard, not a bird, not an insect.
The gates hung askew; just as they had months before but the body of the dead Arab was gone. Reluctant to enter, I walked around the building just as I had months before. Around the back I found seven graves, facing east; towards Mecca? Two of the helicopter crew hadn’t survived my efforts with the stolen nine-mil. There were no names or religions indicated on the crude wooden headstones.
Seven men, add them to the three in Angola and I wondered what a priest would say if I went to confession. Luckily, I’m not a Catholic.
I couldn’t say, really, why I was here. The head-doctors would probably explain it away as a need for some sort of closure, or perhaps redemption. I didn’t know, and was now wishing I had gone to Cape Town with Michele a week ago. I had spent £20,000 and eight days getting here, and for what? No idea.
I strode determinedly back to the gates. Time to face the ghosts.
The cell block was empty and it was hard to remember what it had been like to be locked up in there. The features were familiar yet only as if from a re-occurring dream. The broken chair lay in the corner of the cell, the back still doggedly attached. I gave it a kick and the back broke away from the body of the chair. I shook my head with disgust but couldn’t help laughing at the stupidity of it all.
The office was empty of bodies, as I had known it would be, but the bloodstains remained on the walls, long dried and blackened, and the easy-chair was still encrusted with blood and brains. The flies had lost interest long ago.
None of this was doing me any good. I left the office and closed the door behind me. I would let the ghosts rest in whatever peace they believed in.
I walked across to the mess hall, my footsteps echoing around the fort. The door to the mess was half closed and I pushed it open with some trepidation, worried about ghosts even though I didn’t believe in them. The place was even dirtier than I remembered. I studied the wall by the entrance where my shots had penetrated and torn a lethal hole in the big guy’s chest. Out of interest I squatted down and saw that the lower three feet of the wall had been built thicker than higher up. No wonder the short ammunition of the pistol had had no effect. The kitchen was now empty of food, and even the old fridge was gone.
Disillusioned with my pilgrimage, I went back outside to the graves.
I sat on the hot sand and studied the low mounds of dirt that represented men who had tried to kill me and failed. I sat there for a long time. The sun was low on the western horizon when I finally stood up, having achieved nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to achieve. At the end of the day, they had gone out of their way to kill me, not for any political or religious beliefs, but for money. Why should I feel that I owed them something?
Finally, I picked the broadest-looking grave and squatted down next to it.
“Well, Fatty,” I said, my words drifting eerily away across the silent desert. “I don’t know if this is you or not. I don’t know if you were planning to kill me like the others or even if it was all just some elaborate and non-lethal threat, but I believe you were a better man than the others were. If you hadn’t been then I would probably be dead and you would be alive. So, I guess … thanks. I’m sorry I killed you.”
A gentle gust of wind blew, disturbing the sand for a second. If I chose to believe that this was a sign of forgiveness from beyond the grave, who can blame me?
I strode quickly back to the bike, wondering if the hurt and accusing look Fatty had given me when he had died would finally stop plaguing me at night. I hoped so.
Chapter 29
The big Triumph almost didn’t make it back to the dirt air strip that the film crew had left behind. I was standing on the foot-pegs and shaking the bike about, trying to get the last drops of fuel out of the tank by the time I caught sight of the twin engine airplane I had hired. In the end Cedric the pilot had to walk out to meet me with a two-litre Coke bottle full of petrol.
We loaded the bike into the back and strapped it down: Cedric carefully positioning it “to get the centre-of-gravity right”. I sat in the right-hand seat and watched him do the pre-flight checks.
“You all right, then?” he shouted over the roar of the engines. I nodded wearily and shut my eyes.
By the time we were ready it was fully dark. Cedric taxied the plane down to the end of the dirt strip and I climbed out and gathering a bundle of small, dry branches together I built a small fire. We taxied back to the other end of the strip. Cedric fiddled around for a moment, and then pushing the throttles forward savagely, he sent the small craft hurtling at the fire. Halfway down the strip we lifted off, the plane suddenly becoming smooth and comparatively quiet. The engines settled down to a noisy drone.
By midnight we had sneaked across the Moroccan border, over the Atlas Mountains and landed in Marrakesh. I handed a tired-looking Cedric ten thousand American dollars and took a taxi to my hotel. By the next evening I was back in Heathrow.
The train delivered me to Chichester station just after six and I decided on a restaurant dinner before taking a taxi home to Petworth. Three times I took out my mobile to book a ticket to Cape Town and I’m not really sure why I didn’t. I took it out a fourth time and sms’ed a question to Michele. There was no reply before I had eaten. Perhaps she didn’t have her mobile with her.
The warbling of the mobile woke me the next morning.
“Yeah?” I muttered, sleepily.
“Simon. It’s Julia.”
“Hey, Jules, what’s up?”
