Tropic of Death (46 page)

‘You look like you’re on a mission,’ he said.

‘I am.’

‘Right,’ he said handing her the weapon. ‘It’s another Glock 22 .40 calibre. The same sort of semi-automatic you had before.

I’ve signed it out to you, on the basis that you’re back on duty.

So that makes it legit.’

‘Thanks, Jarrett. I really appreciate it.’

‘You’re not going to tell me what this is about, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, if you need backup, I’m here. Okay?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Good luck,’ he said.

Rita drove across town to the southern fringes and the now familiar shopping precinct with its drab architecture and down-market shops. She parked the car against the kerb and walked briskly to the eco-friendly shop, then up the stairs to the campaign office.

She burst in to find Eve sitting primly behind a desk, wearing glasses, tapping at a keyboard and looking distinctly secretarial.

Eve glanced up. ‘Everyone’s in a rush today.’

‘Sorry, but again it’s important,’ said Rita. ‘Has anyone here taken delivery of a package?’

‘What sort of package?’

‘The
Rheingold
disk. It might have been sent here.’

‘No. Nothing like that’s arrived. Not here in the office, anyway.

You think Stonefish arranged for it to come to us?’

‘Maybe. But if it isn’t here, we can relax, for now at least.’

She sat down heavily on a spare chair. ‘I seem to keep charging in on you.’

‘You’re not the only one.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Julien. He flew in and out about an hour ago. Very excitable.’

Rita got to her feet. ‘Have you checked in the flat for a delivery?’

‘No.’ Eve rose from behind the desk. ‘We’ll do it now.’

They hurried up the next flight of stairs to the flat above. A quick search turned up no sign of a package or a disk.

‘False alarm?’ asked Eve.

‘Could be,’ answered Rita. Then her eyes fell on an open laptop on the kitchen table. It had switched to screen-saver mode. ‘Mind if I check this?’

‘Go ahead. It’s Julien’s. He’s been at it for hours, hacking away.

He’s been doing another
Rheingold
search on the web.’

‘Oh, no.’ With a twinge of apprehension, Rita clicked the mouse.

The page that filled the screen was
Mr Rheingold’s Auction
House.
It carried an announcement, dated this morning, saying the auction was over and inviting the rival bidders to come alone to the office at the Rough Diamond Club.

‘Who are the bidders?’ asked Eve, reading over Rita’s shoulder.

‘Maddox and Demchak are behind one bid. But who’s put in the other, I haven’t got a clue. Ronsard must have read this and gone to the club. I’ve got to get there. He doesn’t realise the danger.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Eve.

‘No, you’re not,’ insisted Rita, more than glad she had a gun.

‘You phone him and warn him. Tell him I’m on my way.’

Rita broke all the speed limits as she gunned the Falcon along the industrial side roads towards the docks, braking sharply and swerving as she reached the alleyway leading down the slope to the Diamond. She eased off the accelerator and let the car coast down quietly over the cobbles to the front entrance of Billy’s club.

It had been closed for business since his death. Three vehicles were parked outside, but there was no one in the alley.

She got out, drew the gun from the holster and removed the safety catch, then, walking swiftly, she approached the club. She stopped by the front door, sidled up to it and pushed gently. The door was open. She slipped through. The bars were deserted. The whole place looked cheap and gloomy, the only light coming from glass above the entrance and from where the sun shone through a dingy window above one of the bars.

The indistinct sound of voices came from above the stairs that led to Billy’s office. The lights were on up there, shining under the door. Though she couldn’t make out the words, the gathering must represent the conclusion of the
Rheingold
auction. Knowing who two of the clients were, she was well aware of how dangerous the meeting could be.

Controlling her breathing, senses alert and with the semi-automatic pistol held out in front of her, Rita began climbing the stairs, wincing at each creak in the boards. By the time she reached the door to Billy’s office, the voices inside had fallen silent.

It was as if they’d overheard her approach and were waiting. Her mouth dry, her pulse thumping, she was reaching for the handle when the door was flung open. Julien Ronsard was standing there, smiling.

‘Ronsard,’ she said, surprised.

‘Come in, Van Hassel,’ he told her.

