Red Notice (39 page)

117

SAMBOR HAD RENTED
the farmhouse on the edge of the village for the Black Bears to gather and prepare themselves after their individual journeys across Europe. The narrow, winding road outside was deserted; the only sign of life was the barking of a dog chained in a neighbouring yard.

The windows of the farmhouse were cracked, cobwebbed and dusty. The yellowing, tattered curtains, the weed-choked garden and the general air of dereliction suggested that it had been some time since anyone had lived and worked there. A perfect base from which to launch an attack.

The cobbles in the yard were almost invisible beneath a blanket of moss and leaf mould. Laszlo ran across them, making for a barn set apart from the main farm building. Its timbers were blackened and ancient. The roof sagged where a beam had given way. There was a clatter of wings as he approached. Two pigeons flew out of a gaping hole where the tiles had cracked and slipped off their battens.

The barn doors were not locked, merely held shut by a stout plank suspended between two wrought-iron brackets. Laszlo lifted it clear and threw it to one side. The hinges creaked and protested as he swung the doors wide open, allowing light to stream into the dark interior.

Motes of dust and pollen danced in the shafts of light as he hurried inside. Bales of mouldering straw and hay were stacked at the far end of the building and rusted farm tools were propped against the walls. A selection of smaller hand tools lay on a bench among a jumble of jars, tins and packets, with cracked and faded labels.

Laszlo kicked and dragged seven or eight heavy straw bales off the edges of a dirty green tarpaulin in the middle of the floor. Beneath it was a blue Peugeot Tepee MPV. Nothing about this vehicle invited a second glance: the French roads were full of them, either crammed with families and loaded to the gunwales, or stacked with agricultural produce on the way to market.

Laszlo crouched down beside the wheel arch by the driver’s door and felt along the top of the tyre until his fingers closed around a key-fob. He pulled it out and pressed the button. An answering beep and flash of lights was followed by the click of releasing locks.

He walked round to the back and opened the hatch. Two small Samsonite suitcases stood inside, each containing a neatly folded set of clothes – the sort of middle-of-the-road, department-store casual shirts, trousers, pullovers and shoes that would pass without notice almost anywhere.

His jaw clenched as he ran his hand along the second suitcase and thought of his brother. Laszlo had made a promise to Sambor, a promise he still intended to fulfil. The havoc wreaked by the SAS man and the girl was just a setback: Laszlo would return to kill the country.

He filled a bucket with water from an ancient pump in the yard, stripped off and washed as much of the caked blood and muck from his head and body as he could. He glanced quickly in the MPV’s wing-mirror. There wasn’t much he could do to disguise his damaged eye, but a beret, pulled low, covered most of the damage Delphine had done to his scalp.

Neatly wrapped bundles of euros, all used and of differing denominations, were stashed beneath the clothing. He extracted a few notes and slipped them into his pocket, shoved
in his borrowed Puffa jacket and jeans, then closed and locked the case.

Marginally refreshed by the cold water and clean outfit, Laszlo slammed down the hatch and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine fired first time. The thick hay on the barn floor rustled against the underside of the MPV as he put it into gear and drove outside.

He crossed the yard, stopped, got out and closed the gates behind him. Avoiding the village, he followed the narrow track past a field of sunflowers. He drove slowly, easing the vehicle across a succession of pits and potholes. Deep, muddy puddles from the recent rains had gathered at either side of the long, grass-topped spine between the wheel tracks.

Screened by the stalks of the dying sunflowers, the Peugeot was almost invisible, only the sound of its engine revealing its presence. The impact of a flying body against his windscreen and the crash as Tom started pounding a rock against the glass almost paralysed Laszlo with shock.

118

LASZLO STARED, SLACK-JAWED,
at the scarred, bruised and blood-soaked apparition. But only for a moment.

Tom grabbed one of the roof rails with his left hand and pounded the windscreen with his right. Three spider webs had already formed on the glass, and a fourth was on its way. Laszlo accelerated and began to swerve from side to side, bouncing the MPV in and out of the potholes. Legs flailing across the bonnet, left arm stretched to breaking point, Tom still managed somehow to keep pounding with the rock.

