Snow Storm (31 page)

“
This is not
a respectable way to behave, Mr Heriot-Watt,” he taunted. “Is this
how your father brought you up to be a man? To cry like a little
girl?”

The hired hands laughed
and he hated them for it. Sycophantic nothings. How could men be so
physically strong and yet so without backbone? “Did you think you
had some kind of job for life? I suppose you did.” He laughed
again. “But there’s no pension scheme in our business. This is not
something you can do on a consultancy basis. We do not follow laws.
We have our own. This has to be a clean operation. There can be no
mess. Not when it’s all so dirty.” Again the sycophantic laughter.
“Do you know where you are?”

The lawyer didn’t know
how to respond so he just went back to the standard
pleading.

“
Physically?”
Victor demanded. “Surely you know that? Do you know what this is?
This is an empire. This is storage, logistics, production even, for
everything I’m building. You don’t even know do you? This is the
place where they regularly store white powder in bulk and truck the
stuff all around the country. You think this is lime? This is
Columbia’s finest cocaine. This place is its own airport, truck
depot and even, God love your predecessor, money laundering
operation. No one knows what’s going in and out of here and how
much it costs. No one knows we have an oil tanker with an extra
compartment for those girls you’re so fond of. Do you know we’re
thirty miles from a port to Ireland, one where they’ve taken off
the police presence because…” He paused and looked round at the
others. “Well I don’t even know why. Do you know how they used to
smuggle chemicals across that border? Do you? People would buy two
newspapers, cut the pictures from one and paste them over the shots
in the other just so they could squeeze a layer of heroin in
between. Now I could drive a car through there and no one would
notice and if we avoid the main routes when the pressure’s on and
fly everything out of this place so be it. And if not, we have that
boat you helped to launch the other day. Any sign of trouble at one
end, we simply ditch the product in the sea and fish it out again
like the most expensive catch you can imagine. So thank you. Thank
you for your complicity and the fact that you knew what you were
doing was wrong by your own bourgeois standards but didn’t care in
any way.

Thank you for the
publicity. The key to this was always to hide in plain
sight.

********************

Everything had swung into
action beautifully. Edwards had materialised a task force from
somewhere, like he’d been waiting for something like this to
happen. He’d said as much of course though he probably never knew
what it would be in any detail.

The choppers flew in low,
coming out over the west coast and the North Channel, doubled back
and crossed the Rhins, Luce Bay and rounded the Machars, South West
Scotland’s hammer like bottom end peninsulas, into an icy dawn.
Edwards sat up front wearing a pair of Oakleys that could really
only be described as ridiculous but that Burke was fairly certain
he’d selected specifically to go with Kevlar body armour and the
cans on his ears. He was loving this.

It had been
Burke’s granny that sealed the deal, sending out the local rag
religiously, week in week out since he’d left home. He’d needed
something to calm him down after the Campbell incident, some degree
of grounding. Normally it was the court file that made interesting
reading, trying to see if he recognised anyone from school that had
been done for breach of the peace or bestiality after a night on
the sauce. In an area where everyone knew everyone, the chances
were you’d always know someone. Sometimes the headlines were
laughable, like the time three sheep were nearly killed after
escaping onto the A75 and it made the front page.

This time of
course it had been the smirking face of Giles Heriot-Watt staring
back at him, his gerbil like champagne quaffing mug a testament to
the fact he’d just launched a speed boat, a speed boat that was
about to be impounded.

Funny how granny always
had a habit of pointing people in the right direction.

Wig Bay was to the right
of them as they came in from the south avoiding the Galloway hills.
Home, or what had been home lay three miles to the west, though no
lights blinked there now and hadn’t done for some fifteen years.
The memory faded but the twinge in the pit of the stomach remained
just as strong. The achingly familiar landscape lay before them,
spread out like an ink blue blanket with occasional sparkling
lights indicating signs of life. Not long now.

Andy could hear the
Russian speaking. In his head he pictured Borat, or a meaner
version prancing around like the guy from Reservoir Dogs. Not that
he spoke like Borat. Andy was probably just mildly racist or
xenophobic he realised. Fair enough under the
circumstances.

The prick
behind him, it was the same stuffy little fucker who’d been there
earlier. The one in the suit and the aura of self-importance. Not
so grand now. He could hear the muffled grunts and the sound of the
burner further away. If ever he was going to have a heart attack
this was probably a good time. A quick painful death by his own
hand or heart sounded good. He’d heard about Buddhist monks who
when their time had come were able to just let go, push the red
emergency button, pull the ejector cord, just fuck off and give the
bastards the two fingered salute.

He tried
holding his breath. Everything went silent. The burner was
extinguished. He could hear the sounds of his heartbeat and the
sobs of the suit behind him.

“
It takes
dedication to live this way. I wouldn’t expect you to understand a
thing like that Giles.”

Giles, that
was the snivelling posh twat’s name. The Russian or Estonian or
whatever he was had a liking for the sound of his own voice,
although the fact you could hear it from a distance was comforting.
He hoped he could keep that distance.

“
I wouldn’t
expect you to understand it all, but allow me to educate you in
some way.” The sound he heard then was familiar in some way and yet
beyond that. A sickening crunch and at the same time a squelching
sound like a dog chewing on a chicken bone. Then the scream came, a
sound that would curdle the blood and twist the guts of anyone with
senses. Then the burning smell. It hit is nostrils and was again
familiar, the unmistakable reek of burning flesh like barbecuing
pork or worse, further back in his memory, the pyres that came with
foot and mouth. But this was more intense. This you couldn’t
rationalise. This had only one conclusion, that he was
next.

