Ultimatum

Forty-nine

19.31

Voorhess stood amid the lush foliage of Mr Butt’s roof garden staring up at the dark sky. Although it was a clear night, he could see only two stars, the light pollution obscuring the rest. It made him think once again of home, where even close to Cape Town the stars would swarm like bright dust across the night sky.

There was a biting chill in the air, and he was pleased that, if everything worked out, he would be leaving this country first thing the following morning. He didn’t like crowds, and he didn’t like bad weather, and the UK could be relied upon for both. He was staying in a hotel in Heathrow tonight, then after flying to Bangkok he was off on a well-deserved week’s holiday down south on the isolated island of Ko Pida near the Malaysian border, away from all the backpackers and the boorish Russians, before returning to Cape Town via Singapore — a million dollars richer.

The money was being paid into an account in the name of a consultancy company based in Bermuda. From there it would go via Panama to the Cayman Islands before being transferred in small increments back into South Africa as and when he needed it. It was a complicated procedure, and it cost him a great deal of money to set up the shell companies and keep the accounts active, but Voorhess knew it was worth the investment. With this new money his retirement fund would stand at almost two million dollars. Not enough to quit work just yet, but five more years of earning and careful spending and he’d be able to realize his dream of opening a small guesthouse on the shores of the Western Cape, hopefully with a handsome young boyfriend in tow.

As he stared skywards, he frowned. When he’d first come out here a couple of hours earlier, the sky had been criss-crossed with vapour trails and the lights of planes coming in and out of Heathrow ten miles to the west of him. Now it was empty. Was it a coincidence or had someone somewhere found out about the Stinger? He couldn’t see how they could have done, but then he knew very little about the client who’d hired him to fire it. Usually, this was an advantage. The less he had to deal with his clients the better. But the problem was, he had to trust the fact that they were reliable and efficient. He told himself not to become too paranoid. It might simply be that the planes had been moved as a precaution after the bombs earlier in the day.

He removed the missile launcher from the holdall at his feet. The last time he’d fired a Stinger he’d brought down a helicopter in the Western Congo containing a high-ranking mining executive. They were extremely simple to use and very accurate if you knew what you were doing, which Voorhess did. He gave the launcher a quick inspection. It looked new, and appeared to be in perfect working order. But he still had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

Putting the missile back down on the ground, he walked over to the edge of the garden and looked down at the empty street below. Lights were on in most of the houses on the opposite side, and in one of the windows he could see two boys of about twelve, faces pressed to a single PC screen, looks of intense concentration on their pale, round faces. Voorhess felt sorry for them. When he’d been their age he was out exploring the dusty hills and wooded creeks round his parents’ farm, hunting deer and fishing for trout, enjoying the sunshine and the fresh air.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. A marked police car cruising past the end of the street, sirens off. Moving slowly.

For Voorhess, this and the absence of planes in the night sky was too much of a coincidence. He knew all about the client’s ultimatum, the fact that he had to fire the missile at eight p.m., but to stay put much longer was simply too risky. He looked at his watch. Just after 7.30. Not enough time to void the contract.

He’d have to get this thing over and done with soon. With a deep breath, he turned round and looked towards his target.