by Andrew Grant
‘Incidentally,’ I asked in a very conversational tone as I fitted the first three knives into my right hand and gauged the weight. ‘How did you find out I was staying here?’ He started chuckling then and I knew he hadn’t moved.
‘Oh, Daniel. The mobile phone was clever, wasn’t it?’
I leaned across to my left and answered, ‘Very clever.’ I pulled back instantly. There was a cough and a clank as Bernard fired through the breakfast bar and hit the rubbish bin.
‘Damn,’ the old prick said mildly. ‘Actually my cleverest trick was your bag.’
‘What?’ I replied, stunned.
‘The bag,’ he repeated. ‘You have a bag with an electronic baggage tag on it. I know because our people made it up.’
‘I have the bag,’ I replied. At that moment it was in the wardrobe in the bedroom.
‘The tag is a baggage tag in one sense. It is also a locator beacon,’ Bernard said. I got the icy-spine sensation again.
‘You see, Daniel, when your laptop is sitting in its little cubbyhole it is configured to discharge a pulse of electrical energy every twelve hours.’ Bernard was relishing this. ‘That energy travels to our special little chip in the baggage and the tag sends out a big message saying, “Here I am, come and get me.” The steel mesh in the bag becomes an aerial and it lights up a GPS system like a hand grenade. That, dear boy, is how we found you. The bag is totally inert except for that few seconds every twelve hours, so nothing registers at airport security and the like. Not my idea but very clever.’
‘Very,’ I said, impressed. I didn’t try and figure out the twelve-hour cycle, but given the computer was in the bag at that moment in time and I’d been there several days, I’d nailed my co-ordinates for him big time.
‘Now I think it’s time we stopped all this foolishness and finished it.’ The old bastard spoke in such a reasonable tone. It was almost as if he were inviting me to tea.
‘Just one more thing. After killing me, what are you going to do?’ I asked, leaning away to the right and pulling back again. The fridge took a hit.
‘Bother,’ he grumbled. ‘All right,’ he sighed, sounding like a spoilt child. ‘In answer to your question, Daniel, I am going to go home, announce my retirement and move to the Bahamas.’
‘To be near your bank accounts, huh?’ I asked, hunching close behind the dishwasher again. This time he didn’t shoot. I figured he was probably still sitting on three rounds but I knew the problem with small calibre weapons was that sometimes you needed more than a few to do the job, especially if your target was pumped up and fast moving. The small, relatively low-powered round also meant you really couldn’t shoot through things like dishwashers.
‘Of course the anthrax, that was pure patriotism from the start. What followed between Chekhov and I eventually became a fiscal arrangement, as did the recovery of the bug and you, of course. That was my retirement fund.’
‘Chekhov paid you before delivery?’ I said, not able to hide the genuine amazement in my voice.
‘Oh yes,’ came the smug reply. ‘It was the co-ordinates of the wreck and you, dear boy, with Tuk Tuk and your friend, Sami Somsak, as a side dish. Ten million dollars, US, deposited in my bank account. More than enough for me to see out my days in some degree of style and comfort.’
‘Little boys and good brandy.’
‘Only little boys to look at. No more buggery! To tell you the truth, Daniel, I’m pleased all that sexual nonsense is over. I’m too old and it was rather messy. I’m just looking forward to warm weather for my old bones and yes, good brandy.’
‘I can guarantee it’ll be warm where you’re going,’ I said with very real promise in my voice. Part of ten million dollars was the price on my head. I couldn’t really complain. In many places in this world I knew there were people who would gladly kill me for free.
‘Would you like to stand up and throw that damned knife of yours at me or do something equally dramatic so we can get this over with. It really is getting very tiresome and I’ve got a plane to catch.’
‘Yeah, why not,’ I agreed. ‘I’m getting bored as well,’ I said as I squatted. The first salvo of knives were ready to go, the second I’d placed on top of the dishwasher. My stiletto, although it may seem unhygienic, was between my teeth. I needed a momentary distraction and it came in the form of the good old rubbish bin. It was steel with a spring lid and foot pedal. It already sported a hole in its side, compliments of Bernard’s marksmanship. The bin didn’t look much like me, but hell, who cared?
I balanced the bin in my left hand like a bowler getting the feel of his ball. When I was ready I threw it low and underarm towards Roddy’s body. As the bin spun away, rattling and clattering, I moved into a half-crouch, sliding along the counter top to my left and rising above it.
Bernard hadn’t been expecting two things: the decoy run by the rubbish bin to his left, and me coming from a position several feet to his right. Instinct was a governing factor in just about everything we did. Despite his eyes telling him that the rubbish bin wasn’t what he was looking for, he couldn’t keep the muzzle of his gun from going that way, or from giving poor old Roddy another souvenir bullet.
I threw the first flight of knives overarm and hard. Then I ducked and moved back to my right, picking up the second flight as I came around the end of the counter in a low crouch. I threw the knives as I stepped over Roddy’s body and dived at Bernard, my right hand going for the blade clamped between my teeth.
‘Fuck!’ I swore as I skidded into the old bugger’s knees, my stiletto set for a backhanded rip across his skinny throat from left to right. With my free hand I grabbed for his gun.
