by Mark Dawson
"Traffic. There was a crash earlier. It was backed up then and it’s the rush hour. It’ll take forever."
"All right," he said, flicking the stalk to indicate left instead and pulling out onto Edison.
The streets were named after famous inventors: Edison, Morse, Faraday, Bell, Marconi. Edison was a narrow street for most of its length, with cars parked on either side and a series of stalls set up on the pavements. They passed traders selling knock-off T-shirts, containers of fresh water, and trays of withered vegetables. Trash had been dumped at the side of the road and the buildings were beaten up, many of them sporting tarpaulins where roofs and walls should have been.
"It's true, then?" Carlos asked.
"What's that?"
"He shot Dalisay?"
She nodded.
"And we're letting him out?"
"Tell me about it."
"What do you say we pull over? I could have a word with him about it in the back."
"I wouldn’t mind that," she said, "but I don't think it's worth the aggravation. I'd rather just have him off my hands."
Carlos grunted his dissatisfaction. "I don't know what's happening right now. First Bruno, now Dalisay. If people think they can take shots at us and get away with it, then—"
A car raced out of Faraday Avenue and blindsided them, slamming hard into the wing on Josie's side of the truck. It had been travelling quickly, and the impact sent them skidding across the road and into the back of a car parked next to a repair shop. Carlos jerked forward, his forehead cracking against the wheel. Josie had braced herself, but the shock of the first and then second impacts had crashed her injured leg against the gear shift and sent a buzz of pain up and down her body.
Carlos groaned and spat out a mouthful of blood
Josie looked outside. The car that had hit them was an old Toyota Camry. It had wedged itself beneath the truck; their off-side wheel was up on the crumpled hood of the car. The driver of the Toyota opened his door and stepped out as a second vehicle—a white delivery truck—skidded to a halt alongside them.
The driver of the Camry was masked. He went around to the trunk of the car and took out a shotgun.
"What the fuck are they doing?" Josie said.
The man aimed his shotgun at them. "Get out."
Josie turned to Carlos. "What do we do?" she said.
The second man banged on the window. "Out."
"Call for help?" she said, pointing at the radio.
"Won't get to us in time," Carlos mumbled. "We're fucked."
"So, what—we get out?"
"No choice. That window's not bulletproof. If he shoots, we're dead."
"They're bluffing."
"Are they? They just rammed us. I'm not taking the chance."
Carlos opened his door and, after a moment, Josie did the same. The two men had circled around so that one man was on one side of the truck and the other man was on the opposite side. They had both doors covered.
"Out," the man facing Josie barked. "Hit the deck. Face down. If you move, you're dead."
"Relax," Josie said loudly so that Carlos could hear her. "We'll do whatever you want."
She lowered herself to the ground. The asphalt was hot, the grit abrasive against her cheek as she turned her head to watch.
The second man was behind Carlos, leading him at gunpoint around to the back of the truck. Josie could see their feet and ankles beneath the chassis, and heard the man tell Carlos that he needed to unlock the door.
"Stay down," the man above her ordered.
The rear door was unlocked. She heard the heavy thwack of something solid striking flesh and then saw Carlos fall to the ground and lie still. His head was turned toward her and she saw blood leaking out of a fresh gash on his forehead.
The doors—exterior and interior—were opened, and then she heard a single barked command: "Out."
She saw the feet and lower legs of de Lacey as he stepped down and watched as he stumbled around to where she was lying. The other man was behind him, his shotgun jabbing de Lacey in the back as he was shepherded to the delivery truck.
"Open the door."
Josie turned her head so that she could see. De Lacey said something and was rewarded with the butt of the shotgun jabbed against his ribs.
"Open it."
He did as he was told, and, before he could complain again, he was bundled inside. The door was slammed shut and the man hurried around to the front of the vehicle.
"Stay there," the man behind Josie said before running across to get into the truck.
The engine whined, the tyres squealed, and the truck left tracks of hot rubber as it raced away.
88
THE BACK of the van was uncomfortable. De Lacey was sprawled on the floor, his hands still shackled behind him. He felt every bump as the van set off. The interior was divided into two compartments. The first was for the driver and co-driver. A tinted glass screen partitioned that area from the rear. It was dark in the back, with just a little dim light filtering through the tinted glass screen. De Lacey could see the shapes of the two men in the front compartment. He saw them remove the balaclavas that they had been wearing, but their features were hidden by the opacity of the glass.
He managed to turn himself around so that his feet were facing the door. He started to kick out at them, putting all his weight behind each blow, but the doors were solid and didn't budge.
"Help!" he called out as loudly as he could manage. "Help!"
The van set off.
IT WAS difficult to judge the passage of time. They seemed to have been travelling for an hour, but it might have been longer. De Lacey managed to arrange himself so that he could get up onto his knees and looked forward, trying to see the detail of the road ahead, but the glass in the dividing screen was too opaque and he couldn't make out much of anything at all.
"Let me out!" he shouted.
