Detonator (24 page)

I brought out my day sack and stowed all the goodies inside it. Last to go in was the iPhone, after I’d powered it down and removed its SIM card. Whoever was waiting at the City Lounge might just want to check where he was.

I unzipped his overnight bag. A couple of changes of basic kit, a spare pair of deck shoes and a washbag. So he was on his way somewhere, after he’d sorted me and the boy out, and wasn’t planning to stay long.

The briefcase was more interesting. Some routine corporate shit. A bunch of keys. A Space Pen. An unloaded SIG Sauer P226. A 9mm Elite Stainless with a walnut handle. This lad really did fancy himself. It was the perfect weapon for an arsehole who drove around town in a wagon that yelled, ‘Look at me!’

I also found two chrome-plated twenty-round mags and a suppressor, an Albanian passport and a Lufthansa boarding pass for tomorrow’s 06:30 flight from Zürich to Naples – which explained why he had already packed. And although Brindisi was on the opposite side of the southern Italian peninsula, it made me think I was some way towards finding out why Frank had been sad there on his last trip.

The best came last: a thirteen-inch HP laptop in a neoprene sleeve.

There’s no point in breaking down a door if it hasn’t been locked, so I fired it up, in case it wasn’t password protected. It was. I folded it shut, replaced the sleeve, put it down a safe distance from the Fanta zone.

I opened the tool chest, squeezed the bag and the briefcase inside it and put my day sack on top of them. As I replaced the padlock, Hesco gave a low moan from somewhere inside his binding, and seemed to be testing the wrist ties. I gave him a couple of kicks in the kidneys and got nothing in response, so maybe I was imagining it.

The ether had pretty much evaporated from the cloth and Hesco was starting to show signs of wakefulness.

I stood over him briefly before collapsing my weight to sit on his chest, driving out what little air was left in his lungs.

His immediate reaction was to try to arch his back and throw me off, but as long as the staples held, the cable ties made that impossible. I still didn’t say anything. He tried sucking in through his mouth but that wasn’t working. His nostrils flared with the struggle for oxygen.

I brought out my knife, unfolded the blade and slid it under the binding below his left ear. I did it slowly, so he had plenty of opportunity to feel the cold metal against his neck. It worked. He went very, very still. Maybe I was right about the scar on his nose.

Then I sliced upwards, peeled the flap of tape away from his lips, taking a strip of his designer sideburn with it, and pulled the cloth out of his mouth.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t swear. He took a huge, juddering breath, partly because air had never tasted so good, and partly because he’d want to oxygenate fully before trying to unseat me again.

‘Zac, this isn’t complicated. Where is the boy?’

The blade on his throat, a centimetre above the place where the cable ties were tautening against his Adam’s apple, reminded him that silence was a bad idea.

He went the ‘I don’t speak English’ route. I got a stream of turbo-charged Albanian waffle before he coughed up a gob full of phlegm and spat it at me with as much force as he could muster. Almost in slow motion, it smacked on to the front of my T-shirt and stuck there, like a jellyfish.

His lips opened and closed. When the words came, it was in little more than a whisper.

‘Fuck
you
.’

I grabbed the first Fanta bottle that came to hand and snapped off its cap.

I balled up the cloth, rammed the whole thing back in Hesco’s mouth and held my left hand over it. Then I sealed the bottle with my right thumb and gave it a good shake.

As he tried to suck in oxygen through both nostrils I pressed the neck against his upper lip and gave him as much of the foaming cherry-coloured liquid as he could snort.

You don’t expect to drown on dry land, in the back of a panel van, but every nerve ending tells you that’s what’s happening. You can’t see a thing. The carbonated liquid is jet-cleaning your sinuses. The sugar content is coating every membrane. This is high-octane waterboarding on wheels. And you’re starting to realize there’s no escape.

I removed my hand and pulled out the cloth.

Day-glo cherry was bubbling out of his nose and mouth, and maybe his eye sockets too.

‘Where’s the boy?’

He didn’t answer immediately.

He coughed up another load of phlegm. It wasn’t an act of defiance this time, though. It was an act of survival. The stuff dribbled from the corners of his lips and clung to his cheeks for a second or two, then gathered at the back of his collar.

