Death in the Kingdom (41 page)

‘After Chekhov burned down the drugs factory in the old town. Things happened too fast from that moment on and it all fell into place.'

‘And you played me along after that?' Bernard looked truly surprised, then he nodded and smiled. ‘Ah, Daniel, I trained you well. It's a pity what has to be will be,' he said sadly. ‘Unfortunately with you left alive, I fear I face a rather bleak retirement in one of Her Majesty's institutions. Now that you have finally got rid of Chekhov, it is time we said goodbye.'

‘You are going to do it yourself?' I asked in mock surprise. Bernard looked quite startled at the suggestion he would not do it personally.

‘Of course I will do it, Daniel. This is not the sort of thing one has others do. That is just not proper,' he added as he raised the gun. I planted both feet on the floor and launched myself sideways. The chair and I parted company about the same time the silenced automatic spat. I heard a shot ricochet as the slug hit the tiled wall behind me. As I rolled, something broke with a glassy clatter. Once behind the breakfast bar, I pushed my arms down as far as I could. Thank God for a relatively small arse and tight jeans. I worked my behind through my bound arms and then went for my feet, pushing my right boot off as I squirmed to get my legs through my arms. The left boot held me up for a precious second or two, then it was off. I pulled the stiletto out of the sheath and held it in a double grip, blade-upwards. I didn't have time to cut the cable tie because Roddy was coming around the corner of the breakfast bar.

Roddy didn't have a gun but his cosh was raised high. It was a clumsy move on his part because, crouching where I was on the floor, I had him open from his groin to his chin. Maybe I'd overestimated the talents of Bernard's little sleeper. I lunged forward and up under Roddy's downward swing, feeling the cosh hit me more or less harmlessly behind my left shoulder as I drove the knife straight into the V of Roddy's rib cage. I was going for his heart, and I got it.

Roddy staggered back a pace and then stood, staring down at me with wide eyes. The cosh dropped from his fingers as he gripped his chest with both hands, trying to stem the flow of dark blood. His face had become a big white shock-filled blank.

As the late Roddy Thomas sank to his knees and started to draw his final last breaths, I hunched behind the kitchen counter and twisted the bloodied knife so I could sever the cable tie. It was done in seconds. Now where was Bernard? There was no sound in the room but for Roddy's departing moans. As he started to fall forward, I planted both feet into Roddy's chest and propelled him back out into the room. There was the muted thunk of a silencer and Roddy's falling body took a hit.

I risked looking around the edge of the bar. Bernard was still sitting in his seat, the gun in his hand. I pulled my head back as his automatic spat a bullet. The bullet missed me and hit the wall behind and to my right. Roddy, meanwhile, was lying on his back on the tiled floor. The poor sap raised his head to look at Bernard and opened his mouth but no sound came out. His head made a meaty sound on the tiles and Roddy Thomas was no more. The only movement was a growing pool of dark blood under his body, an echo of poor Babs's final moments.

There was silence in the room, but for the sound of water dripping into the basin in the mini kitchen unit behind me. I realised I'd not noticed that the tap needed a new washer until then. I'd have maintenance look at it when this was all over. Once again, a stupid irrelevant thing like a dripping tap had crept into my mind during such a tense moment. Maybe it was stress. Bernard eventually broke the near silence.

‘Very impressive, Daniel. Poor old Roddy. He used to be such a lovely boy,' he added sadly. ‘You'll have to come out
some
time.'

‘Not necessarily, Bernard. You may have to come to me,' I replied as I squatted behind the breakfast bar, keeping the dishwasher between Bernard and I. I reached up to quietly ease open the utensils drawer. My Walther was out of reach in the safe in the bedroom. However there was a set of very sharp steak knives in the kitchen drawer. I lifted them out quietly and laid them on the floor beside me. My stiletto was an excellent throwing knife but I wanted that in my hand when I sliced Sir Bernard's throat from ear to ear.

I had spent a lot of time learning how to throw knives well. Waiting in the bush for a meet with some bandit or other often meant days of doing nothing. Because nothing and I had never been really good companions, I used to practice throwing knives to pass the time, sometimes for hours on end. I got very good at it. In the movies a single thrown knife, when accurately pinpointed, can cause instant death. In real life it never usually works like that. However a thrown knife inflicting a hit of any sort can distract the recipient. It can cause pain and, occasionally, serious injury. What I wanted was to buy a few seconds of valuable time. Time to get to Sir Bernard.

