“I didn’t realise I was so popular,” said Black.
“There’s a sign for toilets at the side, Mr Lincoln,” said the driver. He was wearing mirror sunglasses. Black saw his own distorted reflection. “My colleague Mr Pierrotti will see you over.”
“See me over?”
The driver merely returned the question with a smile. Black headed over to an extension clamped on to the side of the main building, more of a lean-to, built of planks of black wood, with a flat tin roof. He was followed by the individual referred to as Mr Pierrotti, plus another man. Both large, capable.
Before he reached the toilet entrance, Black suddenly cut direction, heading straight to the main entrance of the petrol station, which also served as a general convenience store.
“I need a cold drink,” said Black. He went in, before anyone could object, followed closely by his two chaperones. Black had swapped some British currency for dollars at Gatwick. He picked up a cold bottle of Coke from a cooler, placed it on the counter. An elderly man was serving, skin like brown parchment, wispy grey hair. The two men stood close behind him. Black noted another now stood at the entrance.
“That’ll be a dollar, please.” The attendant spoke in a heavy drawl.
Black fished out some cash. “This is Ajo? Nice town.”
“Used to be busier,” replied the man, conversationally. “But the mine dried up, and people left. But we still get tourists, like you gentlemen.”
“Tourists?”
“Sure. This is the edge of the Sonoran Desert. People want to see the Old West, like it used to be. Hundreds of miles of rugged country.” He chuckled. “Awesome country for young bucks like you and your friends.”
“Thank you.”
Black left the petrol station. The driver opened the door for him again. He rested a hand on his shoulder.
“We don’t want you talking to anyone, Mr Lincoln. If you need some friendly chat, then we’re good company. No need to involve strangers.”
“Of course not. Are we close?”
“Not long.”
Black got in, grateful for the car’s air con. The Sonoran Desert. A good place to have a hideout. Virtually undetectable. Almost impossible to find. At least Black had some idea where they were going.
The cars moved off, leaving Ajo, and back on to the main road. The scenery changed – desert on either side, the colour of red brick; in the middle distance, rocky outcrops. In the far distance, a mountain range.
An hour later, the car veered off the main route, and travelled along a single lane road not much better than a dry dirt track, kicking up plumes of dust.
Another hour passed. The scenery didn’t change any. Black squinted, looking ahead through the front windscreen – there, shimmering under the sun, was a group of buildings, maybe a mile away. They reached open gates, slowed down, drove through, entering a wide square courtyard, three sides of the square enclosed by glass buildings, two levels high. In the centre was a large fountain, water sprouting eight ways from the open palm of a mermaid, carved from blue marble. The entrance comprised a series of glass doors set three steps up, onto front decking the same blue marble. Simple, elegant, expensive. A paradise in the desert.
They had arrived.
63
Sands waited for them at the main entrance, at the top of the three marble stairs. Falconer had chosen not to greet Mr Lincoln at the present time. Later, he’d said. Let him settle in first. Sands was excited. He’d given instructions to this man over the years, paying him fortunes to arrange executions. A real-life professional assassin. Now they were to meet, face to face. But it was bittersweet. It was Lincoln who had wanted to meet. If Lincoln was worried, then they should all be worried.
He waited, as the two Range Rovers pulled up. They parked directly opposite the front doors. Sands watched as the driver of the first car got out, and opened one of the rear doors. The man he knew as Lincoln emerged. He stood for a second, taking in the surroundings. Two other men got out of the car, waiting. The driver beckoned Lincoln up the stairs, towards Sands. Lincoln approached. He was a big man. Six-two. Maybe taller. He wore a simple dark jumper, close fitting, accentuating the hard muscle beneath. Blue jeans, running shoes. Thick dark hair cropped short, harsh cheekbones, flat cheeks. Dark clever eyes. He moved with an easy, almost languid gait.
He was accompanied by the driver, two others following.
“Mr Lincoln, I’m Norman Sands. We’ve had significant dealings. It’s good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Can I tempt you to a refreshment?” Sands nodded to a man standing to one side, holding a silver tray with a single fluted glass of champagne. “It’s Moet. Mr Falconer’s particular favourite.”
“Maybe later. Mr Falconer?”
“He’s the boss.” Sands gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m merely the message bearer.”
“I understand.”
“You know, I’ve often wondered where you’re from. We’ve never spoken. I mean, real speech. I detect an accent. Irish?”
“Scottish. People sometimes get confused.”
“Of course. I don’t know much about Scotland. It’s cold, I hear. All year round. And the Scottish mountains of course.”
“Of course. You have your desert. We have our mountains. Both lethal, for the unprepared.”
“Quite so, Mr Lincoln. Please, let me show you to your room. You’ll maybe want to relax a little. It’s 3pm now. Mr Falconer would like you to join him for dinner at six. If that’s all right?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Please, follow me.”
Sands led the way. Rarely did they have guests. In fact, in all his time here, it had never happened. Now suddenly, he had to cater for Lincoln and also the Japanese, who were expected