When he found his voice, it came out as a low growl. ‘Fuck you …’ He paused to bring up a throatful of puke. ‘And fuck your mother.’

I threw aside the empty bottle and reached for another, taking the top off before thumbing the opening and slamming its base down on to his skull, making the drink ready to go volcanic. As he took the pain I shoved the cloth back into his mouth, covered it with my hand, and pressed the back of his skull hard against the floor before slotting the bottleneck into position and letting it discharge.

It fizzed like a firecracker.

He jerked his head from side to side, as far as my grip and the cable ties would allow, but it didn’t help him. I leant down, pushing my hands into his face. The sticky liquid sprayed over my arms and thighs of my jeans. The smell of cherry flavouring filled my nostrils.

It was pointless talking just yet. I wanted him to believe that he was going under. I wanted his sinuses to feel like they were dissolving in acid. And I wanted his imagination to do the rest.

When the last of the cherry had spilt down his cheeks and gummed up his hair, I whipped my hand off his mouth again. He tried desperately to breathe through the cloth.

I pulled it out for him, waited for him to sort himself out, then spoke very slowly. ‘WHERE – IS – THE – BOY?’

‘She didn’t … find him … He found … her …’

‘Where?’

‘The beach … She called Lyubova … I picked up the phone.’

I tightened my fingers around his throat. ‘Natasha? He thought she was on his side.’

‘Maybe … she was … once … But her world … has changed.’

‘Who changed it?’

‘Putin.’ He bared his teeth. ‘And me …’

I didn’t need to ask him again. I knew he wanted to tell me. It wasn’t only the Maserati and the sideburns that said vanity was his big weakness.

But he also wanted to make me wait. I would, if this was the way he’d tell me where the boy was. But not for long.

‘She is from the Crimea … so … in different ways … she is being fucked … by both of us.’

Through the tape, the gunk and the vomit, it looked like he was smiling.

The best way to fuck Hesco right back was by depriving him of any kind of rhythm. He’d be able to take the pain if he knew he could relax and have a nice chat straight afterwards. He’d be able to keep a grip on the passing of time. He’d know that I didn’t have all night for this. And I didn’t want that to happen.

‘You know what? I don’t give a shit who you’re fucking. Unless you’re fucking with me. Is Putin calling the shots? Did Putin order Frank’s killing?’ I couldn’t help thinking of Anna and the baby. Their safety was even more important to me than Stefan’s.

‘Putin?’ He snorted red bubbly snot. ‘Putin … would give me … a medal … for killing Timis …’

‘Did he order it?’

‘Putin … has nothing to do … with this … You … have much more … to fear … than Putin …’

‘Why did you throw the black guy off the balcony?’

It wasn’t the question he was expecting. And it wasn’t one he felt the need to block.

‘He was … unreliable.’ His voice was raw.

‘Because he didn’t kill the boy?’

‘Because … he didn’t obey …’

‘And who helped you do it? Who was the guy with the suede jacket and the shiny head?’

‘He … is a man … who will … kill you … if he … ever … sees you … again …’

‘What about Lyubova?’ I wanted to keep the questions coming. To keep his mouth working so I could get where I needed to be. ‘Was she unreliable too?’

He tried to gasp in more oxygen, but the sticky stuff coating his lungs kept getting in the way. He was gurgling like a blocked drain.

‘She … had her … own … agenda.’

‘Which meant helping to set up Frank, but not sitting and watching you and your mate Dijani take over his businesses?’

Maserati or not, Hesco was the monkey. That’s why he was there. But I knew he’d like me putting him up there with the organ-grinder.

‘She … thought … only of … herself …’

‘Not like you, eh? You’re a man of vision. I can see that.’

He nodded slowly. He could see it too. Even when he was blindfolded.

‘And what you’re up to is bigger than Frank’s BG or Lyubova could understand, eh? Big enough to get the GIGN worried. And TIGRIS. I thought they were after me. But they’re not, are they? They’re looking for
you
.’

More nodding. It wasn’t just sweat and sugar leaking from every pore now. It was satisfaction.

‘They’re looking … for both … of us …’

‘Where is the boy?’

He made an attempt at a scoff.

