Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Ten

The weather in Wales had brightened up and sunshine streamed in through the dusty windows of the old building. The farmhouse was warm, and the front door was open to offer some airflow. Rick Washington had come outside and was sitting quietly on an old bench, engrossed in the spectacle of a peregrine falcon as it swooped to capture a small mouse or vole. He smiled as the sleek bird took off, the tiny doomed creature still wriggling in its claws.

‘The perfect hunter,’ he said quietly.

‘Boss?’ said the man as he came out of the house.

Washington didn’t take his eyes of the falcon, as it rose majestically into the clear morning sky. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘There’s a call for you, boss.’

The American stood and for a few seconds continued to watch the bird as it disappeared into the distance, then turned to the man, put his hand on his shoulder, and said, ‘Let’s hope its good news, eh?’

The other men stood as Washington entered the house. ‘Is this it, boss?’ said one.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ answered Washington with a wink.

In the back communications room, another of his men held the phone-handset; he too stood as the American came in. Washington took the phone and said, ‘Hello?’

‘Mr Boston?’ the accent was East European.

‘Yes,’ said Washington, ‘this is Mr Boston.’

‘Thank you, sir. I just need to confirm your security code, please.’

‘Go ahead.’

The man at the other end of the line cleared his throat. ‘Red Pisces.’

‘Blue Taurus,’ said Washington.

The throat was cleared again. ‘White Leo.’

‘Black Libra,’ answered the American.

‘Thank you, Mr Boston, that is all correct. I can now tell you, sir, your expected transaction has been received.’

Washington smiled. ‘Three billion pounds sterling?’

‘That’s correct, sir. We have now prepared the onward transactions to your advised accounts. We just need one final security code to expedite those transfers.’

‘Okay, go ahead.’

Again, the voice was cleared. ‘Horoscope.’

‘Future,’ said Washington.

‘Thank you, sir. Please hold the line.’

Several seconds past… He could feel his palm on the handset was wet with sweat… Then the voice was back. ‘Thank you for holding, Mr Boston. All the transfers have now gone through, sir. Less of course our three million dollars commission.’

‘Of course, Thank you,’ said the American.

‘Thank you, sir. Have a wonderful day.’

Rick Washington put the phone down and stood in silence for several seconds, enjoying the moment.

‘Well? What’s the deal boss?’

Washington frowned at the crude interruption to his reverie, then turned and walked back into the big room. His men all stood. Expectant. Anxious. ‘Well?’ said one.

The American smiled. ‘I hope you guys know which islands you want to buy?’

‘Yes!’ The roar went up.

The men danced and hugged each other, yelling, shouting. The noise clearly heard by the frightened people locked in the upstairs rooms.

Washington waited and allowed the men to enjoy their moment. Then he raised his hands and said, ‘Okay gentlemen let’s get ready to get the hell outta this goddam shithole. But first I have a special something for you all.’ He went to a bag in the corner of the room and took out a bottle. ‘Get some glasses,’ he said

Five tumblers of different sizes were placed on the old table. The American poured out the amber liquid into four of them.

‘You not drinking, boss?’

‘Not for me, guys. I gave it up 20 years ago. But this,’ he held up the bottle, ‘is a 31 year old Craigellachie single malt whisky. Rumour has it Queen Elizabeth drinks this at Balmoral. And as you are now as rich as she is, I though you should try it.’

‘Fucking A,’ yelled one.

‘Cheers your Majesty,’ shouted another.

‘Here’s to you, boss,’ said a third, as he raised his glass in salute.

They all went quiet, then raised their glasses. ‘Yeah… Here’s to you, boss. Cheers.’

It was the communication man who fell first. His eyes rolled up and his legs went from under him. A crimson spurt of blood shot across the wooden floor, as his head smashed against the old table. The others looked-on in surprise, as the blood oozed from the gash in the man’s forehead. Two others, almost in unison, sank to their knees; one landing on top of the now dead communications man. The other collapsing back into the rocking chair he’d frequented these last few days. The forth, and biggest, struggled to stay upright. His look of disbelief quickly turned to anger. Washington stepped back, as the big man lurched towards him. ‘Bastar…’ The word was cut-short, as the big man’s heart stopped.

For several seconds the American looked at the scene before him. He carefully replaced the cap on the deadly bottle of scotch and placed it on the old table. He turned and went out into the sunshine, took out his smartphone, and tapped out a single word.

In the bar of the Craiglarich Golf Club, the pilot was halfway through a sandwich when his phone beeped. He swiped the screen and smiled as he read the message. RENDEZVOUS.