Falconer had picked up a newspaper from a low mosaic-topped coffee table constructed cleverly in brass, steel and bronze, and was skimming through the sports pages.
“What.”
“The doctor was called this morning.”
“So?”
“It looks like No. 4 might have measles.”
Falconer looked up from the paper, stared into some indeterminate space before him.
“Are you kidding me?”
He tossed the newspaper away, picked up the remote, pressed five digits. The image of the racecourse vanished, to be replaced by a chart on the television screen. There were names, locations, figures.
“No. 4 is due out next week. We have $16 million riding on that one.” He turned back to his assistant. “How bad is it?”
“She has a rash.”
“A rash?”
“It’s over most of her body.”
“Shit. We’ve got clients who’ve paid their money and are expecting quality goods. Good clients. Japan. People we can’t let down. Is it infectious?”
“By the nature of the disease, yes. But we’re okay. The others haven’t been infected, and No. 4 has been quarantined. Lampton’s on it.”
“He’d better be. Monitor the situation. I’ll speak to the clients. This’ll need the personal touch. I’ll tell them there’ll be a slight delay. We’ll chuck in another one for free.”
He studied the screen.
“No. 9. Too old. It’s not worth much. $1,000,000. Maybe less. We can write that one off.”
Sands tapped the keyboard of his computer, inputting fresh data.
“About the other situation,” continued Falconer. “The inconsequential. This has to be dealt with. Get it done. The Grey Prince has asked for help, so we do what we do, and give him the assistance he needs. Speak to Mr Lincoln.” Falconer chuckled. “He’ll break his fucking balls.”
“It’ll cost. Mr Lincoln is not cheap.”
“Do I look as if I give a fucking shit.” His mood shifted abruptly. Sands had learned this of his employer. Unpredictability. Violent mood swings. “We can’t have some fucking idiot fishing about our business. If our clients hear even a whisper, then it spreads like an infection. Like the fucking measles. Before we know it, this inconsequential becomes a nightmare. So deal with it. What’s his name?”
Sands checked his computer, running through a variety of secure emails he’d received from Glasgow.
“His name is Adam Black.”
“Then Adam fucking inconsequential Black needs to be destroyed. Him, and everything about him. Man that is born of woman is of few days. Especially when he fucks with me. Do it.”
Falconer switched the television back to the sports channel. Sands was dismissed. He nodded and left the room. He had an important message to send. To a man regarded as the best in his field.
Mr Lincoln.
17
Black returned in time to catch the hourly bus.
“Where’s the other two?” asked the driver.
Black shrugged. “Probably enjoying the view.”
The journey back went without incident. Black had searched both his assailants to discover nothing much. Him – a wallet containing £300, a set of car keys, a mobile phone, loose change. Her – nothing except a mobile phone. Both phones required passwords. Black had tossed them and the keys. If they had a car, and it was parked locally, then eventually its abandonment would spark interest. Black doubted if anyone, including the police, would find much. Probably rented, under assumed names. Though it would initiate a search of the area. Black was unperturbed. He would be long gone. He kept the money. Waste not, want not. No use on a corpse.
Each rucksack contained ammunition and weapons. High-powered hand cannons – Desert Eagles .50 calibre. As powerful as a semi-automatic gets. Expensive equipment. Not for the faint-hearted. Black was grateful the man who’d fired into his female friend had used a KelTec model. Probably because of its low recoil and light weight. Easily carried in the pocket of a rain jacket. If he’d used the Desert Eagle, it would have cut through the woman’s body like warm butter, and sliced Black in half. Unlucky for them. Lucky for Black. Black loaded the weapons into his rucksack.
Whoever wanted him dead wanted it bad.
When he arrived back at Durness, he went straight to his car, changed, and drove off. He reckoned the couple would have been instructed to check in. When they didn’t, possibly at a pre-arranged time, somewhere alarm bells would start to ring. His flat would be watched, for sure. And on the assumption they had informed their masters that he had travelled north, to Cape Wrath, others might follow. And maybe the road down to Glasgow was being watched, if they were well organised. Which they were. Plan for the worst. As such, Black could not go back. Not yet.
He headed in the opposite direction. The coastal route around the very north of Scotland. Part of the so-called North Coast 500. Five hundred miles of Highland wilderness along narrow, meandering roads. Black headed for the town of Thurso. His wife had been born and brought up there, in a rambling old country house on the outskirts, by a small stream near a wood full of Scots pine and slender silver birch. Black remembered it well, from when they visited. A million years ago. A different time. The house now belonged to someone else, to strangers, sold when his wife’s mother had died, her frail heart broken at the loss of her only child and grandchild. Black thought about them every day. The sadness did not lessen. Nor the rage. Nor the guilt.
He needed somewhere to stay, somewhere his presence would not attract attention. Thurso was big enough for him to disappear for a day, perhaps two. The drive was uneventful. Black hardly noticed the scenery, the clear white sands of the shoreline and endless choppy expanse of the North Atlantic to his left, sweeping green hills of grass and gorse to his right. The rain fell harder again. Clouds gathered. He passed places no bigger than hamlets with quaint and eccentric names. Places he knew little about – Tongue; Bettyhill; Melvich; Scrabster. He reached Thurso. The rain now was a downpour. It had been about two years since he had last visited. The
