Black Run Read online

  Katanga laughed again.

  ‘Fast passage to England,’ Miller said. ‘So we’re running empty. Minimum ballast, nothing in the hold. Katanga, tell him what happens if you head out into the Bay of Biscay in winter with an empty hold and two tons strapped up on deck.’

  Katanga grinned, flicking ash on the bonnet.

  ‘Katanga,’ I replied, grabbing the bag of cash off the roof, ‘tell Captain Miller what happens when he slinks back to Marseille with no money to pay his creditors. Tell him specifically what’ll happen to his kneecaps.’

  ‘Storm’s coming in.’ He blew smoke and coughed, thumping his chest. ‘Those euro notes ain’t waterproof, they won’t be worth shit if we capsize.’

  ‘Then we’re done.’ I pulled out my car keys, turning to Poubelle. ‘I’d get a job on another boat if I were you. The French Mediterranean fleet might be taking an interest in the Tiburon.’

  Katanga stopped grinning. I yawned, reaching my arms out, my hoody riding up just enough to show the grip of the pistol in my jeans.

  ‘I’m not getting on that deathtrap without my car,’ I continued, pulling the bag of cash close to my chest and raising my voice. ‘And if I don’t get on board, none of you get paid.’

  Miller glared. ‘I let you off the full payment, but don’t push your luck.’ He held my eyes, we stared at each other for long seconds before he finally held his arms up in surrender. ‘Seb!’ he bellowed. ‘Take on ballast.’ He glared again, then shoved me out of the way. ‘Poubelle, get the crane going!’ He pointed at my car. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get this piece of shit lashed down.’

  Chapter Four

  Village of Château des Aigles, Haute Savoie, French Alps

  Two weeks previously

  A shadow fell over the table, blocking the last of the afternoon sun. The waitress deposited a glass of water and a hot chocolate with a smile, I returned it over the top of a dog-eared paperback, folded back on itself at the spine. My smile was entirely for her, not the mud in the cup – though unlike coffee it was at least mostly drinkable. Sadly there are very few places worth ordering tea outside the UK, probably the worst thing about being an international security contractor. I’d rank it higher than the incoming bullets.

  She politely tried not to look at the ugly scar through my eyebrow and the myriad smaller wounds as she took away my plate, but her smile dropped as soon as she turned. The mirror on the wall had revealed her distaste at battle lines drawn too deeply to disappear after one afternoon in a cafe.

  I put the book down, reached into my coat, pulled out a crumpled packet. The smudged label said Ciprofloxacin – a super-antibiotic used to treat anthrax exposure, among other things – but the packet was crammed with three other strips of tablets and capsules. I popped out a couple of each, lined them up on the table, then emptied a pack of the antibiotic granules into the water.

  Outside the snow had started up again, great fat flakes that whirled and stuck to the full-length windows along one long side, slowly sliding down. I watched them racing. None made it very far thanks to the heat radiating from the huge Sixties-style fire, hanging from the ceiling like a prop from an Austin Powers film set. In the corner of my eye I saw the waitress start walking back towards me, I scooped up the pills and swallowed them with the bitter-tasting water, but she diverted to the fire to throw another log on. I pulled my eyes away from her and picked up the book.

  My fingers ached from holding it at an odd angle, the result of a broken finger on my left hand a couple of weeks ago. I’d taken the splint off early but hoped it wouldn’t impede anything when it was needed. I switched the book into my right hand, trusting my weakened left with a speculoos biscuit instead. It was dunked and inhaled in one, while I tried again to digest the paragraph.

  The book was in its original language, and I’d lied to Holderness when I’d told him my French was up to scratch. I’d not spoken it in anger for a while, though thanks to the week or so I’d spent here it was slowly returning. I wished it’d hurry up. Like so many of the skills I’d acquired over the years, it was buried deep and, if prior form was anything to go by, would resurface too late to be of real advantage. Such was the nature of these rush jobs.

  I turned the page and mouthed the words silently, one eye on the book and the other constantly monitoring my surroundings. The English couple one table over were looking at me, the man opened his mouth, I made a show of looking down.

