Seventy Times Seven (26 page)

‘I want to do a deal,’ said Danny, his voice steady: under control. ‘The girl Marie Bain, she has nothing to do with any of this,’ he continued. ‘All she’s guilty of is trying to survive a shitty situation that wasn’t of her making. I want any charges against her dropped and a guarantee of immunity from prosecution.’

‘Do you know where she is?’ asked Kneller.

‘Yes,’ replied Danny.

‘Is that it?’

Danny hesitated: he couldn’t be one-hundred-per-cent sure the FBI knew his brother was attempting to leave the country. If they didn’t know; he would be compromising Sean, but at this stage it was an all-or-nothing throw.

‘My brother Sean is going to get on a plane in the next few hours using the passport in the name of Mr Leonard – he must be allowed to go unimpeded, with no alerts sent to the British authorities for at least seventy-two hours.’

‘Maybe we could organise to give him a massage and get his dick sucked while he’s waiting to board,’ exclaimed Agent Evelyn.

‘If you’re volunteering that’d be grand,’ said Danny, ‘but I’m not sure you’re his type.’

‘You think cause you strolled in here to face us off, you’ve got big balls?’ said Evelyn getting up from his chair. ‘All it means – asshole – is we’ve got a bigger target to kick when we beat the shit out of you and throw you in jail.’

‘And . . . anything else?’ interrupted Kneller putting a hand between the two men and pushing Evelyn back into his seat.

‘I want to leave too – same deal as my brother: no alerts for at least seventy-two hours.’

‘You booked your ticket?’

‘Yes.’

Evelyn sat there trying to stare Danny down, but Danny ignored him: he hadn’t come to start a fight. His only objective was to buy enough time to get Sean out of the country and then leave as well. Kneller took a long drag on his cigarette and finished the last of his beer before he said anything else.

‘So far the traffic’s travelling in one direction, Danny, and as far as I can make out there are a couple of juggernauts packed with explosives heading our way that could cause a nasty pile-up and get us all burned. We got information says you’re here to procure arms, and that you have a contract to murder someone. We also got your brother down for a fatal shooting in Tuscaloosa, and a murder right across the street here in Cottondale. Whichever way you cut it, you and your brother are looking at a major term indoors, with no chance of parole. If your lawyer advised you to come here and make this play, I hope he – or she – also told you the only way you’re gonna win is if you’re playing with a marked deck, or you got a royal flush, otherwise you made a bad call. What I’m getting at is this: what do we get out of it, except clearing up all the shit you’re proposing to leave behind?’

Danny noticed Kneller’s hand resting on the handle of the gun. Kneller was taking the situation in his stride, playing it cool – but Danny had him sussed. He knew Kneller would have no hesitation in drawing the weapon and shooting him dead if he made one wrong move.

‘In return for everything I’m asking,’ replied Danny, ‘I’ll give you enough on Hernando De Garza to guarantee he’ll never come out of jail again.’

Kneller’s face was like stone: it was difficult to read any sort of reaction, but he was taking his time to answer, which told Danny everything he needed to know. If it wasn’t a possibility Kneller would have dismissed it straight away.

‘Can I get you another couple of Skeeters?’ said Danny as he nodded over to Bulldog Jo.

‘Sure,’ replied Kneller.

‘You mind if I go to the restroom?’ asked Danny. ‘I need to signal my colleagues to tuck their guns back in their pants and head off home.’

‘Go right ahead,’ said Kneller.

Danny drove north-east along Jack Warner Parkway for a few miles looking for somewhere to pull over. He eventually turned right into Sherwood Avenue and drove to the top of the hill, where he parked, making sure the car wasn’t visible from any of the houses he had passed on the way.

Sherwood was a quiet cul-de-sac with only four or five bungalows on one side of the street and a patch of tall woodland on the other. There were no street lamps. The only light came from small electric storm lamps that swayed back and forth in the picket-fenced porches.

It was 12.30 a.m. and all curtains were drawn. Danny killed the engine and sat in silence for a few moments, watching the road behind in his rear-view mirror to make certain no one had followed him. When he was sure he was alone, Danny got out of the car and made his way round to the boot. Inside was a dark-blue checked duffel bag and a slim leather case that measured roughly four feet in length, and eighteen inches wide. Danny lifted out the narrow case and locked the car.

The air was cool and fresh: a faint hint of the river mixed in with the aroma of pine from the adjacent trees. Danny crossed to the other side of the road and climbed over a low barrier into the shelter of the shrubs that were scattered in large clumps under the canopy of the trees. If anyone did happen to glance out of their window, Danny would be well hidden.

