Well. That did it. The maths added up.
The Captain got out of his car and strolled towards the approaching party. Thinking, as he did so. Weighing up the odds of what he was about to do.
He glanced around. No cars approaching. Nobody visible. He could feel the excitement building deep inside his gut. Just as he had felt in the run-up to the Srebrenica Massacre.
‘Hi,’ he said, raising one arm. ‘Can I ask you guys a favour? I’ve had an accident.’ He pointed towards his shattered windscreen. ‘A stone fell off a cliff and bounced through my screen. It hurt me on the arm too.’ He pointed to his right hand, which he had tucked inside the middle two buttons of his shirt. ‘It hurts me to drive. Can I possibly hitch a lift with you to the next outpost of civilization?’
The woman was the first to reply. Needing to please, thought the Captain. Needing the approbation of the men.
‘Sure. That’s okay. Isn’t it, Hank?’
Hank was the alpha male of the party. That much was clear.
‘For a ten-buck tip, I’m sure our guard will drive your car on ahead of us, windshield or no windshield,’ said Hank. ‘In fact, he’ll probably throw in his sister for free.’
‘Hank!’
The Captain privately reckoned that the woman probably called this man Hank! in that fake-outraged tone of voice maybe a hundred times a day. Multiply that by, say, a period of ten years, and you had three hundred and sixty-five thousand outraged Hanks! under your belt before you knew it. Well, she was truly off the hook now.
The Captain shot Hank in the face. Next he shot the photographer. It was a longer shot, but he got him high on the temple, well within the Legion’s three-inch grouping, given that he’d been using the man’s right-hand eye as his target. The woman turned round and began running, her arms and legs windmilling in panic. She looked like a moving swastika.
The Captain shot the park guard lower down in the body. No need to disguise this one’s identity. In fact better to keep him clean. The first shot took him through the lungs. The second through the heart.
The woman was thirty yards away by now and accelerating with each passing second. Maybe she was a jogger? Maybe she and Hank – Hank! – went out jogging together in the early mornings, when the air was fresh, and there weren’t too many people out yet, pre-breakfast? One thing the Captain knew for certain. Hank would never, ever, have let this woman overtake him. Hank would always have needed to be the number one. Just like he’d been number one to die. Being the alpha male was a hell of a responsibility. You had to live up to it right to the end.
The Captain took the woman right at the edge of the invisible fifty-yard ring he had constructed in his mind. Straight through the back of the head. Straight through the occipital lobe and on through the temporal lobe and far into the cerebral cortex. It was a fair shot, given that she was a moving target. God alone knew what the front of her face now looked like. These Parabellum cartridges were neat going in, but they made one heck of a mess coming out. Mushrooming, the pinheads called it. Sick bunch of bastards.
Now that the four were safely dead, the Captain raised his game a little. He got into Hart’s car and backed towards the first three bodies. He piled them onto the rear seat. What with each corpse’s dead weight, though, and his own damaged arm, it wasn’t an easy trick to pull off. He was sweating by the time he had finished. His injured arm felt as if it had been picked apart, sinew by sinew.
Next he hefted the woman’s body and placed her in the front seat, after inching forwards so that he wouldn’t have to manhandle her on her back through the dirt. When she was safely in place he continued on a couple of hundred yards towards the cliff edge and parked.
Now that he was out of sight of the road he switched the four of them round, like you would seat people at a dinner party, eventually putting Hank in the driving seat. Appropriate, that.
‘Hank!’ he shouted, in a high-pitched, mock-outraged voice. ‘Hank!’ Yes. He had her voice down to a T.
The Captain collected up the passports and placed them in his jacket pocket. The woman, just as he’d figured, had been married to Hank. The third man was the gooseberry. The audience. Because a guy like Hank would always need an audience. Someone he could show off in front of. A gallery he could play to. And – the Captain checked the woman’s passport – Loren would have been more than happy to join in with his power games. That had been her kick, surely. Endlessly stomaching Hank. Complaining about him to her girlfriends. He’s so dominant. You wouldn’t believe what he makes me do. Whisper. Whisper.
