The Old Cripple rolled out on to the stage unannounced. For several long moments nobody noticed. But then, gradually, one by one, by nods and whispers and prods, they saw that their host was among them and the angry buzz began to die away. Then the applause started, at first from the front, then gradually building back until the whole convention hall thundered with the sound of their appreciation. Save for a musical misjudgement near the end, they'd had a ball, made their deals, made a fortune and made the world a safer place, at least for themselves. The Old Cripple didn't blink an eyelid. He
couldn't
blink an eyelid, but even if he had been able to, he probably wouldn't have. He was alone now, even with all these people. The Barracuda had slipped away. It was just him and his speech and the device in his hand for setting off the bomb. His sparrow-legged fingers caressed it again.
Gradually their adulation died away. They took their seats again. Then they waited. Waited for the man in the wheelchair and quietly thanked God that at least they had all their faculties. Rumour had it that he was dying. That this was his last public appearance. Shame.
Shame.
But what a triumphant way to go.
The Old Cripple looked at the single sheet of paper in his hands. Five hundred words, each one laboriously and painfully typed with his own burnt and arthritic fingers. With a little grunt he reached up and lowered the microphone from Pongo's singing height to that of his own sitting position. Then he cleared his cappuccino throat and said: 'Ladies and gentlemen, I have come to say farewell.' For a brief moment he studied the pity that had already descended on their faces. 'I think you will all agree that we have had a wonderful few days.'
Cheers and applause.
'That this convention represents a new high-water mark in our campaign for better international co-operation.' His voice was ragged. He coughed, tried to clear it. But no, just a rasp. He should have brought water. He turned slightly, wincing, and looked for the Barracuda to bring him some . . . but no, he was gone. No matter. He forced himself on. 'I am an old man now, I am dying; allow me a little time.' The silence in the auditorium was complete now. His eyes roved across their faces. 'Many years ago,' he began again, 'when I was fit and healthy, I lived in the desert. I fought for what was right. I fought governments and dictatorships and kings and queens. I fought repression and depression and recession, I fought for good against evil. I thought then that the great evil was America. Or Russia. Or China or Christianity. Truly there were many evils for a young man to fight against.'
Laughter.
'But as I grew older I discovered that there was a greater evil, one that knew nothing of national boundaries, that respected no law, followed no politics, had no morals and whose only currency was life and death, but mostly death.'
What's he talking about: satellite television, pollution, AIDS?
'Drugs, my friends, drugs.'
He let it sit for a moment. Some of them were laughing already, even before the punchline.
'And so I had a dream. A wonderful dream. To gather together every major drug dealer and supplier and importer and exporter and manufacturer and wholesaler, every cold exploiter of our fellow man, every killer, like we have here tonight.'
Jeez, what's he . . .
What the fuck does he . . .
'My dream was not to lecture you like this on the evils of drugs. You know them well enough yourself. It was not to try and re-educate you. You are all beyond that. It was not even to try and convert you to religion. For no God would have you. It was, quite simply, to kill you.'
What?
What the fuck?
What's the Old Cripple saying?
Who the freakin' hell he think he is?
Hold on, hold on, he's only joking. . .
The Old Cripple was choking. Gurgling up phlegm and not having the strength to cough it out. The conventioneers shifted uncomfortably. OK, they'd shown respect, but sick jokes like this were pushing it a bit far. It wasn't the old guy that ran the show anyways. It was that Barracuda.
But
. . . but. . .
The doors at the back of the hall opened, and when they looked round there was a squad of police officers standing there.
It
was
a fucking joke!
Laughter began to ripple around the hall.
The police began to move down the centre aisle. Their guns were drawn.
The old guy sure knows how to put on a show!
One of the Italians jumped into the aisle, sank to his knees and extended his hands, crossed, and squealed: 'Arrest me! Arrest me!'
They stepped round him. Applause began to break out.
The Old Cripple, fighting for breath, was stunned.
Police.
That wasn't the idea at all. The police squad fanned out at the bottom of the steps leading to the stage, all save for one who hurried up them and across the stage to the Old Cripple.