Laszlo fish-tailed and lurched, stamping on the brakes, then accelerating again, but Tom kept his hold. As Laszlo spun the wheel in yet another desperate attempt to dislodge him, the Peugeot skidded off the track, into the field, mowing down ranks of sunflowers as it went.

Finally, Tom was thrown into the air and smashed against a wall of vegetation. He collapsed onto the ground as the Peugeot bottomed its suspension. Laszlo spun the wheel wildly from side to side and gunned the engine. The Peugeot’s tyres chewed into the earth and tossed a barrage of crushed sunflower stalks behind them.

Laszlo flung the vehicle into a spin, throwing up more stalks and earth, then lost control completely. The MPV slewed and
eventually stalled in the midst of a circle of the flattened crop.

He quickly sparked up the ignition, turned the wheel towards the still prone body of the SAS man and pressed the accelerator pedal to the metal. The tyres spun furiously in the chewed-up soil and the car didn’t move. He tried again in a higher gear, barely touching the accelerator, but the wheels just buried themselves deeper and deeper in the soft ground.

Laszlo threw open the door, leaped out and began running towards his attacker.

At first Tom didn’t see Laszlo coming. But he could hear the desiccated crackle of the sunflower stalks as the South Ossetian forced his way across them.

His wounded leg was now so sore and swollen that he could barely put his weight on it, but he had to stand his ground.

A boot smashed into Tom’s thigh; the searing pain almost made him throw up as he fell back into the damp earth. Targeting the wound, Laszlo kicked Tom’s bandaged leg again and again, relentlessly. Then he moved to the rest of his body. Tom saw the other man’s eyes become totally lifeless. The body at his feet no longer belonged to a human being; it was nothing more than a target to beat into submission.

All Tom could do was fold himself into a tight ball, try to protect himself against the offensive.

When Tom opened his eyes again, he realized that – for the first time – he must have blacked out completely. The kicking had stopped. Laszlo stood above him, breathing heavily, spitting out the excess saliva his efforts had generated. His expression had changed. If Tom hadn’t known better, he might have mistaken it for something like humanity.

‘Tom . . .’ Laszlo’s chest heaved. ‘Tom, go home. Go home to your new family. You have killed my brother. You have killed many of my men. But this is not your fight . . .’ Laszlo spat another globule of mucus-tinged saliva onto the dark earth beside him. He took deeper and deeper breaths, trying to calm himself. ‘Go. Just go . . .’

Tom wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t sure he could, even if he wanted to. His knees were curled into his chest. ‘So you can still try to kill my country?’

‘Just as you would.’ Beads of sweat fell from Laszlo’s face as he leaned forward. He rested his hands on his thighs and inspected the damaged body below him. ‘People like us, we never give up. You know nothing of my past dealings with your countrymen. You see, Tom, they lie, they cheat and they kill. They kill with great brutality, to protect their interests. They feel superior now, of course. They tell the world that
I
am the evil one. But you will soon discover that these people are out of our league. So, just this one time, give up your fight with me and go home. Please go home.’

‘What people? Who are you talking about?’

Laszlo straightened his back. Tom could read the frustration on his ravaged face. ‘I am trying to save you from yourself. If you knew, they – not I – would kill you. Now go. If you do not take this opportunity to live, you will make me regret a kill for the very first time.’

Tom wasn’t giving anything up. His hands clutched his stomach, but his fingers felt their way to the handle of Sambor’s knife in the front pocket of his jeans.

Laszlo sighed. He scanned the ground nearby, caught sight of a fist-sized rock.

Tom aimed for Laszlo’s leg, the nearest part of his body, hoping to get him down onto the ground any way he could. He moved as fast as he could, but not fast enough. Laszlo blocked the knife thrust and pounded the rock down onto his shoulder. More out of desperation than anything else, Tom wrapped his arms around Laszlo’s ankles in a feeble rugby tackle, then pushed against his shins.

Laszlo lost his balance and went down, arms flailing but failing to break his fall. Tom drew back his right hand, launched himself forward and slammed the knife into Laszlo’s chest. He withdrew the blade and plunged it down again, this time into his stomach.

Laszlo screamed, but there was no fear or anger in his face.
He just seemed to accept his fate. He watched, as if from a distance, as Tom used up his last dregs of strength to slam home the blade once more, burying it to the hilt between Laszlo’s third and fourth ribs, then collapsing on top of his suddenly still body.

