Severed

'You're blackmailing him?'

He pulls a pack of Marlboro out of the pocket of his cotton shirt and lights a cigarette with hands that aren't quite steady. 'You could call it that.'

'That's what I am calling it. Who is he?'

'A businessman. Someone who won't have been involved in your girlfriend's death. He's not that type of person. He's the sort who keeps well away from the dirty work.'

'How can you be so sure?'

He takes two short, angry drags on the cigarette. 'Because I am, all right? Listen, you remember Maxwell and Spann?'

I nod. They were members of my platoon before moving eventually into the shadowy world of security work. Everyone remembered Maxwell and Spann.

'You heard what happened to them?'

'They got killed doing some bodyguard op, didn't they?'

'That's right. Three years back, in a Paris hotel. They were guarding some big-shot Russian mafia man in the penthouse suite. He was only meant to be in the country for a couple of days to sign some contracts, but he was the kind of guy who made a lot of enemies, and word was that one of them had put a contract out on him. The idea was that it was better to hit him in Europe because he'd have less security here than he'd have in Moscow, but because word got out, the guy panicked and made sure he had security to the hilt. He travelled to his meetings in a bombproof car with a police escort, and the hotel was sewn up tighter than a drum. Him and his entourage had the whole of the top floor, with cameras in every lift and stairway, and the local gendarmerie all over the building. There was no way a hitman could get through.'

'But someone did.'

'That's right. The next morning, the cleaner found the Russian dead in bed with his throat slit from ear to ear. Outside his bedroom door, they found Spann. He'd had his throat cut as well, the wound so deep it almost severed his head. His gun was still in his hand. It hadn't been fired. Maxwell was out in the hallway. Also armed, also killed the same way. No sign of a struggle from any of them. They'd been taken completely by surprise, one by one, and it seemed the first each of them knew about it was when the knife was crossing their throats.' He pauses and takes another short, urgent drag on the cigarette. 'And Maxwell and Spann… well, they were pros.'

'I know,' I say, recalling them as a pair of hard-nosed bastards who wouldn't easily have been caught off guard.

'The thing about the Russian killing', the captain continues, 'was that the hitman didn't leave a single clue. Nothing. He spirits into the place and right back out again, past all the security and the surveillance cameras, and no-one hears or sees a thing. So, you know what? They start calling him the Vampire in police circles, because it's almost as if he's got some sort of supernatural powers. Apparently, they've linked him to contract killings all over Europe, and his modus operandi's almost always the same: cuts his victims' throats from ear to ear. He even got hired by the Iranians a year or so back to kill an Israeli diplomat and his family, as revenge for an Israeli air raid in Lebanon that killed a couple of their Revolutionary Guards. He cut the throats of all of them, even the kids. Nobody knows who the Vampire is, or what he looks like. He's invisible. Like something out of a nightmare.'

I'm beginning to lose patience. His story reminds me of Leah and the butchery that was done to her in that stifling, blood-drenched room with the chintz curtains.

'Why the hell are you telling me this?' I demand.

'Because I'm hearing that this guy I'm selling the briefcase to…' He pauses a moment, and our eyes meet through the smoke. His are grey and haunted, and I know what he's going to say even before he says it. 'I'm hearing he's hired the Vampire to come after me.'

6

'Well,' I say at last, 'I'm no vampire.'

He leans over and grabs an ashtray from the sideboard, stubbing his cigarette out in it. 'I know you're not him. At least, I'm pretty sure you're not. But sooner or later he's going to come knocking. That's why I've got an insurance policy.'

'What's that?'

He picks up the burgundy briefcase and lays it on the table so that the handle's facing me. 'If anyone tries to get into this thing without the right code, it'll blow into a million pieces. Same if anyone tries to force it open. There's a nice big lump of PETN plastic explosive wired up to the case's locking mechanism on the inside. See this?' He points to a tiny flashing red light attached to a thumbnail-sized black stand next to the lock. 'This tells you that the bomb's armed. Now, I'm not going to phone the guy I'm dealing with and give him the access code until half past two, so I figure I've got' – he looks at his watch – 'about two hours to get the hell out of here. After that I'm the walking dead.'

'Whatever it contains must be very valuable.'

'It is to him. Something else, too. Something that I'm only telling you because we go back.'

'Forgive me if I don't kiss your feet in gratitude.'

His eyes narrow, and it's obvious I've annoyed him. 'Fuck you, Tyler. I don't have to help you. Now, listen carefully. At two thirty this afternoon, make sure you're not standing in the vicinity of this briefcase, and that goes for anyone you care about too. Because this thing can be detonated by mobile phone, so as soon as my client has the number, he can blow the case remotely.'

I lean forward angrily, grabbing his arm. It's wet to the touch. 'What's the client's name, Captain? I need to know his name.'

'I told you, I can't tell you. It's more than my life's worth. Now, let go of me or I'll call in the three stooges.'

I assess my options, but the reality is I don't really have any, so I do as he says.

He reaches into his shirt pocket for another cigarette. 'Have you got the money, Tyler?'

I nod slowly, put my own case on the table and click open the locks, then swivel it round so the handle faces him. A smile creases his features and the tension in them eases a little as he opens the case and regards the money sitting there in front of him. He picks up a bundle of notes and stares at it close up with something approaching awe. Consequently, he doesn't hear the kitchen door open.

I do, though, and I turn to see Sellman's misshapen head emerge through the gap like a toad breaking water. His eyes go straight to the money, and a lustful expression not that far removed from the one the captain's wearing crosses his face before disappearing as quickly as it arrived. There is a great deal of greed in this room, and as far as I'm concerned, that usually spells trouble.

'Everything all right, chief?' asks Sellman, trying to make it sound like a routine question.

The captain glares at him, closing the case. 'Don't interrupt, Sellman. If I need you, I'll call.'

Sellman nods once, and the head slips back through the gap.

'Who the hell are those guys?' I ask.

'Security.'

'And they're the best you could get?'

'I don't want to involve anyone I used to know. So, yeah, they're the best I could get.'

'Watch them. I think they want your money.'

'Don't worry,' he says, getting to his feet, 'I'm watching everybody.' He picks up the briefcase with the money and motions to the one on the table. 'That's yours now, Tyler. Whatever you do, be careful with it, and don't let your curiosity get the better of you and try to open the damn thing. That bomb's perfectly constructed. And remember: by two thirty, be at least a hundred feet away from it.'

'I won't forget,' I say, standing up as well.

'Well… good luck.'

His words are awkward. He wants to feel sorry for me but in the end he's a lot more interested in saving his own skin. In the army, we were taught to be team players, but it's a lesson the captain seems to have long forgotten. Right now, we are both men operating entirely on our own.