He was starting to gag. He needed something to suck out the phlegm. It was the excitement, the drama; if only the Barracuda . . . what were the police . . . he fingered the device in his hand . . .
One flick of a switch and Eternity.
One little flick and peace.
He squinted up at the cop, his face lost for a moment in the dazzle of the stage lights.
There was no harm in killing a few cops for the greater good of mankind. It would not cloud his crowning achievement. He finally found the strength to spit out a cupful.
Triumphant again, he grinned up at the cop.
'Your timing is lousy,' the Old Cripple rasped.
He pulled the . . .
'Au contraire,
Cripple-features,' said Gavril Popov, and blew the top of Mohammed Salameh's head all over the stage.
They were about half a mile from the Old Cripple's mansion, hearts racing, when a Coke lorry pulled out of a gas station a little ahead of them and seemed to stall as it crossed into the opposite lane, blocking the road. Stirling pulled the convoy to a halt and gave a quick blast of his siren. The driver climbed quickly down from his cab and darted away between two houses. Moments later the cab window cracked suddenly and a lick of flame darted out.
Morton, used to explosions, let out a shout and began to wave the Magnificent Thirty-six back. They hit reverse. They'd made only about twenty yards on screeching tyres when the Coke lorry blew.
Had it been a chemicals truck or a gasoline jugger, the whole area would have been devastated. But it was Coke and it just put the fire out itself and added a little life to the surrounding gardens. It also left the shell of a smouldering truck sitting like a burst boil in the middle of the road.
Stirling climbed out of his car to survey the damage as Morton hurried up. 'I think we can take it that they're on to us,' Stirling said.
Morton shrugged helplessly. 'This is the only direct road to the mansion, isn't it?'
Stirling nodded. 'They've been tipped off.'
Behind him Madeline scrambled down off the pick-up truck to film the scene of soft-drink devastation.
'It means if we go ahead with this, it's one big step closer to being a suicide mission.'
Stirling rubbed at his brow. Morton was right. But it was too late to back down now. It couldn't just fizzle out with a fire bomb in a Coke lorry. It would be like orbiting the Moon, but not landing.
'Mark, listen . . .'
'I know what you're saying, but we can't just. . .'
'No . . . Mark,
listen . . .'
Morton touched his ear. Stirling turned towards the steaming vehicle. 'I don't. . .'
'Shhhhh,' said Morton.
And then he heard it.
The unmistakable sound of gunfire.
'Hey, Mr Policeman, how much you reckon, two million, three million; good night's work yeah?'
Gavril Popov stood at the entrance to the mansion while his
faux
police officers hurried out with bin bags full of cash and jewellery. Then came the women. Beautifully attired hookers clip- clipping down the steps in single file with military precision. Corrigan, hands on head, nodded despairingly at Popov. He moved his hand down to look at his watch. 10.30. Lelewala was heading for the river. The Falls. She was going over. Of that he was certain.
And he was standing with his hands on his head like an arse, doing nothing.
Hands on his head and a gun in his sock.
Doing nothing.
Shite.
Stirling was his only hope of relief, and he wasn't coming. He'd been arrested. Or he'd been taking the piss the whole time.
A gun in his sock which he had to use
now,
or Lelewala would die.
'Popov,' he said, 'I have to . . .'
'Shushshushshush,' said Popov, his golden smile glistening off the floodlights, 'you want to know why I therefore do all this. OK. Not for me drug skuldiggery. Stick up the hands and give me your money. As the brothers of my profession have done for all time. Gentlemen bandits, my friend. I suspect Old Cripple not one to trust banks, I suspect right. The others, plenty cash to pay for my women . . . Jesus yes, I got that franchise too. All my girls.' He patted one of them in passing and she smiled lovingly back.
'Except one,' Corrigan said, 'your wife.' He stepped forward. A guard stepped forward with him, with a gun. Popov shook his head. Corrigan got spit-close. 'Please let me save her. She's going to throw herself in the river.'
Popov's eyes met his. Corrigan searched for some sign of sympathy or regret. But there was none. 'So,' Popov said, 'it getting to be a habit. I think she likes it.'
'Popov – please, I have to go after her.'