Following the line of the road he walked quickly back down the hill through the trees until he was standing on the corner of Sherwood and Jack Warner Parkway, making sure he would not be visible to any passing motorists.

At this time of night there was little traffic, but a faint rumbling sound in the distance made him stop. The long shadows of the trees swept along the road as a large freight truck passed – its headlamps blazing – on into the dark night.

The two-lane County Road 88 ran parallel with Jack Warner Parkway, separated by a flat central reservation of dried grass. When he was sure there was nothing else coming, Danny sprinted across and disappeared into the tall spindly pine trees that ran along the eastern banks of the Black Warrior River.

The ground underneath the sprawling canopy was covered with rotting leaves and fallen pine needles. It wasn’t long before Danny was standing on the shore of the great river. Moonlight reflected off the slick black surface as the current pulled it silently along its wide, meandering course.

In the far distance the lights of a bridge twinkled through the darkness and danced around on the swirling surface of the water. On the western bank – about half a mile from where he was standing – there was the dim outline of a large shed or boathouse.

Danny took a few paces back and, using his bare hands, began to clear a patch of ground. He had only just started scraping away the leaf-cover when he heard something crashing through the branches of the tree overhead. There was a loud shrieking sound and he dived forward, fumbling for his gun. He realised with dismay that he had left it in the glove compartment.

Danny twisted round just in time to see a black, misshapen form splash into the river just yards from the shore. His heart was thumping hard. Whatever it was struggled and thrashed around battling for its life.

‘Jesus Christ, scared the shit out of me,’ he muttered as he got back to his feet.

A large black raven was being carried away by the current, its waterlogged wings unable to break free from the Black Warrior’s icy grip.

After only a few minutes the sound of thrashing gradually diminished until – eventually – all that could be heard was the rush of the dark river. The Morrigan’s return had been a brief one.

Danny looked up at the clear night sky and wondered if the raven’s death was an omen. If everything was going to plan then Sean would soon be boarding a plane to fly back home. Danny would follow on as soon as possible and together they would sort out the mess. But what if the FBI had gone back on their word and Sean was now languishing in jail somewhere in Alabama?

He returned to clearing the patch of ground.

When he finished Danny placed the leather case he’d taken from the car in the shallow hole and covered it with leaves. Next he looked around for some reference points, then stood for a few moments to make sure he had them fixed in his mind. He then turned, and – following the course of the river – walked along its shore, counting in his head the exact number of steps he was taking. The length of his stride was slightly exaggerated and would give him only a rough estimate of the distance, but that was all Danny needed. He had only been walking for five minutes when he stopped and looked across to the other bank. Directly opposite was the boathouse: 720 paces, just under half a mile – perfect.

 When Danny got back to the car it suddenly occurred to him that he had nowhere to stay the night.

Hernando De Garza reached across and replaced the antique telephone handset in its cradle, then propped himself up against the plump duck-down pillows on his bed. He stared thoughtfully at the small, silk, mauve-coloured lampshades hanging from the excessive chandelier in the middle of the bedroom. His mansion house – ‘nestling at the foot of Lookout Mountain in seventeen acres of secluded rolling hills and lush green pastures’ – had seven bedrooms in total: one for every day of the week. Today Hernando was in Thursday’s: modelled on a French boudoir, with rich silk-braided curtains, and a deep-purple velvet bedspread that complemented the ornately carved seventeenth-century, black-oak bedstead. All the bedrooms were themed: the French Revolution, the American Civil War, the Second World War, et cetera. The idea would have been a bad one if Hernando hadn’t had the money to carry it off to perfection. Every detail – the antiques, relics and mementos – that filled each room were all one-hundred-per-cent genuine.

The oval-shaped entrance hall to the property was covered in grey Spanish marble and had two long sweeping staircases on either side that led to the first floor. A large mahogany breakfront chiffonier sat against the back wall of the landing with an original Picasso hanging above it. The Picasso had belonged to Hernando’s grandmother and – as far as the art world was concerned – no longer existed. His grandmother told the insurance company the painting had been destroyed after a house fire and claimed substantial compensation for its loss. De Garza didn’t particularly like the painting, but he loved the story behind it, which was why it had such a prominent place at the head of the stairs. It made him wonder how many other priceless works of art had a catalogue listing that read ‘Destroyed by fire’. If anyone ever asked, he would tell them it was a passable replica of the original.

