The Main chance

17

Jacques, crouched in the brambles by the side of the track, was confused. He had been looking forward to seeing the Mercedes blown to smithereens. Perhaps even elevated a few feet before it crashed to earth, a fireball consuming the occupants.

Instead, his vision blurred, he saw activity. Reaching in his pocket for his binoculars, he dropped them. He could not find them in the tangle of brambles. He swore. What was happening?

A patient man, he waited for what seemed a long time. Then, to his astonishment, he saw the gates open. The Mercedes was proceeding down the drive. At the gateway it turned to his right, towards London.

Jacques was shattered. Was the bomb defective? No, that was impossible. He was an explosives expert. Carefully he began his retreat along the track. Getting into the saddle of the motorcycle he drove at high speed, bouncing over hill crests.

He would tell Calouste the truth. It was safer. He knew Max used to lie to conceal a failure. Now, he was sure, the durable, but too human, Max was dead. Arriving at the roundabout he found Calouste waiting in his car. Jacques eased the motorcycle in the boot, climbed into the front passenger seat beside him. Calouste again took the turning to the West Country. `Tweed is dead,' Calouste hissed.

It was a statement, an expectation. `No, he isn't,' Jacques said firmly. Tor some reason the bomb I placed under the car did not detonate. It was not a defective bomb-' `What!' Calouste screamed. 'He must be. I want him dead, so you are wrong.' `I'm afraid not. I caught a glimpse of him driving away to London. I-' `It cannot be,' Calouste screamed again as he drove into the lay-by they had parked in earlier. He threw his door open, his stiletto in his hand. Jacques grasped the handle of his wide-bladed knife. Calouste jumped out, began circling the car with his ambling walk. `Tweed must be dead!' he screeched. 'It was Tweed who told Bella not to sell the bank to me.' `I thought Bella was murdered before Tweed went to Hengistbury,' Jacques unwisely replied through the half-open window. `Tweed has a weak spot,' Calouste raved on. He was using his stiletto to stab at the air, at imaginary forms of Tweed. 'That tart he is always with, the one who did not come to meet Max in Mayfair.' He paused. 'At least that is what Max said.' He began dancing round again, stabbing at nothing with the stiletto. 'So,' he raved on, 'we kidnap her…' `Then what do we do?' Jacques muttered, knowing Calouste was not listening to a word he was saying. `We take her fingerprints on ten different cards,' Calouste screamed from the field of yellow rape he had dashed into, using his razor-sharp stiletto to cut the heads off the flowers.

Jacques sagged in his seat. He had never seen Calouste like this. His green eyes were glowing with hatred. Jacques did not know Calouste, ever cunning, was using green-tinted contact lenses. `When we have her fingerprints we send one photo marked with a cross on her right index finger…' `What for?' asked Jacques who had an idea of the answer. `You are a butcher. You chop off the right index finger and we send it to Tweed through the post. To stop any further mutilation Tweed resigns from investigating the case, also resigns as Deputy Chief of the SIS,' Calouste screamed. `Suppose he refuses?' Jacques yelled.

What was also getting on Jacques's normally ice-cold nerves was Calouste continuing to slash the heads of the rape as he continued his crazy dancing. Jacques had had enough. He shouted his question out of the window. `What if Tweed still refuses your demands?' `We continue to slice off parts of the girl's anatomy. That is, after we have sent photographs of her with the relevant sections marked with a cross.'

What was really disturbing was that Calouste's face appeared to have changed. His jaw was twisted to one side, which caused his mouth to twist into the most evil smile Jacques had ever seen.

Jacques determined to react. He made a show of glancing in the rear-view mirror, then shouted at the very top of his voice. `I think I can hear a car approaching the crest of the road behind us. Sirens blaring.'

Calouste ran to his seat behind the steering wheel. The most extraordinary transformation had taken place. His face, only moments before the devil incarnate, was now quite normal. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, saw no sign of an approaching car. The stiletto had vanished. Reaching into his jacket pocket he brought out a long fat envelope, handed it to Jacques. `I so appreciate your support that here is a little present. Inside you will find twenty thousand pounds in Swiss banknotes. Now we will drive on. To Seacove.'