Jeffrey Archer: Mightier than the Sword

“No, but there’s over twenty-three thousand. Just a down payment, you understand. The rest is back at the house, so if we head back—”

The chauffeur knew that the house in Eaton Square, along with Martinez’s other assets, had been repossessed by the bank. Martinez had clearly hoped to make it to the airport before the IRA discovered he had no intention of fulfilling his side of the bargain.

Rafferty grabbed the bag and threw it on the backseat of the taxi. He’d decided to make Martinez’s death somewhat more protracted than originally planned. After all, he had nothing else to do for the next hour.

He waved the gun in the direction of a wooden chair that had been placed directly below the lightbulb. It was already splattered with dried blood from previous executions. He pushed his victim down with considerable force, and before Don Pedro had a chance to react, he had tied his arms behind his back, but then he’d carried out this particular exercise several times before. Finally he tied Martinez’s legs together, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

All Rafferty had to decide now was how long the victim would be allowed to live. His only constraint being, he had to be at Heathrow in time to catch the early morning flight to Belfast. He checked his watch. He always enjoyed seeing that look on the victim’s face when they believed there still might be a chance of survival.

He returned to the taxi, unzipped Martinez’s bag, and counted the bundles of crisp five-pound notes. At least he’d told the truth about that, even if he was more than £226,000 short. He zipped the bag back up and locked it in the boot. After all, Martinez would no longer have any use for it.

The area commander’s orders were clear: once the job had been completed he was to leave the body in the warehouse and another operative would deal with its disposal. The only thing required of Rafferty was to make a phone call and deliver the message, “Package ready for collection.” After that, he was to drive to the airport and leave the taxi, and the money, on the top level of the long-term car park. Another operative would be responsible for collecting it and distributing the cash.

Rafferty returned to Don Pedro, whose eyes had never left him. If the chauffeur had been given the choice, he would have shot him in the stomach, then waited a few minutes until the screaming died down, before firing a second bullet into his groin. More screaming, probably louder, until he finally forced the gun into his mouth. He would stare into his victim’s eyes for several seconds and then, without warning, pull the trigger. But that would have meant three shots. One might go unnoticed, but three would undoubtedly attract attention in the middle of the night. So he would obey the area commander’s orders. One shot, and no screaming.

The chauffeur smiled at Don Pedro, who looked up hopefully, until he saw the gun heading toward his mouth.

“Open up,” said Rafferty, like a friendly dentist coaxing a reluctant child. One common factor among all his victims was the chattering teeth.

Martinez resisted, and swallowed one of his front teeth in the unequal struggle. Sweat began to pour down the fleshy folds of skin on his face. He was only made to wait a few more seconds before the trigger was pulled, but all he heard was the click of the hammer.

Some fainted, some just stared in disbelief, while others were violently sick when they realized they were still alive. Rafferty hated the ones who fainted. It meant he had to wait for them to fully recover before he could begin the whole process again. But Martinez obligingly remained wide awake.

When Rafferty extracted the gun, his idea of a blow job, the victims often smiled, imagining the worst was over. But as he spun the cylinder again, Don Pedro knew he was going to die. It was just a matter of when. Where and how had already been decided.

It always disappointed Rafferty when he succeeded with the first shot. His personal record was nine, but the average was around four or five. Not that he gave a damn about statistics. He thrust the barrel back into Martinez’s mouth, and took a step back. After all, he didn’t want to be covered in blood. The Argentinian was foolish enough to resist again, and lost another tooth for his trouble, a gold one. Rafferty pocketed it before he squeezed the trigger a second time, but was not rewarded with anything but another click. He pulled out the barrel in the hope of removing another tooth, well, half a tooth.

“Third time lucky,” said Rafferty as he thrust the muzzle back into Martinez’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Another failure. The chauffeur was becoming impatient and was now hoping that his morning’s work would be completed on the fourth attempt. He spun the cylinder a little more enthusiastically this time, but when he looked up, Martinez had fainted. Such a disappointment. He liked his victims to be wide awake when the bullet entered their brain. Although they only lived for another second, it was an experience he relished. He grabbed Martinez’s hair, forced open his mouth and pushed the barrel back inside. He was about the pull the trigger a fourth time, when the telephone in the corner of the room began to ring. The insistent metallic echo in the cold night air took Rafferty by surprise. He had never known the phone to ring before. In the past, he had used it only to dial a number and deliver a four-word message.

He reluctantly withdrew the muzzle of the gun from Martinez’s mouth, walked across to the phone, and picked it up. He didn’t speak, just listened.

“The mission has been aborted,” said a voice with a clipped, educated accent. “You won’t need to collect the second payment.”

A click, followed by a burr.

Rafferty replaced the receiver. Perhaps he would spin the cylinder one more time, and if he succeeded, report back that Martinez was already dead by the time the phone had rung. He’d only ever lied to the area commander once, and there was a finger missing from his left hand to prove it. He told anyone who asked that it had been chopped off by a British officer during an interrogation, which few on either side believed.

He reluctantly returned the gun to his pocket and walked slowly back toward Martinez, who was slumped in the chair, his head between his legs. He bent down and untied the rope around his wrists and ankles. Martinez collapsed onto the floor in a heap. The chauffeur yanked him up by the hair, threw him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes and dumped him in the back of the taxi. For a moment, he had rather hoped he might resist, and then... but no such luck.

He drove out of the warehouse, locked the door, and set off toward Heathrow, to join several other taxi drivers that morning.

They were a couple of miles from the airport when Martinez reentered this world, and not the next. The chauffeur watched in the rearview mirror as his passenger began to come around. Martinez blinked several times before staring out of the window to see rows of suburban homes rushing by. As the realization began to sink in, he leaned forward and was sick all over the backseat. Rafferty’s colleague wouldn’t be pleased.

Don Pedro eventually managed to force his limp body upright. He steadied himself by clinging onto the edge of the seat with both hands and stared at his would-be executioner. What had caused him to change his mind? Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps only the venue had changed. Don Pedro eased his way forward, hoping to be given just one chance to escape, but he was painfully aware that Rafferty’s suspicious eyes returned to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Rafferty turned off the main road and followed the signs for the long-term car park. He drove up to the top level and parked in the far corner. He stepped out of the car, unlocked the boot, and unzipped the travel bag, pleased again by the sight of the neat rows of crisp five-pound notes. He would have liked to take the cash home for the cause, but he couldn’t risk being caught with that amount of money, now there were so many extra security guards observing every flight to Belfast.