I KILL

by Lex Lander

  I broke open a carton of solid shot cartridges. The shotgun solid is the most lethal small-arm round in the world. A cylinder of lead, ¾” diameter, 1” long. The ultimate man-stopper. Only to be used when you mean business. I meant business.

  The Ithaca magazine holds five rounds– four in the magazine, one up the spout. I alternated each solid with an SG, short for Special Grade. This cartridge, which is mostly used for boar, deer, and other medium game, contains nine balls of a third of an inch in diameter. Visualise a gun capable of firing nine rounds all together and you have some idea of the destructive potential of an SG cartridge.

  Having stuffed the magazine to capacity, I tested the action by jacking all four cartridges out through the ejector port, scattering them across the duvet. Then I oiled the mechanism: pump, ejector, firing chamber, trigger, a couple of droplets apiece. Worked the action and tested the trigger pull. Checked the integrity of the safety button. As satisfied as any perfectionist would ever be, I recharged the magazine. A score of reload cartridges went into the waist gun belt.

  The Korth was less demanding, my check more perfunctory. There is precious little to malfunction on a top quality revolver, and the Korth is as close as they come to fault-free. Even so I went through the motions as laid down in the maker’s manual and my own unwritten safety code. A misfire at a critical moment could be the literal death of me.

  And tomorrow, from 3pm on, critical moments were likely to blend together into a long, unbroken crisis.

  Alfredo’s wisened monkey-face creased into something approaching curiosity when I told him I was going visiting.

  ‘Who you visit?’ The question was idly put, belying the shrewd glint of his eyes.

  ‘See the white diesel job over there.’ I pointed.

  Ash fell from the tip of his cheroot as he followed my finger.

  ‘The boat you watching?’

  He didn’t miss much. I grinned wryly.

  ‘That’s her.’

  His eyes wandered to the polythene-wrapped package I had placed on the cockpit seat.

  ‘If you got trouble,’ he said earnestly, ‘I want come with you.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Alone, maybe you fail.’

  I was touched. ‘Then I fail, old son.’

  Neither the load nor the pay-off were for sharing. Besides, this expedition was a million fathoms out of his depth.

  ‘Get the dinghy ready,’ I said curtly. ‘I want to be on my way by quarter to three.’

  Palpably smarting at the rebuff, he scuttled about his business. I buckled on the cartridge belt. No concealing from him what was in the polythene bundle. Not that I feared Alfredo would take fright. But for his own protection and my peace of mind I wanted him uninvolved.

  I was simply and practically dressed for the forthcoming fray. Denim jeans, turtle-neck cotton sweater, sneakers. Huge dark glasses and my battered sun hat would make me unrecognizable until I was safely aboard. A skin-diver’s knife was taped to my ankle, the last line of defence. May its services not be required.

  At 2.40pm I lowered package and posterior into the inflatable dinghy.

  ‘Good luck,’ Alfredo whispered reverently and crossed himself.

  ‘Never mind that nonsense.’ My mission hardly merited divine approval. ‘Just be ready to up anchor the minute I get back.’

  He touched forefinger to forelock. ‘Señor.’

  The dinghy’s Evinrude outboard fired at a touch and settled into a contented rumble.

  ‘Expect me back in an hour,’ I said. Or not at all, I didn’t say.

  Setting out in bright sunshine didn’t feel right. But 3pm was what Petit had stipulated, and I had to assume that, for whatever reason, this was the most favourable hour. Safe to assume also that he meant to be out of harm’s way when the shooting started. If he wasn’t … well, I wasn’t fussy about who got caught in the crossfire.

  The distance between Seaspray and AnnRik was not great, even if it did seem like half an ocean. No means of telling if I was under scrutiny from behind those blank tinted windows, but the sitting-duck feeling was profound. My course was at a tangent to AnnRik, making it look as if I was heading for the harbour mouth. This was simply Warner being devious. I had to get as close as I could to the yacht without creating suspicion. Only when I came astern of her, and therefore out of sight of most of the yacht’s deck area, would I turn towards her. An awful lot hinged on the hope that nobody would go promenading on that remaining ten per cent of deck in the interim.

