to keep my promise to Bateman.
I felt good as the cab drove up the hill to where the really stinking money hung out. I didn’t know whether it was the change of scenery, the change of clothes or just that I was seeing a promise through, but I felt I was going to get a good result here.
I’d called Giuseppe as soon as I’d got back to Erinvale. Lex let me sort myself out at his place while he made his way back to the strip to pick up the crates of weapons. He’d made good use of his sat phone on the way to Cape, and already had a buyer in Chad.
I explained where I was to Giuseppe, and what had happened to Silky. He didn’t take it too well, especially the bit about working conditions in Mr Stefan’s mines and the lack of a staff canteen. I was taking a chance, but what was the option? I needed a man on the inside, and they weren’t exactly best mates, were they?
I needn’t have worried. He was well into it; he told me I had some mail waiting and he even had a present for me. Then he carried on waffling about how he was going home to Lazio to live with his widowed sister, and how they planned to grow olives and raise chickens.
I asked the driver to drop me about two minutes from the house. I got back on the mobile as I walked the rest. ‘Nearly there, mate – you got the padlocks off the back gate?’
‘Of course.’
‘See you in a bit.’ I closed down. This should-n’t take long. Security wasn’t a problem. Stefan didn’t have any. He didn’t need it. Low profile, not a party-goer, and never out of the shadows, he was the ultimate grey man. His greatest protection was concealment, and he knew it. The kick for him was making piles of money without anyone having a clue how. But he was going to pay for his arrogance today.
The big wrought-iron gate opened into manicured grounds. Palm trees shaded the path to the staff entrance.
Giuseppe’s eyes darted from side to side. He wasn’t behaving like the pasta papa I knew. Maybe he was caught up in the intrigue and thought he was James Bond.
‘Where is he?’
‘The large sitting room – where else?’
I followed him along the corridor to the kitchen.
‘Mr Nick, please come back down when you’ve finished. Remember, I have mail and a gift for you.’
‘You sure there’s no one else in the house?’
He looked a bit startled, then glanced around him as if I’d asked the most stupid question on the planet. He was right. It was Sunday: the staff had the day off. We’d normally have bumped into at least a couple of cleaners, maids and a few chefs by now.
I dumped my holdall on the table, and pulled out the pair of red-handled pliers I’d bought on my little shopping trip. Seconds later, I was walking up the wide staircase to the long marble corridor with the ten-foot Greek gods and the Louis XIV repro that so many people had been slaughtered to pay for.
3
Stefan was pouring whisky from his decanter into a heavy cut-glass tumbler. His back was turned; he raised his glass and gazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the lake shimmering in the distance. The room smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. Empty glasses lay next to an overflowing ashtray on the coffee-table. Spread all across it were maps of DRC.
I carried on towards him with my left hand extended. The right stayed by my side.
‘What do you want here?’
I brought the pliers up, locked them on to his right earlobe and twisted. His glass of thirty-year-old malt fell to the ground and smashed.
I pulled him towards the sofas. He didn’t fight it, just squealed like a pig. Everyone does.
‘Two things.’ I spun him round to the front of the sofa and pulled him down on to the sumptuous red and gold cushions. Still keeping a firm grip, I moved behind him and pulled so he pressed himself firmly against the backrest. I had his undivided attention. ‘First – where’s
Standish?’
‘I’m here.’
The dividing doors burst open. Standish faced me square on. In his hands, aimed at my head, was a baby Glock 9mm.
I got the message and released the pliers.
Stefan backed away to the windows. ‘I don’t want any mess! I don’t want any of this piece of shit left in this house. Besides . . .’ He grabbed one of the golden ropes that held back the big red velvet curtains and headed towards me. ‘I’m going to kill him myself.’
He got to within a couple of paces, pulled back his arm and hit me hard across the face with a big open hand.
Stars burst in my head as I crashed on to the coffee-table. I crumpled on to the floor and crawled towards the dividing doors to get away from him.
The two of them started shouting. Standish wanted it done here and now. I glanced up. He was breathing hard. His face was full of scratches, lumps and bumps.
My head was clearing. I focused on the baby Glock. What the fuck was I going to do next?
Standish was fuming. ‘I told you to be careful, didn’t I? I told you there could be trouble. Why haven’t you got a weapon? And some security?’
Stefan made a couple of turns in the rope and looked down at me with a smile that suggested he’d done this sort of thing before and enjoyed it.
Fuck this. If I was going to die, I was going down fighting.
I kept focused on the baby Glock, everything else burned out.
I swung a foot to catch Standish in the leg. It was the only thing I could hit.
He took a step to one side, which threw him a little bit off-balance.
I jumped up and grabbed the weapon in both hands, forcing it upwards, trying to twist it out of his hands.
It didn’t happen.
I pushed harder and he fell backwards. I ended up on my knees.
The rope went round my neck from behind and tightened.
I had to keep my hands on the Glock. I clenched my neck muscles, still trying to twist the weapon out of his hands and into his face.
I couldn’t move forward into Standish any more. The rope was pulling me back.
Stefan heaved some more. I kept a grip on the weapon, brought my elbows in, held it as tight as I could, trying to keep the fucking thing pointing upwards.
My head started to swell, my vision to narrow.
I was still gripping the weapon as Standish fell forwards and head-butted me. It landed on my cheek. He did it again, and got me just above the nose. I saw more starbursts.
And then the rope pulled deeper into my neck and I knew it was all over. I got pulled away from the Glock. My hands slipped off it.
I was only vaguely aware of the echo of footsteps on marble and the two bodies that screamed into the room from the corridor.
4
The first one banged something hard on
Standish’s head.
