Pejman Mobili was lashed naked to a post overlooking the boars, and his eyes rolled in fear. The ride in the back of the truck had seemed like a vision of hell, but the pigs had not actually hurt him, although one had fallen heavily on Mobili’s right foot, almost crushing it. At present, he would willingly go back among the tame swine. These four bristly, ugly hogs were terrifying, and they seemed to be eyeing him as they cried out for more food.
“Wow,” said Sybelle. “They are huge.”
“We call them Hogzillas. Each weighs over four hundred, and capturing them is a fight.” Buster Lincoln nodded grimly toward the captive sniper and told him, “They can make you disappear, totally and forever.” Mobili was shaking.
Kyle Swanson stepped close to the Iranian. “OK. Here’s the deal. We gave you a safe ride with the little pigs just to get your feet wet. Now you have to make the biggest decision of your entire life — look at me, not the pigs. I am your only hope of reaching paradise.” His voice was quiet and unhurried. Jim dangled a fat strip of gooey intestine over a pen, and a boar lunged for it, his weight crashing against the fence.
“You tell me everything I want to know within the next hour, without wasting my time or making me ask the same questions over and over, and I’ll take you out of here safely. You will go to Guantánamo Bay or maybe a maximum security prison for the rest of your miserable life, but you will be alive. Fuck around with me and you go headfirst into the Hogzilla pens. That’s the only deal you will be offered today, you son of a bitch.”
“They would start by eating the soft and easy parts,” said Jim, a specter in boots and bloody rubber apron and holding a dripping cleaver. “Ears, eyes … your little dick and balls.”
Mobili wept again, tears coursing wet paths through the filth on his cheeks. He had never felt so lost. “Yes. Yes. Ask me anything.”
Kyle stood with his feet spread, arms crossed, and cocked his head. “Don’t think I won’t do it.”
“I know. I understand.”
Swanson nodded to the others, and they walked out as Kyle started asking questions. Jim went to the mudroom to wash off while Buster and Sybelle headed back inside. “Would the Hogzillas really eat him?” she asked.
“Probably not. Mess him up a bit, though, just by rooting on him. We maintain them on top-quality forage and grain. Those ugly beasts are almost vegetarians.”
“A fresh pint for you, Billy-boy, from the bloke in the back corner booth. Asks a minute of your time.” The bartender whisked away the empty glass, made a quick swipe at the remaining circle of dampness with a cloth, and plopped down the fresh and foaming mug of beer. Bill Gorn did not touch it for a moment, nor acknowledge the benefactor waiting at the table, for he was usually a cautious man. He was built like a fireplug, with a mop of unkempt dark hair, a thick neck, and sloping shoulders that led to arms corded with muscle from a lifetime of heavy physical work around the docks along the Thames. The scarred hands were large. When not earning an honest wage, he worked part-time as a leg breaker for a bookie, and he had spent a few years in the lockup on his only assault conviction. Turning slowly from the bar, he stared into the gloom at the back of the smoke-filled pub and saw a gent in a black suit sitting alone. The man looked directly at him, held up an envelope, and laid it on his table. Billy Gorn smelled money.
There were no other strangers in the pub, just the usual congregation of dock workers and watermen clustered in rowdy conversations at the other tables and along the bar. Gorn picked up the beer in his left hand and went to the back booth, using a moment sidestepping through the crowd to dip into his right trouser pocket, pull out the switchblade knife, and palm it up his sleeve. “Thanks for the pint, sir,” he said as he came to a stop at the table.
The stranger was a medium-sized man with gray hair and gray eyes. Ordinary to the point of being invisible in London. “There is a ten-pound note sealed in this envelope,” he said. “It is yours, for your time. I have a proposition through which you could earn nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety more.”
Billy Gorn visibly struggled with the arithmetic, and the tall man rescued him. “Ten thousand pounds, sir. Would you like to make ten thousand pounds?”
“Wot’s your name and how is it that you walk into my pub and ask exactly for me, who’s never laid eyes on you before?” Gorn took a bite of the beer and wiped foam from his lip.
“My name is unimportant, but I am a solicitor by trade, and I was asked by a client to find someone like you, someone reliable for a special task. A former client suggested your name.” He took a small sip from his own pint.
“Well, your client knows that I’m no killer, if that’s what you are after. I can break them, but they can always be mended.”
“Indeed. You will not be asked to kill anyone. Just the opposite, in fact. You are to keep her alive and safe. Another of my clients wishes to speak with her husband and believes this may be the best avenue to have such a conversation. Now are you interested?”
“Ten thousand quid for snatching some woman?”
“Just so.” The solicitor laid a twenty-pound note on the envelope. “No bodyguards involved, so there probably should be a minimum of rough trade. Would you be interested, then?”
“For a kidnapping, I’ll be asking twenty thousand pounds, then. Ten for a friend to help me.” Billy Gorn was confident in his negotiation style. The thick eyebrows came together, the ledge of his forehead wrinkled, and his little eyes hardened.
The solicitor was familiar with dealing with criminals, however, so he reached out and picked up the fresh twenty-pounder and put it back in his pocket. “You may ask, but the offer remains ten thousand.”
Gorn was taken aback at seeing money removed from the table. He thought quickly. Clyde would help him for a thousand, and be happy to do so. “Twelve, then.”
“Ten.”
“Ten it is. Half up front.”
“No.” The lawyer had not broken a sweat but pulled a larger envelope from his briefcase. “You are not to be totally trusted, Mr. Gorn. So I shall give you a thousand pounds now to pay for your expenses, and the rest when the job is done and I see the woman is alive and safe. Everything you need to know, including the place she is to be held, is in this packet.”
Billy tipped up his pint and finished it. “What is the time on this job?”
The solicitor slid out of the booth and took a moment to straighten his suit. Bland as wallpaper, Billy Gorn thought. “As soon as possible. And if it all goes well, I shall include a bonus.”
“How much of a bonus?”
“Please, Mr. Gorn. Stop being foolish and just take care of the job.” With that, the gray man drifted toward the door, cigarette smoke swirling around him, and disappeared.
Billy remained at the table and watched him go. Then he caught the eye of his mate, Clyde, still at the bar and gave a slight nod. Clyde peeled away and followed.
6
A TV set in the colonel’s office was tuned to the live coverage of the airport arrival of the Iranian national soccer team. Shouting fans surged along the police security cordons, cheering wildly.
“We have a good team,” observed Colonel Naqdi. A newspaper lay folded on his desk, with a front-page photograph showing strong young men in Iranian soccer uniforms, those in the front row kneeling, and all smiling for the camera. “A very good team,” he repeated.