The Revelation Code

19

Eddie emerged from the arrivals gate at VC Bird airport to see his name in crooked marker pen on a piece of cardboard. He had expected a reception committee, but at the back of his mind throughout his flight was the thought that it might not be friendly. However, he knew this one had been arranged by a friend simply because he had acquired some extra initials: E. B. G. Chase. ‘Cheeky bastard,’ he said with a grin.

The man holding the card was not the one he had called, but a middle-aged Antiguan wearing a battered baseball hat and a long baggy shirt bearing patterns of shells and starfish. Eddie approached him. ‘I’m Eddie Chase. Are you Nelson?’

‘Thas right,’ the man drawled, giving him a broad, lazy smile. ‘Nelson Lightwood, at your service. At your service,’ he repeated, for no reason the Englishman could determine. ‘Tom ask me to take you to Jolly Harbour. Jolly Harbour.’

‘That’s great. That’s great,’ Eddie replied, unable to resist gently ribbing him.

Nelson either didn’t notice or didn’t care. ‘You wan’ me to take your luggage?’

Eddie had only a carry-on bag, and wasn’t planning to relinquish it — for the moment. ‘No, that’s okay. You’ve got a cab?’

‘Outside. The white Toyota.’ He jabbed a thumb in the general direction of the exit. ‘The Toyota.’

Eddie saw as he stepped into the humid heat outside the terminal that while Nelson was being accurate, he was not being specific; about a dozen taxis were lined up at a stand, all white Toyota vans. He wondered why there were no American vehicles, the US being much closer, before realising the answer: the former British colony, like Japan, drove on the left. ‘The one with the flower,’ his driver offered.

‘Tell you what, just show me.’ He followed the nodding Nelson down the rank, glancing back to see if anyone was paying him undue attention.

A tall black man with a close-cropped haircut looked away just a little too quickly, while one of the three Caucasian men near him was almost giving a masterclass in how to look suspicious. All four wore similar white outfits, feebly disguised under jackets. Eddie remembered seeing the black guy lurking near the exit when he’d met Nelson. He had company, then, but he would have been surprised if he hadn’t.

‘This one, my friend,’ said Nelson. The dented Toyota Hiace minibus looked little different from its neighbours, though Eddie was amused when he spotted its identifying feature: a fake sunflower on the dashboard. ‘Step inside.’ He pulled back the sliding side door.

Eddie took a place on the rear bench seat. The interior had seen a lot of use, but otherwise appeared to be a perfectly normal island taxi. Of more concern was the object beneath the driver’s seat — a half-empty bottle of vodka. Hoping it was only enjoyed after its owner finished his shift, he waited for Nelson to amble around the vehicle and climb aboard. ‘Okay, my friend,’ said the Antiguan. ‘Jolly Harbour.’

He pulled away. They passed the four waiting men, all of whom watched them go. Eddie looked back as the cab cleared the end of the rank to see the whole group make a beeline for a parked car.

The taxi left the airport grounds and headed south-west around the outskirts of the capital, St John’s. ‘How long will it take to get there?’ he asked.

Nelson shrugged. ‘Who can tell? This is rush hour.’ The traffic didn’t look to Eddie any heavier than he would expect of a quiet Sunday afternoon in England, but the squealing brakes and sudden swerves of other drivers suggested that the Antiguan attitude towards road discipline was a lot more lackadaisical.

‘Well, there’s no hurry.’ He looked at the bag on his lap, then over his shoulder. The silver Honda his tails were driving was a few cars behind. ‘You got a map of the island?’

‘Sure, man.’ Nelson passed him a brochure. St John’s was in the island’s north-west quarter; Jolly Harbour, his destination, was down on the south-western Caribbean coast. The distance between the two was only about seven miles, but he doubted that any part of the trip would be on a motorway.

Of more concern was that once past the southern fringes of St John’s, there only appeared to be a few small villages dotted along the route, nothing but green between them. ‘The way we’re going — does it go through open countryside?’

Nelson nodded. ‘Oh yeah, man,’ he said, turning to peer back at him. ‘We goin’ along Valley Road, very pretty along there, very pretty. You get a good view of Mount Obama there, yeah.’

‘You might want to get a good view here,’ Eddie suggested, seeing a stationary bus looming in the taxi’s path.