  ‘Maigret?’ He’d decided to speak anyway, what sort of Englishman was this that couldn’t pick up on the subtle gestures broadcasting that I wanted to be left alone?

  I put the book down, looked up and sighed. ‘Oui, j’adore les livres mystères.’ I love mystery books.

  ‘Oh sorry, I thought you were English for some reason.’

  I shrugged. ‘Désolé monsieur, je regrette de ne parler anglais.’ I gave him a curt smile and lifted the book.

  A group walked past the window. I didn’t look up, instead watching the skewed reflections in the polished domed top of the fireplace: three distorted men walking along the snow-covered pavement in the direction of the village square. Could be… I turned casually, looking at the mirrored wall behind the counter. Twenty-somethings kitted out in snowboarding gear. Not interested.

  One of my eyes went back to the book.

  I’d finally finished the page, turning the book over when a burst of orange flashed past outside. A trio in fancy matching Moncler ski jackets, the straggly-haired guy in the middle flanked by two obvious skinhead toughs carrying skis over their shoulders.

  I watched them cross the road, waiting until they’d passed the door, then gulped a mouthful of melted marshmallows off the top of the hot chocolate, stood, slid the book into my coat pocket.

  Outside a fourth orange jacket walked past, his hat straining to cover his enormous head. The man-mountain always hung back to follow from a distance, but was impossible to miss in his matching jacket. I left a twenty-euro note on the table and a smile with the English couple, walking towards the doors, pulling on my coat.

  The snow-lined street was darkening, flurries swirling in the cold wind. I tugged my hat lower and pushed through the doors, following the men towards the crowds of the village square. I flinched as a high-revving engine started up to cheers and rounds of applause ahead. Among the tourists, swirling like the snowflakes, the orange ski jackets were easy to see. Like ridiculous Bond-villain uniforms, they couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried. Complacency.

  The complacency of money, of power, of big hard bastards with guns on either side of you. A complacency fostered by several years of pandering to right-wing populism, stoking up fear, resentment. A complacency born of believing themselves superior, that their view wasn’t far off the majority view. I was here to teach them otherwise.

  The jackets pushed their way through the crowds, leaving people tutting in their wake. The guy on the right didn’t usually ski with them but was lugging a set of skis regardless: the target never carried his own. I thought that seemed pretty stupid, slowing your bodyguards down by making them carry your shit, but there was that complacency again.

  In front of a huge Christmas tree on the far side of the square, a nutter was throwing a chainsaw up in the air to whoops of terror and delight from the crowd. Ice chips sprayed as he carved a block of ice into what I guessed by the ears would end up being Mickey Mouse, but at the moment looked uncannily like a giant cock and balls. Festive family fun.

  The men took a right, behind the Christmas tree. I glanced across the square, at another big guy leaning on his skis outside a toy shop, eying the crowds. He saw me, picked up his skis, shuffling off, disappearing behind the tree in the same direction as the orange jackets.

  Scanning the crowds, alert for any tails and satisfied there were none, I followed the men round the tree, past a huge pile of ice deposited by those clearing the square after each snowfall, children laughing and sliding down it on their backs and struggling to climb up again. The orange j
ackets had disappeared.

  On the opposite side of the road the other skier broke into a jog. I did too, sticking to my side of the road, scanning the bobbing hats and jutting skis, looking for a glimpse of orange. Up ahead, the dark mountain blocked out the waking stars in the deep blue sky, substituting its own meandering chains of lights that marked the runs and roads. Another line of lights moved up and down: the bubble lift to the runs above. Restaurants and bars flanking the road nestled in the glow of the cable car station. The street was crowded, skiers coming down from the piste and mixing with people getting an early drink in before tea. The bright orange jackets threaded through them, heading for the cable cars.

  Ski guy had seen them too, and sped up, overtaking them, pushing his way through the groups of people ahead of me. I picked up the pace.

