‘Where are you taking me?’
Two men emerged from the door, one in front stumbling and obstructing, his wrists evidently bound behind, followed by a large bald man pushing him roughly toward the Range Rover. Next appeared Fiendisch. In one hand he carried a pistol, from the other swung an elastic luggage tie.
‘Somewhere scenic. Very nice. Be quiet.’
Worse, well aware of Fiendisch’s ruthlessness, was still shocked by the ice in his voice. Their prisoner was resisting, making progress slow. He briefly broke free of his escort’s grip and turned back toward Fiendisch and, in the light from the house, afforded Worse a clear view of his face. It was Nicholas, recognizable from a photograph that Millie carried.
‘I have codes embedded. You need me. You will lose your accounts. You will lose defences.’ Nicholas’s voice was impressively matter-of-fact. If this had any effect on Fiendisch, it didn’t show.
‘Keep a grip on him, Stronk. We need to get to the cave and back before the staff arrive.’
Worse weighed up his options. Challenging them now while Fiendisch had his gun drawn could be very messy. And he didn’t know who else might be in the house. On the other hand, once they got to the vehicle, giving chase would be difficult as the Mercedes was hidden nearly half a kilometre away. Moreover, Nicholas was clearly in imminent danger. It was time for a diversion, time for some big sister trouble, as Ritchie had put it. Worse shielded the glow from his mobile screen and pressed send.
Even to Worse, the result was spectacular. The others had still not reached the Range Rover when there was an enormous explosion, the whole winery end of the roof lifting off as if carried by a cushion of blinding yellow light. Worse had instinctively dropped down against the wall, but the other three, more exposed to the shock wave, were pushed back. Several windows of the Range Rover were blown out, and Worse was aware of falling glass from house windows just along from where he was hiding. Burning debris started raining down on the clearing, some coming close to the house.
Worse had immediate concern for Millie. He edged further back into the shadows, as the front of the house was now illuminated as if in daylight, and reached for his phone. Immediately, there was a message from Millie: I’m ok. Was that big enough?
There were further smaller explosions from the winery. Fiendisch was the first to speak. ‘Get him back inside and locked up. Ring the fire service. Then come back and help me.’
Stronk said nothing, but began manhandling Nicholas back inside. Fiendisch ran a few metres toward the burning building and stopped. He had pocketed his gun but still held the luggage tie. Now he took out his mobile and made a call, half protecting himself from the heat behind the Range Rover. At one point, he turned to stare back at the house. His spectacles made two yellow discs as they picked up reflected firelight. Worse couldn’t hear his words above the roar of the fire. He was now lying down against the wall, but still felt badly exposed. Burning cinders were filling the yard, getting very close to him. If he were Fiendisch, he would be thinking that the winery was beyond rescue, but the house might be saved.
Worse had calculated that if there were others in the house, they would have shown themselves. There was another enormous crash as more of the roof collapsed. Fiendisch, still on his mobile, instinctively turned away to look at the winery, and Worse took his chance. He sprang up, crossed to the entrance, and darted in through the open door.
For the next few seconds his actions were automatic. He drew his pistol. He kept to one side to be out of sight to Fiendisch. A bulky key ring had been left on a side table; he pocketed it. Before him was a wide hallway leading to glass doors at the rear. Through these he could see Stronk struggling with Nicholas. They seemed to have entered another wing of the building, not visible from the winery. Worse glanced around to the front door; Fiendisch was still on his phone, looking at the fire. That must be a very important conversation, thought Worse; I would be hosing the roof of the house to extinguish flying embers. That was the rule in this part of the world.
Worse ran to the glass doors. They were unlocked. He passed through quietly and found himself in a glass-roofed link area. Stronk and Nicholas were out of view in the next section, but he could hear Stronk trying to inform the emergency services of their location, while suppressing Nicholas from shouting into the open line. At the end of the link Worse entered a large, carpeted office. Stronk was pushing Nicholas across the space to a door at the other end. Neither saw him. He glanced back to check on Fiendisch; there was no sign of him. Worse then crossed to his left where he had a wall behind him and could see the entrance he had just used.