“Are you back in England?”
“Yes. I’m home in Petworth.”
“Hammil was here yesterday evening, Simon. He was looking for you, said it was important that he spoke to you.”
“OK, did you give him my number?”
“He said it had to be in person. He asked if I could get you back here to see him.”
“Bollocks, Jules, I’m bushed. Did it sound important?”
“He did seem … well, fairly desperate almost. I think you should come, Simon.”
“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to drive across Southern England.” I thought for a moment. Shit, all right. It’s not like I had a hell of a lot else to do just then.
“OK, Julia, if he calls again, tell him I’ll be there by late this afternoon. OK?” Julia agreed that that would be just dandy and I dragged myself into the shower, which proved to be a cold one. I had forgotten to switch on the geyser last night.
I pulled into the Rodber Racing Ranch at four, just in time for a coffee with the whole gang. Bud had brewed a fresh pot and set a mug of steaming caffeine in front of me as I sat down at the kitchen table.
“All right then, Simon?” Tarryn asked.
&nbs
p; “Yeah. I’m fine, baby girl. How’s Gary?”
“Gary is history,” Julia said. “She’s into rock musicians now.”
Tarryn grinned. “I can get you those free tickets for the Nebsworth concert now.”
“Great. Great. Has Hammil called yet?” I looked around the faces.
“Haven’t heard a peep yet,” Bud said. “But it’s still early.”
I sipped at the coffee, scalding my mouth in the process. “Bloody hell, that’s hot.” I turned back to Bud. “How did the meeting with Maverick Oil go?”
“It seemed to go well. But they can only let us know after the bigwigs get together at the board meeting sometime early next year. We’ll just have to go on without them for the start of the season.”
“How’s Russell doing?” I asked.
“Pretty well, all things considered. The doctors say he’ll be ready to travel soon. He’s booked on Quantas back to Australia on twenty-first December. He wants to know if we’re going to fill his ride or not,” Julia said. “For next year,” she added unnecessarily.
“Well, he’ll not be fit to ride a bike for months, if ever, surely?” I asked, looking to Bud for confirmation.
Bud shook his head and Julia said, “No, I doubt it. I told him his place was safe for next year if he passed the physical, but the doctors tell me that there is very little chance of that happening before the middle of the year, at the earliest.”
I looked at my watch. Where the hell was Hammil?
“Pour me another cup, will you, Tarryn? I’ll just go put my bag upstairs. Same room again, Julia? Or has Tarryn moved a rock band in while I’ve been gone?”
The phone rang as I picked up my bag. Everyone looked at me, so I put the bag down and answered the phone.
“Simon Roberts speaking.”
“Mr Roberts, glad you could make it.” It was Hammil. “Can you meet me, now?”
“Where are you?”
“The pub up the road, the one you dislike so much,” he answered and I heard him chuckle.
“All right then. Ten minutes?” I said.
“Ten will be fine. See you soon.”
My mobile warbled as I turned into the car park.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Simon, sorry but there has been a change of plans. I’m at the Brands Hatch racetrack. Can you come up?” He sounded strange, weary almost.
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” I told him. Traffic was light and I made it in twelve minutes, parking the TVR on the grass by the entrance.
The gates to the circuit were closed but not locked. I slipped in and shut them behind me. The parking lot was huge and eerily empty apart from a dark blue Ford Mondeo parked outside the office building. Warily, I walked over to the car. A touch of the bonnet told me that the engine was still warm. I tried the doors to the building but they were locked. Not knowing where Hammil had called from, I went out onto the circuit. Standing on the start grid I checked all around me. There was no sign of him anywhere. I fished out my mobile phone and checked the last incoming number that he had called me from. I hit “redial” and listened to it ring in my ear. Somewhere in the distance I heard the ringing of Hammil’s phone.
“Roberts?” he asked carefully.
“Yes. I’m here. Standing on the grid. Where are you?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah. Are you?” I wondered if I could trust him: probably not.
“I am now,” he replied. “Come down to the last pits. The back door is open.”
I walked past the front entrance, which was closed up; a roller shutter pulled down and locked. I listened at the door but heard nothing. Peeking around each corner to be sure there was no one waiting to kill me, I ended up outside the smaller back door. It was dimly lit inside and I didn’t see Hammil until he spoke.
“Roberts. Over here.” He was seated on a bench against the far sidewall, his arms folded across his stomach. “Don’t worry, you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure you are. I’ve got a strong urge to kill you right now,” I replied.
He chuckled softly. “I am afraid you are too late, my friend.” I was closer now and when he lifted his arms away from his body I saw the dark sticky mess soaking down his front. I studied the garage, looking for danger. “What happened?” I asked.
There were fifty-gallon paint tins scattered around with scaffolding and signboards stacked against the wall opposite. Somewhere there was construction going on and this was a temporary storeroom.
