Night Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Then Bald saw something else. Fifty metres up ahead were a pair of tall, white buildings, one on each side of the street, like two giant wedding cakes. A corridor suspended over the road connected the two buildings. The birthday cake on the right was a discreet luxury hotel. The one on the left was wildly ostentatious. Like a Colombian drug dealer’s pad. Each of its fifteen storeys had a symmetrical façade. A tower was built into each of the building’s four corners, with the central part of the building surmounted by a taller tower capped with a golden dome. On top of the dome stood a giant metal cross with four diagonal rays slashed across the horizontal and the vertical arm. Eight points. Bald recognized the symbol of the Church of Scientology.

  The Infiniti’s tail lights flared for a moment. Then Laxman carried on for another two blocks at a slower speed before hanging a right onto Pierce Street, then a left onto South Garden Avenue. One hundred metres down this street the Infiniti eased into a parking lot outside a four-storey building set back twenty metres from the road. The architecture looked out of place amid the cheesecake-smooth, gabled buildings set neatly along the main drag. The ground floor was a band of white-painted stone. It was punctuated by a pair of rudimentary glass doors, the frames black, the glass painted off-white. The three floors above it were of mottled red brick with eight windows on each.

  Bald pulled over. Shunted the Buick into park. He saw Laxman climbing out of the Infiniti. Now he got his first real look at the sleeper. Laxman was fucking skinny, maybe nine stone with his clothes on, five seven tall, with ruffled black hair, rimless glasses and dressed in a beige suit with a two-button jacket, white shirt and shiny black brogues. Look at this cunt, Bald thought to himself. Prancing around looking like he should be trading shares on Wall Street.

  Laxman glanced furtively across his shoulders before walking to the doors of the building. He reached for the handle but was caught off balance when one of the doors was thrust open in his face. A couple of portly Arab men in bulging dark suits stepped out onto the street. Bald watched as the Arabs warily sidestepped Laxman without saying a word to him and quickened their stride towards a Lincoln Town Car parked at the other end of the lot.

  Fuck this, Bald thought. He ditched the Buick in the lot next to the Infiniti and made for the building. Was this where Laxman handed over high-tech secrets to terrorists? A warehouse stood next to the building, with a giant sign saying ‘FORECLOSURE. FOR LEASE OR SALE’ draped across the front.

  To one side of the doors there was a battered intercom, seemingly held in place by a single screw. The name of the business occupying the ground floor was smudged. The other floors had names that suggested accountants or law firms. Peebles and Wood. Mason, Grey and Schulmann. Bald thumbed the buzzer for the ground floor. And waited.

  Bald made out a voice amid the intercom’s popcorn crackle.

  ‘One moment, please.’

  Female. Foreign. Young.

  Three things Bald approved of.

  The crackle died out.

  Something didn’t seem right.

  The intercom squawked again and the door lock was released. Bald pushed the door open and entered a long corridor, dimly lit but extravagant. Red carpet, white walls and deep-red velvet curtains over the windows. Classical music playing in the background. This isn’t a fucking office, he thought.

  The voice that had cawed over the intercom belonged to a Chinese woman. She looked frigid and charmless and was dressed in a button-down white shirt and a short skirt designed to show off all the good bits. Except she had none. Her breasts were flatter than an iPad and her arse non-existent. One look at her and Bald figured that boning her would be like fucking a dead fish. She offered Bald her delicate hand. He shook it and thought, maybe this is a Scientology hangout? Maybe Laxman’s been brainwashed?

  Then he glanced past the woman’s shoulder. A group of four Arab men were standing at the end of the throat-like corridor. Laxman was with them, his back to Bald. He was clutching the briefcase in his right hand. Dollar signs danced in front of Bald’s eyes. I’ve caught the cunt red-handed, a voice in his head said.

  Then the Chinese woman said, ‘Me fuck you for dollar, Mister. Fuckee for big dollar.’

  twenty-three

  2223 hours.

  ‘You want fuck?’