When he was finished with his arranging the Captain made sure all four bodies were securely fastened into place. And that their faces were messed up enough to puzzle the authorities. Especially when they were handed John Gilbert Hart’s, Leo Percival Rider’s and Amira Elizabeth Eisenberger’s passports on a plate. He also pocketed the deceased park guard’s four extra cartridges. That gave him eight now. Eight long case shells. A whole lot better than nothing.
He took Hank’s car keys and Hank’s cash. The guy must have been an old-fashioned type, because he still used American Express traveller’s cheques. The Captain confirmed Hank’s signature in his passport and matched it against the signature on the cheques. Yes. Not too hard to fake. He’d cash the cheques in another country first chance he had. Because traveller’s cheques are eternal. And they never ever bounce. At least according to American Express.
When he was through, the Captain tore up one of the woman’s blouses and fed it down the fuel tank. When he was sure the far end was drenched, he switched ends and left the drenched end hanging out about two feet down the side of the car.
He turned on the engine and let off the handbrake. The car edged towards the lip of the cliff. But the Captain had judged it well. He could control the car with little more than a shove from his still good left arm.
He lit his lighter and touched it to the end of the fuel-soaked blouse. Then he hurried to the rear of the car and shunted it, full force, with his good shoulder.
The car teetered on the lip of the cliff and tipped over the edge.
The Captain backed off fast in case the fumes from the fuel ignited too early.
The car careened down the cliff, bouncing higher and higher as it gained pace. Halfway down there was a whoosh, followed by an explosive crump. The car was alight.
It gathered speed, jumping and careering over boulders and outcrops, twisting and jinking like a cat with a burning newspaper tied to its tail.
About two hundred yards down, the gradual incline turned into a full, perpendicular ascent. The car fishtailed end on end, thick gouts of smoke billowing in its wake.
The Captain lost sight of it.
There was a long period of silence, and then the car exploded somewhere beyond his sightline. Around him, the birds fell silent. The Captain could feel the heat of the plateau like a lover’s arms pressed tightly against the back of his neck.
He felt for the four cartridges in his pocket.
As he walked back towards the Mazda he played with them, like Humphrey Bogart with his stress relievers in The Caine Mutiny.
‘Eeny meeny miny moe,’ he sang, fingering the cartridges one after the other. ‘Catch a tiger by his toe. If he hollers, don’t let go. Eeny meeny miny moe.’
SEVENTY-SIX
Hart’s party spent the night at a town called Qwiha, about four hours by road from their final destination of Debre Damo. By that time they’d been driving for sixteen hours straight, and no one was in the mood to hurry on fate.
They had decided between them that they would give it another twenty-four hours. If the Captain didn’t follow them to Debre Damo, then they would call the embassy and put the gears into motion. But each of them knew that if the Captain had decided to make a break for Eritrea, any such action would be way too late. He’d be across and free by nightfall of the next day. The important thing, th
ough, was that they had Biljana. The Captain could wait. Without the protection of the Legion he would be that much easier to trace. The Legion would have photographs of him, which could be published in the newspapers. It would be only a matter of time after that.
After a brief discussion, Hart, Rider and Gersem agreed to split the guard duty between them. Amira didn’t argue. Her brand of feminism had always been invested with a certain degree of enlightened pragmatism. What suited her, suited her. What didn’t, didn’t. And Biljana had never fired a gun in her life. And couldn’t, furthermore, be expected to take up arms against her biological father. So that ruled her out from the start.