I would throw the heavy steak knives in flights of three. The range from the counter to the couch was, I judged, almost perfect for one rotation of any decent knife. He would be struck and he would be cut. That I could guarantee. Immediately after I had thrown the second set of three, I would follow.

I pushed the drawer closed and moved so my back was against the cupboards and I had the dishwasher and counter in front of me. I waited for Bernard to make his move. I hoped he wouldn't for the moment because there was one last thing I wanted to know. What was my price? To kill him without knowing that would piss me off. Everyone wants to know their worth—don't they?

‘Incidentally,' I asked in a very conversational tone as I fitted the first three knives into my right hand and gauged the weight. ‘How did you find out I was staying here?' He started chuckling then and I knew he hadn't moved.

‘Oh, Daniel. The mobile phone was clever, wasn't it?'

I leaned across to my left and answered, ‘Very clever.' I pulled back instantly. There was a cough and a clank as Bernard fired through the breakfast bar and hit the rubbish bin.

‘Damn,' the old prick said mildly. ‘Actually my cleverest trick was your bag.'

‘What?' I replied, stunned.

‘The bag,' he repeated. ‘You have a bag with an electronic baggage tag on it. I know because our people made it up.'

‘I have the bag,' I replied. At that moment it was in the wardrobe in the bedroom.

‘The tag is a baggage tag in one sense. It is also a locator beacon,' Bernard said. I got the icy-spine sensation again.

‘You see, Daniel, when your laptop is sitting in its little cubbyhole it is configured to discharge a pulse of electrical energy every twelve hours.' Bernard was relishing this. ‘That energy travels to our special little chip in the baggage and the tag sends out a big message saying, “Here I am, come and get me.” The steel mesh in the bag becomes an aerial and it lights up a GPS system like a hand grenade. That, dear boy, is how we found you. The bag is totally inert except for that few seconds every twelve hours, so nothing registers at airport security and the like. Not my idea but very clever.'

‘Very,' I said, impressed. I didn't try and figure out the twelve-hour cycle, but given the computer was in the bag at that moment in time and I'd been there several days, I'd nailed my co-ordinates for him big time.

‘Now I think it's time we stopped all this foolishness and finished it.' The old bastard spoke in such a reasonable tone. It was almost as if he were inviting me to tea.

‘Just one more thing. After killing me, what are you going to do?' I asked, leaning away to the right and pulling back again. The fridge took a hit.

‘Bother,' he grumbled. ‘All right,' he sighed, sounding like a spoilt child. ‘In answer to your question, Daniel, I am going to go home, announce my retirement and move to the Bahamas.'

‘To be near your bank accounts, huh?' I asked, hunching close behind the dishwasher again. This time he didn't shoot. I figured he was probably still sitting on three rounds but I knew the problem with small calibre weapons was that sometimes you needed more than a few to do the job, especially if your target was pumped up and fast moving. The small, relatively low-powered round also meant you really couldn't shoot through things like dishwashers.

‘Of course the anthrax, that was pure patriotism from the start. What followed between Chekhov and I eventually became a fiscal arrangement, as did the recovery of the bug and you, of course. That was my retirement fund.'

‘Chekhov paid you before delivery?' I said, not able to hide the genuine amazement in my voice.

‘Oh yes,' came the smug reply. ‘It was the co-ordinates of the wreck and you, dear boy, with Tuk Tuk and your friend, Sami Somsak, as a side dish. Ten million dollars, US, deposited in my bank account. More than enough for me to see out my days in some degree of style and comfort.'

‘Little boys and good brandy.'

‘Only little boys to look at. No more buggery! To tell you the truth, Daniel, I'm pleased all that sexual nonsense is over. I'm too old and it was rather messy. I'm just looking forward to warm weather for my old bones and yes, good brandy.'

‘I can guarantee it'll be warm where you're going,' I said with very real promise in my voice. Part of ten million dollars was the price on my head. I couldn't really complain. In many places in this world I knew there were people who would gladly kill me for free.

‘Would you like to stand up and throw that damned knife of yours at me or do something equally dramatic so we can get this over with. It really is getting very tiresome and I've got a plane to catch.'