As Laszlo’s blood began to pool among the sunflower stalks beneath them, Tom rolled over and wrenched himself into a sitting position. He dragged out the old man’s mobile and tapped in a number with numb, blood-soaked, slippery fingers. The unobtainable tone continued to mock him.

The setting sun glinted for a moment on something beneath the dead man’s sleeve. Keeping the phone clamped to his ear, willing Gavin to answer, he reclaimed his Omega from Laszlo’s wrist.

Epilogue

The sergeants’ mess at the Lines was packed for the joint memorial service, almost six months to the day since Gavin and Vatu had died. These things always seemed to be late. The challenge was to find a date when most of the squadron were in the UK, not spread across the planet.

It was a cold March night. The warm, beer-laden fumes inside the mess had misted the windows with condensation. The tables were already overflowing with empty glasses, bottles and cans, and more were being added all the time.

The SAS troopers were all smartly dressed in their number-two parade uniforms. Boots and medals gleamed. Wives and girlfriends were there as well, and children slalomed between everyone’s legs. Bryce’s kids had found a jar of cam cream and were busy daubing it over their faces and everything else they touched.

There were a number of other honoured guests, including Chief Constable Alderson and a couple of his police colleagues. A group of Eurostar personnel, led by the train driver and the head steward, had been given a trip to the Lines as a reward for their bravery. They rubbed shoulders uneasily with a sprinkling of spooks and ministry officials.

The civil servant called Clements looked like a fish out of water.

Tom watched the man who was huddled in a corner with Ashton. He was taking frequent surreptitious looks at his watch, as if he couldn’t wait for the ordeal to be over.

The bouncy castle had been deflated, folded and stashed behind a stack of chairs. The walls were hung with photographs of Vatu and Gavin from every phase of their service with the Regiment: with their families, in training, preparing for ops, off duty with their mates in various far-flung parts of the world. The more embarrassing the circumstances, the more likely they were to be included.

All their personal possessions – bits of kit, spare uniforms, no matter how old and threadbare – had been taken from their lockers and laid out on a row of tables set at right angles to the bar. Tom presided over the Dead Man’s Auction – an SAS tradition following the death of comrades that was as old as the Regiment itself.

As was the custom, each item was sold to the highest bidder, and the proceeds given to the next of kin or squadron funds. The two dead men had already footed the bill for the evening. Every trooper left five hundred pounds in his will to be put behind the bar. The practice wasn’t macabre: it was part of the culture. If you worried about your mates on the squadron getting hurt and killed, you’d spend your life on anti-depressants.

Fuelled in part by the drink, but much more by the respect and affection they felt for Vatu and Gavin, they had been bidding well above market value for every lot on offer, and each exuberant bid seemed to trigger another rush for the bar and another round of drinks. As the two men’s clothes, even down to their underwear, were auctioned off, the successful bidders draped them over the top of their own uniforms.

The auction was now almost over. Tom was down to the last item. He picked up a cardboard box filled with CDs. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘All we have left is his music collection.’

‘Fifty quid!’ Jockey shouted.

‘Get off the grass.’ Tom laughed. ‘Fifty quid, you tight Scots git? Each CD’s worth more than that!’

‘Bollocks,’ Jockey yelled, from the midst of a backwards moon dance. ‘He wouldn’t know good music if it gave him a slap on the head.’ He looked around. ‘I don’t see anyone else bidding. So hand them over.’

‘No, I want more.’ Tom started fishing random CDs out of the box. ‘There’s some real quality here: Razorlight, Kaiser Chiefs, The Killers, Keane, and a bit of real quality, Lang Lang. I bought that for him myself.’

‘Lang Lang?’ Jockey raised his belligerent Glaswegian eyebrows. ‘You’re right, Tom, now I know that Lang Lang’s in there, I withdraw my earlier fifty-quid bid.’ He paused, timing his punchline to perfection. ‘Make that ten quid instead.’

‘Very droll.’ Tom waved the CD at him. ‘But for a tight-wad like you, you’re missing a trick. If you don’t like it, you can even sell it. It’s still in its wrapper.’