The others were still unaware of his presence when he called loudly, ‘Stronk. Let him go.’
Nicholas had the sense to take advantage of Stronk’s surprise, and break away. His hands were still secured behind him. Stronk turned to see Worse’s pistol pointed steadily at his head. The range was three metres.
‘Stronk, don’t even begin to move. You, come here. Don’t get between us.’ Worse addressed Nicholas without taking his eyes off Stronk.
As Nicholas crossed the room with surprising composure, Worse was unable to suppress his delight. ‘Dr Misgivingston, I presume?’
‘I am. Who are you?’
‘I’m Worse.’
‘Worse!’ repeated Nicholas, with a confused relief. ‘Worse, he’s got a gun.’
‘I’m sure he has. Stand to my left with your back to me.’
Nicholas did as he was asked. Worse took out a pocketknife and placed it in Nicholas’s hands.
‘Open it by feel,’ he instructed, still looking at Stronk.
Nicholas did so and Worse used it to cut the tie between his wrists. He closed the knife with one hand and repocketed it. Stronk seemed suddenly to work out who he was.
‘Worse? But, but Zheng.’
‘No longer with us.’
‘You killed Zheng?’ Stronk looked incredulous. ‘You’re in fucking big trouble. He was like a son to the Admiral.’ Now he looked murderous.
Worse was acutely aware that Fiendisch was expecting Stronk outside to help with the fire, and wanted to close business off with him quickly. However, here was a promising line of enquiry; maybe the Admiral was the person to whom Fiendisch reported.
‘Zheng was a cheap killer, and not very good at his job. He even gave me this.’ Worse waved the pistol slightly.
‘They’ll fucking kill you badly. Fucking badly.’ Stronk seemed almost sympathetic for Worse’s fate. That ugly, shaved head was quite expressive, Worse decided. ‘I’ve been told about them.’ Now Stronk appeared to be relishing the thought.
‘You weren’t just being told. You were being warned, you fuckwit,’ said Worse.
Stronk’s face flashed through vacant to comprehending to murderous again.
‘Lie on your stomach with your hands behind your back. Nicholas, tie him up, will you? Don’t get between us.’
Nicholas retrieved the cut tie and refashioned it to a suitable length.
‘So, Stronk,’ Worse continued casually, ‘where do I find the Admiral? I have, of course, condolences to offer.’
‘They’ll find you, fucker, and you won’t like it.’
‘Tell me, Nicholas, how well did this man treat you?’
‘He’s a cruel bastard, Worse. He’s kept me locked up for weeks. Calls himself Bad Warden, always threatening me. He was just telling me there’s a secret limestone cave somewhere on the property and they were going to dump me in it.’
‘Admiral’s orders,’ inserted Stronk defensively. Now the expression was conciliatory.
Worse was surprised that Fiendisch hadn’t come to investigate the delay; he moved back to the link for a quick glance toward the front of the house.
Stronk timed his move to perfection. He rolled onto his side, unbalancing Nicholas, and his right hand, lightning fast, reached into his coat.
Worse saw the movement and the glint of gunmetal, but his line of sight had Nicholas too close to Stronk. In
stinctively, he improved the trig by launching himself sideways across the room. Halfway to the floor he had the shot and fired a single round. Stronk fell back, his face bearing a coin-sized token in the centre of the forehead and an indelible expression of surprise.
Nicholas jumped up, staring at Worse.
‘Can’t reason with them. Take his gun,’ was all Worse had to say as he stood up, rubbing the shoulder that had taken the fall. He looked again along the link room to the front of the house. Then he pointed to the rear. ‘Where does that lead?’
‘It’s all the operations centre,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s where I was imprisoned.’ His voice was shaken.
‘There’s no one there?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll look later. We’ll go out the front. There’s one Fiendisch and three of us.’
‘Who else is here?’
‘You’ll see.’