Nelson gave him another languid smile and looked ahead, slowing just in time to avoid a collision. ‘No problem, man. I been driving here thirty-three years, thirty-three years. Not dead yet.’

The Honda was still holding position not far behind. ‘You ever had any trouble in that time?’ asked the Yorkshireman. ‘I don’t mean with cars, but with their drivers. Or anyone else.’

An amused grunt. ‘You think we in paradise? Ha! We got some not very nice folks here, same as anywhere. I can take care of myself, my friend.’

‘Good. ’Cause you might need to.’

Nelson used the mirror to meet his eyes, for the first time showing a hint of steel behind the sleepy front. ‘Tom told me why you come here. Don’ worry. I don’ lose a passenger yet.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Eddie settled back, occasionally glancing through the rear window to check on their tail.

The taxi made its way around the periphery of St John’s. The brightly painted houses became smaller and more basic as they moved away from the capital’s centre, before finally petering out. ‘Valley Road,’ Nelson announced. ‘Valley Road.’

Eddie saw lumpen tree-covered hills rising in the distance beyond a rippled plain of farmland and forests. According to the map, the road was the main route to the various villages and resorts in the south-west. It was hardly an interstate, though, the bumpy highway only two lanes wide. What little traffic there was seemed content to amble along at no more than thirty miles per hour, Nelson giving a toot of the horn to warn the driver of an old pickup doing half that speed that he was about to overtake.

The Antiguan glanced at the truck as he passed and chuckled. ‘That guy, he smokin’. Say, you smoke? I get you all hooked up, man. All hooked up.’

‘No thanks,’ said Eddie. ‘Not my thing.’ Another look back. With fewer cars on the road, the Honda was running out of cover. Its driver held position behind the dawdling pickup before seeing that his quarry was pulling away and making a hasty pass. They were now in open countryside. ‘How far to the next village?’

‘Jennings, about two kilometres,’ Nelson told him. ‘Then another kilometre to Bolands. Bolands.’

Bolands was not far from their destination. If something was going to happen, it would be here, as far as possible from any witnesses. ‘Stay sharp,’ said Eddie. ‘I think we’re going to have company—’

The words had barely emerged when the Honda surged forward, catching up with the taxi in seconds. It drew alongside — and the black man in the passenger seat pointed a pistol from his open window, waving for the cab to turn down a track to the left. Nelson yelped a Creole curse. ‘Better do it,’ Eddie told him.

The Toyota pulled off the road, stopping a short way down the muddy track. The car halted behind it, angling to block both the view of anyone passing by and the cab’s escape route. ‘This all fucked up!’ Nelson protested as the four men climbed from their vehicle. ‘Fucked up!’

‘Just stay calm,’ said Eddie. He shifted to the middle of the rear seat, putting the bag next to the sliding door, and picked up the vodka bottle. As the men advanced, he slipped it under his right arm, holding it in place by the neck.

The door was hauled open. The black man leaned in and pointed the gun at the Yorkshireman, who raised both hands to chest height. ‘Toss away the keys,’ he ordered Nelson. His accent was American. The wide-eyed driver obeyed, dropping the keys from his window. ‘Okay, Chase. Keep your hands where I can see them. Where’s the angel?’

‘In the bag,’ Eddie replied.

The gunman’s gaze flicked to the holdall. ‘Bring it out. Slowly.’

Eddie picked it up with his left hand and carefully clambered from the taxi, keeping his other arm against his side to conceal the bottle behind him. The three white guys, to his relief, didn’t have guns, but the biggest held a tyre iron, repeatedly slapping it against his open palm.

‘Okay, put it down.’ The Englishman lowered the bag to the ground. ‘Washburn, open it. Make sure the angel’s inside.’

One of the other men squatted by the holdall and pulled back the zip. Inside was a thick roll of bubble wrap surrounding an object about a foot long. ‘I brought your precious bloody angel,’ said Eddie as the man tugged at the plastic cocoon. ‘Where’s Nina?’

‘Safe. Until we don’t need her any more,’ the black man replied dismissively.

‘And I suppose that now you’ve got the angel, you don’t need me either?’

‘You got that right.’ He scowled. ‘You killed a lot of good men in Berlin, Chase. That makes you a threat to our plan — God’s plan.’