As she walked in hesitantly, he chopped the gun from her hand. It went spinning across the floor. Before she’d realised what was happening, a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun was pressed under her chin. Ronsard had his fingers across the triggers. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

‘See for yourself,’ he said.

Turning her head carefully, with the shotgun still pressed against it, she took in the boxing paraphernalia and, among it, two figures bound to chairs. They were lined up like prisoners against a wall -

Maddox and Demchak - both with coils of heavy rope wrapped tightly around their feet, arms and torsos. They were immobile, with only their heads unbound.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘It’s simple,’ said Maddox. ‘He’s the man we’ve been looking for. The Fixer.’

‘Now he’s our executioner,’ added Demchak.

Rita stared at Ronsard.

He said nothing, just pushed her around Billy’s desk, shoved her towards the swivel chair and sat her down in it. He handed her some rope. ‘Start wrapping yourself in it,’ he said.

Rita did as she was told until Ronsard took over, tightening the rope so that her arms were constricted, then knotting it firmly behind her.

‘Okay, now we’re ready,’ he said. ‘It was considerate of you, Van Hassel, to get Eve to phone me.’

‘
You
were the other bidder?’ she said.

‘Of course,’ he answered.

‘And you put the notice on the auction site to get the others here.’

‘Yes. They’re both murderers and enemies of the jihad. And it’s time for them to face justice.’

Rita spotted a collection of sawn-off shotguns spread over the desk, then looked across the room to where the two men waited.

‘You get to watch us being blown away,’ Demchak said to her.

‘You should enjoy that.’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘Just like I didn’t enjoy watching you fire a nail gun into the heads of five people.’

‘She’s seen the surveillance,’ grunted Demchak.

‘That’s not possible,’ said Maddox.

‘Panopticon has a backup file of everything you erased,’ Rita went on. ‘That includes you, Maddox, arranging the murder of Dr Steinberg.’

‘So what? I’m not apologising. It was necessary.’

‘Just as your death is necessary,’ said Ronsard, appearing more or less content to watch and listen.

Demchak gave Rita a dull stare. ‘You realise your exit will follow ours.’

She ignored the comment and told him, ‘I watched you put Rachel Macarthur’s head on the pylon outside the base. Was that to help frame Paul Giles?’

‘The slimy limey.’ Demchak gave a humourless laugh. ‘My backup fall guy.’

‘And the severed hands. Was that part of the plan all along?’

‘It was impromptu with the first one. Your man in the mud.’

‘How did you get him to the building site?’

‘Easy. He phoned me - thought I was the Deep Throat at the base. Told me he had part of the blueprint for Panopticon and could find a buyer for the full read-out.’

‘Why phone you?’

‘The way I figure it he lifted my number from someone else and made the wrong assumption. I gave it to Bowers after the original leak last year. He said he’d pass it on to a few contacts.’

‘Stonefish,’ breathed Rita. ‘But why the hands?’

‘I’d nailed them to the workshop table. The meat cleaver I’d brought with me but the nail gun was a sudden inspiration - made it easier to chop them off.’

‘While he was still alive,’ said Rita.

‘There’s not much point to torture if the victim’s dead.’

‘Why torture him?’ asked Ronsard quietly.

‘To find out where he’d got the blueprint. But no deal. Both hands nailed to the table and he wouldn’t talk. A tough guy. I wanted to see how tough. So I chop one off. Nothing. I chop off the other and all he did was sigh. I’d never get anything out of him so I put the nail through his head.’

‘Taking lives doesn’t bother you?’ said Rita.

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Then you really are a serial killer.’

‘For the glory of Uncle Sam.’

‘This isn’t helping, Kurt,’ put in Maddox.

‘Take it easy, buddy. Our work’s done. Time to relax. This is a turkey shoot. That’s why we’re trussed up. End of story.’

‘What did you do with his body?’ Ronsard wanted to know.

‘Hacked it up, bagged it and dumped it at sea. Only thing was we screwed up with the tide.’

‘But you kept his hands as souvenirs,’ said Ronsard with disgust.

‘Originally it was to try and identify him,’ explained Demchak,

‘which we never did. Then we were into a whole new ball game when chunks of him started washing up on the beach.’