  They’d almost reached the bubble lift. The crowds were thinning, everyone else was making their way down the mountain as the temperature dropped in sync with the sun. I jostled between couples, wincing as pain erupted in my side, barely healed wounds slowing me as I rushed to get behind the group. Up ahead, the skier had made it through the turnstiles and was staring resolutely ahead, eyes on the glass windows of the cable cars rolling past, on the reflection of those orange jackets a few people behind him. They’d closed up now, all four men stood as a group, bodyguards scanning late skiers coming off the lifts as the guy in the middle of them eyed the woman in front.

  The doors slid shut, a group was whisked up the mountain, another gondola came round. Everyone shuffled forward. I blipped my pass on the turnstile and followed.

  Ski guy climbed in, propped his skis against the far window, and sat down. A family crowded in after him, laughing, kids elbowing each other to sit by the windows. The doors slid shut, the gondola carried on, the next came round.

  The woman strode forward, expensive tight gear accentuating every curve. Like me, her lack of skis suggested that she was going up for a drink or to meet someone. The man looked her up and down and pushed into the gondola with her, her lip curled, she muttered something in German. His thugs stepped forward, I did too, shoving into the back of the huge guy. He turned and snarled.

  I put my hand up. ‘Désolé.’

  He jabbed me in the ribs with the back of the skis. ‘Full.’

  I put a hand over my body, curled my right into a fist. He didn’t notice, swinging the skis round and storming into the gondola. They sat down, the doors slid shut with him scowling at me.

  I waited for the next car, took a deep breath, then climbed into the swaying coffin. No one followed, the doors closed, taking me up the mountain alone.

  I unzipped my jacket and sat down, examining a thick pink-and-red line snaking across my ribs. I ran my hand all the way around. No blood. It hadn’t reopened the wound, but it hurt like hell. I clenched both fists again, allowed myself a few seconds to imagine beating his face flat. The temporary pain was worth it, because now I knew two things. I knew the big guy only spoke English and his native Serbian – or, at least, he didn’t speak French. More importantly, I now knew he carried his pistol in a holster beneath his left armpit. Big gun too, wouldn’t be surprised if he had a Desert Eagle in there, it’d be about the right size for those giant fists.

  I zipped back up, propped my boots on the seat opposite, and sat back, eyes on the gondola in front rather than the pines a vomit-inducing distance below. After another minute, the gondola in front of us had almost reached the top. I pulled out a cheap phone and brought up a contact on speed dial.

  ‘Yup,’ a Scottish guy answered.

  ‘They’re in the car behind you.’

  ‘Yeah I saw, what happened to you?’

  ‘Altercation. I’m in the one behind them.’

  ‘You’d better hurry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she got in with them.’

  ‘Alone? Is that wise…?’

  ‘She can take care of herself.’ I accidentally looked down at the trees below and felt my heart skip, I gripped the bar in one hand and closed my eyes, massaging my ribs. ‘That big guy’s as solid as the Terminator.’

  ‘Branko, yeah. Mean-looking bastard.’

  ‘He’s mine.’

  ‘He’d flatten you, Tyler. I was told you were once beaten up by a one-armed girl.’

  ‘Sexist and ableist, nice.’

  ‘Besides, I thought you said no killing?’

  ‘Change of plan. Some killing.’

  Chapter Five

  Tiburon, Commercial deepwater port of La Rochelle

  The whole ship shuddered as the big diesels started up, lights winked in the gloomy bridge. Miller was leaning on the railings outside on the bridge wing, firing off instructions to the crew prepping for sailing below. I looked through the windows at the deck stretching out in front, squinting into the darkness at a couple of crew still ratcheting straps across my car on the forward hold covers. Another man was busy in front of them securing the crane.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and pressed on the fitness app again. The heartbeat in my boot was steady.

  ‘Drink?’

  Miller let the door swing shut behind him and bent to a cupboard. He’d begrudge sharing his booze with me but couldn’t deny his superstitions. I waited until he reappeared holding a bottle of something brown.

  ‘I will if that’s rum.’

  ‘You’re in luck, we’re all outta Scotch.’ He poured a generous measure in a dirty glass tumbler, passed it to me then grabbed a radio handset hanging from the ceiling. ‘How’s she lookin’, chief?’

  The speaker crackled static for a few seconds. ‘She doesn’t like the look of this weather,’ came the reply, French-accented.