‘What’s the matter? You been staring up at that light for nearly ten minutes now and you haven’t said a word. You worried no one’s going to show up to your party?’ asked Sly.

‘I couldn’t give a shit about the party,’ replied De Garza wearily. ‘I still don’t like the idea of having it on a boat, but it’s too late to change that now.’

‘What’s wrong with a boat?’

‘You kidding me? Once you’re on you can’t get off. You’re stuck on the goddamn thing until the boat has gone all the way from one end of the river to the other and back again: with all those city officials, and local suits, drinking your booze and kissing your ass, and if you
do
want to get off, you gonna have to jump overboard and swim ashore. The Black Warrior River isn’t where you go for a quick swim, it’s where you go if you want to drown. Even the fish don’t like it.’

‘I thought you enjoyed having your ass kissed.’

De Garza smiled distractedly. ‘I do, but you end up talking to someone whose breath smells of shit.’

‘Order some breakfast. You ain’t even been awake half an hour and you’re coming across all cranky. I think maybe your blood sugar is low.’

‘Have you called those fair-skinned, red-headed mongrels across the water yet to tell them their boy McGuire has finally been in touch?’

Sly was sitting on a matching mauve-leather armchair at the bottom of the bed, bent over, tying his shoelaces. ‘Not yet. I was thinking we should set up the meeting, shoot the fucker in the head, and pocket the money. He obviously hasn’t been in touch with back home or he would know we’ve already concluded the deal: technically the Stingers belong to him anyway. This makes me think he’s operating on his own. If those Irish cocksuckers ask, we’ll deny ever having heard from him. McGuire has $200,000 that he’s supposed to hand over to us, but as far as his people back in Ireland are concerned he’s still a no-show. They don’t know where the hell he is – but we do.’

‘I agree with you, but we have to be careful,’ replied Hernando, pulling his silk dressing gown closed. ‘It’s not going to be that straightforward.’

Sly sat upright and looked across at De Garza. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘That was Mr Danny McGuire on the phone. He wants to change the meeting place.’

‘Where to?’ asked Sly.

‘He didn’t want to say over the phone,’ replied De Garza, still staring up at the chandelier.

‘What’s wrong with the
Bama Belle
?’

‘Nothing. He’s still coming to the boat, but he said we can’t discuss anything to do with the Stingers.’

Sly furrowed his brow. ‘What the hell is he playing at?’ He stood up and walked over to check his appearance in the gilt-edged mirror hanging over the white-marble Regency fireplace. ‘Why the fuck not?’

‘Because he’s going to be wearing a wire supplied to him by the FBI.’

Sly stopped preening and turned to look at De Garza. ‘McGuire told you that?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What I can’t figure out is why he would do that?’

‘Do what . . . go to the FBI?’

‘Well, yes, that as well, but what I’m saying is why – if he is working for them – why call to tell me?’

‘Could be he’s trying to beat a charge. If the only thing they’ve got on him is suspected arms dealing – but there ain’t no arms dealing going on – then they gonna have to let him go.’

De Garza nodded his head, but still looked unconvinced. ‘Could be that simple, but something about it is giving off a nasty smell.’

‘How we supposed to set up another meet if he won’t discuss it over the phone and he can’t say anything tomorrow on the boat cause he’s wearing a wire. He telepathic or some shit like that?’ asked Sly.

‘He said when he comes onto the boat he’s going to shake my hand and slip me a piece of paper that has written on it where and when the meet can take place.’

‘Shit . . . sounds like he’s trying to bend you over and show you what his big Irish dick is for. We gonna show up and find a few hundred FBI officers been invited to the  party too: be hiding in the bushes holding a big net they gonna throw over us and capture our asses. You’re right, there’s some bad aroma coming off this one.’

‘We got friends in the Bureau owe us a few favours,’ said De Garza. ‘Let’s give them a call and see if they know what is going on. And if McGuire does show up at the boat tomorrow we’ll get a couple of our boys to follow him when he leaves: see where the asshole goes. But make sure you warn them they could be part of a convoy, with the goddamn FBI tailing their asses as well: they best not do anything stupid.’

‘If he’s going to write us a note, and the meet’s not for a few hours, why don’t we just send one of our guys ahead to check it out. If it looks like there’s a posse of Feds gathering then we don’t show,’ said Sly.

De Garza nodded again. ‘You look like a dumb shit, but you got a brain in that pert little butt of yours, Sly. Now, I got another question for you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sly.

‘D’you think those lampshades need cleaning?’