Eddie eyed the gun, which was fixed unwaveringly on his chest. ‘What, you’re just going to shoot me in the street?’

‘This isn’t New York. By the time the cops respond, we’ll be long gone. We’re leaving this island soon anyway—’

‘Simeon!’ said Washburn. He had peeled open one end of the thick wrapping to reveal the head of an eagle. ‘It’s the angel!’

Simeon glanced down to see for himself—

Eddie brought his elbow outwards, dropping the bottle — and whipped his hand down to catch it.

The gunman was transfixed by the sight of the statue for a split second too long. His eyes snapped back to Eddie — as the bottle smashed against his gun hand, shards lacerating his skin.

He screamed as the alcohol seared the wounds and reflexively pulled the trigger — but the impact had knocked the pistol away from his target, the bullet whipping past the Yorkshireman to clunk into the taxi’s bodywork.

Eddie swept one leg up and kicked Simeon’s bleeding hand. The gun was sent spinning into the tall bushes beside the track. The American let out another cry.

Washburn jumped up, fists balled, only to reel away with a shriek as jagged glass slashed his cheek. Holding the bloodied bottle like a knife, Eddie backed up past the taxi to give himself more room to manoeuvre.

‘The angel! Get the angel!’ Simeon barked, clutching his injured hand. One of the other men snatched up the bag, while his companion with the tyre iron moved past him towards the Englishman, whipping the length of metal from side to side.

Eddie retreated, watching the bar flick before him. The man holding it was built powerfully enough to break bone if a blow landed. Behind him, the other three attackers were hurriedly returning to the Honda with the bag.

The big man lunged. Eddie jerked aside as the tyre iron stabbed past his head, glimpsing Nelson scrambling from the taxi behind his attacker. Another strike, this a savage horizontal swipe that whooshed past just inches from his nose.

He flinched back — and staggered as his heel dropped into a deep rut.

The man bared his teeth in a malevolent smile, raising the bar to smash Eddie’s skull—

And screamed, one leg giving way as Nelson stabbed a long serrated knife into his thigh.

Eddie punched the hulking thug hard in the face, sending a gush of blood from his nostrils. He toppled backwards into the mud, weapon forgotten as he clutched the stab wound. The Englishman grabbed the tool, about to finish the fight permanently before deciding that a murder would not endear him to the Antiguan authorities. He settled instead for viciously kicking his opponent’s crotch. The big man convulsed, every muscle in his body drawn tight, before slumping unconscious.

The Honda’s engine roared. Eddie scrambled for cover, expecting his attackers to mow him down, but instead it reversed sharply before skidding back on to the main road. Within seconds it was out of sight behind the bushes, heading back towards St John’s.

He turned to Nelson. ‘You okay?’ The Antiguan nodded, staring almost in bewilderment at the blood on his blade before hurriedly wiping it on the downed man’s shirt. ‘Thanks for that — I’m glad you had that knife.’

‘Mos’ taxi drivers do. I tell you, you only think this place is paradise.’ He regarded the motionless figure with dismay. ‘They were gonna kill you!’

‘They’d have killed both of us.’ Eddie spotted a glint of metal in the undergrowth and retrieved the gun. ‘Come on, let’s go. Somebody might have heard that shot, and I don’t have time to piss around dealing with the police.’

The taxi driver didn’t move. ‘What we gonna do with this guy?’

Eddie snorted. ‘He started it — and I bet he won’t go to the cops. You didn’t hit the artery, so he’s not going to die. Leave the bastard there and let him limp home when he wakes up. You coming?’ He went to the cab.

Nelson examined his vehicle. ‘Look at this! Look at this!’ he complained, poking a fingertip into the bullet hole. ‘How I gon’ explain that to me wife?’

‘Just remind her that this place isn’t paradise,’ Eddie said with a grim smile.

Nelson frowned, then recovered the keys. ‘I come get you as a favour to Tom. Now he better do me a favour!’ He got back into the taxi. ‘They took your bag, man,’ he said, regarding the empty rear bench. ‘Took your bag!’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Eddie as he returned to his seat, then leaned back — with an expression almost of satisfaction. ‘Real shame, that…’

Nelson gave him a disbelieving look, then, muttering under his breath, reversed the cab to the road and set off again for Jolly Harbour, leaving the dazed man lying in the mud.