He’d done a stint as an armourer in the Legion, learning the skills in one of the toughest, most demanding businesses going. If a military unit can’t get weapons as and when it wants them, serviced and fully reliable for battlefield conditions, an armourer doesn’t last long. And Fabien had done the job for five years.
I’d used him a couple of times since then, when he’d retired to give civilian life another go, running an engineering workshop on a remote farm which served as a front for a below-the-counter gunsmith’s business. I never asked who he supplied and never would. He didn’t have much respect for authority, so I guess he got his trade wherever he could. All I knew was, he was reliable, secure and would never give away client names no matter who asked.
By the time I rolled up to the farm where he lived it was early evening and the light was taking on a soft hue. I climbed out of the van with my backpack and Fabien met me at the door with a wide grin.
‘Marc,’ he said, giving my hand a fierce tug before grabbing me round the shoulders, then threw a squinty look at my wheels. ‘Have you gone all native on me? I expected something a bit more classy.’
‘I’m keeping a low profile,’ I explained. ‘The van does that in spades.’
He led me inside and produced two beers, and we sat down. ‘Like that, hein?’ We chinked bottles. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No. Well, a little bit – but nothing official, I promise. I need some protection.’ I opened the backpacks and showed him the Beretta and the Sig. ‘These are fine for close work, but I need something longer.’
He took both guns from me, checking the actions and peering closely at the mechanisms for dirt and damage. ‘They’re good. Serviceable, anyway.’ He returned the guns and finished his beer in a couple of swallows. ‘What do you want, an automatic or something with spread?’
He meant did I need something for general distance work or a shotgun for close-up protection, the kind useful for clearing buildings. Since I didn’t expect to be doing any of the latter, I opted for an assault rifle, which gave me distance and a decent rate of fire.
‘I’ve got a couple of FAMAS F1 in stock. We can test-fire them and you can choose which one. They’re both good, standard French military models. I can fit an optical sight if you like, no extra charge. Where are you staying?’
I told him I’d planned on using the van but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Stay here. I have plenty of room and nobody will bother you.’ He gave me a look and said, ‘Where are you thinking of using this?’
‘Somewhere away from housing, like a wooded area where I can watch my perimeter and have a fast exit route.’
‘How many chasing you?’
‘So far there have been teams of two or three.’
‘So far?’ He looked surprised. ‘Is this an on-going thing?’ He waved his forefinger in a rolling motion.
‘You could say that. But I’m hoping to put a stop to it.’
‘What the hell have you got yourself into? That’s heavy duty.’
I didn’t want to burden him with details so I gave him the basics; that my position was now pretty much blown and I was on my own. He listened without interrupting, and I guessed it was a story he’d heard before. We both knew guys who’d left the forces and moved into the private sector or become contracted to work with government departments. Guys like me. It didn’t always end well because that was the nature of the work; it might be good for a while but not many contractors retired rich.
‘You really think you can get them to leave you alone?’ he asked, when I finished.
‘I have to.’ At least I had to give myself time to disappear, but I didn’t tell him that. Whatever happened from here on in had to be done with as few outsiders knowing about it as possible. I trusted Fabien more than most, but he could also come under intense pressure if the wrong people became aware that we’d spoken.
‘You know you can stay here tonight. I’ll get the stuff ready for you for an early start.’
I thanked him and took out my cellphone. The second call I had to make was overdue.
THIRTY-NINE
Brian Callahan was just completing a comms meeting when his cellphone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. There was no caller ID but he knew it had to be Portman. His sense of relief was tinged with irritation at not hearing from him sooner.
‘Marc, are you all right?’ he said, closing his office door behind him and waving away one of the admin staff carrying a batch of files. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, you do not have nine lives. What are you doing?’
Portman said, ‘I’m trying to ignore the fact that you’ve been told to dump me as an inconvenience. How’s that working for you, by the way?’
Callahan winced at the cool tone of Portman’s voice. ‘It’s not, as you probably know. I wish I could say and do more, I really do.’
‘I believe you. You work for some nice people up there.’
‘Tell me about it. How’s Lindsay holding up – is she OK?’
‘Better than the people above you deserve. She’s tough, but I sent her away to get her clear of whatever’s going to happen.’
‘Yeah – sorry. I should have explained. I didn’t want her to become collateral damage because of my position.’
‘Which is what?’
‘A little restricted, truth be known. But I’ll survive. It was the best way of doing it and helping you out that I could think of.’ Even as he said it, it sounded lame, but he figured Portman would understand. ‘I knew you might need some back-up cover and she’d be able to move without anyone watching her. I also knew you’d look after her. There’s nobody else
