The Shadow Project

Chapter Thirty-One

Lenny Salt was pretty pleased with himself.

As he drove out of Laugharne as fast as the old Vauxhall would go, heading away from the coastline through the maze of winding lanes that criss-crossed the countryside like a spider’s web, he had a big smile on his face. He reached out and patted the camera on the passenger seat. Nice work. He’d got some great snaps of the Red Scarf Man. That would teach Them to send some spook out to trick old Lenny Salt. Information on Kammler? Lenny smiled. Yeah, right. As if these people could tell him anything. Nobody knew more about Kammler than the Kammler Krew.

He thought about the man he’d photographed, magnified up close in the long lens. Probably mid to late thirties, in good shape. Almost certainly ex-military. Those guys all had that look about them. MI5 or CIA? he wondered. Then again, what did it matter which agency he was working for – it was all part of the same evil global fraternity.

Them. Lenny thought about Them a lot. The bastards were all in it together.

He’d seen this whole thing coming, for a long time. Had anyone listened to him? Had they fuck. And now look what had happened. Michio and Julia dead, and it was only a question of time before They got to Adam as well.

It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you, he thought. That was one of his favourite sayings, and it never failed to make him smile to himself, because he knew he was way too smart ever to let them catch him. He’d been too clever for Red Scarf Man today, same as he’d been too clever to let himself be duped by that girl last year, that German or whatever she was, the one calling herself Luna.

Luna – what kind of stupid made-up name was that?

Lenny grinned to himself at the memory of how he’d fooled her. Same system he’d used today. Agree to the meet, watch them from a vantage point, take the pictures and slip away. Know your enemy. That was another favourite saying of his, one he took seriously. This was war. It was a matter of survival.

As soon as he got back to the caravan he was going to download the pictures onto his laptop with the others: all the people who’d ever tried to follow him, lure him or pinch his ideas. He was still working on a lot of the names, and of course most of them were phoney anyway – that was the way They worked. But he had all the faces memorised, and he was always watching out for them, everywhere he went. More enemies would come for him in the future. He was certain of that – but he’d be ready for them.

They weren’t going to get him. No chance. Not him, not wily old Lenny Salt. Always one step ahead, always on the move, untraceable, checking his emails from a different library or cyber-café every day, always paying cash and giving false names to the farmers whose bits of land he rented. Then, every couple of months, or whenever he felt the heat, he’d move on.

And now that Red Scarf Man was sniffing around, it was going to be time to pack up and relocate again. Away from west Wales, maybe up to Scotland this time. Or perhaps Cornwall. Plenty of places to hide away there, and there was always a hippy retreat or new-age healing camp where you could buy a bit of hash.

After half an hour’s drive Lenny was deep in the countryside. At the end of a long, twisty single-track lane he stopped at a farm gate, got out of the car and opened it, drove through and stopped again to shut it behind him. Cows looked up from their grazing and eyed the Vauxhall lazily as it bumped through the field. Across the other side, he reached the next gate and passed through into the wooded area where his camp was.

A few yards further up the track, half-hidden behind a sprawl of gorse and brambles, was the old Sprite caravan. He’d bought it cheap, in cash, from a secondhand dealer in the Peak District just before he’d left Manchester. As soon as he’d got it, he’d sprayed it with military surplus drab-olive paint to help it blend into the rural environments where he planned on spending the rest of his days. Home might be a box on wheels, but he liked to keep it nice and tidy.

Lenny got out of the car and walked over towards the caravan, avoiding the tripwire that was carefully stretched between two trees and attached to an alarm circuit. His hidden cameras watched him from the foliage.

Next to the caravan was his folding table, his deck chair and the barbecue that he grilled his food on. He fancied some sausages tonight. He climbed the aluminium steps to his front door, took the keys from his pocket and undid the two heavy steel padlocks to let himself in. It was hot and stuffy inside, and he pushed open the windows to let some air circulate.

Still grinning to himself at having fooled Them yet again, he stepped over to the fridge and pulled out a can of Old Speckled Hen. Cracked the ring and raised the can in a toast to his cleverness.

‘I’ll have one of those too,’ said a voice behind him.

The can dropped out of Lenny’s fingers and hit the vinyl floor with a hiss of foam.

Lenny spun around.

The man from the castle walkway in Laugharne was standing in the doorway.