As he took the box from my hand, a tear rolled from under his John Lennon gigs. ‘No, man, I’ll always wear it. Every time I smile, I’ll think of you. And every time I think of you, I’ll smile.’
There were Glaswegian-accented shouts of victory thirty metres away. Lex complained bitterly and threw his club to the ground.
Crucial put out a big leathery hand. ‘It’s time to say goodbye, isn’t it?’
We shook.
‘I hope you change your mind and come back to us.’
I didn’t know what to say. Crucial was still bubbling. None of us had had a wash yet; the tears had to carve their way through dried mud.
Lex joined us under the net with Sam. ‘Looks like you got off Scot free, man.’ He punched Sam in the shoulder. ‘Scot free – it’s a joke.’
‘Try to remember what I said about doing something for your heart, Nick.’ Sam shook my hand and locked his eyes on mine. ‘And now fuck off, the pair of you.’
I grinned and turned away.
‘It’ll be easy enough to find us if you change your mind,’ he growled at my back. ‘Make sure you do.’
‘I’ll keep eyes and ears out for Standish,’ Lex called back, as he picked up his clubs. ‘But let’s hope he’s lying out there, half-eaten.’
We walked on board and the ramp was soon cranking up. I squatted by a window as Lex moved us down the runway. I wanted one last look.
The Antonov faced the command tents again and Lex hit the gas. The aircraft rattled down the strip a very short distance before climbing. I looked down to see Sam, Crucial and all eight of the little fuckers lining the strip, waving and grinning, and then they, the camp, the strip, the whole poxy place were lost in a sea of broccoli.
PART THIRTEEN
1
Lugano, Switzerland
Sunday, 18 June
It was ten days since I’d last sat here, but it was like I hadn’t been away. The money still drove its way along Riva Albertolli, or rested its rather large arse beside the lake. The rest sat in cafés and watched the guys in their electric mini-tankers water the immaculate flower-beds.
I’d flown into Milan this morning on an overnight from Cape Town, and got off at the railway station a couple of hours later with my holdall and a rolled-up copy of the Sunday Times. The moped had gone. I wandered the town, did a little shopping and, with nothing else on just yet, decided to do what I always did around midday: have a brew at Raffaelli’s.
The sun was out, the lake was a mirror. Families took their Sunday strolls along the palm-lined boulevards; airbrakes hissed as a coach prepared to kick out its payload. All was well in the land of Toblerone and tax dodgers. I sat back and enjoyed. I felt calm and relaxed. For the first time in ten days, things were under control. And there had to be worse places on earth to pass the time while you waited to exact a little vengeance.
I’d ordered a cappuccino. The waiter appeared and I moved my mobile to the edge of the small round table to make room for the tray.
‘Grazie mille.’ It was nice to be nice.
He smiled back at me. ‘Prego.’
He sort of recognized me, but couldn’t quite place me. For starters, I supposed, I wasn’t with a beautiful blonde. And then I looked much smarter than I usually did, in new jeans, shirt, a blue jacket and shoes so shiny I had to wear sun-gigs to look at them.
But there was also the grime I hadn’t been able to get out from under my nails, and the scratches, cuts and bites on my face and hands to confuse him even more. Also, he probably didn’t remember me scratching like I had fleas the last time he saw me. The rash on my back was drying up, but even more itchy.
I took the baby biscotti sitting in the saucer and dunked it in the froth as I unfolded the paper. There was all the normal stuff, but deep inside the news pages my attention was grabbed by an article telling me that the DRC was going to hold its first multi-party elections for forty years at the end of July.
I put the paper down. I wasn’t enjoying myself so much any more.
The elections would help no one. Just as with Middle Eastern oil, the multinationals and scum-bags like Stefan would be making sure they had whoever won tucked well inside their pockets.
Another coach offloaded its well-fed cargo of Dortmunders and they stood in the shade of the palm trees. All of them were on their mobiles, or had a camcorder stuck to their faces and pointing at the lake. I thought back to Sunday, the Chuckle Brothers, the bodies we had left at the mine, even the miners who had dragged the rock out of the ground with their bare hands.
And what about me? I looked down at the mobile. Tucked inside it was a small rock’s worth of the stuff that brought such grief and hardship to so many, and so much cash to so few.
It made me think of what Crucial had said as we faced the river before I ran the firing cable back to the knoll.
I can’t change the world, but I can do something for this bit of it . . .
And I was.
2
The mobile rang. I picked it up and listened.
‘The Chinamen have left.’
‘Cheers, mate. See you in a bit.’ I closed down the phone and threw a ten-franc note on the table for a five-franc coffee. Maybe the waiter would remember me next time.
I went and looked for a cab.
Standish had disappeared off the face of the earth. Part of me hoped he was lying decomposing in the leaf litter; another part hoped he was alive and kicking. Australia was still on the cards, but only after I’d done all I could to keep my promise to Bateman.
I felt good as the cab drove up the hill to where the really stinking money hung out. I didn’t know whether it was the change of scenery, the change of clothes or just that I was seeing a promise through, but I felt I was going to get a good result here.
I’d called Giuseppe as soon as I’d got back to Erinvale. Lex let me sort myself out at his place while he made his way back to the strip to pick up the crates of weapons. He’d made good use of his sat phone on the way to Cape, and already had a buyer in Chad.
I explained where I was to Giuseppe, and what had happened to Silky. He didn’t take it too well, especially the bit about working conditions in Mr Stefan’s mines and the lack of a staff canteen. I was taking a chance, but what was the option? I needed a man on the inside, and they weren’t exactly best mates, were they?
I needn’t have worried. He was well into it; he told me I had some mail waiting and he even had a present for me. Then he carried on waffling about how he was going home to Lazio to live with his widowed sister, and how they planned to grow olives and raise chickens.
I asked the driver to drop me about two minutes from the house. I got back on the mobile as I walked the rest. ‘Nearly there, mate – you got the padlocks off the back gate?’
‘Of course.’
‘See you in a bit.’ I closed down. This should-n’t take long. Security wasn’t a problem. Stefan didn’t have any. He didn’t need it. Low profile, not a party-goer, and never out of the shadows, he was the ultimate grey man. His greatest protection was concealment, and he knew it. The kick for him was making piles of money without anyone having a clue how. But he was going to pay for his arrogance today.
The big wrought-iron gate opened into manicured grounds. Palm trees shaded the path to the staff entrance.
Giuseppe’s eyes darted from side to side. He wasn’t behaving like the pasta papa I knew. Maybe he was caught up in the intrigue and thought he was James Bond.