Incitement (12 page)

The men’s progress to the ridge of the tall dune was slow, the heavy sand providing little traction. The taller man was struggling to keep up, his breathing laboured due
to the hard pace. Larsen had insisted that they move away from the busy areas of the beach before beginning their discussion. Finally, after forty minutes marching without a word passing between
the two, the trailing man was grateful to see his companion stop on the crest of the dune, apparently happy with the location. He wearily trudged up the last few steps.

Andrew Brewer bent over, placing his hands on his thighs, and stifled an oath. Scrambling around on windswept beaches like this was ludicrous. Normally a man who took pride in his appearance, as
evidenced by his carefully coordinated wardrobe, coiffed silver hair and neatly trimmed goatee, he did not appreciate his linen shirt being soaked with sweat or his handmade loafers being filled
with sand. While he waited for his breath to return, he studied his companion out of the corner of his eye. The lean, spare frame betrayed no sign of expended effort and the Dane, clad only in a
T-shirt and jeans, seemed oblivious to the cold wind sweeping in from the surf.

Brewer was used to other people making the running in conversations and waited for Larsen to speak. And waited. It soon became obvious that nothing would be forthcoming, that he could stand
there for ever while his companion gazed out over the waves.

“Is it always necessary to make these meetings so difficult?” he asked. “I’ve told you before I can’t be expected to drop everything at short notice, to head off on
another mystery tour. One of these days, you might find yourself out here alone.” He tried to inject a laugh at the end, hoping to make it one of those half-serious, half-joking remarks,
satisfying his own ego without forcing a direct confrontation.

Larsen turned to look at him and the cold stare made him happy he had not used more forceful language.

“I take the precautions I think are necessary. We both share the same paymaster and both know you’ll be at every meeting, regardless of inconvenience.”

That was it. Never any attempt at diplomacy or cordiality. Larsen just said what he thought, take it or leave it. The apparent lack of malice in the remark only added to the insult.

As CEO of Spartan Personnel, one of the ascendant companies in the lucrative field of military contracting, Brewer was used to being shown more deference. Before he had joined the private
sector, he had been with the CIA, responsible for various operations throughout Central and South America. It was during that time that he had seen the growing opportunities for commercial entities
who could provide military and law enforcement personnel to fill government contracts. Fortunes could be made if someone could provide the politicians with a way to pursue their interests on
foreign soil while maintaining a safe distance from any controversy. It was far easier if a contract company was the one suffering casualties or becoming embroiled in local controversies. The
economics of it actually made sense as well. Customised manpower could be applied, and once a job was finished the contract was simply terminated. There was no need to involve unwieldy and
expensive command structures. A combination of the strong growth in the market and his personal contacts had ensured Brewer had no difficulty raising the start-up capital he had needed.

Spartan offered a comprehensive range of services. They participated in eradication missions, training and drug interdiction. They also provided air transport, reconnaissance, search and rescue
and airborne medical evacuation missions. When filling contracts for the State Department, the aircrafts were provided by the Department but all of the pilots and technicians were provided by
Spartan. In the last couple of years, they had branched into infantry and counter-insurgency training for approved foreign governments and he couldn’t have been more pleased with the way this
had gone. While their “trainers” had strict guidelines forbidding participation in live missions, everyone knew the score. There had been occasional casualties but generous settlements
combined with strict non-disclosure terms in the contracts ensured these brought a minimum amount of publicity.

In the decade since its inception, Spartan had grown to more than 200 permanent employees scattered throughout fifteen countries, with three times that number on short-term contracts. Over the
previous year, they had billed $45 million with a $110 million contract backlog, and analysts were bullish about their prospects.

Brewer enjoyed the influence and celebrity Spartan had brought him. People as powerful as four-star generals and US senators listened carefully to what he had to say. So it rankled when he was
reminded that he still had clear limitations, that there were still those who were far higher up on the food chain. It was even more galling when the reminder came from a lowly gun-for-hire like
Larsen. He hated having to deal with the Dane who always gave him the impression that he viewed Brewer as nothing more than an expedient tool.

“Does everything have to be so confrontational with you?” he asked. “We have to work together and it wouldn’t hurt to show a little cooperation.”

There was no response to the remark and he decided the sooner they dealt with their business the better. “It seems Prague was enough to finally spur Madrigal into action. There were four
attacks on the Fifteen Families’ assets last night. Two of them were significant enough to have been picked up by the international news services.” He smiled. “It’s going
exactly to plan. These simpletons are going to tear each other apart.”

“You don’t have a high opinion of them?” Larsen asked.

“Of course not. They’re a bunch of peasants who were lucky enough to find themselves sitting on a gold mine. Whether it’s South America, the Golden Triangle or the Balkans,
most of these guys are just common thugs elevated by massive firepower,” Brewer said contemptuously. “They rely on intimidation and bribery to overwhelm inadequately funded police
forces. Now, they’re going to see what it’s like in the big leagues.”

“All we’ve accomplished is the initial phase of the project and, even so, we’ve been fortunate,” Larsen said.

“Nonsense, we’ve had meticulous planning and the success of the operations is a testament to that.”

Larsen just stared at him, and Brewer felt as if his opinion was being summarily dismissed.

“You have the information?” Larsen asked.

“Yes, it’s first-class stuff. Here, I’ve added my own summary to it,” said Brewer, handing him a data stick. “We used contacts in Mexico, as well as a couple of
proven freelancers in California, hired through a blind cover. There’s no doubt about it, Zaragosa runs their West Coast distribution. From San Diego to Seattle, if you’re shooting or
snorting, it’s likely your money is heading back to Mexico via Francisco’s pockets.” Watching Larsen pocket the stick without any comment, he added, “You’ve got
information there about his movements, the organisational structure beneath him and his two main residences. It’s surprising how freely he’s been able to operate without incurring any
serious media or police scrutiny. My guess is that a lot of people’s incomes are going to suffer when he’s eliminated.”