  Nobody did. The statistics continued to favour me as I made my dogleg turn and came in under the overhang of the counter, outboard dribbling on reduced throttle. Now to put to use the grapnel Alfredo had obtained for me from a ships’ chandlery in Tangier. The noise it made when it struck the rail, even swathed in reams of duct tape, was an unwanted calling card. I secured the loose end of the rope to the inflatable, then drew the Ithaca from its polythene wrapping and fed my arm and shoulder through the strap. The Korth was in a clip-on holster. I clipped it to the cartridge belt, dispensed with hat and sunspecs, and shinned up the knotted rope.

  As I was cocking my leg over the stem rail a small launch chugged by and I glanced towards it, straight into the gaping faces of a young, fair-haired couple. I waved cheerily to them, as if I habitually boarded boats armed to the teeth, like a marauding pirate. The girl, wearing shorts and a T-shirt several sizes too small, waved back uncertainly. Her companion, less readily assuaged, carried on goggling. Unfortunate, that. The only saving grace being that they were bound for the open sea, and showed no immediate tendency to turn back and report to someone in authority. Minding their own business admirably. Must be Brits then.

  Beneath my feet the deck shifted ever so slightly in the launch’s wash. I remained still, all senses on full alert. A ship’s siren tooted dismally in the port. Here on the yacht the only activity was the sweep of the radar scanner, the only disturbance the slap of water against the hull. A gull took off from the rail of the sun deck above me. I unslung the Ithaca and disengaged the safety.

  Whereas at No. 2 Korte Hoekssteeg I had had a floor plan to guide me, here I was in the dark about the internal layout. I checked my watch: five to three. Five minutes to Petit’s deadline. If it mattered. From now on events would largely acquire a momentum of their own. The hours and the minutes of no consequence.

  ‘Tom-Tom! Vous êtes en haut?’ The hail came from up forward. Instinctively, I flattened myself against the superstructure.

  ‘Ouais.’ The drawled “yes” from the sun deck, directly above me.

  ‘D’accord. C’est bon. Restes-là, mon vieux.’

  To anyone up there I was invisible, screened by the overhanging lip. I had no wish for a chance encounter with Tom-Tom, non-combatant or not. He might be trained to strike first and ask ‘friend-or-foe?’ afterwards.

  I edged around the corner of the superstructure into a narrow walkway, in search of access to the interior. I had covered only a few feet when a door flew open, almost in my face. Stumbling over the raised lower lip of the doorway, out popped a mountain of flesh – unmistakably a watchdog. Not quite in the Tom-Tom league, but still large enough to demolish me unaided. He gawked at me, his reflexes slower than they should have been for a man of his calling.

  Letting off guns in the open air was to be avoided. Tangier and Ramouz were too close. The gorilla didn’t seem to share my worry. Having gotten over his shock, he dived a hand inside the loose-fitting sport coat. Oversize he may have been, but he was no sluggard. As the gun came free of his armpit, I stabbed him in the belly button with the Ithaca. Breath exploded from his slack mouth, and he reeled against the open door, retching. I shifted my grip on the gun, lashed him across the side of the skull with the blunt end. It made a noise like a branch snapping. The gorilla fell, eyes rolling up, the drawn revolver striking the deck a fraction of a second before its owner. His downfall sent a tremor through the hull.

  ‘Qui ça?’ came from above, accompanied
by stirrings, as of a great beast awakening. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Ne te déranges pas, Tom-Tom,’ I called back softly. ‘C’est Varnair.’

  My name was my password. The stirrings ceased. I darted through the open door and down a companionway, the Ithaca in a one-handed grip. I dropped the last few steps, landing soundlessly on the carpeted deck. I stood perfectly still, listening. From the bowels of the hull came a faint throb, air conditioner, probably. Doors lined the corridor, all closed and all too close together to be anything more than cabins or store-rooms. Which left only the doors at each extremity worthy of attention. That to my right, towards the stern, was ajar. Through the gap came the mutter of voices. Promising. I crept noiselessly towards it, put an ear to the gap.

  ‘What can be keeping Bernard?’ It was a woman, speaking accented but adequate French. ‘How long does it take a man to piss, Heinrich?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ Also in French with Teutonic origins, the tone incredulous. Male laughter erupted.

  ‘I have never actually timed the operation, no.’

