Falconer responded in his silkiest voice.
“Nothing to concern yourself with, I promise. I felt the merchandise needed a little more training. When we sell goods to our most trusted clients, we have to be sure those goods are premium quality. The one you’ve chosen needs a little more time. To press out the wrinkles. Squeeze out the remnants of rebellion. You will thank me for this, I promise, Mr Kaito. You will thank me.”
“But the package will still be fresh?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. Three weeks, Mr Falconer.”
The screen went blank. Falconer turned to Sands, who had been standing quietly to one side.
“You heard him. Three weeks. He’s coming here.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“It had better be.”
“Regarding the other matter. I’ve made contact with Mr Lincoln. He’s already in the UK. I’ve given him the details of the target.” Sands hesitated.
“What is it?”
“I’ve done some digging. Mr Lincoln wanted to know as much as possible about Adam Black.”
“So? I’d expect nothing less. He’d be a fool otherwise. And Mr Lincoln is no one’s fool.”
“When he got the details, his price doubled.”
Falconer gave Sands a long stare. “Why would he do that?”
“Because it wasn’t incompetence. The people hired by the Grey Prince were good. It’s just that Adam Black was better.”
“Stop talking riddles. What the fuck are you trying to tell me?”
“Adam Black is ex-special services. He’s trained. He’s a killer. Maybe we should be worried.”
19
Black opened the box.
It contained two items. A sealed envelope, wrapped in a transparent polythene bag. And a matchbox. Black slid it open. Inside was a memory stick.
Black removed the envelope from the bag. Handwritten in black biro, on the front, and in clear block capitals, was his name. More specifically, CAPTAIN ADAM BLACK. Little doubt as to who it was meant for, he mused. He opened the envelope, pulled out the letter inside. The contents were similarly handwritten – neat, precise. Black went over to a chair by the window, sat, and read.
Captain Black,
If you’re reading this then you’ve fulfilled the instructions in my will, and I’m dead. You’re probably a hunted man. My deepest apologies. But the truth is, of all the people I’ve met in my life, I believe you are the best equipped to deal with the situation. Which is why I chose you, Captain Black.
An avenging angel.
You’ll not remember me. I served briefly in the 22nd Regiment under your command in Afghanistan, 2001. Helmand Province. I was there for less than a month. An IED caught the Snatch Land Rover I was driving, flipping it right over. You’ll recall how useless these vehicles were. Two of my friends died instantly, and I was trapped, both legs smashed. I survived. Because of you, Captain Black, and what you did that day.
I never returned to active service, and left the army six months later with a disability pension. But I followed your career. You were something of a legend. You probably still are. And I saw, first hand, what you’re capable of.
Which is why I think you’re the only person who can see this to its rightful end.
Six months ago, my daughter was taken. She is five years old. Her name is Natalie. She was stolen from her bed during the night. It was planned. She was targeted. She hasn’t been found. The police believe she was abducted and murdered. They’ve given up on her. I think they’re wrong. I think she’s alive. My wife didn’t. She overdosed. She took her own life because she thought our little girl might be lonely in heaven. As I write this down, my heart is breaking.
I haven’t given up. I never will. But time’s running out. I’m being watched. I’m being followed. This is not paranoia. Hence this letter. Hence the will.
I’ve researched paedophiles, paedophile groups. Their patterns of behaviour, their characteristics, their modus operandi. I’ve trawled the dark web. I’ve borne witness to the most depraved things. Things that make the skin crawl, and the stomach heave. But I think I’m onto something massive. A ring of individuals deeply involved in child abuse. They’re secretive, they’re clever. And they’re very powerful.
I stumbled across a video of one of their “parties”. I think this video can help me find Natalie. I know there’s a connection.
But I’ve been careless. I’ve been asking too many questions, and been too open about it. I am under no illusion that my life is in danger. The fact you’re reading this bears out my prediction.
These people need to be destroyed. Like vermin. I can’t do it. I believe you can.
Following your career, having seen what you can do, I know something about you, that perhaps you don’t see yourself. You’re more than a soldier. Much more.
You are a man of war, Captain.
A warrior.
I need a warrior now. These children need a warrior. Kill these fuckers. Find my daughter.
Godspeed, Captain Black,
Gilbert Bartholomew
Black read the letter twice, then let it rest on his lap. There was a photo of a little girl stapled at the bottom. Tousled yellowy blonde hair, blue eyes, looking at the camera from under a Christmas tree, face alive with joy. He gazed out the window. The view was of a small back court with industrial-sized rubbish carts, and beyond, the brick gable end of a house. Black cast his gaze inward. To a desert scene fifteen years ago. In the Afghan badlands, where life was cheaper than a bullet. Another world, another time. Black remembered, memories caught in the smoke of the bomb, the hazy swirl of the desert sand, the smell of diesel…
The Snatch Land Rover turned a half somersault, only thirty yards from Black, who was driving the vehicle next in line. The explosion was short and powerful. Black felt the ground shake. Like a tremor. Then, a hail of bullets from a cluster of stones imbedded in the sand, fifty yards from the road. Perfect camouflage. Their target was the fallen Land Rover. Black saw the glint of