********************

Giles lay on the barn
floor where he had fallen when they had cut the cable ties.
Everything was numb. Andreyevich’s lecture about the ways of his
people had gone over fairly convincingly. Safe to say it had left
its mark on his mind.

The toothless henchman
lay on the ground. Smoke poured from a gaping and yet cauterised
wound where his windpipe had once been. A warning shot to him and
the others on the payroll. Don’t screw up or it’ll be the end of
you. He picked himself up from the cold concrete floor and
staggered towards the light at the doorway but stopped short when
he saw Victor standing there waiting, a glint in his
eye.

“
You should
change your trousers.”

“
Yes,
immediately. Obviously,” he stammered trying to get control over
the nervousness in his voice.

“
But first
you must take care of some business. Think of it as some kind of
contract perhaps. An act of faith and mutual trust you might
say.”

“
Anything,”
he replied, at the same time not quite meaning it.

Victor
motioned towards the slumped figure of the boy cable tied to the
pallet in the far corner. “You know what must be done. There can be
no loose ends. All or nothing, and nothing is easily done,” he said
motioning to the corpse on the floor.

One of the other hired
hands stepped forward passing him an assault rifle.

“
No!” Victor
butted it away. “This is a mark of respect. We only execute those
deserving with this.”

The guard lowered the
AK47 nodding.

“
Go and find
something more appropriate. Something you might normally shoot a
pig with.”

The man
shuffled away and left Giles to think about this. It wasn’t
something he’d done before. It wasn’t something he thought he’d
ever have to do. But was it something he was prepared to do? Were
there any other options? He could run, but no, they’d find him.
This was the only way. The boy would never live anyway. The guard
returned with a shot gun, conveniently sawn off half way down the
barrel. He recognised this though, felt vaguely comfortable with it
from pheasant shoots years before.

The guard clicked it
open, finding two dusty looking cartridges. “You know how to use?”
He asked, handing it over.

“
Of course,”
Giles replied. There was always some feeling of security to be had
putting someone down. The shot gun was the weapon of choice for his
kind of people, not like the AK used by despots and terrorists the
world over.

He snapped the gun shut,
lock, stock and what was left of the shortened barrels in unison,
feeling lighter in his hands than he was used to, less heavy at the
business end obviously but nevertheless, substantial.

He closed the
giant door. He didn’t want an audience for what he was about to do.
He walked purposefully towards the kid. He had to get this over
with. That was all. Then on with the rest of his life, no more
screw ups.

The boy seemed asleep.
Maybe that was the saving grace in all of this. Maybe. He weighed
up the gun again. This was a side by side, the barrel set on the
horizontal. He’d used an over and under last time. It was unlikely
he would miss at point blank range. No need to think about the
adjustments to be made for that. He wasn’t a long range sniper
trying to take the head off a diplomat at two miles. He was
shooting a sleeping fish in a barrel.

There would
be a recoil of course. Would it be more or less than a normal one?
Would be get powder burns from the shortness of the barrel? It was
going to be loud. That much he knew.

He took one last breath,
looked over the gun again, lifted it decisively to his shoulder,
then back to his waist when he wondered if that might be
better.

And then the
boy looked up and Giles’s heart skipped a beat.

********************

Andy had heard the weasel
coming. The footsteps of his short arsed gait were unmistakably
close together. He had considered that he might not have the
bottle, but looking into his eyes now he knew that wasn’t the case.
This guy hadn’t got by on looks and charm. He must have some kind
of nasty streak about him.

He looked
shifty, moving the gun up and down his body, unsure whether to
shoot from the hip or the shoulder. His face betrayed the shock
when Andy raised his head, unprepared for there being an audience.
He’d more happily have shot him in the back, should have thought of
that really. The suit’s expression turned to one of righteous
indignation. His jaw shot out, making him look as though he only
had two chins and Andy felt the anger rising. The man moved the gun
up to his shoulder again thrusting the end of the barrel into
Andy’s face but stepping back slightly as his body language gave
away his reluctance.

“
You can’t
shoot me,” Andy said, shaking his head in as dismissive a way as he
could manage.

The man scoffed but
seemed to twitch slightly. “And why would you think that?” he asked
defiantly.

“
Some things
we just know round here,” Andy replied with a smirk. “It’s in the
blood you might say.”

“
The only
thing that’s about to be in your blood is a lot of
lead.”

“
That so?
You’re confident then?”

“
Oh I am. You
can pull all your mind tricks, try to guilt me about the fact that
you’re just a boy and I’m, what? A big bad criminal?” He laughed a
bit too hard.

“
Bad criminal
maybe,” Andy said, eliciting a frown and a further steely gaze from
his executioner.

“
We’ll see,”
he said, as he took aim again. “Any last requests?”

“
None.
You?”

“
I have to
hand it to you, you do rather know how to talk a good game, but
this isn’t like talking me out of beating you in a golf match. I’m
not bottling it sunshine. This isn’t one you can win.”

“
You still
can’t shoot me,” Andy replied, starting to laugh.

“
I’m glad you
think that,” Giles said. “It makes this much easier.”

And then he pulled the
trigger.

********************

The tank made
short work of the front gate. “Security schmuecurity,” Big Al said,
as he ploughed through the thing at about thirty miles an hour. He
miss-judged it slightly. It launched into the air and they clung on
for dear life as it lurched back towards the ground and landed with
an almighty clatter.