Falconer wanted smiles and skipping, but he was a fucking fool. It never happened, never would. What he did not want was tears. Lampton could manage that. He had warned them. His threat was clear and uncompromising – if they cried, he would carry them to his back room, chop them up, fry them in a hot pan, and eat them. Or maybe eat them while they kicked and struggled. Eat them alive.
His eyes strayed to monitor 9. His special one. The girl he was promised. She was sitting on a large beanbag, watching a cartoon on television. He allowed his mind to wander. The things he would do.
The games they would play.
Falconer and Sands were not watching the children. Their attention was fixed on other related matters, of a financial nature. In particular, the bidding. Their monitors were of an entirely different sort. Numbers, details, bank accounts, names. The auction had been live for a half hour. People from every corner of the globe were bidding. A new contingent from Afghanistan, with money to burn. America, Australia, Europe. Middle East, Russia. Falconer didn’t care where the funds came from, provided they came to him. Ultimately, the money was transferred to an account he had in Grand Cayman. Where the bank charges were high, but no one asked questions, and secrecy was paramount.
Four items were being sold. No. 6 was causing a frenzy, as Falconer had expected. Because of her age. The younger the better.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, as No. 6 reached $16,000,000. From a group based in Russia. A quartet of oligarchs. Falconer watched, mesmerised. His eyes shone, reflecting the glare of the screen. The figure changed before his eyes. In a second, it increased by a million dollars.
Falconer relaxed back on his leather couch, enjoying the moment. The bidding would stop in another half hour. The funds then transferred. The items would be double checked by the doctor, at a cost of $300,000, packed up, transported to their destination in two days’ time. Never to be seen again. Falconer didn’t dwell on such matters. It was just bad luck. For them. But if Falconer’s bank balance increased, then he really didn’t give a fuck. And his bank balance was increasing exponentially. Everything was rosy in Falconer’s garden.
The auction was over. It was midnight. Altogether, allowing for expenses, there was net profit just over $35,000,000. A good evening. Sands was satisfied. Falconer was euphoric. They were in the conservatory at the rear of the building – a kidney-shaped glass construct, with indoor vines and colourful plants, spotted with thousands of tiny twinkling fairy lights. In the centre was a dining table with chairs round it. Falconer was sitting. Next to him was Sands, with a laptop, explaining the figures. Not that he needed to. Falconer knew to the dime how much profit he’d made. On the table was an opened bottle of chilled Dom Perignon, resting on a silver bucket of ice, with two champagne flutes.
A woman entered the room. Falconer had acquired her services from Yuma, the nearest city. Escort. Hired for the night. Paid by the hour. Falconer only fucked prostitutes. She’d leave early in the morning, chauffeur driven back to whichever shithole she came from. Sands could never understand Falconer’s choice. Older, plain. Unremarkable. Falconer did not go for the glamorous. The opposite. His explanation? The uglier they are, the more grateful they are, and they run that extra fucking mile.
Bullshit, of course. They ran that extra mile for that extra buck. But Sands kept his thoughts to himself. He was in no position to judge. He left them both, retreating to the annex of the ranch which formed his own accommodation. A suite of three rooms – bedroom, study, bathroom. Unlike Falconer, he lived a simpler life. His needs were less material. The rooms were functional. The sizable salary he earned, he saved. The accommodation and food were all part of the package. He would retire a wealthy man. Maybe move to Canada. Breathe the clean, fresh air, and look at the mountains. Or maybe Australia, and sit on the beach, and gaze at the sea. Sands lived for his work. He would probably work until he dropped. Retirement was a lie he told himself.
He went to bed, and fell asleep almost instantly.
He was woken by the soft ping of his mobile phone. Email. He glanced at the clock. Seven am. It felt he’d slept for two seconds. He opened the email. It was one he was waiting for. From Lincoln.
Lincoln – Black is terminated.
Sands took a deep, exhilarating breath. A good start to the day, indeed. A problem solved. Before he had the chance to respond, he received a further email.
Lincoln – You have an issue.
Sands – What.
Lincoln – Black knew about Arizona.
Sands stared at the computer screen for several seconds.
Sands – And?
Lincoln – He talked. Spoke to people. He knew everything. It could be trouble for both of us. I want to meet.
Sands – I’ll get back to you.
Sands closed the laptop.
Suddenly the morning had lost its sparkle.
48
It’s the biggest killer you will ever face, gentlemen. Bigger than any army. Bigger than any disease or famine.
Its name?
Complacency.
Observation raised by Staff Sergeant to new recruits of the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service.
Saturday mid-afternoon. Black got the ferry back to Largs. As he waited in the boat, watching the approaching dock, he wondered what was happening back at Tricia’s house. Perhaps Lincoln had already drifted on to his death. Perhaps Tricia had helped