  He’d had better offers. Bald stared beyond the woman’s slender shoulders at the layout of the place. He was looking into a reception area where there were half a dozen booths with leather-covered seating. Buddha candleholders were on the walls and in front of the seats stood tables made of glass and filled with exotic fish. Three of the Arabs Bald had seen were now being led by hot blonde women up a staircase at the back of the reception. The fourth was seated in a booth facing Bald. Two Latino beauties dressed in satin corsets slid into the booth, one either side of him. A brunette joined them. She was wearing a fishnet bra, G-string and garter belt that reminded Bald of Lena. A dog leash was hooked to a spiked collar around her neck.

  The Chinese woman tried to grab Bald’s attention. ‘Me do ass, me do mouth.’

  Bald scanned the rest of the booths. It was pretty much all foreign guys getting their rocks off. A couple of Indian-looking businessmen in gaudy suits sipped cocktails at a further booth while a pair of blonde-haired twins in G-strings made out in front of them. A Japanese guy was entertaining two black women who stood a good head taller than him. He was topping up their champagne glasses with thousand-dollar a pop Cristal. The gangsta’s tipple of choice.

  In the far corner of the room stood Laxman. The sleeper was sitting alone and tapping an unlit cigarette on the table top at a frantic speed, over and over, like he was tapping out Morse code. He was facing the stairs and hadn’t yet glanced over in Bald’s direction. He seemed like he was waiting impatiently. Maybe he’s got a regular prossie here, Bald figured. He weighed up slotting the guy right now. Send Laxman over to the dark side and bug out via the fire exit: it could all be over in under a minute. In and out. But there were problems. The Chinese woman had an ID on his face. Several others in the booths could have noticed him. And for all he knew there might be CCTV in this damn place.

  ‘Me do other woman.’

  The Chinese woman ran a hand down his chest. ‘One hour. I give you special fun time.’ She did a thing with her tongue. ‘Me give best blowjob in all USA.’

  ‘Hold that thought,’ said Bald as he answered an incoming call on his burner.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know the Monkey Bar?’

  Rachel. Scot-loving Rachel.

  ‘No,’ Bald said. ‘But if it serves Wild Turkey and Stella it’ll do just fine.’

  The Chinese woman was still trying to get his attention. He waved her away.

  ‘A Scottish guy who likes a drink? What are the odds?’ said Rachel. ‘So. Like I was saying, the Monkey Bar, it’s on East Shore Drive, west of the Causeway. Meet me there in thirty?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Don’t be late. I’ve got a little surprise for you.’

  ‘I fucking love surprises.’

  twenty-four

  2246 hours.

  Four and a half miles due west of Gateway Industrial Park, Bald was cruising over Tampa Bay on the Clearwater Memorial Causeway. The sky glistened. Bald nosed the Buick off the Causeway and onto the Clearwater Beach resort. First right off the Causeway took him onto East Shore Drive. He saw the Monkey Bar. He saw nowhere to park. But seconds later he brought the Buick to a halt by a parking meter. He stepped out onto the blacktop and inserted six quarters, then strode back to the bar.

  Inside, the place was a confusion of bright lights, wild colours and aggressive voices. A widescreen plasma TV fixed to the wall was showing a gridiron game. The barmaids were dolled up like cheerleaders. The air was redolent with the smell of hamburger grease and Sambuca. Nickelback’s ‘Rockstar’ thudded out of the speakers. Bald felt at home.

  The counter was a stand-alone thing in the centre of the room with a wide choice of whiskeys on offer. About
two dozen people were seated around the counter, most of them as couples. The men were all in their fifties or sixties with faces like landslides and decked out in floral-print shirts and khaki shorts. The women were mostly in their thirties or late twenties. Their bored faces betrayed too-early plastic surgery and Botox injections. Money and Viagra were the sticking plasters keeping these couples together.

  Bald spotted Rachel at the end of the bar. She carried herself in that way only certain American girls can, brash but sprinkled with a sweetness that was almost naive. She wore a black knee-length skirt that hitched up slightly at one side and a sleeveless top with a deep-scoop neckline. Her long, beach-blonde hair draped like a wedding-dress train across her slender shoulders. The shot Cave had emailed didn’t do her justice.

  She was downing a large glass of white wine. Bald made his way across the bar towards her. He ordered a Stella from the barmaid and took the seat next to her.

  ‘That was quick,’ Rachel said.

  ‘I don’t like to keep women waiting.’

