Recoil

2

The mobile rang. I picked it up and listened.

‘The Chinamen have left.’

‘Cheers, mate. See you in a bit.’ I closed down the phone and threw a ten-franc note on the table for a five-franc coffee. Maybe the waiter would remember me next time.

I went and looked for a cab.

Standish had disappeared off the face of the earth. Part of me hoped he was lying decomposing in the leaf litter; another part hoped he was alive and kicking. Australia was still on the cards, but only after I’d done all I could to keep my promise to Bateman.

I felt good as the cab drove up the hill to where the really stinking money hung out. I didn’t know whether it was the change of scenery, the change of clothes or just that I was seeing a promise through, but I felt I was going to get a good result here.

I’d called Giuseppe as soon as I’d got back to Erinvale. Lex let me sort myself out at his place while he made his way back to the strip to pick up the crates of weapons. He’d made good use of his sat phone on the way to Cape, and already had a buyer in Chad.

I explained where I was to Giuseppe, and what had happened to Silky. He didn’t take it too well, especially the bit about working conditions in Mr Stefan’s mines and the lack of a staff canteen. I was taking a chance, but what was the option? I needed a man on the inside, and they weren’t exactly best mates, were they?

I needn’t have worried. He was well into it; he told me I had some mail waiting and he even had a present for me. Then he carried on waffling about how he was going home to Lazio to live with his widowed sister, and how they planned to grow olives and raise chickens.

I asked the driver to drop me about two minutes from the house. I got back on the mobile as I walked the rest. ‘Nearly there, mate – you got the padlocks off the back gate?’

‘Of course.’

‘See you in a bit.’ I closed down. This should-n’t take long. Security wasn’t a problem. Stefan didn’t have any. He didn’t need it. Low profile, not a party-goer, and never out of the shadows, he was the ultimate grey man. His greatest protection was concealment, and he knew it. The kick for him was making piles of money without anyone having a clue how. But he was going to pay for his arrogance today.

The big wrought-iron gate opened into manicured grounds. Palm trees shaded the path to the staff entrance.

Giuseppe’s eyes darted from side to side. He wasn’t behaving like the pasta papa I knew. Maybe he was caught up in the intrigue and thought he was James Bond.

‘Where is he?’

‘The large sitting room – where else?’

I followed him along the corridor to the kitchen.

‘Mr Nick, please come back down when you’ve finished. Remember, I have mail and a gift for you.’

‘You sure there’s no one else in the house?’

He looked a bit startled, then glanced around him as if I’d asked the most stupid question on the planet. He was right. It was Sunday: the staff had the day off. We’d normally have bumped into at least a couple of cleaners, maids and a few chefs by now.

I dumped my holdall on the table, and pulled out the pair of red-handled pliers I’d bought on my little shopping trip. Seconds later, I was walking up the wide staircase to the long marble corridor with the ten-foot Greek gods and the Louis XIV repro that so many people had been slaughtered to pay for.