‘Yeah, why not,' I agreed. ‘I'm getting bored as well,' I said as I squatted. The first salvo of knives were ready to go, the second I'd placed on top of the dishwasher. My stiletto, although it may seem unhygienic, was between my teeth. I needed a momentary distraction and it came in the form of the good old rubbish bin. It was steel with a spring lid and foot pedal. It already sported a hole in its side, compliments of Bernard's marksmanship. The bin didn't look much like me, but hell, who cared?

I balanced the bin in my left hand like a bowler getting the feel of his ball. When I was ready I threw it low and underarm towards Roddy's body. As the bin spun away, rattling and clattering, I moved into a half-crouch, sliding along the counter top to my left and rising above it.

Bernard hadn't been expecting two things: the decoy run by the rubbish bin to his left, and me coming from a position several feet to his right. Instinct was a governing factor in just about everything we did. Despite his eyes telling him that the rubbish bin wasn't what he was looking for, he couldn't keep the muzzle of his gun from going that way, or from giving poor old Roddy another souvenir bullet.

I threw the first flight of knives overarm and hard. Then I ducked and moved back to my right, picking up the second flight as I came around the end of the counter in a low crouch. I threw the knives as I stepped over Roddy's body and dived at Bernard, my right hand going for the blade clamped between my teeth.

‘Fuck!' I swore as I skidded into the old bugger's knees, my stiletto set for a backhanded rip across his skinny throat from left to right. With my free hand I grabbed for his gun.

Bernard's gun was pointing at the floor, hanging from limp fingers. His eyes were wide with shock. One single, solitary steak knife had actually landed in a such a way that it was like watching a movie scene. It was lodged squarely in Sir Bernard Sinclair's gullet, right where a tracheotomy incision would have been made if he'd been in need of one. The fingers of the old bugger's left hand were fluttering in front of his throat. The other knives were scattered all around the couch. One was embedded in a cushion, another in the wall behind his head.

‘One out of six ain't bad,' I muttered, taking the automatic from the old sod's right hand. Bernard's other hand was touching the handle of the knife embedded in his throat. I debated either pulling it out or wrenching it around a bit. In the end I reached over and pulled the serrated blade out as I stood up.

‘Sir Bernard Sinclair, traitor to Her Majesty,' I said rather pompously as I dropped the steak knife on the floor. ‘I now declare you fucking dead.' I raised the silenced automatic to finish him off, but Bernard was waving both hands. His lips were moving. Amateur tracheotomy or not, he was trying to talk. Curiosity got the better of me, so I knelt down beside him and put my head close to his, the muzzle of the silencer resting over where his heart would have been if he'd had one.

‘What?'

‘Daniel,' he whispered hoarsely, the fingers of his left hand covering his throat. Blood was leaking from between his fingers and his lips were crimson. ‘Don't expose me. Not for my sake! For the sake of the country!' His voice was fading. I had to lean closer. ‘There's been enough of that. Don't give the tabloids another field day. Please, Daniel.' He closed his eyes and I figured that was that. But it wasn't. ‘Don't, please,' he pleaded, his voice again a bubbling whisper. ‘My wallet, account number. Beacon International Bank, Bahamas. Password is Victor. Just don't expose me for Britain's sake, Daniel.'

With that, the old bugger died. He gasped and went through a classic death-rattle sequence, his body going into spasms and falling back in the chair. I gave him a minute, then checked for signs of life. I still didn't trust him to be dead. I'd seen too many horror movies in real life. I checked for a pulse. There was none. It was truly over.

‘Damn,' I said aloud. Trust him to play the loyalty card at the end. He always had been a master of manipulation. I went back to the bar and poured a JD. Then I went and sat on the couch beside my former boss and contemplated my suite filled with dead men.

As I started to lower the level of another bottle of bourbon, I stopped drinking long enough to make a phone call. The call was to Sami. He was sending a clean-up crew down. In a day or two Roddy and Sir Bernard would be involved in a fatal and fiery accident in Bangkok. Sir Bernard would be flown home for his lavish farewell. Who knew what Roddy's arrangements would be? Again, who cared? I just hoped he had plenty of insurance so his poor damned wife could have a fucking ball as she toasted his departure.