Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

The stakes were much lower for Ian. Sure he would have lost his job, but he would eventually have found something else. It was just that it was easier to go along with Eric’s version of events, and once he had done so, it became increasingly difficult to change his mind.

He had been so stupid to tell Lenka about Eric. And he could never forgive Eric for killing her. Ian had always liked Lenka. They had had some very good times together in the weeks before she died. Until now, he had felt powerless even to protest at her death, because of his fear of Eric. Well, no longer.

Angrily, he left the café and walked towards the river. The rain had finally stopped and the streets were quiet on the Sunday morning, with the exception of the odd group of hung-over Welshmen lurching about after a long night’s drinking. From the look of them, Ian assumed their team had lost.

What could he do? For an hour or so, he seriously toyed with the idea of killing Eric himself. It would be a just revenge for the murders of Alex and especially Lenka. And if Eric could so blithely murder his old friends, why couldn’t Ian?

But he knew it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t that Ian had qualms. As far as he was concerned, the bastard deserved it. Ian just didn’t have the guts. The practicalities of planning and carrying out a murder were beyond him.

He stopped at another café somewhere in the Marais for an early beer, a cigarette and a bite of lunch. The clouds began to divide, and thin snatches of watery sunshine broke through.

So, if he didn’t kill Eric, what should he do? He couldn’t continue to bury his head in the sand, pretending he didn’t know anything. Chris was determined, and Ian didn’t underestimate him. If Chris succeeded in exposing Eric, Ian wouldn’t be able to claim he was an innocent bystander. He would be in deep trouble: he’d be lucky to escape prison. And even if Eric successfully managed to keep things quiet, it would be a messy process. More people would be hurt, or killed, possibly even Ian himself. Ian didn’t want to spend the rest of his life under the shadow of that one event, which he had witnessed but for which he felt no responsibility.

He would do now what he ought to have done all those years ago. Talk. Crossing Eric would be dangerous. But things had reached the point where it was just as dangerous to do nothing.

He left the bar, and headed for the Île Saint-Louis. Swollen by the recent rain, the Seine rushed towards the sea, tugging at the feet of the bridges that obstructed its passage. There were more people out and about now, tempted by the feeble sunshine. Suddenly Ian felt better, better than he had for weeks. Possibly better than he had since the programme. Of course, it would be difficult to know whom to tell. He could try going into a police station in London. Or perhaps he should go to Prague, or New York. Maybe he should first get himself a lawyer. Or talk to a journalist. Actually, as he thought about it, the best person to talk to would be Chris. It was true that every time they had seen each other recently they had ended up swearing at each other, but Chris was basically a good guy. He was honest. He would do the right thing. They could give each other the moral support they would need to get through this.

The more Ian walked, the surer he became of his decision. Eventually, he made his way back to his hotel to book a flight back to London the next day, have a nap, and keep an appointment with charlie.

Three hours later, invigorated by his decision, his rest, and in particular the white powder he had ingested, he set off for a last night on the town in Paris. He visited a few bars on the Left Bank and bumped into two Danish girls in a place near the Pont Saint-Michel. He pretended to be French, and he thought he did a very good job of it. His own French wasn’t bad, and his French-accented English was good enough to fool the Danes. He was having a good time and so were they. The evening passed very pleasantly as they all drank more. Then one of them began to look at him suspiciously. This didn’t bother Ian, because the other one, the one with the larger breasts, still seemed to think he was great. She was getting drunk and very friendly. Then the suspicious one took her friend off to the toilet and they never returned.

After waiting half an hour Ian shrugged, finished another beer, and left the bar, confident that if he could pull once, he could pull again.

He was now very drunk. He walked for a few minutes without knowing where he was going. Somehow, he had drifted away from the bars and was now in a quiet residential street.

‘Ian!’

He turned, his brain too fuzzy to register surprise that someone should know his name.

The knife plunged deep into his chest between his third and fourth ribs, piercing his heart.

Chris had a busy Monday. It was good to lose himself in work; he had no time to worry about Megan or Ian or Duncan. Ollie was ecstatic to hear the news about Royal Bank of Kuwait. The market had sagged again, but they didn’t care. It would mean Rudy’s losses would be greater, but RBK would come into the fund at a lower price. Chris was relieved to get a call from Khalid; he had been worried that Duncan in all his agitation had forgotten. Khalid wanted to move immediately, so Chris and Ollie walked the quarter mile to RBK’s office off Oxford Street, and made a presentation to Khalid and his Arab boss. Khalid asked some penetrating questions, but Chris was able to answer them. As the meeting progressed it was clear that Khalid and his boss had already made up their minds. They wanted to invest!

That afternoon, Chris made the call he had been looking forward to all day.

‘Rudy Moss.’

‘Morning, Rudy, it’s Chris.’

‘Yes?’

‘Rudy, I’m afraid we have a problem,’ said Chris, forcing the morning’s euphoria from his voice.

‘A problem? What kind of a problem?’

‘It’s the fund’s price, Rudy. It’s slipping badly. Eureka Telecom is still heading south. And these German jitters have seriously hurt our government bond positions. It doesn’t look good.’

‘It doesn’t sound good.’

‘I was wondering whether with these prices falling you wanted to reconsider your decision.’

‘You know my decision,’ Rudy snapped. He sounded angry. Good, thought Chris.

‘If you can wait another month, maybe things will look better,’ said Chris, ensuring that his voice carried no conviction.

‘Wait a month?’ protested Rudy. ‘You’ve got to be crazy. I want out. I want out now!’

‘But you still have another two weeks to go before the thirty-day notice period is up.’

‘I don’t care. I want you to get me out of this piece of crap now, do you hear me?’

‘I’m not sure there’s any way I can do that.’

‘You’d better think of a way,’ growled Rudy.

Chris let Rudy dangle on the line for a delicious few seconds. ‘Well, there is one investor who I might be able to persuade to buy your stake,’ he said at last. ‘But I’d be surprised if they could move that quickly.’

‘Try them,’ snapped Rudy.

‘If you’re sure about this?’

‘I’m sure. Now get on with it.’

Chris drummed his fingers for twenty minutes and then called Rudy back.

‘We’re in luck,’ he said. ‘I think I have found someone. And they might move quickly. If you can fax your instructions through this afternoon, you could be out by tomorrow.’

‘Wait by the fax machine,’ said Rudy, and hung up.

By five o’clock, Chris and Ollie had instructions from Amalgamated Veterans to sell their stake, with a matching order from the Royal Bank of Kuwait to buy it. The Kuwaitis were also committed to invest a further seven million euros. Zizka had sent a fax through that afternoon revoking his earlier instructions to withdraw from the fund. Eureka Telecom was still in the doldrums and the German economy didn’t look too hot, but Carpathian would survive.