Nothing.
"Do you have any idea who I am?"
The co-driver turned; he was little more than a silhouette.
"What do you want? Money? I'll pay you."
The man glanced back at him, said something to the driver, and then turned to face the road again.
"Come on!"
De Lacey lost his balance and toppled onto his back. He kicked out, both feet thudding against the partition, but neither man turned around. They faced ahead and the van kept moving along.
DE LACEY TRIED to guess. They must have been on the move for two hours now. The vague outlines of buildings that had been visible through the screen were no longer there. The light was fading as night drew in. They had left the city and must have been somewhere in the countryside that enclosed it. De Lacey was about to kick the partition again when the van slowed. He settled down, bracing his back against the wall and wedging his feet to keep him there as they bounced off the asphalt onto rough ground. The axle vibrated and the back of the van bounced up and down, each small impact jarring him.
They slowed.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey! Let me out!"
The bouncing subsided and then the van drew to a halt.
The driver and then the co-driver opened their doors and stepped outside.
The rear door opened. The sun was setting and de Lacey was unable to make out the man who was standing outside.
"Get out."
De Lacey squinted into the fading light.
"Oh fuck."
It was Milton.
He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. His face was still marked by the beating that he had taken in Bilibid, dried cuts and bruises that were only now starting to heal.
The second man joined Milton. De Lacey recognised him: it was the man who had tried to fool him as Logan. Milton had a pistol. The other man had a shotgun.
"Get down, Fitz," Milton said.
De Lacey backed away, but the compartment was small and there was only so much space he could retreat into.
Milton clambered up, grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him toward the door.
> "Come on," de Lacey protested, unable to resist with his wrists still cuffed. "Come on, Milton, this isn't necessary."
Milton didn't reply. Instead, he gave a final yank and propelled de Lacey out of the door. He managed to land on his feet but he stumbled, his boot catching against a patch of scrub. He fell heavily, his face grinding into the small stones and gravel on the surface of the road.
Milton jumped down from the back of the van.
"Get him up."
The other man reached down with one hand, grabbed the back of de Lacey's shirt and hauled him up.
“You want me to come?” the second man said.
“No. Just me and him.”
De Lacey got his feet back under him and took the opportunity to look around. The road here was little more than an off-road track, scattered over with stones and littered with scrub. The van had left the track and driven for three hundred yards; he could hear the sound of traffic passing on a busier road to the west. They were surrounded by stands of bamboo on both sides, with taller palm, pili and durian trees stretching out overhead. There were splashes of colour from sampaguita flowers, and bright orchids littered the way ahead. It would have been beautiful in other circumstances.
"Where are we?" de Lacey asked.
"Walk."
“Take the cuffs off.”
“Walk.”
Milton pushed de Lacey between the shoulder blades hard enough to make him stumble forward. He turned. The second man stayed by the truck.
"Where are we going?"
Milton pushed him again. "Walk."
There was a pit of fear in his stomach.
"Hernandez was in on this?"
Milton said nothing.
"You set me up. You're working together."
He said nothing.
"She wants to think carefully about that."
“Do you think it was a good idea to threaten her family, Fitz? She’s a good officer. Honest. She wanted to do this by the book. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? And this is what happens.”
“You think I was bluffing?”
"No, I don’t. And neither did she. But look where it’s got you. It’s just you and me now. You can't make threats anymore."
"Come on. This hasn't gone too far. Take me back."
"I don't think so."
"They'll lock me up again. You don't need to do this."
"You were locked up before and you still murdered someone who was important to me. You like to remind everyone that you’re a rich and powerful man. The money. The yacht. Friends in high places. You would’ve been better to forget all that."
He felt sick. "What does that mean?" he said, even though he knew exactly what it meant.
"Walk."
They continued. Radiant waves rose from the sun-baked forest, and mirages shimmered at the edges of his vision. It was hot and humid. The fear, though, was worse. It leeched the strength from his legs, hollowing them out, churned his stomach and loosened his bowels.
They descended a gentle slope to a burbling brook and de Lacey couldn't stand it any longer.
He ran.
It was awkward, with his hands behind his back, but he ran.
Three paces.
Four.
He aimed for a thicket of bamboo on the other side of the water. Maybe if he could get there before Milton did...
Ten paces.
Fifteen.
He felt the blast of pain a moment before he heard the crack of the pistol.
He lost his balance and fell, splashing down into the water.
The gunshot echoed back from the foothills.
His leg was on fire. He was lying face down, water in his eyes and mouth and nostrils. He felt the hot blood, each fresh heartbeat sending another pulse to flow out around his helpless fingers.
He turned his head to look back.
He hadn't managed to get very far.
Milton was walking toward him. His right arm was extended and angled down. He had his pistol in his hand.
De Lacey tried to scramble to his feet, but his leg wouldn't move and his arms were still shackled behind his back
Milton reached him. The setting sun was behind him, casting a long shadow and blackening him in silhouette. The shadow fell over de Lacey's body.