  Rachel laughed into her wine and said, ‘In my world, waiting is all part of the game.’

  ‘In my world, it’s all about who shoots first.’

  ‘From those scars on your face, I’d say someone shoots faster than you.’

  ‘I was outnumbered.’

  Silence. Bald drank to fill it.

  ‘I heard you like a bit of Scots,’ he said.

  ‘Not really.’

  Bald frowned. That fucker Cave lied to me, he thought. Then Rachel was smiling teasingly at him and saying, ‘I’m just fucking with you. I love Scottish men.’ She leaned in closer to Bald. ‘You know, I could totally fuck your accent.’

  ‘So what’s the surprise you have for me?’

  ‘In a little bit,’ Rachel said, necking the rest of her wine. She studied the bottom of the glass for a moment, then looked Bald in the eye. He was hypnotized by her lips, glossy and parted just enough to give a glimpse of her teeth.

  ‘Did you have fun trailing our birthday boy?’ she asked,

  ‘He’s a fucking weird one.’

  ‘How so?’

  Bald shrugged. ‘Al-Qaeda terrorists don’t usually have much time for whorehouses.’

  ‘Bin Laden had a porn stash in his hideout.’

  Their chat was interrupted by the grating of metal against the tiled floor to their left. A guy was easing himself onto a barstool three seats along from Bald. He ordered a bottle of Bud and another glass of wine for Rachel, giving the guy a nod to reassure him that he was here to mind his own business. A static roar from the TV rippled like a shockwave through the bar. Florida State linebacker Tyson Tomlin had levelled things up.

  ‘You have to make it look like an accident,’ Rachel said, staring intently at the screen, as if she gave a fuck about the game.

  ‘What? Meeting you?’ Bald sank the rest of his beer and winked at her.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Like a car accident?’

  ‘Like a robbery gone wrong.’

  ‘No fucking problem.’

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t want to know why?’

  Bald shook his head. ‘Look, if you want me to cut his fucking balls off and write his name on the wall in blood, I’ll do it. As long as I get paid, it’s all the same to me.’

  ‘Is that who you are? A guy who’s in it just for the money?’

  ‘A new low,’ said Bald with a mock groan.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I have a CIA agent lecturing me on morality.’

  Rachel was silent for several seconds, then she said, ‘Our hands are tied until tomorrow on this whole Laxman thing.’ Her eyes were looking right into Bald. He felt himself harden. ‘So why don’t we have ourselves a little fun tonight?’ she said.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Rachel licked her lips and ran her finger around the rim of her glass. It made a soft, squeaky sound. Then she looked up at Bald. ‘Well. There is one thing. I shouldn’t say, but—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, I’m gonna level with you. We’re gonna fuck tonight. That voice is driving me crazy. But before then, I wanna drink a shitload of tequila, dance and snort a couple lines of coke.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Bald.

  ‘What? Too much detail?’

  ‘No,’ said Bald, shifting in his seat. ‘We have so much in common.’

  Rachel’s eyes lit up. She edged closer until she was a few inches from Bald’s face. So close he could smell the almond and jasmine perfume coming off the smooth expanse of her neck. Without averting her eyes from Bald she ordered four shots of José Cuervo. The barmaid promptly poured four generous measures and lined up all four in front of Rachel like a pool rack. Rachel then passed two to Bald and sank one of hers. Bald tipped the first one down his throat. The liquor mainlined his bloodstream, sending waves of heat into his skull. He was already halfway lit by the time he downed the second shot. Rachel motioned to the barmaid again.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ she said to Bald, downing her second shot. ‘You’re doing a good thing, you know. Laxman is dangerous.’

  Bald felt the booze fogging his mind. He closed his eyes and said, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘There’s an old mucker of mine. He was one of the good guys. Whatever the fuck that means.’ Bald was thinking of Joe Gardner.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died doing the thing he loved the most. Being a fucking loser. He had no money, no prospects. Being a good operator doesn’t count for much on the outside. Nah, I look out for number one. Everyone else is on their own.’

  ‘So you really don’t care if Laxman smuggles military technology into the hands of our worst enemies?’

  ‘The only thing I care about is how many zeroes my cheque has on the end of it.’

  Bald necked his third tequila. The alcohol slicked his throat like crude oil.

  ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘your average terrorist has got fuck-all training. Tenner says the tech will be worthless in their hands. Al-Qaeda spent years trying to build a dirty bomb and they couldn’t do it. So some jumped-up Paki militants get their hands on a hot new missile. Big deal. They won’t be able to use it.’

  Rachel said, ‘What if I told you that the technology Laxman has his hands on is way, way more secret than some slick new missile?’

  Bald said nothing. He was suddenly feeling light-headed. A combination of the booze, the lack of sleep and the fact he hadn’t eaten since rocking up in Clearwater.

  ‘Danny didn’t tell you the full story, did he?’ said Rachel.

  ‘I’m just a fucking soldier,’ Bald replied.

  Rachel waved her purse at Bald. ‘Now how about we take this party someplace else?’

  Rachel downed her third tequila quicker than Bald had, which impressed and troubled him in equal measure. She wiped her lips and said, ‘I need to make a quick trip to the bathroom. Meet me out front in five?’

  She slinked off her seat, pecked him on the cheek and sauntered across the bar. The guy three seats away was tipping the last drops of something down his throat. He finished, replaced the empty bottle on the counter and laid eight crisp one-dollar bills on the tip tray. Something about him struck Bald as vaguely familiar. He was in his late forties with a face like a chalk cliff. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers, his suit jacket draped over the stool next to him.

  Then the guy stood up and limped towards the restroom. Once he had disappeared, everyone else was absorbed by the college game. Bald slid off his stool and rooted through the guy’s jacket. He drew a blank. No wallet, no ID, no keys. But he did find something in the left pocket. It was a green ticket stub. The kind of thing you get at a church raffle. Printed on the stub were the words ‘RUBY RIDGE RANGE & ARMORY. SAN ANTONIO, TX 78205’.

  The date and time were the previous day, late afternoon.

  No fucking way. Bald felt a cold rage inside hi
m. Now he knew where he recognized the guy from. Rio Grande. The border.

  The rednecks.

  twenty-five

  2350 hours.

  Outside the Monkey Bar, an orange-scented breeze swept like a whisper across the parking lot. Rachel emerged thirty seconds after Bald, looking flustered. She smiled briefly at him and then brushed past, heading for a Chrysler 300C sedan parked twenty-five metres away from the bar. Light from the main drag illuminated the dozen or so cars in the lot. There were almost as many cars as there were patrons. Drink-driving wasn’t perhaps as frowned upon in Florida as it was in England.

  Unlocking the Chrysler remotely, Rachel removed her key fob and slid into the driver’s seat. Bald eased himself in beside her. He made himself comfortable while she reached into her purse, removed a twenty-gram plastic bag of cocaine and laid it on the dash. Then she took out a Bank of America credit card and a $100 bill.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be doing this somewhere a bit more private?’ Bald said.

  ‘Relax,’ Rachel said cheerily as she began chopping up the coke with the card. ‘No one’s gonna bother us. Jesus, everybody round here does coke anyhow. In Clearwater, you’re weird if you don’t bust lines. You know?’

  Bald didn’t, but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the door of the Monkey Bar while Rachel went to work on the cocaine. He had the tequila shots and beer sloshing around his system, and his stomach felt like a cave, but even the booze couldn’t stifle the unease about the redneck. He dimly realized that the guy could have tailed him all the way from Texas. Bald experienced a brief pang as he wondered if that really was possible. He had changed licence plates, had been cautious and stayed low-profile. Any lower and I would’ve been underground, he thought.

  Rachel interrupted his thoughts. ‘Laxman is planning to steal Intelligent Dust,’ she said.

  Bald rubbed his eyes. ‘Dust with brains?’

  Rachel got rid of all the small lumps until the cocaine was uniformly fine. Then she began dividing it into six trim lines three inches long and an eighth of an inch wide. ‘That stuff is cutting-edge,’ she said. ‘It’s like a gas. You can put it in a can. Or load it in a bomb. Or a syringe. You can even release it through a ventilation system. Each burst of ID is made up of millions of tiny robots. Nanobots. The dust enters your body and puts a permanent trace on you, wherever you are. They can report back to a central server with information about your vital statistics, your movements, even your fingerprints.’