Murphy's Heist

by David Chilcott

  At last the day to meet Biff had arrived. Bourne travelled by bus again, and this time, since the weather was cooler, walked from the bus station into town, and straight to the plaza, negotiating with a street plan he had bought.

  He turned into the square. It was another sunny day, with a pleasant breeze. The shadows of the orange trees dappled the pavement, and a few oranges had dropped off the trees, rotting on the ground, giving a citrus scent to the breeze. Bourne ambled slowly up the street, his Daily Express tucked under his arm, glancing at the occupants of the benches as he walked.

  When he was about halfway along the plaza he began to wonder whether this was a ploy for Biff to escape from him and Biff had no intention of turning up. Then he had wasted days when he could have been searching out alternative sources of arms. It was still barely eleven o’clock and Bourne could do a complete circuit of the plaza, which would take about quarter of an hour, and then try again. It wouldn’t arouse suspicion, a youngish man going for a walk, and doing a double lap.

  But that wouldn’t be necessary. He saw a man in a white cap, sitting on a bench. He was reading The Times. He had placed a carrier bag on the seat next to him, so that the place would not be taken. Except for Bourne, of course. When the older man looked up, saw Bourne with the newspaper, he took the bag off the seat, and put it on his lap. To anybody watching, it looked a perfectly natural movement, done as Bourne was actually approaching the bench, and turning.

  That’s if anyone really was watching. Watching who? The old ex-con, or Bourne, the new man on the block? God, he was getting paranoid.

  Bourne sat down, opened his newspaper, and started reading the English news, which sounded trite, when you were not in England. In the past if Bourne had been on holiday on the mainland, he had never read the papers or listened to the news, and when he got back, it was as if nothing had happened in the meantime.

  Biff spoke to him, dragging him out of his reverie. “Well done. I began to think you didn’t recognize me. Down to business. The price of the rifles is one thousand pounds sterling each, the pistol, twelve hundred pounds. Then there is getting them into a consignment to get them on board ship. That will be an extra twenty thousand pounds. As to payment, I need half down with the order, the rest a day before delivery, cash, in used notes, naturally. That price is for a week, after that the price will probably alter, so I would have to update you nearer the time, if you place an order.”

  Bourne had been doing a mental calculation as Biff was talking. “Thirty-three thousand two hundred pounds in total. Is there any discount for me?” It seemed a high price.

  Biff chuckled into his Times. “If you are going to look around, get other prices, I think you will be in a Spanish jail within a few days. I can tell you that they are worse than English jails, mate.”

  “Does that mean no?”

  “It certainly does. I don’t want go to jail, and I’m taking a risk for not much money. You don’t realize, sonny, the price of arms dishonestly acquired. Take it or leave it.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Okay,” said Bourne, “I had to ask. It’s a deal. I will have to phone you when the date’s set. And then I will have to phone you the day before, to tell you where the rest of the money is. So I need two mobile numbers, and I will use one new mobiles, pay-as-you-go, each time I phone you.”

  “That suits me, mate. Thanks for the order. The pistol, I can’t be sure what it will be, but I will try to get a Sig Pro. American, the best.”

  “Are you going to give me your mobile numbers, or send them?”

  “I am going now, and I will leave my Times on the bench. When I’ve gone, wait a few moments, and then pick it up. One number is pencilled on the top of page fourteen, the other on the top of page sixteen.”

  With that, he folded his paper, stood up, dropped it on the bench, and without a backward glance he was sauntering down the street.

  Bourne picked up The Times, opened it and started reading. After quarter of an hour, he started flicking through the paper, reading items here and there. He noticed the numbers, which were on pages fourteen and sixteen, just has Biff had promised. He got up, depositing the Express in a nearby litter bin, and looked for a café, where he could grab a snack.

  When he entered the coffee house, he made straight for the servicios. The toilet was empty. He bolted the door behind him, opened the newspaper, tore off the tops of pages fourteen and sixteen, inserted them into his wallet, and threw the paper in the waste bin under the sink. He had a pee, while he was there.

  He wandered outside, sat at a table and ordered a snack. He felt quite pleased with himself. Outlay on the scheme would be thirty-three plus say ten more to bribe the staff on the ship, and twelve cruise tickets, say another twelve. Might get a block-booking price. But they couldn’t do that really, not if they were going to join the ship separately. Anyway that came to fifty-five thousand pounds. Not a bad outlay for a return of say, twenty million, or maybe more.