Assassin

62

Damon Tyzack's helicopter was over the Swedish border within three minutes of take-off. It swung south, flying low over the hilly, lake-strewn landscape of Varmland. The scenery there is some of the finest in Sweden, but Tyzack had no interest in enjoying the view. He was too busy checking his watch and urging his pilot to squeeze every last knot out of his machine. Thinking about the task that lay ahead of him, he didn't see himself coming back to Norway any time soon. So he wouldn't get the chance of one last heart-to-heart with Carver. That was a pity. On the other hand, there was the consolation that Carver would die horribly, all alone, after long pain-filled days in which he'd have nothing else to think about but how much he'd fucked up. By now, he'd probably worked out who'd really shopped him. He'd be tormented by the loss of his best mate and his woman and he'd be all alone with the cuts on his back going septic, the pain in his neck getting worse and worse and not even a drop of water to drink without putting himself through hell.

Tyzack laughed aloud at the thought of such a satisfying revenge. He felt it was a good sign. Things were moving his way. Now he just had to hit the ultimate target for any assassin: Mr President himself. If he pulled that job off, he would not only have destroyed Carver but utterly overshadowed him.

He'd got a text from one of Visar's people. The goods had been procured and conversion was taking place, it said. Excellent.

Foster Lafferty was with him in the helicopter. 'I've got a job for you,' Tyzack said. 'It means going back to Bradford, having another pow-pow with the Pakis.'

'You want me to smack 'em around again?' Lafferty asked.

'On the contrary, I want you all to become the very best of friends. Tell the Pakis they can have their tarts back. But I need something from them in return…'

The helicopter landed half an hour later in a field north of Gothenburg. A car was waiting for him there. It would take him the four hundred miles down the Swedish west coast to Malmo, across to Denmark on the Oresund bridge and tunnel, and then west to a private airfield close to the North Sea coast. From there he and his men would be flown to a similar field in northern England, their route carefully planned to avoid airspace controlled by the National Air Traffic Service.

He didn't have any worries about getting into the country undetected. England's immigration and border controls were a joke. He got illegals in every day of the week. He could get himself in easily enough.