Payback (24 page)

Taking
out the radio from his side pocket, he called up the helicopter pilot.

‘
That’s quick. Ready for me to come and get you?’ The Englishman’s voice sounded so normal, so matter of fact, giving him a momentary hope that maybe he, Bolitho, could be normal again. Images of his parents and Ohio home came to him. Of summer camp, the Army. And then scenes of death and burning. Of pleading round faces; of beautiful Vietnamese sunsets after the horror of a raid...‘Do you receive me?’ the pilot persisted.

‘L
et me tell you something. People should know this. You want to know my platoon’s motto? It’s this. “Marines never die. We just go to hell—and regroup.” You hear that?’ Bolitho laughed, becoming delirious. ‘Have a nice life, Airman.’ There was nothing more he wanted to say, and nobody to say it to anyway. But he had needed to touch someone, one last time. Fortified by it, he gripped the arrow in his chest, closed his eyes, and in a sudden movement yanked it out. The harrowing scream he roared had the forest canopy teeming again with panicked wildlife, but when he finally looked down he saw just a bloody shaft. The head had broken off, and was still lodged deep in his heart.

Banto
drew the serrated hunter’s knife. He had now silently circled around Bolitho, whose scream and death-rattle breathing broadcast both his location—and his desperate state. Banto’s own injuries appeared worse than they were, but with his blood-streaked green body, and his betelnut red-stained teeth he looked like some kind of forest monster. Now behind Bolitho, he began creeping forward, exposed in the clearing, but ready to spring forward for the kill. And Payback.

But
seconds before the attack, Bolitho stood to his full height, and with some sixth sense turned from the tree to stare wild-eyed at Banto, unfazed by his appearance. Both men froze momentarily, before Bolitho suddenly moved with lighting speed. ‘Screw you!’ he snarled.

Aiming
the shotgun at the native’s chest, his fingers closed on the triggers, his left palm cupping the pump action, ready to fire. Knowing he too was about to die, the native also now stood erect. Proud and unafraid. Head up. Ready to perish a warrior, in battle. Seeing this triggered images in Bolitho’s mind’s eye. Images of other men he had literally ripped in half this way—the impact of both barrels at this range was truly terrible. The faces of inexperienced, frightened teenage kids came back to haunt him. Kids that he had vaporised into a red mist, to rain back down on him as gore. But then, overriding these horrors and driving them away, a calm yearning for release washed over him. He knew he was now just seconds from death, its coldness and oblivion already cloaking him. And still Banto faced him proudly and waited. Stood erect. Like a tin soldier. Waiting for death.

All
became clear to Bolitho. There was a stillness. A feeling of peace stopped the agonies. No more... No more...

In
a flowing movement Bolitho put the barrels in his mouth and pulled the triggers.

The
blast decapitated him, spraying the ceiba red with his blood. Banto looked on wide-eyed as the headless body staggered a couple of paces before crumpling to the floor in the tree’s great buttress roots.

Death,
especially violent death, was natural to the warrior. But what Bolitho had done truly frightened him. Suicide was unheard of in his world, and he knew that the hunter’s soul would now never rest, in
dimanples
. It would remain in limbo here, with all the other spirits.

He
was also very angry. The self-killing had taken away Payback. He had not slain him. There had been no Payback. And that was bad. Full Payback, however, remained an absolute necessity. The image from the now badly mildewed photograph of Sir James Barton filled his head. The face of the man who was the big
kepala
to Bolitho.

This
was now the real target for Payback. Barton would have to pay. And that meant retracing his steps. Back to where they had imprisoned him, and where they took his blood. The idea made him afraid, but there was no choice. He knew exactly what he now had to do.

*

‘Why did you stay? You should have gone off, as if you were on that holiday break to the Cays.’ Tom was mildly annoyed at her stubbornness, but pleased for himself that she had remained. ‘This can only complicate things here.’

They
were in the hotel room to pick up her things before returning to the ranch. ‘Look, I did exactly as you asked. And did it pretty damned well, all things considered. So you shouldn’t be surprised if I stay on to find out more. I mean...that
is
why I’m here, remember?’ Lydia retorted, throwing her few things untidily back in her suitcase.

Tom
knew what he was about to say was courting danger but went on anyway, taking a calculated risk. ‘So you’re here strictly for enlightenment, not to burn the place down?’

She
turned, hands aggressively on her hips. ‘Meaning?’

‘
Meaning that I think you were involved in the fire. In fact I more than just think it.’ He frowned and went over to her. ‘Lydie, it’s cards on the table time here. I’ll go first, then you. Right?’ He looked very stern, and she wondered what was coming. ‘Here goes then. This thing we’ve barely just started is, well, really important to me. Maybe all it adds up to is sex, and the usual getting-to-know-you stuff. And if so—that’s fine also. But for me, I think it’s more. We’ve known each other since your student days. I think I’ve got to understand you pretty well by now. You’re someone who’s grown up, but still kept faith with her student ideals. And that’s not easy for most of us.

‘
What I’m trying to say is that I’m proud of you for what you did. I only wish to hell
I
cared enough about
anything
to do something like that. And I’m also trying to tell you that I care for you. You can buy what I’m saying or not. This isn’t a presentation I’ve ever made before. But I just want you to know you can trust me. With anything. I’ll
be
there for you.’

She
was silent for a while as she digested what he had said. He claimed he knew she had bombed the lab. And more than that, he said he actually admired her for it. ‘So what are you asking me here? Whether I’m a terrorist? Whether I trust you? Whether I
love
you?’ She went over to him and held his handsome face in her hands. Examining him with a curious gaze, she replied, ‘Well...Yes. Yes. And—’

He
hugged her hard. ‘That’s terrific,’ he said. ‘But if I ever talk like that again, like some New Age Romantic geek, you have my permission to shoot me.’

