'I want a demonstration,' Anton remarked as he handed back the weapon. 'Don't argue. For?145,000 I'm entitled to check the damned thing works…'
Gallagher had driven them in his Volvo station wagon into the hills. Leaving Rua Garrett, Anton had noted the donkey still stood patiently with the cart where he had parked it; it looked as though it would stay there all night.
Gallagher pulled up at a lonely spot overlooking the sea. Getting out, he grasped the Stinger and the single missile concealed under a travelling rug. They picked their way past a cactus grove and Gallagher halted at the top of a cliff. Out at sea a lone fishing vessel was returning to port, navigation lights twinkling. Gallagher handed weapon and missile to Anton.
'There's your target. There's always one conies crawling back late.'
'I don't understand.'
'That fishing vessel. Get on with it. It's about two miles away. How tar will your target be in the air?'
'Less than two miles. I still don't understand…'
'Oh. for Christ's sake! The missile is heat-seeking. Thai boat has a boiler in the engine room. Aim straight for it.'
'Won't there be an enquiry?' Anton inserted the missile, raised the Stinger, cuddling it into his shoulder. 'The police might start searching – when they realize what did it.'
'Except they won't. A month ago a similar fishing vessel blew up – the boilers they use are ancient as these hills. It will be recorded as another case of inefficient maintenance. They don't bother that much round here.'
Anton aimed at a point well below the wheelhouse. He squeezed the trigger, the missile left the launcher, curved in a low arc above the Atlantic at such speed he didn't see -its flight. A dull boom echoed in the humid night. The fishing vessel turned into a pillar of flame after a brief flash. The flame died fast.
Lowering the Stinger, Anton gazed at the smooth surface of the sea. The fishing vessel had vanished. He lifted the Stinger, peered through the aiming device. He could see no trace of any wreckage.
'Satisfied?' Gallagher demanded. 'If so, let's get back to the garage.'
'How many in the crew?'
'Roughly half a dozen. Plenty more where they came from…'
'Drop me at the entrance to the Rua Garrett,' Anton told the arms dealer as they drove along the front. 'I have to bring my transport.'
That the transport?' Gallagher enquired as Anton, carrying his executive case, alighted by the donkey cart. 'You'll get a long way with that. And I bet I know where you hid the balance of the money. In that mess of a hillside at the end of the street.'
'And you could search for years and never find it. See you at the garage. Don't wrap the merchandise until I'm there.'
'Anything you say, buddy boy…'
I don't think he's American at all, Anton was thinking as he led the donkey cart into the side street, following the Volvo. Under the accent, the over-use of American slang, he had detected traces of some unidentifiable Mittel- European language.
He left the donkey cart outside the open garage doors. Inside Gallagher had lowered the elevated car back over the pit. A careful man, Mr Gallagher. Anton continued down the dark tunnel of the narrow street.
He'd noticed when he first arrived that at the end the street stopped where a steep hill rose, its slopes covered with undergrowth and trees. He found a narrow path twisting up and followed it a short distance. Crouching down, he unlocked the case, lifted the lid.
He took a number of bundles of banknotes and stuffed them inside his pockets until his pullover bulged in an ugly manner. This would appear to be the extra money. He locked the case, made his way back down the tortuous path, walked back to the garage.
'Looks like you're going to have a baby,' Gallagher commented.
He stood by the control panel, pressed one switch, watched the garage doors slowly close, pressed another and the platform elevated above the service pit. Anton put the case down on a table, hoisted his pullover a few inches as he asked the question casually.
'Supposing I want to come back and ask you a question tomorrow. About the operation of the Stingers. You'll be here?'
'No. Anything you want to ask, ask now.' He lowered himself into the pit. 'I'll be away for a week in another country. A fresh deal.'
'Your regular customers – for servicing cars – will be pleased.'
'They know me. The doors are closed, I'm not here. Give me a hand. Take these, put them on that big table, the one with the sheet of canvas.'
When the three launchers and five missiles were laid on the top of the table, Gallagher hauled himself out of the pit. He towered over Anton. He spent the next ten minutes working rapidly, wrapping each launcher and missile in polythene sheets; then he arranged them on the large canvas already spread out. Rolling up the canvas, he fetched some straps and began securing the bundle. 'You can start relieving yourself of that money,' he suggested.
Anton pulled out the bundles of banknotes, laid them in stacks on the table-top. Gallagher was fastening the last strap when the Greek stepped back to pick up the case he'd stowed under the table. Gallagher had his back to him, stooped over the canvas-wrapped weapons.
Anton took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, kept the handkerchief in his hand, grasped the handle of the commando knife inside its sheath fastened to the belt under his pullover. He drew it out, stepped forward and rammed it with all his strength into Gallagher just below the left shoulder blade. Gallagher gasped, made a muted gurgling sound and slumped forward across the table.
'You really should keep to an agreed price,' Anton said.
Anton used two of the straps as makeshift handles to carry the canvas bundle to the donkey cart. At that, he staggered under the weight which must have been between a hundred and fifty and two hundred pounds. And Anton kept himself fit.
He dropped it into the cart and moved the hay to conceal the weapons. He hauled large handfuls close to the bundle, which caused it to sink, then dumped the hay on top. It took him a good five minutes to complete the job. Returning to the garage, he repacked the stacks of banknotes in the case, locked it and buried it under the hay.
Half an hour later he was leading the donkey along the deserted front. The cafes and discotheques were going full blast. From open windows the sound of guitars being strummed, of girls singing fado, drifted. At least it guaranteed an empty waterfront.
He had acted quickly clearing up the garage behind closed doors. Gallagher's dead body had been heaved into the pit. Anton had found an oil-stained canvas sheet to cover the corpse. Then he had pressed the button and lowered the elevated platform. He had doused the three oil lamps. Fortunately the control panel was near the doors: he had pressed the switch and dived into the street before they closed.
Carlos leapt on to the jetty when he arrived. Between them they lowered the weapons into his fishing boat. The Portuguese hid them under a pile of fishing nets. He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at Anton, who asked the question.
'What about the donkey and the cart?'
'Will wait until I return from the Oporto. Then I go home. I saw a fishing boat out there die.'
'Sorry?'
'It blew up. Boom! They do not take care with boilers. I am careful. It is my living…'
'Has the coastguard gone out?'
It was an important question. Anton was thinking police launches might be prowling around.
'No.' Carlos spread his hands. 'They will not make the hurry. Maybe when the sun rises. Are we good to leave for the Oporto?'
'As soon as you can get under way…'
Anton felt relieved as he saw the shoreline receding. It would be a week before anyone started worrying about Gallagher's closed garage. That had been a bit of luck. As the boat chugged steadily towards the main harbour Anton wiped his forehead. They were away.
