Conn Iggulden - Quantum of tweed

As he turned into the road, heading in the same direction as the black cars, Albert wobbled out of control. Most men assume they will be able to ride a bike for ever. There is even a phrase — ‘like riding a bike’ — that indicates it’s a skill you never lose once you have gained it. The truth is that childhood skill does not always equal middle-aged skill and Albert very nearly crashed into a tractor on the first bend. Admittedly, the driver of the tractor was distracted as he considered how to reply to a letter accusing him of doing eighty miles an hour in Piccadilly. That combination of distraction, mild rain and lack of skill very nearly ended the career and the life of Albert Rossi. After a moment of flashing images, he found himself in a second hedge, scratched and red-faced, as the tractor driver shouted something unprintable and went on, feeling much better about his own troubles.

Flushed and sweating, Albert pulled himself out and resumed the chase. He was still working on instinct and he peered ahead at every turn of the road for a glimpse of black cars.

Life is full of small choices that can have large effects. If President Lincoln had chosen to stay at home rather than go to the theatre, much of history would be very different. If Victor Stasiak hadn’t decided to send one of his men running into a corner shop in Buttermere village to buy a cigar, Albert would have been unlikely to catch up with them.

Puffing wearily, with his legs already aching, he stopped at the edge of the village and was rewarded by the sight of the two cars waiting at a kerb with engines running. With a huge effort, he steadied his breathing. The gun was back in his rucksack and his prey was in sight. He could only hope Victor Stasiak wasn’t heading towards the motorway. Albert Rossi had visions of the bikeless postman calling the police and fresh beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. If the local constabulary spotted him, he would surely be searched. The gun would be found.

Realising his danger, Albert stepped off the postman’s bike, but as he leaned it against a fence, Stasiak’s cars moved off with a low growl. Albert made a similar sound in the back of his throat. Visions of twenty thousand pounds and freedom from the bank floated across his imagination. He leapt back on, keeping his head down as he pedalled after them, heading through the village and out into the open countryside.

Victor Stasiak climbed slowly out of the car, without bothering to acknowledge the bodyguard holding the door and an umbrella. He could hear the roar of the waterfall nearby, but, as was often the case in Cumbria, he would have to walk the last part to get up to the bridge that crossed its highest point.

The rain was particularly heavy that day, but even so there were one or two families and hikers trudging up the hill. Victor frowned at the sight of them. It was a few minutes to noon and he needed privacy to carry out the unpleasant business he had planned. As he stood there, another black car crunched to a halt on the broken ground and his best friend for thirty years got out.

Auguste Nerius was a thin man, wiry and still black-haired despite his age. Victor suspected he dyed it, but he had never asked. Nerius had been with Victor in the shipyards, running a small stolen-car ring and a betting consortium. When the authorities had finally closed in on them, they had taken ship to the United Kingdom, just two more immigrants with a bagful of used notes. The seed money had given them something of a jump start and their shipping contacts meant they could import almost anything. They had got in at the beginning of a massive cocaine market in the seventies and made several fortunes.

Victor greeted his oldest friend with a broad smile and patted him on the back.

‘Let’s walk,’ he said, without explanation.

As always, he was impossible to refuse and Nerius merely shrugged and followed. He had always been the planner, a man of few words, while Victor was the one who met clients and impressed them with his ruthlessness and charisma. It had been a good partnership. As they turned together to walk up the path, Victor shook his head in sadness. Some men are never satisfied, no matter how much they own. Nerius had been like a brother to him, but that made the betrayal all the more painful — and the anger more fierce.

Neither man took any notice of the middle-aged cyclist who leaned his bike against a tree and stood with his hands on his knees, gasping and red-faced. After a time, Albert lay down on his back and wheezed at the grey clouds overhead. Victor Stasiak’s bodyguards stared at him as they brought the dogs out of the second car and let them sniff around on short leashes, but there was nothing about Albert Rossi to arouse suspicion, unless perhaps you worked for the Post Office and recognised the bike. Victor and Nerius led the way and the bodyguards followed. The small group left Albert behind as they strolled along the winding track that would take them across the very top of the waterfall.

Victor Stasiak was beginning to regret his taste for the dramatic. He suspected he should have taken Nerius somewhere quiet and simply put a bullet in his head. His bodyguards were good with shovels and Cumbria is almost designed for the easy disposal of dead colleagues, with hidden valleys and clefts by the hundred. Yet for his oldest friend, Victor had imagined a grand finale, a few last words, then a silent fall onto the smooth black boulders far below. He had not imagined a child licking an ice cream and watching them both with dull fascination, nor the two mums walking a squalling baby back and forth across the bridge. In his imagination, the bridge over the waterfall had been deserted and windswept. He frowned to himself. Nerius was still waiting for whatever was so important that his boss and friend had to summon him to such an odd place.

Victor looked at him and drummed his fingers on the wooden railing of the bridge.

‘Did the latest shipment come in all right?’ he said at last.

Nerius shrugged and nodded. Britain was that wonderful combination of an island and a trading nation, so that ships came and went twenty-four hours a day. It really wasn’t difficult to get a small, high-value item like cocaine into one of the great ports. With the best will in the world, the customs officers couldn’t search every container. Victor usually left that side of things to Nerius, while he set up the meetings and links in the chain further down.

The girl with the ice cream stepped closer to stare at the two men talking in a strange language. Victor glowered at her, without making the slightest impression. He had been intending to confront Nerius with his knowledge, see the awareness of real danger creep into the man’s face, then pitch him over the railing. He couldn’t really raise the subject with the prospect of having to wait another half an hour for the bridge to clear. Yet Nerius was growing suspicious, he could sense it. He needed a topic to pass the time. Inspiration struck him and Victor Stasiak relaxed.

‘I’m thinking of retiring, Nerius, old friend,’ he said. ‘I’ve made my money and I’m not a young man any more.’

Nerius looked sharply at him, searching his face with his eyes. The two mums had finally rocked the baby to sleep and one of them was calling for the little girl to come with them. Victor nodded to himself. His bodyguards were further down the track, trying hard to look as if they were just out walking two savage Alsatians.

‘We’ve… um… we’ve had some good times,’ Victor went on vaguely.

The little girl wandered off, looking back at them with every step as she followed the two mums. For the first time, the bridge was empty. As he tensed for action Victor saw what looked like a Scout troop rounding the closest bend, led by a bearded man in shorts.