Milton crouched down and flipped him over onto his back.
De Lacey tried to speak, but his throat was dry and choked with water and the words wouldn't come. He closed his eyes.
“Who put the pressure on to the Filipinos to get you out?”
He felt something press against his forehead. It was cold and hard. He knew what it was.
“Answer me, Fitz.”
“The Circus. Who do you think?”
“Why do they want you out?”
“They want me to front a deal with the Iranians. Missiles. Artillery. Ammunition. They don’t care about the equipment. They want intelligence and they know I can get it for them. And the Iranians trust me.”
“And you said yes.”
“With one condition. They got you for me.”
“How’d that turn out, Fitz?”
De Lacey didn’t answer.
“Who were you dealing with in MI6? Names.”
“Latimer and Fox. I never met them.”
“Who did?”
“Bertie. He handled the negotiations. You’d have to speak to him.”
"I will. "
Milton put his gun down and placed his hands around de Lacey’s throat. He started to squeeze. De Lacey felt the coolness of the water as it ran around his head, and then the increased pressure around his throat as Milton leaned forward and pressed down with all his weight. He tried to breathe, but his breath wouldn’t come.
“Goodbye, Fitz.”
His eyes bulged as he stared up into Milton’s eyes—cold, impassive, emotionless—and then his face, the jungle, the sky, and everything else above him all faded into black.
89
MILTON AND Hicks drove back to the city after they had finished burying the body. They torched the stolen van, changed their clothes, and took a taxi the rest of the way to the airport. Ziggy was waiting for them in the landside Starbucks.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“It’s done.”
“What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter. What about the police?”
“I monitored the radio. Josie gave you five minutes and called it in. She said she didn’t get a good look at the van. They put out a bulletin but there was no way they would’ve been able to find you in time.”
“The other thing?”
Ziggy sipped his coffee and nodded. “They’ve identified the bodies at Tondo. Bruno Mendoza was easy—the car was registered to him, and they matched his teeth to his dental records. The second body has been reported as John Smith, recently escaped from Bilibid. They found the gun, pulled the prints from it and when they searched against them they had a match with the prints you gave them when you were arrested. They can’t confirm it for sure, but it’s strong circumstantial evidence. As far as they’re concerned, John Smith is dead. They’re looking for someone who shot him and Mendoza.”
“Good,” he said.
“You think it’ll stand up?”
“I doubt they’ve got anything that would help them to identify the body as Logan. Even if they can take his fingerprints, I’d be surprised if he’s on record anywhere. And I’ve got an idea to make it even tighter.”
Hicks scrubbed his eyes; none of them had had much sleep.
Milton reached into his pocket and took out Hicks’s wedding ring. “Here,” he said. “Better not forget this.”
Hicks took the ring and screwed it onto his finger. “Thanks.”
Ziggy looked up at the departures board. “We’d better check in,” he said. “The flight goes in an hour.”
“Thank you,” Milton said. “Both of you. I’d still be locked up if it wasn’t for what you did.”
“You’d be dead,” Hicks
corrected.
Milton nodded. “More likely,” he agreed. “But I mean it. I’m grateful. Really.”
“Forget it.”
Milton put out his hand and shook with Ziggy and then Hicks.
“What are you going to do?” Hicks said.
“Some people I need to see,” he said.
“And then?”
“I don’t know yet.”
MILTON ARRANGED to meet Josie in a café near the Napindan Castle hotel where she was staying. He arrived first. He put the leather satchel that he had taken from Mendoza’s villa on the floor beneath a vacant table and then went to get his food. The place offered a breakfast buffet, and he doled out a generous portion of tocilog. He hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches he and Ziggy had shared the previous night, and the trays of sweetened pork, egg and fried rice were impossible to resist. He finished his plate quickly, and, as he took it up to the counter for another portion, he saw Josie looking for him in the doorway.
He waved her over.
She had a bag in her left hand and her walking stick in her right. She hobbled over, rested the bag on the floor next to the table and sat down. “Well?”
“It’s finished,” he said.
“Where?”
“We buried him. He won’t be found.”
She turned away from him, biting her lip.
He felt the need to justify himself. “There wasn’t any other choice.”
When she turned back to him, her eyes were cold. “I’m not sorry,” she said. “He got what he deserved.”
Milton knew: she had striven so long to do the right thing and now his news—and the sure knowledge that she had facilitated de Lacey’s murder—was her repudiation of it. She was angry with herself, not with him. The curtain had been pulled back and now she saw how the world worked.
“It’s my own fault,” she said, as if she could read his mind. “De Lacey called me naïve. Turns out he was right.”
She reached down and placed her hand on her injured leg.
“What about you?” Milton asked. “What happened afterwards?”
“After you took him? They took us to the station. We were questioned. But Carlos backed me up. The crash, the two of you taking him and driving away. Our stories tallied. They said they believed it. What else were they going to say?”