‘
Or fire-bomb you?’ she volunteered, smiling.

‘
Whatever.’ Now, at last, he kissed her, but gently, drawing her to the bed.

*

David Elkins ran a spell check over the draft he had just finished typing into his laptop. It threw up biotechnic as a word it did not recognise and he tapped in ‘skip always’. The machine had better get used to it, just as the world needed to get used to the breathtaking impact the new science was destined to have.

It
was his preliminary report summarising his conclusions on the potential of Temple Bio-Laboratories as a high-growth stock. The sector as a whole was retaining its speculative go-go image and rating. No self-respecting institutional investor could be without a portfolio of shares in what remained the fastest-growing section of the market.

Credited
as the first analyst into various new sectors, he had made his clients a lot of money over the years. But as in any fast-moving industry, he knew he had to keep being right and to stay ahead of the market. There was no question of basking in the glow of past glories. Markets, like playing cards, have no memories. And Elkins had now come to believe there was too much froth in the biotech sector and that it was overdue a re-rating. Downwards. More and more knotty issues were being raised about it. Unfortunately for Temple Bio, many of these problems were precisely those lining up against the company. Animal rights activists were one. He had of course been told of the fire-bombing by his office when he had called in, and found Tom’s game attempts at damage limitation unconvincing. It could have happened to any drugs or biotech company, he had claimed. Elkins knew, however, that some types of work attract more attention than others, and that genetic animal experiments and xenotransplantation—one of Temple’s main business streams—was way up the hit list.

Then
there were other ethical questions facing the sector, like ‘bio-piracy’. That challenge to Barton’s cell-line patents by the PNG government was very publicly rumbling on, with no sign of an early settlement. Unluckily for Temple Bio, a new unrelated but parallel furore was keeping the general issue firmly in the public eye. There was the Indian government challenging an American patent on the use of turmeric as a substance with healing properties for cuts. Tumeric was being claimed as one of the country’s ancient herbal remedies; and there were also many other challenges to patents applied for by Western companies for neem tree by-products, for uses such as pesticides and medicines.

No,
he had decided, Temple Bio-Laboratories looked decidedly accident-prone. And the flamboyance of its chairman was, in today’s more austere market, no longer an asset. For a company losing millions year in year out, and still borrowing like a drunken sailor while waiting for some Phase Three boat to come in, the public image of Barton in his stately home, and piloting helicopters to his 300-foot yacht, was doing nothing to impress his dividend-starved shareholders. Especially after a stream of rapid-fire rights issues, milking even more cash from the virtually captive investors. What he had heard there in Belize about the wonder cure had certainly been interesting, and Dr Penny, at least, was impressive. It did seem that using the cell lines of Stone-Age tribes to replicate their natural immunities was technically possible. And the early results they were asserting from Phase One trials already supported Barton’s claim to have somehow got round the usual obstacles. But it was a very long road before anything got to market, and Elkins saw Barton as a man in a hurry. The whole set-up at Temple Bio-Laboratories smacked to him of opportunism, and this short-notice trip as crude attempt at share-price ramping. In summary, his report had concluded that the company was a highly speculative stock, and one—with so many other quality stocks in the sector—which he did not recommend.

The
draft report ran to 1,200 words of reasoned argument and technical back-up on PE ratios and projections—against the sector and the Footsie as a whole. It needed more work, which he could easily do on the plane back. Then his report and strong ‘Sell’ recommendation on Temple Bio-Laboratories would be released electronically the morning after they got back, holing the stock below the waterline, and quite possibly sinking it in days.

Saving
what he had just written and logging out, he switched off the laptop and began to get ready for dinner. It was the final night before they flew back to London, and knowing what he was about to do to Barton, he wished he did not have to sit through it. Especially as he had now been told that Barton’s daughter was unexpectedly joining them. Hard as he had to be on occasions, he did not enjoy this side of the job, and was cursing himself for coming and putting himself in this invidious position.

As
things turned out, however, the dinner began as great fun after all. No shop was talked, and Barton was on good form, recounting some hilarious self-deprecating stories from his public school and Army days. Elkins could well see why Barton had had little problem raising capital over the years. The man was witty, charismatic and genuinely funny when he chose to be. His daughter was in some ways so very like him. Not just the facial characteristics, but in their personalities. An ability to schmooze married to firm views and a clear personal agenda. They all joined in the slightly drunken fun and banter, and despite the agreement to keep off the subject, there was even some gentle teasing of her about animal welfare. But nothing too serious.

They
were finishing the evening with coffee, liqueurs and cigars as they played a little not very good pool, when Barton was called away. It was fifteen minutes before he returned, and in a markedly changed mood. His local computer expert had got into Elkins’s laptop, quickly cracking the log-in code—predictably DAVID E—and password, still set to the default PASSWORD. Having copied the report on to a memory stick, he handed over the devastating draft for Barton to read. The big man had shaken with rage as he scrutinised every damning, albeit perceptive, word. If this hit the screens, it would spell disaster. Far from engineering a share-price boom, it would cause a further slump and lead to a stampede out of the stock.

He
had tried nice, and nice had not worked. Time now to call on the insurance he had taken out for just this eventuality. He rejoined them, with the time well gone one o’clock. When Lydia left to go to bed the rest of them soon began to break up for the night. As Elkins was saying his goodnights, Barton took him to one side and handed him a DVD. ‘Something to help you remember your trip,’ he said, with no discernible menace.

Elkins
made a face. ‘Not yet another corporate video, I hope. Full of gleaming new equipment and directors reading an autocue.’