  ‘They’re marine diesels, for Christ’s sake.’ He covered the handset. ‘Lazy bastard means he doesn’t like the weather.’

  ‘They’re still bedding in, Skip. Now’s not the time to be pushing them.’ As with most of Miller’s crew, his English was near flawless.

  ‘Vincent, if we’re not under way in thirty seconds you can stay in France and Seb will take over.’

  The radio crackled and muttered in French. Miller flicked it off and collapsed into his chair. ‘À la tienne.’

  ‘Cheers.’ We clinked glasses, I avoided a chip in the rim and downed half. I eased off my Barbour motorcycle jacket and peeled off the hoody underneath, threw them on the chart table, and went back to the window to watch the loading. They’d strapped the car so tight it was pulled right down on its already lowered suspension, probably scratching the shit out of my paintwork. I sighed and shook my head.

  ‘You’ve got some new ink.’ Miller pointed at the thick black outlines snaking round my left arm.

  I grunted in reply, rubbing the raised outline of a small island on the inside of my wrist. Next to it a fresh scar cut through an old tattoo of Libya, puckered skin red and raw even now, weeks later. I downed the rest of the rum to wash down memories of bitter antibiotics.

  ‘You’re bleeding, too,’ he said, already refilling his glass.

  I looked down at my T-shirt, ran my hand across my ribs. ‘I’m always bleeding from somewhere.’

  He grabbed the radio handset again. ‘Doc to the bridge.’

  ‘And I thought you didn’t care.’

  ‘Like you said, gotta keep you safe until you can make that bank transfer.’

  I rubbed my fingers together, smearing blood. ‘You always said you’d retire before you hit fifty. You’re what, five years overdue?’

  ‘Only three, but the money’s too good; especially jobs like this. Who’s paying the bills this time?’

  ‘As far as you’re concerned – me.’ I leaned on the control console to look down on the figures on deck. ‘How’s the new mate?’

  ‘Katanga, known the guy years. Got tired of running guns up the Niger.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’

  ‘He knows the score.’

  I narrowed my eyes.

  ‘Yeah, all of it,’ Miller continued. ‘So when the time comes,
you let him know.’ He nodded at the window. ‘So what’s special about this car?’

  I raised my brows in mock surprise. ‘What’s not special about it?’

  ‘Cars ain’t my thing, but I know it’s not worth what you’re paying. What’s in the trunk?’

  ‘I’m paying you not to ask those sorts of questions.’ I watched a couple of the crew untie the bow lines, holding out the glass behind me, it clinked as Miller topped it up.

  ‘Well you hired me, so obviously can’t risk a ferry. It’s illegal; all well and good, but I need to know if it’s heavy? Corrosive? Fire hazard? Likely to blow a huge fuckin’ hole through the hull and send us to the bottom?’

  I took a sip of rum and rubbed my eyes. ‘None of the above.’

  The vibrations underfoot rose, the ship lurched. Miller stood, sliding the bottle into a bag hanging from the table and placing his glass on the console. He gave a signal out of the window, flicked a switch to douse the spotlights, then dimmed the bridge lights.

  ‘Once more unto the breach,’ he bellowed theatrically.

  A speaker above the window crackled and started playing the opening to ‘Kashmir’ by Led Zeppelin.

  ‘Cry God for fucking England.’ I took another mouthful.

  Miller pushed the throttle forward a touch, the big diesels joined the rolling drums and out-of-step guitar as he eased the wheel away from the quay. He tapped the floor with a grimy work boot, keeping the speed down as we moved towards the mouth of the sub pen, edging from under the concrete monolith and out into the basin. Sleet flecked the windows, leaving glistening trails down the glass.

  The rum tasted good, warming my throat. We were finally under way, leaving my pursuers behind us, the last leg of my journey. For the first time in days I could stand still and breathe, possibly even get some sleep.

  ‘How long you had this piece of shit, then?’ I asked.

  ‘The Tiburon?’ He somehow patted the wheel in time with the guitar and kicked the floor in time with the drums, no mean feat. ‘Coupla years. Some German yuppie had ideas about a floating strip club until he saw the cost of the refit. I got her real cheap.’