'I think no way.'
He reached out for Popov's lapels, but the guard struck him on the side of the head with the butt of his pistol and Corrigan rocked to one side. A little trickle of blood raced down his cheek.
He staggered back. 'C'mon! Look, for Jesus . . . look, look . . . if I tell you something really important. . .'
Popov's eyes twinkled. 'I know what you say. Your men are coming here. Me, I'm not so bad, in the world order of big rankings, no way. We lock the doors, wait for your boys to come, put these men's asses in stir long time . . .'
'No . . . Jesus, no . . . there's a bomb, a fucking bomb in there . . . the Old Cripple was going to blow the whole fucking place up . . .'
'Yeah yeah, sure, like I think that doesn't make sense.'
One of his cops locked the mansion doors, then hurried down the steps and handed a key to Popov. Popov held it in his hand for several moments, then tossed it up in the air and caught it. 'Here is the key to the front door. I sure there are a hundred other ways out, but right now they're all scared as shit in there and won't move a goddamn mollusc. I give you the choice of waiting here with them and stealing all the credit for it, or running after silly-head the wife. Up to you, good cop.' He handed Corrigan the key. 'It up to you,' he said.
He nodded once, then signalled for his men to follow him. They had already reversed and readied a convoy of stolen limousines, and now the hookers were busy jamming themselves into the vehicles. Popov strode across the pink gravelled pathway and climbed into his police car, a car Corrigan now saw was one of his own, stolen several months before, but never recovered.
One of Popov's stragglers came running across the drive, signalling frantically. Corrigan turned and saw the reason for his panic. Coming out of the trees that lay along the perimeter wall and fanning out across the immaculate lawns were soldiers. Soldiers with guns. There seemed to be hundreds of them, but there might only have been thirty. They were advancing slowly, professionally, or as professional soldiers might have during the Franco-Prussian wars, with scant regard for cover or camouflage. And running in front of them a lunatic lady with a video camera, and coming behind two cops and a seventy-year-old head-the-ball struggling to keep up and dropping his rifle every few yards.
Stirling.
The Magnificent Seven plus.
Popov, unfazed, took a moment to appreciate the spectacle, then winked back at Corrigan. Then, with a fancy hand signal, like he was leading the Seventh Cavalry into battle, his vastly expanded convoy started to move down the twisting driveway and away from the Old Cripple's mansion.
Lelewala.
She had a ten-minute start. At least.
How far could a barefoot deranged woman run in ten minutes ?
Did she have the homing instinct of a pigeon, or would she have to stop and ask directions?
And would she ask them in Tuscorora or Georgian?
A watery grave or David Hasselhoff ?
Corrigan raced across the car park. They had not taken all of the vehicles. There was a Porsche. With the keys in the ignition, of course, because the Old Cripple's mansion was the safest place in the world. He roared it into life and down the driveway, through the trees, past the smoking guardhouse by the shattered gates, and sped out on to the road leading to Niagara Falls.
It was a huge river, but there was only one place she would go. Above the Falls, immediately above the Falls. Eyes turned as he raced through the town; he hammered the horn for extra results, chasing the night's last straggling tourists off the road. Past the House of Frankenstein, down Clifton Hill, on to the Parkway, ahead of him the Falls.
The lights were out. The night's entertainment was over. The
Maid of the Mist
was tied up. There was only the roar of the great Niagara.
Now, in the darkness, he could see what the Indians had feared. The white foam like a poisonous serpent bite, the body of the mighty snake twisting behind, the cacophony of the water more ominous than any massed tribal drumming.
He was drawing level with the Falls. Up ahead, above them, he could see a figure perched on a wall. Standing,
leaning.
The long hair. It was Lelewala. He . . .
There was a sudden bang and the vehicle swerved violently to one side. Corrigan fought to control it, but he was going too fast, he was up the kerb and flying. The car smashed into the wall that ran along the edge of the Niagara. The wheels buckled beneath him. Corrigan's head cracked off the window and he didn't know where the hell he was for a moment. He held his head and tried to still everything. Then he fumbled for the door handle and pushed; it fell open with a loud screech.