Black booked into the Royal Oak, a hotel close to the centre and a hundred yards from St Peter’s Church, a ruin over a thousand years old. He made sure to park his car a distance from the hotel, in a secluded back street, where it wasn’t noticeable. But if they were dedicated enough, they would find it eventually. Black would ensure his time in Thurso was brief.
The first thing he did was to get something to eat. The hotel dining room wasn’t yet open. He ate haddock and chips in a nearby fish restaurant, and had a cup of tea. He sat at a table well back from the front window. He was the only customer. He took time to reflect.
He had disposed of a man and a woman less than three hours earlier. They had been armed with pistols and had tried to murder him on the Scottish moorlands. Black had returned the compliment, erasing their existence. His training had kicked in. Second nature. He had to accept the fact that he was adept at killing people. A thought flitted through his mind. One he tried to shut out, but which obstinately refused to leave – that when he killed, it was more than instinct. Something else. Something dreadful. Enjoyment? The word brought a chill.
Which was why maybe he had volunteered and was gladly accepted in such a fighting force as the SAS, who embraced young, maladjusted men with a penchant for violence. Men who thrived on conflict. Men who liked to kill. He lifted the cup of tea. His hand trembled, the slightest tremor.
Killing still wasn’t easy. No matter how used one was to the theatre of war, there was always aftershock. Reaction. Black took a deep breath, tried to rein in his emotions, focus on the present, just as he had been trained. But after an act of extreme violence, it could still prove difficult. He sat, calmed himself. The waitress smiled at him. Black smiled back. He finished off his tea, paid the bill, and went back to the hotel and straight to his room.
He opened his rucksack and removed the box he had unearthed beneath Bastard Rock. Gilbert Bartholomew’s legacy. Black drew the curtains, and placed the box on the bed.
He clicked open the latch, and lifted the lid.
18
Boyd Falconer gave his explanations to Koboyashi Kaito via video link.
Falconer was sitting in the living room of his ranch. He had dressed for the meeting – he knew exactly what his Japanese clients liked – order, neatness, correct behaviour. Structure. For the occasion, he wore a light powder-blue cotton suit, white shirt, navy tie, black brogues. Image was everything. It was three in the afternoon, Arizona time. Hot. Way too hot for what he was wearing. Cotton was breathable and smart. He’d increased the air con.
Kaito listened, his expression inscrutable. If he felt anything, he chose not to reflect it in any facial mannerisms. He remained rigidly still. He was currently on a short holiday in a town called Karuizawa, an hour from Tokyo, where he kept a forest lodge. Kaito had homes dotted all over the world, as would befit a shipping billionaire.
Falconer continued, unflustered by Kaito’s lack of reaction. Falconer had dealt with difficult situations before. This was just one more, a hazard of the profession he was in. He could afford to be confident. He had products which few others could provide.
He explained that due to unforeseen circumstances, there would be a delay of maybe two, possibly three weeks, before the product could be transferred.
“But an agreement was reached,” replied Kaito in perfect English, his tone the embodiment of reason. “You have my money. A date was set.”
“Quite right, Mr Kaito. The funds were transferred exactly as requested. You kept your side of the bargain with the integrity and honour I would expect from a man such as yourself. It is I who has failed in his obligations. I hope and pray that this doesn’t sour our future relationship.”
Kaito gave the slightest of nods. Almost undetectable. It didn’t escape Falconers attention.
“And as a mark of respect, I would like to offer you a gift. The photograph and details are being sent to you now.”
Kaito didn’t move. Thirty seconds later he was handed a document. He examined its contents. He turned his attention back to Falconer. “A gift?”
“Yes, indeed. To be delivered simultaneously with the main acquisition.”
“I accept this gracious gift,” said Kaito. “But no delivery.”
Falconer frowned. “I’m not quite sure I understand, Mr Kaito.”
Kaito regarded Falconer for several seconds.
“I will come to you. As a guest. You said two or three weeks? I shall visit in three weeks. That way there are no further delays. It will… what is the expression? Help to concentrate the mind? Then I can pick it… sorry, them… directly. No hiccups.”
Falconer hadn’t expected this. He’d never had a client stay at the ranch. Still, $15 million was a lot of money. And Kaito was a man he’d made a lot of money from over the years. But there was protocol.
Falconer sighed, raising both hands in placation. “That isn’t our standard policy, Mr Kaito. The transfer takes place through intermediaries, as you know. This ensures our preservation. Our protection. The whole basis of these transfers should be arm’s length. That way, we can continue to prosper.”
“Sometimes, exceptions must be made.” Suddenly Kaito’s face broke into a wide smile, flashing white teeth. “To ensure continued prosperity. For both of us, Mr Falconer. I don’t want to be disappointed.”
Falconer returned the smile, though strained. “Very well, Mr Kaito. If this is what you want.”
“Thank you. A little flexibility makes all the difference, don’t you agree? But Mr Falconer, you haven’t explained the reason for the delay.