Hart took first watch. He sat outside in the Renegade, the assault rifle cradled across his lap, his eyes like a lion’s, half open. The hotel’s car park had been designed to take upwards of three hundred cars. There were four cars in it. So maybe the rest of the empty places were for weddings? Festivals? Stuff like that? Either way it was convenient, as Hart had a 360-degree clear view in every direction. No one could sneak up on him. The nearest anyone could lie up to take a shot was 150 yards away. And with no lighting in the parking area, they’d have trouble finding a target unless Hart was crazy enough to switch on the interior light and strike a pose.
For whatever reason, though, Hart chose to sit in the back seat, with his head well off to one side and partially protected by the metal struts holding the rear screen in place. If the Captain took a pot shot at the driver’s seat, he’d at least have some warning. And Gersem had the sawn-off shotgun, while Rider had the Captain’s Beretta. No single man was going to rush that hotel room and get away with his hide intact.
Despite all these precautions, Hart still felt furiously exposed. What if a coach party suddenly pulled in? Or a group of partygoers returning from a local knees-up? Such things always happened when you least expected them. He’d be a sitting duck.
Hart thought back to what he knew about the Captain. The time he’d spent with the man when they were dragging Lumnije’s unconscious body through the undergrowth back in Kosovo all those years ago. How had he got from there to here? And how were people like the Captain created in the first place? Could a man be solely motivated by greed and lust? Wouldn’t self-consciousness cut in somewhere and leaven the mess? Maybe the Captain was what they called a pure psychopath? Or was that simply a copout? Maybe he just enjoyed it? Most men, if they were honest with themselves, fantasized at some time or other about being given carte blanche in the sexual arena. Maybe, if he’d been brought up surrounded by violence – or if violence had been the key to advancement in his profession – he’d have been tempted by a get-out-of-jail-free card too?
Hart almost missed the flicker of movement at the very edge of his vision. He opened his eyes as wide as they could go and focused on the same spot again. Nothing happened.
Hart reached up and deactivated the interior light. Then he cracked the back door on the side away from where he’d seen the movement and slipped out of the car.
Maybe it had been a cat? Or some night animal, perhaps? Whatever it had been, he suddenly didn’t feel safe locked inside a metal pod, at night, in the middle of a vast sea of emptiness. He needed some elbow room.
He crawled round the car until he had the place where he’d seen the movement back in sight again. He crouched beside the rear tyre, with the assault rifle cradled against his cheek.
How had he allowed himself to be spooked like that? The Captain wouldn’t just ignore the Renegade and go reconnoitre the hotel room, would he? With anyone concealed in the Renegade calmly monitoring his back? He wasn’t that stupid.
The feral dog broke cover and trotted out into the open. Another dog followed it. The two of them did a sort of dance round each other. Then the bigger of the two dogs climbed onto the back of the smaller one and began thrusting away.
Hart muffled a groan. Great. Now here he was, outside the safety of the car, an assault rifle clamped to his ear, watching two dogs having sex.
Hart heard the crunch of gravel about eighty yards to his left. Not again, he found himself thinking. Why does this always happen to me while crouched down behind inadequate cover?
He eased himself to his feet and laid the assault rifle silently across the Renegade’s roof, with his cheek to the stock.
Yes. It was the Captain. Moving towards the Renegade, the rifle steady in his hands. At what the military would call the porte-arms position. Meaning you were ready to fire at the drop of a hat.
Hart squinted along the rifle. Even though there was little light, it was more than enough to make out the Captain’s silhouette.
One of the dogs howled and the Captain stopped dead in his tracks.
You crafty son-of-a-bitch, thought Hart. You saw the dogs. You knew they would take the attention of whoever was in the Renegade. And you reckoned you would take advantage and creep up behind them and take them out.
Hart was never going to get a better sitting target than this, the Captain frozen to the spot in the middle of a third of an acre of empty concrete. Like a tin duck at a fairground.
He squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Hart tried again.
The trigger was immoveable.
Hart felt frantically for the safety catch. He switched it backwards and forwards. Tried both ways. Nothing. The rifle might as well have been a block of ice.
The dogs had drifted apart by this time. As if they had never met. The male dog went one way, the female dog another.
