‘I was fuckin’ with the radio, Finch, I really didn’t hear it,’ he said. ‘Hang on, son, this’ll have a bite in it.’ He bathed the ragged tear in Tony’s foot with iodine and bandaged it.
The phone in the booth rang and Finch picked it up. ‘Whas’at
whas’at? Jesus, is he a goner? No, there ain’t been a living soul down ‘ere for half an hour. . . just a school kid we know, cut his leg on the wire. . . Rightch’are. We’ll close her off now, but it’s been quiet as a bleedin’ church mouse down ‘ere.’ He hung up. ‘You ain’t gonna believe this, Striker. Somebody just blew the colonel’s head off. Not two blocks from ‘ere, up on The Bluff. We got to close up the street. I told yez I ‘eard shots.’
Tony squinched up his face and forced out some tears. ‘Owww,’ he moaned.
‘How far do ya live?’ Finch asked.
‘Just two roads down, on Mulflower.’
‘Kin ya walk on ‘at?’
‘I think so.’ He tried it. The cut burned but he could stand on it. ‘I can make it okay. Thank ye, for yer help.’
‘Watch yer step, lad. Ther’ s trouble afoot t’night. Get off the street ‘s fast as yer can.’
‘Yes, sir,’ and he limped off into the darkness as Striker and Finch began to move the barbed-wire gate across the road.
By the time Tony was eighteen and had finished high school and had won himself a scholarship to Oxford, he had learned his profession well. To carry the pistol to England would have been foolhardy. Besides, Falmouth wasn’t angry anymore. When he killed Floodwell, all Tony could remember was that getting even felt good, but as time went on, getting even became less and less important. Revenge turned to exhilaration. Now the simple act of killing made him feel good, the same way that a forward feels good when he makes a goal. It was what he did and he did it without remorse or feeling and he did it very well indeed. And he did it alone.
The day before he left, he rode his bike out to Land’s End and threw the Webley as far out into the ocean as he could. It had served its purpose. In four years, Tony had killed nine people. Two had been British, the rest were informers. Only one of them was a woman.
At Oxford, Falmouth had made quite a record for himself, and for reasons known only to himself, after completing his Rhodes studies, Falmouth joined the British Secret Service. There was no record anywhere of Falmouth’s early ‘training,’ and M16 was glad to get him. He never went back to Ireland.
‘...with a first-class man.’
Falmouth snapped back to reality.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘there was some static on the line. Could you repeat that?’
‘Sorry. I see this as a two-man operation. You happen to be very well qualified for the play and F ye teamed you up with a first-rate chap.’
‘Who?’
His name is Hinge. He’s younger but he’s been in the Game for several years. He’s quite good, really. I consider him one of our best. He’s been in on four team operations to date and acquitted himself admirably.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry, in my haste I only did an A-level check on you. Have you ever been involved in the switch play?’
‘Rome. Four months ago. But it was a little different. It was the Red Brigades and we had to lift five people out.’
‘Of course, now I remember. A very good show, I might add.’
‘Thank you. It’s still a very risky play.’
‘But most effective when it works.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Do you know Caracas?’
‘I’ve been there, but I don’t know the city that well. I know a driver there who’s as good as they come.’
‘Excellent.’
‘What are we dealing with, some revolutionary gang?’
‘There’s no politics in this. Just a bunch of local gangsters trained by the Rafsaludi, trying to shake down the company, although we have no fix on just how tough these customers are.’
‘Well, the Rafsaludi can get very nasty.’
‘Quite. It’s a bonus job. Seventy-five thousand.’
Falmouth whistled silently to himself. He was already planning ahead.
‘It will have to be done fast. Perhaps even by tomorrow night. Certainly no later than the next day. The risk increases by the hour.’
‘Yes, I know. Let’s see, today is Monday ... you should have Lavander out no later than Wednesday eve.’
‘All right,’ Falmouth said. ‘I’m in. I assume the operation is mine.’
‘Yes, you’ll be in command. Hinge is already cleared. Is Miami convenient?’
‘Fine.’
‘There’s a flight on Pan Am at ten-ten PM from Miami
International. It arrives at thirty-three minutes after midnight.
Hinge will not be there until eight AM. He’s coming in through
Mexico.’
‘Weapons?’
‘Everything you need will be down there. Your contact is Rafael Domignon. The number is 53-34-631. There will be a packet at the airport for you, as usual.’
‘Good. How do I know Hinge?’
‘Photo ID and the Camel ploy.’
‘Fine. I’ll report when it’s over unless we have a problem.’
‘Excellent, sir, excellent. I’m delighted you’re handling this.’
‘Thanks. Later.’
‘Goodbye.’
Goddamn! What a rotten break. What a rotten, fucking break. But if this Hinge had the stuff, Falmouth could be back in the Bahamas by late Wednesday. If O’Hara shows, he thought, he’ll wait.
The packet was delivered by messenger at the Pan Am ticket counter fifty-five minutes before flight time. Falmouth took it to the men’s room, entered a stall and sat on the toilet, studying its contents. It contained a round-trip ticket to Caracas and a passport, license and two credit cards under the name Eric Sloan, five thousand dollars in cash and unsigned traveller’s checks, a three-by-five colour photograph of Hinge, what appeared to be a slightly fuzzy Polaroid shot of Lavander, a list of all executives at the plant in Caracas, confirmed and prepaid hotel reservations at the Tamanaco Hotel, the best hotel in the city, and a filter-tip Camel cigarette wrapped in aluminium foil. He marked the filter tip with a pen aid put the cigarette in his package of Gitanes. He studied the photo of Hinge for several minutes, started to burn it, then changed his mind and slipped it into a compartment of his passport wallet. He signed the traveller’s checks and put them, with the cash, in his passport wallet, along with the receipt for the hotel. He studied the photograph of Lavander, a gangly, unkempt man with a gray complexion and thin, straggly hair, for several minutes, and when he knew the face, he burned the photograph and flushed the remains.
He left the rest room and went to the airline counter to check
in.
Hinge arrived at ten the next morning. The drive up from the airport to Caracas was hot and uncomfortable, with the air still humid from the rains the day before, and storm clouds threatening to deluge the city again at any moment. To make matters worse, the cab was not air-conditioned. Warm, moist wind blew through the open windows, and Hinge was wind-whipped and sweaty. The traffic, as usual, was wicked and pollution burned his nose and throat.
‘Pit-fuckin’-city,’ Hinge said, only half under his breath. It wasn’t his first trip to the capital of Venezuela. He knew it well. The city fills a narrow nine-mile-long valley between Mount Avila, a sixty-five-hundred-foot forested mountain, to its north, and the foothills of the Cord Del Maria mountains to the south. Beyond the Cord Del Maria, going farther south, there is not much of anything but, jungle and more jungle, and eventually Brazil. The Del Maria foothills had always struck Hinge as un poco loco, a little crazy. Schizoid would probably be closer to it. On the western slopes are some of the worst slums in the world, the ranchitos, thousands of red huts and adobe shacks that huddle together in squalor, while to the east are the haunts of the rich and the powerful, speckled with costly homes, swimming pools and private clubs, the Beverly Hills of Caracas.