Worse took Stronk’s gun carefully from Nicholas and checked it. It was a revolver, with a round in the breach.
‘Do you know how to use this?’ asked Worse.
‘I think I have the general idea.’
Worse applied the safety, making sure Nicholas understood its action, and handed it back.
‘Don’t use it unless I tell you to. Let’s go.’
Worse led the way toward the front door, checking each side for Fiendisch. Once through the door, he pushed Nicholas into the shadows that had previously provided his own cover. The fire had now shifted its intensity to the sales end of the building, and there was an intermittent crashing of broken glass and small explosions. There was less light from the fire now, but dawn wasn’t far off. Worse’s plan was to deal with Fiendisch only if forced to; his priority was to regroup with Millie and get her and Nicholas to safety.
He led Nicholas further around the edge of the portico garden, intending to make a run for the vines and find Millie. Worse was concerned that a whole lot had happened since they had last communicated, and decided it was probably safe to call her quietly. He took his mobile from a jacket pocket and speed-dialled her number with his left hand, the other still holding his pistol. He wasn’t expecting the reply.
‘So you are Worse.’ It was Fiendisch’s voice. He had read the name on Millie’s phone.
‘Hello Fiendisch, I thought it was time we met,’ said Worse.
‘I have the girl.’
‘That’s very melodramatic for a banker, Fiendisch. Shouldn’t you be saying “I have the mortgage documents ready to sign”, something like that? Anyway, you haven’t time for this; you must have interest to calculate, exorbitant fees to invent, that sort of thing.’
‘You will not be so amusing dead, Worse.’
‘Do you have the Admiral’s permission to speak like that?’ Worse was deliberately needling.
‘Come into the clear with your hands in the air, or I kill the girl.’
Worse had a sense that Fiendisch was quite close, that what he was hearing was part telephone, part conducted voice. He covered the phone against his thigh and whispered to Nicholas.
‘Whatever you see, whatever seems to be happening, don’t do anything. Leave it all to me. Trust me.’ Nicholas nodded. Worse raised the phone and addressed Fiendisch.
‘How do I know you’ve got the girl?’ It was the exchange’s first reference to another person that Nicholas had heard. Fiendisch rang off.
‘Stay hidden,’ Worse whispered to Nicholas. ‘He might think you are locked away inside.’
They saw Fiendisch edge out from behind the Range Rover. He was pulling Millie close to him, his gun pressed against her temple. Worse guessed that the luggage strap was around her neck. She was completely quiet, and in the gloom, Nicholas couldn’t see who it was. Worse moved further around the garden, away from Nicholas and away from the light at the front door.
‘Come out with your hands in the air, or I shoot the girl.’ Fiendisch repeated.
Worse stood up, pointing his pistol at Fiendisch. The latter adjusted his posture rapidly, indicating that Worse’s position had surprised him.
‘Drop the gun.’
‘Fiendisch, you’re not a killer. You’re a banker for God’s sake.’ Worse was delaying. Every minute toward sunrise gave him more light for a clear shot. ‘How is the banking business, anyway?’ Worse’s pistol was still aimed at Fiendisch.
‘Drop the gun.’
Worse was acutely attuned to the resonance in the voice, particularly its authority. He would test it once more, deliberately adopting the given name.
‘That reminds me, Karl, we were just having an interesting talk about post-subtlety. Have you heard of the post-subtle, Karl? In the banking world, I believe, it would once have been called the unapologetic. In Europe, it’s—’
‘Drop the gun.’
Very slightly, the voice had changed again, shifting just a nuance from command toward request.
‘Speaking of banks,’ continued Worse, ‘and tarnished wealth generally, I was thinking only yesterday about the oxidation states of gold. Did you know how—’
‘What are you talking about, Worse? I said drop the gun immediately.’
‘Karl, you’re a numbers man. You must have studied some elementary game theory.’
‘I don’t play games. Drop the gun or I kill the girl.’
Worse judged it was time to add some mild insult into the confusion and draw hostility toward himself. His tone, which had been relaxed and conversational, and not at all consonant with the act of pointing a weapon, now hardened slightly.