The Captain was moving towards him again.
‘Freeze!’ shouted Hart.
Which is pretty much what had happened to his rifle.
The Captain reacted instantly. He dodged to the left and then zigzagged back towards the heavy cover at the outer edges of the car park.
Hart tried again with the rifle. No go.
The two dogs were pelting off in opposite directions. It was almost comical. The Captain headed one way, the two dogs another. Hart hunching over the Renegade with a useless rifle in his hand.
‘Get back inside,’ he yelled, when he saw Gersem and Rider, alerted by his shout, standing by the opened door of the hotel room. ‘And cut the fucking lights. You’re sitting ducks.’
He slid into the Renegade and gunned the car across the car park. He stopped outside the door of the room. Every moment he expected the sudden shattering of glass beside him. The numbing blow of a deformed slug tearing through his face.
‘Get in, everybody. We’ve got to leave. Now.’
Nobody asked any questions. Nobody froze. They knew each other – and the situation in which they found themselves – too well for that. They’d prepared for it by leaving all their possessions in the car. The women’s faces were serious and drawn. Still half asleep.
‘I’ll drive,’ said Amira. ‘You men can get some sleep when we’re clear of the area.’
They took off out of town without a backward glance.
Hart sat in the passenger seat, the rifle cradled between his knees, shaking his head.
‘What happened?’ Amira said at last.
‘I saw him,’ said Hart. ‘Creeping up on the Renegade. He’d chosen his moment well. By pure luck I was outside the vehicle—’
‘Taking a piss…’ said Rider.
‘Whatever,’ said Hart. ‘It little matters. What does matter is that I had the Captain in my sights and I didn’t hesitate. I took the shot.’
‘Why’s he not dead then?’ said Rider.
‘Because the rifle froze. That’s the only way I can describe it. The damned thing froze on me.’
‘You probably had the safety on,’ said Rider. ‘Happens all the time.’
‘No,’ said Hart. ‘Not this time. I tried the safety both ways. Nothing doing.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Rider. ‘You’re just covering your arse. Here. Hand the thing to
me.’
Hart handed the assault rifle to Rider. Rider stared at it. Finally he cracked the window and aimed the rifle outside. ‘Cover your ears.’
He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Then he flipped the safety and tried again.
Still nothing happened.
He slid out the magazine, tapped it a few times, checked that there were bullets in it and went through the firing process again.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This gun is frozen. Shame we never had a chance to give it a test run. The bloody thing is useless. Maybe it’s one of those replica thingies? Maybe it’s not a real gun at all? Maybe the Captain just used it to frighten people?’
‘No it is not,’ said Gersem. ‘It is a real gun. Give it to me, please.’
Rider handed the rifle to Gersem. Gersem ran his fingers around the position of the safety catch. ‘Yes. Here.’ He showed the rifle to Rider. ‘You see this small hole?’
‘Yes. What is it?’
‘During the 1990s,’ said Gersem, ‘certain arms manufacturers began fitting their guns with a locking mechanism. It was designed to protect children who found the rifle and thought it was a toy. The lock must be deactivated by a special key before the gun may be fired.’
‘A trigger lock,’ said Rider. ‘Yes. I’ve heard of them.’
‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Hart. ‘When the thing didn’t fire I nearly shat myself. I can’t take too many more shocks like that to my system.’
‘You were going to kill my father,’ said Biljana. ‘Just like you would kill a deer.’
‘I had no choice,’ said Hart. ‘He was armed and approaching my position.’ He turned round and stared at her. ‘Listen to me, Biljana.’ He cleared his throat a couple of times. He was not on comfortable ground. But he knew that he needed to get his point across now to avoid a tragedy further down the line. ‘There’s one major difference between your father and a deer.’
‘And what is that?’ said Biljana, with a disbelieving shrug, as if she thought Hart might be about to attempt an inappropriate joke.
The Templar Succession Page 27