“Fine,” Larsen said. “One more thing; I’ll need another transfer of funds to the same five accounts. Two million, evenly spread.”

This was another source of irritation for Brewer. The level of autonomy enjoyed by Larsen should never have been approved. He had argued that he should control all finances, releasing funds when
operational plans submitted in advance met with his approval. After all, he compiled the shortlists of personnel from which the teams were selected and organised all of the intelligence on the
targets. Larsen had objected, saying he would not accept the contract under those conditions, and that had been that. It was not the money itself that annoyed Brewer, although he was sure there was
some skimming going on, it was the erosion of his role in favour of someone like the mercenary.

“It must be good to have unlimited access to funds. You know, you’ve gone through quite a sum already. My offer to help you with the planning still stands. Honestly, for what
you’ve spent, I could have organised the same operations three or four times over.”

“With the same degree of competence that you showed in that Nicaraguan hit before you left the Agency no doubt.”

Brewer was stung by the remark. Larsen’s casual attitude was one thing but this! It was infuriating that he would have had the audacity to do a background check on him and even more so to
make such an arrogant judgement based on it. Who the hell did he think he was? For a moment he fought the urge to lash out physically. He soothed himself with the thought that there would be a
reckoning down the line.

“Is that it?” he asked.

Larsen nodded, turning away without another word. Brewer stared at the back of his head for a few seconds, feeling his temper rising, before leaving for the long walk to the car park.

Larsen watched the waves rolling in. The coastline here was reminiscent of Hanstholm, where he undertook training exercises more than fifteen years earlier. Young eager
recruits going through a variety of exercises, throwing themselves from helicopters into the water. The pure joy and exhilaration was as fresh in his memory as if it had been yesterday.

Despite the planning Brewer had crowed about, the odds had been strongly against them achieving the one hundred per cent success rate they had enjoyed to date. In contrast to Brewer, he had a
healthy respect for the abilities of their targets’ senior personnel, particularly Madrigal, whom he had studied in detail. His greatest fear was that the Colombian would somehow identify the
provocateurs.

In many ways Brewer typified everything that had come to repulse him about the world he had descended into. The contract executive viewed himself as some kind of captain of industry, a mover and
shaker; all Larsen could see was another pig, gorging himself at the trough while others paid in blood. The episodes that had made Brewer’s reputation at the Agency represented many of the
organisation’s most shameful moments.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind and reminded himself to concentrate on the objective.

“Tim, ignore them – they’re nothing: anonymous suits who’ve never had a creative thought in their life. You’re the reason this project exists.
You’re the talent; remind them of that. They keep whining on about the shooting going over budget. Disappear again; they’ll soon see sense.”

Francisco Zaragosa was seated at an intricately carved nineteenth century Louis XV fruitwood table with breche d’alep marble top. He was speaking into a gold antique Stromberg Carlson
phone, telling one of Hollywood’s biggest stars to walk off the set of a $125-million movie. Looking out through the glass doors over the veranda, he watched the sprinklers burst into life
and begin dousing the beautifully manicured lawns. Beyond the perfect sea of green, the rest of the impeccably landscaped gardens stretched majestically. It did not get any better than this.

“They’re busting my balls, saying I can’t just go to Acapulco for a week in the middle of shooting. They don’t seem to appreciate the pressure I’m under. I
don’t know, I want to tell them to, you know, go fuck themselves but ...” Tim Mitchell, star of countless action movies, known far and wide as a no-nonsense tough guy, wavered.

“Tim, there is no ‘but’. Don’t you see this is what they want. First you start second-guessing yourself and then, before you know it, you need their permission to
breathe. Someone like you shouldn’t have to put up with this. Stay in your trailer; refuse to see them.”

“They’re hovering outside like vultures.”

“I’ll ask Joanne to go over with a little something to help pass the afternoon,” he reassured the fretful actor. “Let these guys stew. They’ll soon see all their
power trip has resulted in is the loss of another precious day’s shooting. They’ll get the message. Later.”

Francisco put the phone down and thought about Mitchell. He was sure he liked the actor but was faintly aware of a small degree of contempt mixed in somewhere. He knew his advice had been good
but was not about to lose sleep over it one way or the other. It was amusing to see what passed for a crisis in the actor’s life. Spending so much time with people like Mitchell caused him to
sometimes see them as his peers but nothing could be further from the truth. He wondered how his pampered acquaintances would fare if they were asked to fill his shoes, for even a week.

Looking at his watch to see how long it was before his next appointment, he decided to take a walk around the grounds. Whenever possible, he made a point of enjoying his beautiful gardens
– a leisurely stroll around the tree-lined paths and he felt completely restored. Whether he was uptight about some business-related matter or just burnt out from an all night partying
session, his worries and fatigue melted away.

When the opportunity to purchase the estate had arisen five years earlier he had decided he would use it to create something as close to a perfect environment as possible. He had overseen all
aspects of the transformation, whether it was restoring the architecture, furnishing the interior or landscaping the gardens. Nothing had been done without his approval and more than once he had
changed his mind about some small detail or other, requiring huge amounts of work to be scrapped. He appreciated the perfection of form wherever it could be found and had an encyclopaedic knowledge
on all aspects of classic and contemporary art and design. He could talk at length about subjects as diverse as a painting by Caravaggio or a Le Corbusier chaise longue. He had been determined that
concerns of time and expense would not compromise his labour of love. Because every facet of the project had to wait until he had time to address it, the transformation of the estate, formerly
owned by an actress from Hollywood’s golden age, had been painfully slow. The long wait had merely meant he would never take it for granted.