Mightier Than the Sword (3 page)

He opened the back door of the taxi and waved the gun at Martinez to indicate that he should get out.

“This is the money I was bringing to you,” Martinez insisted, holding up the bag.

“Hoping to catch me at Heathrow, were you?” If it was the full amount, Rafferty knew he would have no choice but to spare his life. “Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?”

“No, but there’s over twenty-three thousand. Just a down payment, you understand. The rest is back at the house, so if we head back—”

The chauffeur knew that the house in Eaton Square, along with Martinez’s other assets, had been repossessed by the bank. Martinez had clearly hoped to make it to the airport before the IRA discovered he had no intention of fulfilling his side of the bargain.

Rafferty grabbed the bag and threw it on the backseat of the taxi. He’d decided to make Martinez’s death somewhat more protracted than originally planned. After all, he had nothing else to do for the next hour.

He waved the gun in the direction of a wooden chair that had been placed directly below the lightbulb. It was already splattered with dried blood from previous executions. He pushed his victim down with considerable force, and before Don Pedro had a chance to react, he had tied his arms behind his back, but then he’d carried out this particular exercise several times before. Finally he tied Martinez’s legs together, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

All Rafferty had to decide now was how long the victim would be allowed to live. His only constraint being, he had to be at Heathrow in time to catch the early morning flight to Belfast. He checked his watch. He always enjoyed seeing that look on the victim’s face when they believed there still might be a chance of survival.

He returned to the taxi, unzipped Martinez’s bag, and counted the bundles of crisp five-pound notes. At least he’d told the truth about that, even if he was more than £226,000 short. He zipped the bag back up and locked it in the boot. After all, Martinez would no longer have any use for it.

The area commander’s orders were clear: once the job had been completed he was to leave the body in the warehouse and another operative would deal with its disposal. The only thing required of Rafferty was to make a phone call and deliver the message, “Package ready for collection.” After that, he was to drive to the airport and leave the taxi, and the money, on the top level of the long-term car park. Another operative would be responsible for collecting it and distributing the cash.

Rafferty returned to Don Pedro, whose eyes had never left him. If the chauffeur had been given the choice, he would have shot him in the stomach, then waited a few minutes until the screaming died down, before firing a second bullet into his groin. More screaming, probably louder, until he finally forced the gun into his mouth. He would stare into his victim’s eyes for several seconds and then, without warning, pull the trigger. But that would have meant three shots. One might go unnoticed, but three would undoubtedly attract attention in the middle of the night. So he would obey the area commander’s orders. One shot, and no screaming.

The chauffeur smiled at Don Pedro, who looked up hopefully, until he saw the gun heading toward his mouth.

“Open up,” said Rafferty, like a friendly dentist coaxing a reluctant child. One common factor among all his victims was the chattering teeth.

Martinez resisted, and swallowed one of his front teeth in the unequal struggle. Sweat began to pour down the fleshy folds of skin on his face. He was only made to wait a few more seconds before the trigger was pulled, but all he heard was the click of the hammer.

Some fainted, some just stared in disbelief, while others were violently sick when they realized they were still alive. Rafferty hated the ones who fainted. It meant he had to wait for them to fully recover before he could begin the whole process again. But Martinez obligingly remained wide awake.

When Rafferty extracted the gun, his idea of a blow job, the victims often smiled, imagining the worst was over. But as he spun the cylinder again, Don Pedro knew he was going to die. It was just a matter of when. Where and how had already been decided.

It always disappointed Rafferty when he succeeded with the first shot. His personal record was nine, but the average was around four or five. Not that he gave a damn about statistics. He thrust the barrel back into Martinez’s mouth, and took a step back. After all, he didn’t want to be covered in blood. The Argentinian was foolish enough to resist again, and lost another tooth for his trouble, a gold one. Rafferty pocketed it before he squeezed the trigger a second time, but was not rewarded with anything but another click. He pulled out the barrel in the hope of removing another tooth, well, half a tooth.

“Third time lucky,” said Rafferty as he thrust the muzzle back into Martinez’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Another failure. The chauffeur was becoming impatient and was now hoping that his morning’s work would be completed on the fourth attempt. He spun the cylinder a little more enthusiastically this time, but when he looked up, Martinez had fainted. Such a disappointment. He liked his victims to be wide awake when the bullet entered their brain. Although they only lived for another second, it was an experience he relished. He grabbed Martinez’s hair, forced open his mouth and pushed the barrel back inside. He was about the pull the trigger a fourth time, when the telephone in the corner of the room began to ring. The insistent metallic echo in the cold night air took Rafferty by surprise. He had never known the phone to ring before. In the past, he had used it only to dial a number and deliver a four-word message.

He reluctantly withdrew the muzzle of the gun from Martinez’s mouth, walked across to the phone, and picked it up. He didn’t speak, just listened.

“The mission has been aborted,” said a voice with a clipped, educated accent. “You won’t need to collect the second payment.”

A click, followed by a burr.

Rafferty replaced the receiver. Perhaps he would spin the cylinder one more time, and if he succeeded, report back that Martinez was already dead by the time the phone had rung. He’d only ever lied to the area commander once, and there was a finger missing from his left hand to prove it. He told anyone who asked that it had been chopped off by a British officer during an interrogation, which few on either side believed.

He reluctantly returned the gun to his pocket and walked slowly back toward Martinez, who was slumped in the chair, his head between his legs. He bent down and untied the rope around his wrists and ankles. Martinez collapsed onto the floor in a heap. The chauffeur yanked him up by the hair, threw him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes and dumped him in the back of the taxi. For a moment, he had rather hoped he might resist, and then … but no such luck.

He drove out of the warehouse, locked the door, and set off toward Heathrow, to join several other taxi drivers that morning.

