Falconer kept records of all his clients. Detailed information. From billionaires to United States senators; from government officials to CEOs of multinationals; from dictators to movie stars. Falconer knew everything about everybody. Details were documented, recorded, archived. To be accessed at the press of a button. As such, he was unassailable. Untouchable. In over fifteen years, he’d stayed under the radar of the FBI and the state police. People in high places had too much to lose. The way Falconer looked at it, if the intake of merchandise ever dried up, then the next obvious step was blackmail. But the appetite for flesh never diminished. It was a business which would last forever.
“Did you speak to Lampton?”
“Of course.”
“He’d better get them up to shape. A single smile gets me an extra million dollars.”
“It would recoup the money spent on your samurai warrior,” replied Sands, drily.
Falconer chuckled. “You don’t like spending money, do you?”
Sands shrugged. “Depends on what it’s spent on. What do I know after all? I’m only your accountant. I’m sure our Japanese clients would enjoy your hospitality, samurai or no samurai.”
“The problem with you, Sands, is that you know how to count it, but you haven’t got the first fucking clue how to make it. Like every fucking accountant and lawyer I’ve met. A fucking leech. Look at the sword. It’s called a katana. Said to be the finest cutting weapon in military history. Forged from Japanese steel. Once it’s forged, it’s polished. With this particular sword, the polisher spent four weeks, using special stones. To give it that mirror finish. This one has an inscription on the side of the blade. In fucking gold inlay. By a guy called Masamune. To the Japanese this guy is like God Almighty. The greatest swordsmith ever. And he’s been dead the past thousand years. The blade is so fucking sharp, you don’t feel any pain. You don’t notice when your arm’s been taken off. It’s said that those condemned to die asked specifically for the katana. Do you know why, Sands?”
“No idea.”
“Because when they got their heads sliced off, they didn’t know they’d died. The cut was so clean. When our Japanese friend sees all this, I kid you not, Sands, he will cum in his fucking pants. And that’s why the million dollars spent on this stuff will make me a hundred million dollars over time.”
“That, and a constant supply of children.”
“Get the fuck out of here, Sands. Get back to your profit and loss. And tell Lampton that if he fucks up tomorrow night, then I’ll shove the fucking katana up his anal passage.”
Sands nodded. Lampton might enjoy such an experience, he thought.
40
War is not about who is right, it is about who is left.
Anonymous
Black checked the ferry times. The man called Lincoln had been accurate with his times. A ferry left Largs harbour at eight. Black put on the clothes worn from the evening before – a dinner suit, and a bloodstained evening shirt. He skipped the bow tie. A tad conspicuous. He had no change of clothing, but how he looked was the farthest thing from his mind.
He placed the Walther in his inside pocket. The two Desert Eagles he put in his carrier bag which he slung over his shoulder.
He left his room, got to his car. He doubted his enemies would have tracked him here. Still, he was watchful. All quiet. The journey was about an hour and twenty minutes. Black drove, using satnav. He did not take in the scenery. His mind dwelt on other things – like whether Tricia, his friend and secretary, was lying dead in a ditch.
He arrived at 7.40am. He hadn’t been to Largs for five years. The last time he had visited was to do precisely the same thing he was about to do now. Which was board the ferry to Millport. Only then, circumstances were different. Then, he was with his wife and daughter. Then, life had been simpler. Now, everything was complicated. Everything Black touched, ended up crushed and dead.
Millport was in fact the name of the town. More like a village. The island itself was called Great Cumbrae. Black remembered little about it. The ferry would take about ten minutes, crossing the Firth of Clyde on calm waters. The thirteen-mile road round the island was predominantly flat, hugging the coast. Hence why it was nicknamed the bicycle island. The one vivid memory Black had was hiring bicycles, his daughter safely ensconced in a trailer attached behind him. Buying lunch in a little fish and chip shop. Smiles, laughter. Beyond that, nothing much. A nice place in the summer. Barren and freezing cold in the winter. A million years ago. Another time. Another world.
The ferry arrived. Black bought a ticket, drove on. There was virtually no queue. Four other cars. A handful of keen sightseers. The morning was dull, the waters choppy. Black got out of his car and climbed steps to an upper deck, watching the island draw closer. A bus was waiting to take those foot passengers. No other vehicles, as far as he could see. The approaching dock was stuck in the middle of nowhere – a car park, and fields behind low stone walls. Little else.
Everything seemed innocent enough. The ferry rumbled to a standstill; the steel door lowered onto a concrete ramp. Black drove off, easing out the belly of the boat. There was only one road. He could have turned either left or right. Whichever, he would arrive at his destination. He checked the time. Eight fifteen. He turned right, for no particular reason other than the fact that the other vehicles turned left. He took the journey slow. He paid scant regard to the passing scenery. To his right, the shifting muddy colour of the estuary. To his left, stretches of wild grass, gorse, rocks,
