Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

Crosby blinked across as if he’d forgotten Purkiss was there. ‘That’s right. Like I said, Syracuse and upstate New York generally, then a brief posting in Israel after 9/11. But my heart wasn’t in it. Early 2003, just around the time we hit Iraq, I decided to get out entirely. I was depressed, on meds. Couldn’t function. Tracked Jablonsky down and got him to pull some strings, get me retired on medical grounds. Plus a final tip-off about Holtzmann Solar share prices. I made a killing.’

Nakamura said, ‘No offence, man, but this place is a shithole.’

Crosby nodded. ‘The land cost a bit, but yeah, you’re right. Short answer, I gave the money away. Almost all of it. Had another attack of conscience, and found I couldn’t spend blood money.’ He gave another mewling laugh. ‘If I’d known I’d get emphysema, I might have kept a little back.’

Purkiss listened, thinking hard. It all suggested Pope was on a mission to take out everyone involved in Caliban. A cleaning-up operation. Did that mean he’d been hired by the CIA, or perhaps by whomever it was that had been in charge of Caliban and was now covering his or her tracks? And the men who’d come after Purkiss in Hamburg and later in Manhattan: were they Pope’s backup?

Something didn’t feel right.

Berg said, ‘What about the insurance you spoke about? The evidence you kept hidden, incriminating Jablonsky and the others?’

‘There never was any. Sure, I could keep a record of everything I’d done, laundering the money. But there was no proof of Jablonsky’s involvement, or Holtzmann Solar’s. Jablonsky was scared I had something on him — he’s Company, we’re paranoid by nature — but I didn’t. So it was all bluff.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess somebody’s calling the bluff now.’

‘Mr Crosby, are you willing to testify to all of this?’

Crosby sniggered again. ‘What’ve I got to lose? They’re going to come for me already, whoever they are.’

From the window Kendrick spoke, low and urgent.

‘They’re already here.’

Between Charlottesville, Virginia and Washington D.C.

Monday 20 May, 11.40 pm

Pope was by inclination a marathon runner, not a sprinter; but while speed was important, he had the advantage of surprise, and he hoped it would carry him through.

The distance from the bottom of the slope to where the three figures were standing was about a hundred yards, possibly slightly less. The woman had stopped and begun sidling sideways, so presumably there was some sort of barrier blocking her path: a fence or a ditch. The men were taking their time reaching her but would be at her in a minute, if everyone continued moving at their current pace.

He had surprise on his side, because the rain, light though it was, was deadening the sound of his approach, and in any case the two men wouldn’t be expecting anyone to come sprinting up to them from behind. Against him was the quality of the ground. Pitted and gnarled, it would be all too easy to sprain an ankle, and then he’d be finished.

He ran in strides longer than usual to afford extra stability, feeling himself settle into a steady rhythm as he gained ground on the small group. Fifty yards covered now. If he could get within ten yards he’d be safe; even if they were armed — and Pope assumed they were — they wouldn’t be able to bring their weapons to bear before his momentum had carried him straight into them.

With thirty yards to go, the girl saw him.

She was superb, a distant part of his mind appreciated: there was no stifled shriek, no reflexive drawing away. She recognised that he was coming to the rescue, and she reacted like a professional; namely, she didn’t react at all.

The men were talking to her, he registered, as he bore down on the final approach and picked up his speed as though aiming to breast a finishing tape. The two men were side by side, the taller one doing the talking. It meant the other one was probably the muscle.

Pope launched the kick in midair, his foot catching the man squarely in the back just below the neck. The man’s torso barrelled forward while inertia kept his head where it was so that his neck snapped back. He was lifted off his feet, and this time the girl did scream as she dived out of the way. Pope disregarded the first man and landed on his feet at a crouch, facing the other man and with his back to the girl.

The taller man was fast, his gun already out. Pope hacked at his wrist with the edge of his hand, caught the gun barrel instead, knocking it aside but not out of the man’s grip. The man kicked at Pope’s kneecap and made contact, sending a sheaf of pain up through Pope’s leg. He stumbled, doubling, but he was bluffing and the other man was a fraction slow in stepping back and raising his gun in a two-handed grip to deliver the execution shot.

Pope lunged, gripping the man’s wrists in his clasped hands and yanking him forward so that he was pulled off his feet. Pope’s knee connected hard with the man’s face and he collapsed, prone.

‘Look out,’ yelled the woman a second before Pope flung himself sideways and the shot whined past his head, trailing a blast that echoed off the walls of the miniature valley. He rolled on to and over the prone man, prising the gun free from his flaccid fingers and coming up to a sitting position as the second shot too went wide, far wider than it should have. Pope saw the first man, the one he’d kicked in the back, stagger slightly, one hand to the side of his head as his gun arm wove to take a bead again. The woman was off to the side, cowering.

Pope shot the man twice, once in the head and once through the chest before the first shot had dropped him. The man dropped to his knees, his torso remaining upright for a second like a hammy actor in a death scene. Pope rose and strode over and put a third shot into what was left of the man’s head.

He went back to the other man and turned him over. The knee to his face had killed him.

*

Neither man had anything useful on him apart from a gun. Their driver’s licences identified them as Francis King and Dwayne Harlan. Pope pocketed the licences and took the guns. A Heckler amp; Koch USP — the one he’d just fired — and a Glock 22.

The woman, Ramirez, stood clutching her violin case to her, shivering as though in January sleet rather than warm spring evening drizzle. Pope stuck the guns in his belt and held out a hand.

‘My name’s Pope. Don’t be afraid.’

She didn’t move. In the dark her eyes gleamed white, above and below the irises.

‘It’s over. Or it will be, if we get out of here now.’

At first he thought she’d hooted a laugh, but when it came again he caught it: ‘Who.’

‘Who am I? A friend. I’ll explain in a moment. Once we’ve got back on to the road and into my car.’ He stepped forward, hand still extended.

She took it.

*

Pope kept his gaze fixed on the road above them as they crossed the field, but there were no flashing lights up there yet.

The girl stumbled beside him, clutching her violin even though it would have been more practical to strap it across her back. Her head was lowered.

‘You hit him with a rock, didn’t you?’

She stared at him.

‘The man back there. He was aiming at me and you got him. Made him miss.’ He smiled in the darkness. ‘You saved my life. I’m very grateful.’

He wasn’t trying to get her to speak. He just wanted to give her a boost, keep her on her feet and moving forward.

They reached the foot of the slope and he started up, tugging at her hand; but she needed no prompting, and he felt able to let go. A few feet from the top he motioned to her to stop, and crept forward, peering over the top of the rail. There was the Toyota, its headlights still on, and behind it his Mercedes with its hazard lights flicking. No police.