‘You really don’t have a Prussian blue, do you? Have you not heard the expression “every tread and turn”, Karl? Let me acquaint you with some priors. Zheng, gone. Ritchie, gone. Kev, gone.’
Worse waited. He saw Fiendisch look toward the front door, no doubt hoping to see reinforcement in the form of Stronk. Then he added pointedly, ‘Stronk, gone. For a man who doesn’t play games, you should at least take notice of the odds.’
In the improving light, Worse saw Fiendisch’s gun waver slightly.
‘You killed Zheng?’ The emphasis on the name was mixed disbelief and reverence.
‘He suffered, shall we say, a workplace accident. Perhaps I tipped him over the edge a little. But does he weigh heavily on my conscience, Karl? Precisely mg, as might a feather, Karl.’
‘What are you talking about, Worse?’
‘By the way, where should I repatriate his unpleasant mortal remains? To an Admiral somebody, I think?’ Worse was hoping for information.
‘He will kill you, Worse.’
‘How is that possible, the very same being your intention? Are you thinking you might fail, Karl?’
The light was better, and Worse had a clearer target. He could almost recognize Millie, and hoped that Nicholas couldn’t see her that well. His gun was still pointing at Fiendisch, and he began to walk toward him.
‘Stop right there, Worse. Drop your gun.’
Here was the endgame, and Worse was sure that Fiendisch didn’t understand. He continued walking, pistol held at eye level, gaze locked along the Prussica, aiming steadily. Worse said nothing; control and confidence were draining, one man to the other, with every step.
Seven metres, six metres, his advance unhurried, all the time both becoming more discrete targets. Worse remained silent: My enemy’s incomprehension is become my power.
Then Fiendisch complied exactly as Worse anticipated. Judging Worse to be the greater threat and Millie a diminishing asset, he turned his gun from Millie to Worse. Before it lined up, Worse fired; another single shot to a centred roundel on the forehead. And my enemy’s power will obtain my preferment.
Millie slipped her head out of the ligature, pulling away. Fiendisch’s body toppled slightly, collapsed forward onto the tailgate, then to the ground. Worse hurried forward, pocketing his gun. Millie was shaking, eyeing him with caution. Then she put her arms around him.
‘It’s over, Millie. You’re safe,’ Worse said kindly. ‘And Nicholas is safe. He’s h
ere.’ Worse turned and called out, ‘Nicholas.’
Nicholas leapt from the garden and hurried over, his recognition of Millie increasing as he ran.
‘Millie? Millie! What are you doing here?’
They embraced, sobbing quietly.
Worse stepped back, removing his backpack. He collected Fiendisch’s weapon, put the safety on and placed it inside. Then he held out his hand for Stronk’s gun, also checking its safety and putting it away. He looked for Millie’s mobile and found it beside Fiendisch’s feet; he decided to return it at a later time.
It was almost sunrise, and in the distance they could hear sirens of the country fire service. The winery was burning quietly, beyond rescue, but the house looked undamaged apart from broken windows. The crew would soak the wreckage, put out the ember fires, and start an investigation.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Millie.
‘You should know the routine by now,’ said Worse, remembering a similar question at the Humboldt Bank. ‘We go inside and make a pot of tea.’
* * *
Worse’s description of Victor Spoiling as a philosopher detective was accurate. Apart from contributions to journals and conferences, he had written two monographs, Unsteady State: Power, Protest and the Polis, and Moral Discriminators in a Policed Society. The latter contains his widely quoted lemma (with proof, by reductio) that every volitional act has moral content. There is little doubt that had these works been read and understood within more senior ranks, their author would have found himself eased from the force as too thoughtful, or tactfully promoted into the company of the epauletted.
Worse’s locust inequality is easily proven without recourse to laborious enumeration, using a mapping argument. For every single locust’s sighting, an apostrophe is recorded, whereas for at least one occurrence of an apostrophe (Verita’s) a locust is not.
The Weaver Fish Page 21