  ‘Maybe he’s taken one of his own dirty books with him,’ someone else suggested, ‘in which case he will need a little longer.’ The laughter coarsened.

  The absent Bernard was obviously Petit. Now I understood why the timing was so precise. He meant to be out of the firing line while I eliminated Annika de Bruin, and, of necessity, the rest of the opposition. Canny of him.

  ‘While we are waiting for him I would like to recap on the move to Africa, which, after all, is the lynchpin of the new operation.’ This from a natural French speaker. Male.

  ‘Go on.’ The woman again. Clearly in charge. It could only be Annika de Bruin. My finger closed on the trigger of its own accord.

  ‘I want to be assured that we will have continuity. That any changes in officialdom or government will not mean changes in policy. I would hate to spend all this money only to find the door closed after a few months, or, equally catastrophic, the price of turning a blind eye suddenly hyper-inflates.’

  ‘You’re a fool, Jules. Is there anywhere in the world where we can operate with à la fois freedom and absolute security? Better, I say, to risk a change of heart or extortionate demands by the officials concerned than a term in a Dutch prison.’

  ‘Not to mention an English prison.’ A new voice, Bow Bells English, but obviously with a good understanding of French. ‘It’s getting bleeding chancy on my patch, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Exactly so, Trevor.’ Annika made the language switch smoothly. That made her trilingual so far. An impatient click of the tongue, then, ‘Where has Bernard got to?’

  It was five minutes after three. No reason to delay longer.

  Behind the door a chair creaked. ‘I will fetch him.’ The German, Heinrich.

  I backed away from the door, which opened seconds later on a short football of a man, aglow with prosperity, an obese cigar growing from cupid’s bow lips. His jaw dropped with an audible click and the cigar slid free, tumbling down the slope of his stomach.

  ‘Hello, Heinrich,’ I said, and let him have it in the equatorial belt. The first slug was spreadshot. As far as Heinrich was concerned it was well-named. Heavy grain spreadshot rips, mangles, and the results are usually fatal. What was left of Heinrich was whirled away, spraying blood in a crimson vapour. The world was already a cleaner place.

  Then I was inside the room, in among them, kicking the door shut behind me. Annika stood at the head of a long conference table, flanked by two men, strangers to me: one youngish, a black African, the other, greying of thatch, wearing rimless glasses. The greyhair was rising and pulling a gun as he rose. My second shot, a solid cartridge, took his gun arm off at the shoulder, a neat piece of surgery. Quantities of flesh spattered the African, who dropped flat as his injured companion, screaming a high thin scream, was hurled against a mini-bar. I worked the slide and – in CIA parlance – terminated the remnants of the grey-haired man with extreme prejudice. I slid across the table on my backside, scattering note pads and coffee cups, and came to land on top of the cringing, wailing African. His reaction was to tuck his head under his arms and coil up like a hedgehog. He died fast with little disturbance.

  Which left only Annika, who had gone to ground under the head of the table and, at its foot another man, flattened against the wall, more as a precaution against accidental damage than out of fright. Giorgio du Poletti, my self-styled only true friend.

  We faced each other across the gore-smeared table top. Between us the smoking muzzle. One shot left.

  ‘Giorgy…’ I said at last, helplessly. ‘So you’re in on this.’

  He was amazingly cool. You could almost admire him.

  ‘We have a stake in it.’ Shrugging. ‘It is a business proposition. We had nothing to do with that girl of yours. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Against my better judgement, I’m going to believe you. Now fuck off. I just hope you can swim.’

  He frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see. Look out for Petit. He has a plan.’

  ‘Listen, André,’ he said, his tone urgent. ‘Don’t make the biggest mistake of your life. ‘Killing de Bruin has already put you in bad with the Syndicate. It is Annika who runs the show, so Rik was no great loss. But you kill her and you’re a dead man. I promise you.’

  ‘Get lost, Giorgy, before I change my mind about you.’

  He took the hint. Out the door, closing it behind him. He didn’t realise how lucky he was.

  With one eye on the door, I stuffed four cartridges into the magazine port, still punctiliously alternating SG with solid. Not hurrying. I was calm and detached. I had no thought for my own safety, only of execution, of doing good works for mankind.

  ‘Come out, Annika.’ I couldn’t see her, but she had to be under the table. It was the only place to hide.