I gave him a third bottle, at warp speed, and followed it with another. The spray was all over the place now. Every muscle group was in meltdown. His heels were drumming against the floor. Both hands were flexing big-time too. Trying to find something to grip. Trying to find a fixed point in a world that was going to rat-shit.

His fingernails were starting to gouge crimson tracks in his own palms.

As the drink fizz died down I dropped the bottle and let him turn his head and expel what was left in the back of his throat.

‘Where is the boy?’

His lungs had more sticky cherry shit in them than air. The rest of it was pooled around his head, along with most of what he’d eaten and drunk in the last six hours. I reached for Fanta number five.

He reacted when he heard the clink. ‘No … wait …’

I carried on going. He recoiled when he felt the cold glass against his upper lip.

‘No …’

‘Where is the boy? Come on, Zac, you’re smarter than this.’

‘Smarter … yes …’

‘So tell me.’

‘Smarter …’

I bent forwards again and yelled in his ear. ‘
FUCKING TELL ME!
’

I’d meant to shock him into a response, but it didn’t work.

‘Smarter …
smarter
… than
you
.’

‘You think? So how come you’re the one who’s drowning?’

I didn’t wait for an answer.

‘Where’s Dijani, Zac? He’s in this up to his neck, isn’t he?’

All I got was a long, rasping breath.

‘Was he up on that mountain road, or were you in charge of sending me over the edge?’

‘Me … I was …
in charge
…’ Another happy memory. ‘We had to … split … you up …’

‘So I got a javelin through the windscreen, and Frank Timis got a double tap.’

‘We should … have put … a bullet … in you … as well … We will … soon …’

His confidence was returning. He was back on safe ground. He could talk about this all night. Good. That was the way I wanted him to feel.

‘Tell me about Italy.’

He went absolutely rigid for five seconds, then flapped around a bit, but there was no disguising it. Italy had rattled him.

‘I know about the people-trafficking, the drugs … Is that what you fuckers are up to?’

I gripped his throat again, to help him concentrate.

‘Asylum … seekers …’ He tried to launch another gobbet of phlegm at me, and failed. ‘Scum … Who cares … if they drown? You cannot escape … the judgement of …
Allah
…’

‘So how do you think Allah will judge
you
? What does it say in the Quran about shagging Ukrainian maids, or mincing around in a Maserati, or profiteering, or child abduction?’

He didn’t seem too concerned about any of that. ‘Allah … will … welcome us … to Paradise.’

‘Where’s the boy?’

He struggled to turn his head again and clear some of the shit out of his chest. I wouldn’t let him.

‘WHERE – DO – YOU – HAVE – THE –
BOY
?’

He tried to suck oxygen into his lungs. He sounded more like a cement mixer than a human being.

I selected another bottle and made sure he was well aware of the clinking and shaking process. He opened his mouth again before I clamped my hand on it.

‘I will …

‘… take you …

‘… to the boy …’

If he’d had a white flag, he’d have waved it. But so would I, in his position. I’d have done almost anything. Every second off the waterboard, every millimetre of distance, was an opportunity to regroup.

I told him that was all well and good, but I still needed him to convince me he meant it. I told him I wanted a sign of commitment.

‘What’s the password, Zac? The password for the laptop.’

‘What …
the fuck—
’

I sat more heavily on his chest as I emptied the foaming Fanta into the mug and put it beside the door. Then I picked up the HP, tucked it under my chin, removed it from its sleeve and placed it on the floor far enough from Hesco’s head to keep it away from the red liquid flood. That was easier said than done: the stuff was even dripping from the ceiling now. It stank so badly of cherry-flavoured E-numbers in here I could taste it.

I flipped open the brushed aluminium lid. ‘I need something from you. I need to know that you’ve got skin in the game.’

‘Skin?’

‘Something that shows me you’re serious.’

I eased the pressure long enough for him to nod, and pressed the power button. The start-up tone seemed to fill the space around us. A log-in box appeared at the centre of a screen-saver shot of a distant galaxy.

‘So give me the fucking password.’

‘Paradise …’ He barely breathed it.

Still gripping his throat, I tapped in all eight letters, beginning with a capital
P
, then the return key.

The box quivered and went blank.