“Good news and bad news.”
“Jesus H fucking Christ. Can’t you just tell me, and stop fucking about.”
“The good news – Adam Black is dead. Lincoln has just sent me the confirmation.”
“Hallelujah,” grunted Falconer, as he suddenly increased his speed. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. That’s what he gets for fucking with Boyd Falconer. Make sure Mr Lincoln gets the rest of his money.”
Sands cleared his throat.
“That’s half the story.”
Falconer didn’t say anything, just kept pedalling.
“Before Black died, he talked. He said he knew about us. Apparently other people might also. Lincoln’s worried. He wants to meet.”
Falconer increased the speed for ten seconds, then slowed, then stopped. He was breathing heavily. Always, when he’d finished a session, his breath was tinged with a whisper of a wheeze. The curse of asthma.
Falconer dismounted from the saddle, dabbing his face with the towel. He got an energy drink from a glass doored chiller. He turned to Sands.
“What the fuck does this mean?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he wants to give details via email.”
“You’re a fucking genius, Sands.”
He left the gym. The one thing about Falconer was that he never showered straight after a training session. He liked the smell of his own sweat. Liked to wallow in it. It made Sands feel like puking. A downside of the job, but one he tolerated. Barely.
Sands followed him into the spacious living room. Falconer sat on the leather suite, towel wrapped round his neck. The sun was bright, as it always was. The air con was on. Had to be. It was early morning, but it would be scorching outside in the desert heat.
“Am I hosting some fucking criminal’s convention?” said Falconer. This, of course, was a rhetorical question. Sands took a deep breath, letting this play out.
“We have the fucking Japanese coming on Tuesday,” he continued. “The biggest fucking paedophile in the eastern hemisphere. Now a fucking assassin wants to come and visit. Am I running a hotel for the freaks of this world?”
Still rhetorical.
Sands waited.
“This is not right,” muttered Falconer. “I’ve been at this game for fifteen years. Now this.” He snapped his head towards Sands. “We survive because we’re secret. Otherwise we’re fucked.”
Sands decided to venture a comment. “Therein lies the problem.” He didn’t want to say this, because the mere thought of it terrified him. Life imprisonment in a state penitentiary. “Maybe it’s no longer a secret. Maybe people know about your operation.”
“You know, if I wanted to employ a fucking baboon to state the obvious, then I’d employ a fucking baboon.”
Falconer suddenly got up, and paced up and down the room, sweat dripping on his expensive rugs. “The merchandise gets shipped out on Wednesday?”
Sands nodded. By merchandise, Falconer was of course referring to the kids sold at last night’s auction. Each to their specific purchaser.
“I have to think about this,” said Falconer. “How the fuck would Black know about us? It is not fucking possible.”
“Someone talked?”
“No one talked. No one knows anything to talk about. Black was bluffing. Probably to buy more time.” There was uncertainty in his voice.
“Maybe. Can we take the chance?” Falconer stared at the glass wall, at the expanse of desert stretching forever. “No one knows about us.”
“The Japanese knows which airport he’s going to get picked up at.”
“So? That’s all he knows. We’re a 200-mile drive from there. And anyway, how the hell would Adam Black know about our Japanese billionaire?”
“What about the Grey Prince,” said Sands. “He knows everything.”
“It can’t be him,” replied Sands, his voice suddenly soft. “That’s not possible.”
“We can’t take the risk. We should get Lincoln here, find out what Black told him. As a precaution.”
“It can’t be him,” repeated Falconer. “Just can’t be.”
50
Black kept the Mini in the hotel car park. He couldn’t risk driving it. If it were recognised, then game over. Instead, he hired a car. The choice was important. Black had to gauge this. It had to look good, but not stand out. Expensive, but not ostentatious. Black wanted to be invisible. He chose a BMW 5 series. Dark blue, two-litre engine. Common enough not to attract attention. Suitably expensive enough to blend in with the cars driven by the people he might meet that evening.
It was Monday morning, early. Black had breakfast in the hotel. He wasn’t hungry, particularly. His stomach fluttered with nerves. His hunch might not pay off. On the other hand, it might. And if he were caught, then his fate was unimaginable. He was dealing with powerful people. Men of considerable influence. They could make him disappear, as if he’d never existed. Erase him from the planet. Black had been trained not to get caught. By the very best in the world. Though he doubted even his trainers in the Special Air Service could have anticipated the scenario he might confront. Black had faced death before. On the battlefield, on the streets. But this was altogether different. This was another world. Surreal, almost. And deadly.
He took a swim in the hotel pool after breakfast. Then a spell in the small gymnasium, running 5k on the treadmill. He could still do it under twenty minutes. Then some weights. After that, a sauna, a shower, then back to his room, where he changed into clothes he’d bought the day before. White shirt, dark suit, fairly loose fitting. His other acquisition was a little more exotic – a nylon shoulder holster, purchased from an army surplus store at the Barras market in Gallowgate, in the opposite end of the city. Robust enough to carry the Glock, and even one of the Desert Eagles. Worn close to the body. At first glance, not too obtrusive. Black would equip himself later.
He went down to the hotel lounge, and sat at the bar. It was not large, the drinks extortionate. Black asked for a soda water and lime, and sipped