Bernard’s gun was pointing at the floor, hanging from limp fingers. His eyes were wide with shock. One single, solitary steak knife had actually landed in a such a way that it was like watching a movie scene. It was lodged squarely in Sir Bernard Sinclair’s gullet, right where a tracheotomy incision would have been made if he’d been in need of one. The fingers of the old bugger’s left hand were fluttering in front of his throat. The other knives were scattered all around the couch. One was embedded in a cushion, another in the wall behind his head.
‘One out of six ain’t bad,’ I muttered, taking the automatic from the old sod’s right hand. Bernard’s other hand was touching the handle of the knife embedded in his throat. I debated either pulling it out or wrenching it around a bit. In the end I reached over and pulled the serrated blade out as I stood up.
‘Sir Bernard Sinclair, traitor to Her Majesty,’ I said rather pompously as I dropped the steak knife on the floor. ‘I now declare you fucking dead.’ I raised the silenced automatic to finish him off, but Bernard was waving both hands. His lips were moving. Amateur tracheotomy or not, he was trying to talk. Curiosity got the better of me, so I knelt down beside him and put my head close to his, the muzzle of the silencer resting over where his heart would have been if he’d had one.
‘What?’
‘Daniel,’ he whispered hoarsely, the fingers of his left hand covering his throat. Blood was leaking from between his fingers and his lips were crimson. ‘Don’t expose me. Not for my sake! For the sake of the country!’ His voice was fading. I had to lean closer. ‘There’s been enough of that. Don’t give the tabloids another field day. Please, Daniel.’ He closed his eyes and I figured that was that. But it wasn’t. ‘Don’t, please,’ he pleaded, his voice again a bubbling whisper. ‘My wallet, account number. Beacon International Bank, Bahamas. Password is Victor. Just don’t expose me for Britain’s sake, Daniel.’
With that, the old bugger died. He gasped and went through a classic death-rattle sequence, his body going into spasms and falling back in the chair. I gave him a minute, then checked for signs of life. I still didn’t trust him to be dead. I’d seen too many horror movies in real life. I checked for a pulse. There was none. It was truly over.
‘Damn,’ I said aloud. Trust him to play the loyalty card at the end. He always had been a master of manip
ulation. I went back to the bar and poured a JD. Then I went and sat on the couch beside my former boss and contemplated my suite filled with dead men.
As I started to lower the level of another bottle of bourbon, I stopped drinking long enough to make a phone call. The call was to Sami. He was sending a clean-up crew down. In a day or two Roddy and Sir Bernard would be involved in a fatal and fiery accident in Bangkok. Sir Bernard would be flown home for his lavish farewell. Who knew what Roddy’s arrangements would be? Again, who cared? I just hoped he had plenty of insurance so his poor damned wife could have a fucking ball as she toasted his departure.
So what to do while I awaited Sami’s boys? The door was locked with a chair jammed under the handle just in case and the sign displaying DO NOT DISTURB was hanging outside. I was unlikely to be disturbed for a week if I wanted it that way. I had a bottle of Jack Daniels and there was room service to call on. I was in some sort of limbo heaven.
I glanced at my watch. It was after two in the morning. ‘How time flies,’ I muttered, thinking about my little Australian named Heather. Hopefully she would find another playmate when I didn’t show later that morning.
I had the small square of laminated cardboard that I’d taken from the lining of Bernard’s wallet. Victor as a password, how typically Bernard! Before I got too pissed to know what I was doing, I used my computer and modem. After ten minutes I had established another bank account, this one in the Caymans. I left some petty cash in Bernard’s old account and transferred a little over ten million dollars across into my new one. It was the price of my life, so I didn’t feel at all guilty taking it. I picked up my bottle and glass and went out onto the patio.
What did the future hold for me?
I had no idea but there were now options beyond throwing my hat in the ring with my friend, The Onion Man—several options in fact! One was blonde, two had dark hair and the other option was sitting half-empty on the patio table in front of me. I would explore the latter first and get to the others all in good time.
About the Author
In his fifty something years, New Zealand based Andrew Grant has lived and worked in a variety of roles around the world, including being a professional hunter, merchant seaman and bodyguard. A small arms expert, competitive pistol shooter and keen photographer, he is a frequent visitor to Asia, regarding Thailand as his second home. If you enjoyed this book, read the second book in the Daniel Swann series: Singapore Sling Shot.
Singapore Sling Shot
Another Daniel Swann thriller!
Former British agent Daniel Swann is living in semi-retirement in Hong Kong when he receives a call for help from his old friend Thai drug lord Sami Somsak. Sami’s stepbrother and his family have been murdered, and Sami’s brainchild, the $6-billion Intella Island project, Singapore’s largest offshore construction, is in jeopardy. When Swann attempts to retrieve vital evidence hidden in Fort Siloso, a bloody gun battle erupts on Sentosa island, and staid, quiet Singapore becomes a raging battlefield.
Chinese Triads, a ruthless Colombian drug cartel and a shipping container holding $2 billion dollars converge on Singapore as Swann and his associates battle to save the Intella Island project and seek their revenge on Singapore’s unscrupulous Thomas Lu—the man they call The Undertaker.
Published in print by Monsoon Books in 2007
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Monsoon Books
ISBN (epub): 978-981-4358-21-7
ISBN (paperback): 978-981-05-8492-4
Copyright©Andrew Grant, 2007
Cover photograph copyright©Royalty-Free/Corbis
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