They were a couple of miles from the airport when Martinez reentered this world, and not the next. The chauffeur watched in the rearview mirror as his passenger began to come around. Martinez blinked several times before staring out of the window to see rows of suburban homes rushing by. As the realization began to sink in, he leaned forward and was sick all over the backseat. Rafferty’s colleague wouldn’t be pleased.

Don Pedro eventually managed to force his limp body upright. He steadied himself by clinging onto the edge of the seat with both hands and stared at his would-be executioner. What had caused him to change his mind? Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps only the venue had changed. Don Pedro eased his way forward, hoping to be given just one chance to escape, but he was painfully aware that Rafferty’s suspicious eyes returned to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Rafferty turned off the main road and followed the signs for the long-term car park. He drove up to the top level and parked in the far corner. He stepped out of the car, unlocked the boot, and unzipped the travel bag, pleased again by the sight of the neat rows of crisp five-pound notes. He would have liked to take the cash home for the cause, but he couldn’t risk being caught with that amount of money, now there were so many extra security guards observing every flight to Belfast.

He removed an Argentine passport from the bag, along with a first-class, one-way ticket to Buenos Aires and ten pounds in cash, then dropped his gun in the bag; something else he couldn’t afford to be caught with. He locked the boot, opened the driver’s door, and placed the keys and the parking ticket under the seat for a colleague to collect later that morning. Then he opened the rear door and stood aside to allow Martinez to step out, but he didn’t move. Was he going to make a run for it? Not if he valued his life. After all, he didn’t know that the chauffeur no longer had a gun.

Rafferty grabbed Martinez firmly by the elbow, pulled him out of the car, and marched him toward the nearest exit. Two men passed them on the staircase as they made their way down to the ground floor. Rafferty didn’t given them a second look.

Neither man spoke on the long walk to the terminal building. When they reached the concourse, Rafferty handed Martinez his passport, his ticket, and the two five-pound notes.

“And the rest?” snarled Don Pedro. “Because your colleagues obviously failed to sink the
Buckingham.
”

“Consider yourself lucky to be alive,” said Rafferty, then turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

For a moment, Don Pedro thought about going back to the taxi and retrieving his money, but only for a moment. Instead, he reluctantly headed toward the British Airways South American desk and handed his ticket to the woman seated behind the counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Martinez,” she said. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant stay in England.”

3

“H
OW DID YOU
get that black eye, Dad?” demanded Sebastian, when he joined his family for breakfast in the grillroom of the
Buckingham
later that morning.

“Your mother hit me when I dared to suggest she snored,” Harry replied.

“I don’t snore,” said Emma, as she buttered another piece of toast.

“How can you possibly know if you snore when you’re asleep?” said Harry.

“And what about you, Uncle Giles? Did my mother break your arm when you also suggested she snored?” asked Seb.

“I don’t snore!” repeated Emma.

“Seb,” said Samantha firmly, “you should never ask anyone a question you know they won’t want to answer.”

“Spoken like the daughter of a diplomat,” said Giles, smiling across the table at Seb’s girlfriend.

“Spoken like a politician who doesn’t want to answer my question,” said Seb. “But I’m determined to find out—”

“Good morning, this is your captain speaking,” announced a crackling voice over the tannoy. “We are currently sailing at twenty-two knots. The temperature is sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, and we’re not expecting any change in the weather during the next twenty-four hours. I hope you have a pleasant day, and be sure to take advantage of all the wonderful facilities the
Buckingham
has to offer, particularly the sun loungers and the swimming pool on the upper deck that are unique to this ship.” There was a long pause before he continued. “Some passengers have asked me about a loud noise that woke them in the middle of the night. It seems that at around three o’clock this morning, the Home Fleet were carrying out nighttime exercises in the Atlantic, and although they were several nautical miles away, on a clear night they would have sounded considerably closer. I do apologize to anyone who was woken by the sound of gunfire, but having served with the Royal Navy during the war I am aware that night exercises have to be carried out. However, I can assure passengers that at no time were we in any danger. Thank you, and enjoy the rest of the day.”

It sounded to Sebastian as if the captain had been reading from a prepared script and, looking across the table at his mother, he wasn’t in any doubt who had written it. “I wish I was a member of the board,” he said.

“Why?” asked Emma.

“Because then,” he said, looking directly at her, “I might find out what really happened last night.”

*   *   *

The ten men remained standing until Emma had taken her place at the head of the table, an unfamiliar table, but then the ballroom of the MV
Buckingham
had not been built for emergency board meetings.

When she looked around at her colleagues, none of them was smiling. Most of them had faced crises in their lives, but nothing on this scale. Even Admiral Summers’s lips were pursed. Emma opened the blue leather folder in front of her, a gift from Harry when she’d first been appointed chairman. It was he, she reflected, who had alerted her to the crisis, and then dealt with it.

“There is no need to tell you that everything we discuss today must remain strictly confidential, because it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to suggest that the future of the Barrington shipping line, not to mention the safety of everyone on board, is at stake,” she said.

Emma glanced down at an agenda that had been prepared by Philip Webster, the company secretary, the day before they set sail from Avonmouth. It was already out of date. There was just one item on the revised agenda, and it would certainly be the only subject discussed that day.

“I’ll begin,” said Emma, “by reporting, off the record, everything that took place in the early hours of this morning, and then we must decide what course of action to take. I was woken by my husband just after three…” Twenty minutes later, Emma double-checked her notes. She felt she had covered everything in the past, but accepted she had no way of predicting the future.

“Have we got away with it?” the admiral asked, once Emma had called for questions.

“Most of the passengers have accepted the captain’s explanation without question.” She turned a page of her file. “However, we’ve had complaints from thirty-four passengers so far. All but one of them have accepted a free voyage on the
Buckingham
at some time in the future, as compensation.”