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Ronsard, raising the shotgun.

He marched over to Demchak and pressed the barrels against his neck.

‘I don’t have the right weapon to carry out a traditional beheading,’ Ronsard told him. ‘I’m having to use what’s available.

But behead you I will. Here and now.’

‘What the hell’s eating you all of a sudden?’ Demchak growled, bracing his neck muscles against the gun. ‘Lost your cool, Omar Amini?’

‘That’s not who I am!’ Ronsard snarled, his face contorted with rage. ‘That’s the name of the first man you murdered here, the one you tortured and butchered like a piece of meat!’

‘You’re shitting me,’ said Demchak. ‘The Fixer was dead all along?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m his brother!’ screamed Ronsard and pulled both triggers.

Demchak was instantly decapitated, a fountain of blood spraying out over the wall and ceiling, and blowing back over Ronsard and Maddox, who was trying desperately to lean out of the way in his chair. The head banged against the wall, then thumped onto the floor amid a shower of shot fragments, rolling a little before coming to rest under Billy’s punching bag. The deafening blast was followed by a bout of coughing from Maddox as he took in a lungful of smoke. The smell of the discharge filled the air in the confined space.

Rita watched in horror from behind Billy’s desk.

Ronsard glanced at her, his face and chest drenched with blood, his hair on end, as he tossed down the used weapon and picked up another from the desk.

‘Your turn, Maddox,’ he said. ‘The world will be a cleaner place without scum like you.’

This time, Ronsard didn’t move in so close.

‘Just do it,’ said Maddox with contempt. ‘Your brother’s a casualty of war. Like the man in the mud on every battlefield in history. If you’re a warrior you do what’s necessary. Don’t make it personal.’

‘Okay.’

A moment later his head exploded as the shotgun plastered blood, hair, teeth and brain tissue over the wall behind him.

Ronsard dropped the gun and stood motionless, as if the effort had drained him. He was staring at two bodies, sitting in chairs, with no heads, against a background that was now a slaughterhouse. Then he sighed and dragged himself towards the desk, where he picked up a third shotgun.

‘I never intended to kill you,’ he told Rita, ‘but you must see I’ve got no choice?’

She tried to swallow, her mouth completely dry, her body shaking within its bonds.

He raised the gun and aimed.

‘Stop!’ she said.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I just need a moment. I need to do something before you kill me.’

‘What?’

Tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘I have to make my peace with God.’

Ronsard lowered the shotgun, a look of immense shame on his blood-spattered face.

Rita bowed her head, crying.

As she murmured, ‘Thy will be done,’ the shot rang out.

Ronsard lay on the floor, bleeding heavily from a chest wound.

He’d been shot through the heart. Jarrett, gun in hand, was kicking him to make sure he was dead.

Rita sagged in her chair, head swimming, unable to focus properly until Jarrett untied her and got her some water.

‘You’re okay, you’re okay,’ he kept saying. ‘Let me get you out of here.’

Rita put her arm around his shoulders as he helped her to her feet and walked her from the room and down the stairs and out of the front entrance into the fresh air. He opened the door of his car and sat her in the passenger seat while he put the call in to the station. Then he wrapped her in a blanket and brought her a mug of hot tea he’d quickly brewed inside the bar.

By the time the first patrol vehicles skidded to a stop outside the club, she’d stopped shaking and could think more clearly, though she was still in shock. The obvious symptom was a surreal clarity about what she’d just been through. It meant she could give Jarrett a precise account of what had gone down in the club office. As she did so, a fleet of Humvees filed down the alley, carrying heavily armed members of the base security force. They knew they’d arrived too late to save their commanding officer.

A crime-scene van arrived with Jarrett’s detectives inside, and more police cars, one bringing Bryce. He looked at Rita sadly and put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. When the ambulance pulled up, Jarrett helped her into it.

‘Time to get you to hospital,’ he said.

She smiled at him. ‘You saved my life.’

‘I’m just glad I got the text in time to get down here.’

‘What text?’ she asked.

‘A security alert from Whitley Sands. It said you were under immediate threat.’

The nurses kept Rita in hospital for a few hours, mostly for observation, but as the afternoon dragged on she’d had enough.