  Absorbed in the task at hand, I had all but forgotten about the remaining contingent of gorillas. Sensibly, not knowing whether I was on my own or a team, they had kept their heads down. Contrary to their public persona, most bodyguards have a strong sense of self-preservation. A reminder that they were still an active force came with the kicking open of the door, instantly followed by a gun’s boom and a sensation of heat on my upper arm. I dived behind the bar for cover as second and third bullets flitted by and smashed into the wall opposite.

  I crouched by the bar, nursing my wounded left bicep. It was only a crease, but it burned like a brand from a hot iron. I was losing blood too. A minor leak, it would soon congeal. In all essentials I was still an effective combat unit.

  ‘It’s finished, Warner.’ It came from the corridor, an American drawl. ‘Throw down the gun. We’ll let you leave.’

  Sure they would – on a bier.

  ‘Why fight?’ the voice seduced. Now I put a name to it: Baker, Giorgy’s sidekick.

  I allowed myself a soft chuckle. Baker would want payment with interest for that winged shoulder I had dealt him. Grudges endure in the criminal world. Unlikely he would let me walk away, even if I was willing.

  ‘Let me think about it … Baker.’

  Now the mirth came from him.

  ‘Okay, wise guy, but think fast.’

  The only thinking I planned to do was on my feet. I squat-walked across the room and was firing as I came opposite the open door. A young guy with glasses was crouching in the centre of the corridor, a revolver in each hand. Tucked in behind him, as if urging him to greater feats of daring, was a second, older goon. Fire spurted from the young guy’s guns, but he had aimed high, expecting me to be upright. Neither of them got off any more shots. My first cartridge was SG and they shared its contents between them. They went down, squealing, all tangled up with each other like lovers having a frenetic fuck.

  Baker, wiser, had taken refuge behind an outward opening store-room door at the far end. Our shots must have crossed in flight. His sang past my ear. Mine was better aimed. The solid cartridge went clean through the door as if it wer
e cardboard, leaving a hole as big as a screaming mouth. Baker was out of sight behind the door, but I was familiar with the sound of a slug entering flesh. The untidy thump and crash of a heavy body falling was also unmistakeable.

  The pair I had shot first were still alive, groaning and writhing. I stepped up to them and finished them off dispassionately, a bullet apiece from the Korth. Euthanasia, sort of. They hardly bled, which was considerate of them as the carpet was the same light colour as the décor.

  So who was left? Annika, Petit, Tom-Tom … the skeleton crew … I checked them off mentally. Theoretically Petit and Tom-Tom were on my side. But only theoretically.

  As the tension seeped from my body, I topped up the Ithaca again and walked slowly forward down the corridor, towards Baker. As I came to each door I opened it, staying clear of the doorway. Nobody took pot shots at me. Baker was where I expected him to be, his blood smearing the wall and soaking into the carpet. All the cabins were empty. If the crew were around they weren’t joining in the fun.

  My arm hurt. My head throbbed. I couldn’t think straight any more, could hardly think at all. Why was I here? To kill Annika de Bruin, of course. That was straightforward enough. But why – why did I want to kill Annika de Bruin? The reason had gotten lost someplace in the din and the stench of slaughter. All I could be sure about, even in my confusion, was that she still lived and breathed.

  Overhead the deck creaked. Sounds of a scuffle, a cry of pain. Tom-Tom taking care of business on my behalf? I faced the stairs, got ready to shoot. No rush of feet or sounds suggesting a counterstrike. Things settled down, all noise ceased. Only the hum of the air-conditioning was to be heard as I returned to the conference room to finish the job I came to do.

  Thirty-Four

  Annika de Bruin was expecting me. No more skulking under tables for her. Now she was out in the open and in the pink. Pink shoulders, pink breasts, need I go on? Total exposure, in other words. And, by God, in the raw she was exquisite: a waist you could hand-span, pneumatic breasts that were almost too perfectly-proportioned to be true. Below the flat plain of her stomach, the sculpted nest of her pubic hairs proved she was a real blonde who scorned the depilated look. Indeed her entire body was swathed in fine down. In the sunlight that cascaded through the tinted windows she appeared to be coated in spun-gold cobwebs.