‘No problem,’ said Joe. ‘If there’s anyone else with him, I’ll let you know. Otherwise I’ll follow him up, then peel off when it’s sorted, and meet you at the rendezvous.’
The call ended. Everyone knew what they were doing. Now it was simply a matter of waiting.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve used one of these,’ said Tugger, stroking the rifle like it was some sort of cuddly toy. It was one Joe had brought back from the Gulf War in ’91. ‘I think Bosnia was probably the last time, and Christ, that was years back. A good weapon, though. I can see why the Yanks like it.’
‘I think I prefer the AK if I was to be given the choice. Less prone to jamming.’
‘You know, Max,’ he said, loading and unloading the rifle’s magazine, ‘I do like chefing, and I reckon I could make a lot of money out of it, especially if I can afford to open up my own place.’
‘You make a mean Thai fish curry, I’ll give you that.’
‘Aye, I know, but…’ He thought about it for a minute, at the same time putting the stock to his shoulder and aiming at an imaginary target among the trees. ‘But it can never give you quite the same sort of buzz as a job of violence does. You know what I mean? You don’t get that sort of excitement out in the normal world.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, remembering the mad adrenalin rush I’d had when I’d been standing in the stairwell of Heavenly Girls, ripping holes out of Fitz and Big Mick. ‘Maybe you don’t.’
At 6.44 my mobile rang. It was Joe, and he was whispering. ‘He’s here. Looks like he’s alone.’
‘Thanks.’ I rang off, then dialled Holtz’s number. It was answered immediately. ‘Stand facing the “No Tipping” sign, five feet away from it.’
‘How do I know what’s five feet?’ he demanded angrily.
‘Just do it. Now turn ninety degrees to the left and start walking, keeping in a straight line. You’ll see the outlines of a path in front of you. Follow it.’
‘Where’s my son?’
‘I told you, he’s safe and he’s well. Are you on the path?’
‘Yeah, I’m on the path. When am I going to see my boy?’
‘If the money’s all there, you’ll see him first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll be dropped off somewhere in London, reasonably close to a telephone box.’
‘He fucking better be.’
‘Keep walking and stop speaking.’
* * *
From his vantage point in the undergrowth, Joe watched as Stefan Holtz turned away and began walking up the wooded incline in the direction of Max and Tugger. Holtz had a mobile to his ear and a large holdall slung over his shoulder. Within a minute he’d disappeared from view, and the forest was silent once again, except for the steady crackle of rain hitting the trees, and the distant hum of traffic. No-one else had turned up to follow him and the car he’d been driving, the Merc, was empty.
He kept listening for a few moments, then, satisfied that Holtz had come alone, he slipped slowly and carefully out of his hiding place, crossed the track from which the Merc had appeared, and started up the path after Holtz, keeping as far back as possible.
Too late, he heard the noise behind him. The rustle of bushes, the sound of heavy footfalls on muddy ground, and then the terminal, gut-wrenching sensation of the hard metal gun barrel being pushed into the back of his head.
* * *
I saw Holtz emerge from the trees at the bottom of the slope, carrying the holdall. He was about a hundred and fifty yards away. ‘All right, keep walking,’ I told him, and switched off the mobile.
I turned to Tugger. ‘Here he comes.’ Tugger nodded, and we both pulled on balaclavas. I checked the Glock, gave Holtz another thirty seconds to get nearer, then pushed my way out of the bushes. Fifty yards now separated us.
Holtz saw me but didn’t quicken his pace, and we closed in on each other as casually as a couple of early-evening strollers. When we were ten feet apart, we both stopped. Holtz looked pissed off. The rain, which was pouring down now, had flattened his iron-grey hair and it was running freely down his grizzled, lined face and onto his khaki raincoat. I’d never seen a picture of him before (Holtz senior, like all his close cohorts, was very camera shy), but thought that he looked a lot like Karl Malden, the veteran actor from seventies cop show The Streets of San Francisco, even down to the bulbous round nose.
‘You’ve made a big fucking mistake doing this to me,’ he growled, making no effort to hand over the holdall.
‘And you made a big fucking mistake trying to kill me,’ I said, unable to resist letting him know who’d done this to him, even though it effectively meant exiling myself for life. Sometimes you just had to show that you hadn’t been intimidated.
‘I don’t even know who the fuck you are behind that poxy mask, so what makes you think I’ve been trying to have you killed? I’ll tell you something, though, you cunt. If I want someone dead, that’s how they end up. Dead. No fucker ever escapes from me.’
I thought about lifting my balaclava, but that really would have been stupid. But then it struck me that maybe he didn’t know who I was. Maybe I was that insignificant. ‘That holdall looks very heavy,’ I told him. ‘Why don’t I take it off your hands?’
Holtz managed the beginnings of a smile for the first time. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. ‘No, mate, it ain’t as easy as that. Before you get this cash, I want to see my son. So, get on the phone to whichever cunt’s holding him and get him to drive him down here. Now. Then we’ll see if it’s worth
