“I think it’s prudent,” Sands had replied. “What harm can it do?”
The simple fact was, suddenly it had become a matter of high priority to meet with the man called Lincoln. More than ever. Also, he had the distraction of his Japanese guest. To add to the mix, there had been a further development – a third guest. A very special one. One which did not cause Falconer any discomfort or displeasure. Such was his importance, Falconer would charter him a personal jet, the cost an irrelevance.
When he’d received the message, he responded immediately.
The Grey Prince needed his help. The Grey Prince was coming home.
60
The airport was busy. Not as claustrophobic as Gatwick. Everything seemed more spacious, where a person didn’t mind if there were crowds, because the place was so big. Black had no luggage to collect. First, he headed for the toilets, where he discreetly destroyed his passport, before dumping it in a waste bin. If he were searched, and his passport was discovered, he would face a lot of hard questions. Black preferred to avoid the situation altogether. He then headed straight for the exit. Black was mildly shocked at the sudden heat, as he left the confines of the building. He could still turn back. They didn’t know him; he didn’t know them. Turn right back, lose himself somewhere, disappear.
That would never happen.
Close to the exit doors, exactly as arranged by Sands, was a black Range Rover. With darkened windows. A man was standing by it. He was smartly dressed – dark trousers, white shirt, open-necked, He was big. Maybe six-four. And built. A body builder, or wrestler, surmised Black. He was tanned, thick, corded neck, roving dark eyes, head shaved to the bone.
Black stepped up.
“Mr Lincoln?” The man’s face cracked into an easy smile.
Black smiled. “I didn’t anticipate the heat.”
“No one ever does.” He opened a back door. “Please.” He gestured Black inside. Another man was sitting in the seat next to his, as was a man in the front passenger seat. Suddenly, another black Range Rover swept up directly behind.
“Quite a welcome,” said Black.
The man nodded politely. “Please,” he said. “It’s a long journey.”
Black took a deep breath. A step forward, and he was entering a world of potential death. He could probably still turn and run. Most normal people would. But Black’s smile widened.
He got in. The man closed the door behind him. The man got in the driver’s seat. The central locking mechanism clicked. The car moved off; the engine virtually silent. The one behind followed.
“Buckle up,” said the other man in the front seat.
Black did so. For one fucking rollercoaster ride.
61
The Japanese were coming to the ranch that evening. Number 4 had to be ready, and Lampton knew she was. He wouldn’t let Falconer down. The prize was too great. He watched his prize now, on the monitor screen in front of him. She was sleeping. He liked to watch her sleep. Sometimes she would moan, and sometimes she would sob. She missed home. She missed the embrace of her father. But Lampton would sort all that. He had made a drink. Her favourite, he was sure. He decided he should wake her, so she could share his excitement.
He opened her door, softly, carrying a tray with biscuits and a tall glass of creamy hot chocolate. He approached the bed, set the tray down on a side cabinet, and sat beside her. The light was low, from a lamp in a corner. A revolving globe created rabbits gliding across the ceiling. He used his finger to brush hair from her eyes. Such beautiful hair, he thought. He stroked her cheek, the act causing a thrill to ripple through his chest. She woke with a start, eyes wide. She shrank back. Lampton gave one of his best reassuring smiles.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “It’s only Stanley.”
She stared at Lampton. She did not speak. She hadn’t uttered one syllable since her arrival. Lampton didn’t mind. He understood.
“Hot chocolate,” he said. “And biscuits. Don’t tell the others.”
She remained still. Lampton was sure she was holding her breath. Maybe she was as excited as him.
“Tomorrow is a special day. For both of us.” He leaned in closer. Did she move away? His smile faded slightly.
“Tomorrow, I can give you cuddles. Real cuddles. Close ones that will make you feel good. Make us both feel good. Tomorrow you can be Daddy’s girl. And Daddy loves to cuddle.”
She didn’t respond. Lampton was a little disappointed. Surely such a pronouncement would deserve a smile, a glimmer of joy.
“Aren’t you happy?”
Suddenly she shook her head, and hid under the covers.
Lampton straightened, back rigid. Not what he had expected. He had been tolerant thus far.
“Your chocolate is there,” he said, his voice icy. “I made it specially. Drink it before it gets cold. Or else Stanley will be unhappy.” His voice lowered to a gravelly whisper – a nightmarish sound. “You don’t want to upset Stanley.”
He got up and left, without looking back. Too late, he thought. He was already upset. Tomorrow, a little punishment first, then some loving. This also excited Lampton. Punishment was just as stimulating. Especially hard punishment.
He closed the door behind him, hardly able to keep the tremble from his hands.
62
The conversation in the Range Rover was sparse. Black was in no mood for idle chat. Those accompanying him were equally disinclined to talk. The driver had switched the radio on. Country and western music. Black gazed at the passing scenery. So different from Scotland. Land stretching on endlessly under a hot sky; distant mountains; monuments of rock burnt pink and red in the sun; vast tracts of scrub and cactus. Every now and then, they’d pass a small town, sometimes consisting of a huddle of buildings, clinging on to the hard-baked ground. Frequent petrol stations. After over an hour, Black said he needed to stop. The driver nodded. “Sure thing. Ten minutes.”
They
