Friday 29th January 2016
Iraq
“On Rasmatazz that first time, you asked me whether we had met before. My face had looked familiar, do you remember?”
Ricky looks in shock. His mouth has started twitching, as if trying to frame words to speak but is unable to do so.
At last, feebly, he manages to speak. “You can’t prove any of this.”
“Actually, Ricky, I can. My proof is in two parts. Firstly, for reasons I don’t need to bore you with, this lady here,” he says, pointing at Emms, “is a dab hand at collecting samples of people’s DNA. Isn’t that right, Emms?”
Despite everything, Emms manages a smile. Even in a black abaya and scarf, her face bruised from Vladek’s earlier rough stuff, she still looks beautiful.
“It’ll take no time at all to collect some samples to take back to England for testing in due course.”
“You mentioned two parts.”
“Ah, yes. When my mother was close to death, she finally plucked up the courage to tell me everything. In particular, that one of her rapists that night had this unusual birthmark. She said that she could see it beneath the blindfold that you put on her rather too clumsily. I know the birthmark well. On the lower abdomen, a blotchy affair that looks like a tiny map of Wales. I have one in more or less the same place. Uncanny, isn’t it? I saw yours the other day when you were getting out of the pool. Want me to remind you?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“I’ll take that as an admission of guilt. She also recognised your voice. You were careless, Ricky. Your lustful perversion that night fucked up both her life and mine.”
“Did you plan all this?” Ricky asks. “To get your own back I mean? We could come to an arrangement, you and I. We could kiss and make up. Start all over. I could arrange a financial settlement.”
“Don’t make me laugh! A financial settlement? You really are sick, Ricky. I promised my mother that I would make you pay for your sins. All my life I’ve grown up believing that my father had died years ago. As soon as I heard what had actually happened I was appalled. This is payback. I thought the best way was to get close without you realising. Tear you apart from within, piece by piece. Not just your money but your reputation. With luck, your life.”
He stops suddenly. The faint sound of a diesel engine can be heard. Something powerful. They are about to have visitors.
“Emms, get in the Jeep and lie as low as you can on the floor.” He turns to look at Ricky.
“Your friends from ISIS about to arrive?”
Ricky shrugs.
“Perhaps.”
“I haven’t got it in me to kill you, Ricky. The good news, though, is that I feel certain that you are going to die. Regrettably, I feel no sadness at the prospect whatsoever.”
“For what it’s worth – and I know this is may sound pathetic, Adam – I applaud you for what you have done. I don’t think I could have done the same in your shoes. Your mother must have given you better DNA than I ever did. Just get out of here before it’s too late.”
“Let me ask you one final thing before it’s too late.”
A misty, pale desert dawn is now visible through the open doors of the deserted warehouse. With the opening facing almost due west, the light inside is still limited. To Adam’s adjusted eyes, it looks almost like daylight. When whoever drives in, there will only be a short window when Adam will have the element of surprise.
“Stay in the Jeep, Emms. Whatever happens, don’t run off anywhere,” he shouts. With the sound of the approaching engine getting nearer, Adam runs over to one of the MRAPs, the one he had driven, which is parked some distance from where Ricky is lying on the floor with his hands and legs tied. He winds down the window and checks that he can operate the headlights without the ignition on. He can.
Now all he can do is wait. He takes out the P226 pistol and checks the magazine. Fully loaded, this one holds ten 9mm Parabellum rounds. Two shots already fired, Adam counts seven bullets in the magazine with another in the chamber. Eight in total. Only time will tell if eight is too many or too few. How many will there be? At a minimum there will be three. A driver and one to drive each of the MRAPs. What would Adam do? He’d be throwing in a couple of extra people, one for each MRAP. Driving around the Iraqi countryside with three hundred million dollars in the back, he’d want additional protection. He cocks his head and listens. The engine noise now sounds very close. Deep and powerful. A military vehicle, no doubt. It sounds heavy enough to be an MTVR, the American abbreviation for their Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacements, a form of twenty-first century upgrade to the old Bedford truck. Probably with a machine gun mounted just above the driver’s cabin. The memories of Afghanistan easily flood back. Adam knows his vehicles all too well.
Then he hears something else: a second engine, coming fast up the rear. Two of them. That was bad news. Two drivers, two to man the machine guns, two spare drivers for the MRAPs and another couple of spares, one for each vehicle carrying the cash. That made at least eight in total.
Eight bullets for eight people.
This was going to be challenging.