“Jackaman,” he replied. “He shot me. Twice.”
“I’ll call for an ambulance.” I reached for my mobile.
“No. It’s too late for me. Besides, if I go to hospital then I’ll go to jail, and I’m not keen on doing another stint inside.”
“So then why am I here, Hammil?” I demanded to know. Hurt or not I was still angry with him.
“Actually, it’s George Hornby.”
“OK. So why am I here, George?”
“Let’s just say I had a little fall out with my previous employers, so I came over to do a deal with the Rodber girl. Problem is Jackaman found me first.”
“Do I know this Jackaman?” I asked.
“Brown,” he told me. “Frank Brown.”
“Ah,” I said. “So what were you going to bargain with?”
“I thought you might like to know what has been going on. It could be worth some money to you.”
“Uh huh. And what do you want for this information?”
Hornby chuckled dryly. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to get an ambulance?”
He waved away the suggestion. “Your friend Ali Hussein, now that was a good disguise,” he stated.
“What? Don’t tell he is really a Swedish blond with thirty-six-doubled tits?”
“Ah, no, worse luck,” he chuckled softly. “His name is Alvin Bloomberg.”
“He’s Jewish?” I asked sceptically.
“Exactly. Israeli government agent.”
“And those over-muscled Arab minders of his?”
“Israeli also.”
“What about Brown? Jackaman I mean?”
“On contract, old boy, just like me.”
“OK. So let me get this straight. The Israeli government conspired to steal a hi-tech design from a British citizen and didn’t mind killing a few people along the way?”
“But they didn’t steal it, did they? You sold it to them, in the end. It was all they wanted. Originally Josh Rodber had done a deal with them for twenty million dollars. But then he tried to back out after being paid half. You can understand the Israelis being upset.” He paused. “And in the end the person who did the killing was you, wasn’t it?”
“Screw you, George. How does this information make me, or rather Julia, money?”
“The Israelis are going to develop that technology of Rodber’s, maybe even patent it. But not yet, Roberts. Not yet. They don’t want anyone to know they have it. But I’m guessing that the papers you sold them are not the originals, are they?”
“What do they need this technology for?” I asked, ignoring his question. “As I understand it they have no oil, and this thing of Rodber’s is oil refinery stuff?”
“No, it’s to do with getting the stuff out of the ground, and apparently Rodber had some ideas that would make it possible for the Israelis to develop an oil industry. I have no idea how though. I guess it’s not important.” He coughed painfully. “What you gave them were not the originals, were they?”
“No, I printed them from a computer file. The file still exists on the computer.”
“There you go then. There is nothing to stop you patenting the technology and offering it for sale yourself, is there? I’m curious though, how did you find them? And where were they?” He was fading fast now.
“You remember that e-mail I sent you from the laptop at the inn?” He nodded weakly. “I emailed all the files to a fake Internet address I set up, and then forwarde
d it to you.”
“Ah yes. We had a bit of a laugh about that. Very quick thinking though. We were a bit worried when someone found out that you had the camera film. There was a picture of me and Alvin at Heathrow on it.” And I had never gotten around to developing them.
“Yeah, well it occurred to me that Rodber had to hide his designs somewhere, and he was busy on the Internet when I saw him the evening you snatched him, so I started trawling through his sent mails account, couldn’t find anything. But, I found an email address for Tarryn. And she told me, purely by chance, that she never had an email address. I figured Josh had set that up as blind so that you guys wouldn’t think to look twice at it.” Hornby smiled sadly.
“Are you sure it’s not too late for the hospital?” I asked. I didn’t really want the guy to die. He shook his head fractionally.
“What about Jones?” I asked.
“Ah yes, Jones. He works for an American oil company. A kind of trouble-shooter for them.” I nodded. It was beginning to make sense. “Although I’m told by reliable sources that he ripped off a French army payroll. Ah, I see you know that already, interesting. I rather think we all misread you from the beginning, Roberts.”
“Do you want me to kill Jackaman for you?” I asked.
“You’re too late, old boy.” He turned his gaze on the scaffolding and signs stacked across the room. Intrigued, I went over and found Brown, I mean Jackaman, behind the signs. He was very dead: three bullet holes in his forehead.
“Nice shooting, George, but how did he come to be stuffed behind here and you’re busy dying over there?” There was no answer. “George?” I crossed the room to Hornby. His eyes stayed on Brown’s body. They were fixed, staring at what he could no longer see: not in this world anyway. After a moment’s thought I decided that they deserved each other’s company until someone else found them.
I closed the door behind me, ending, hopefully, a tragic series of events that should never really have happened. As I climbed into the TVR my mobile bleeped. There was a sms message for me. I flipped it open and read the message. It was from Michele. It read ‘YES.