Seyton cleared his throat. ‘Sivart’s the youngest and—’
‘—fastest,’ Duff interrupted. ‘I didn’t ask for objections, I asked if my instructions were understood.’ He scanned the blank faces in front of him. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ He turned back to the window.
A short bow-legged man with a white captain’s hat waddled down the gangway in the pouring rain. Stopped by the man on the red motorbike. The rider hadn’t removed his helmet, he had just flipped up the visor, nor had he switched off his engine. He sat with his legs splayed obscenely astride the saddle and listened to the captain. From under the helmet protruded two blond plaits, which hung down over the Norse Rider logo.
Duff took a deep breath. Checked his gun.
The worst was that Macbeth had rung. He had been given the same tip-off via an anonymous phone call and offered Duff the SWAT team. But Duff had turned down his offer, saying all they had to do was pick up a lorry, and had asked Macbeth to keep the tip-off quiet.
At a signal from the man in the Viking helmet one of the other bikers moved forward, and Duff saw the sergeant’s stripes on the upper arm of his leather jacket when the rider opened a briefcase in front of the ship’s captain. The captain nodded, raised his hand, and a second later iron screamed against iron, and light appeared in the crane swinging over its arm from the quayside.
‘We’re almost there,’ Duff said. His voice was firmer now. ‘We’ll wait until the dope and the money have changed hands, then we’ll go in.’
Silent nods in the semi-darkness. They had gone through the plans in painstaking detail, but they had imagined a maximum of five couriers. Could Sweno have been tipped off about a possible intervention by the police? Was that why they had turned up in such strength? No. If so, they would have called it all off.
‘Can you smell it?’ Seyton whispered beside him.
‘Smell what?’
‘Their fear.’ Seyton had closed his eyes and his nostrils were quivering. Duff stared into the rainy night. Would he have accepted Macbeth’s offer of the SWAT team now? Duff stroked his face with his long fingers, down the diagonal scar. There was nothing to think about now; he had to do this, he’d always had to do this. Sweno was here now, and Macbeth and SWAT were in their beds asleep.
Macbeth yawned as he lay on his back. He listened to the rain drumming down. Felt stiff and turned onto his side.
A white-haired man lifted up the tarpaulin and crept inside. Sat shivering and cursing in the darkness.
‘Wet, Banquo?’ Macbeth asked, placing the palms of his hands on the rough roofing felt beneath him.
‘It’s a bugger for a gout-ridden old man like me to have to live in this piss-hole of a town. I should grab my pension and move into the country. Get myself a little house in Fife or thereabouts, sit on a veranda where the sun shines, bees hum and birds sing.’
‘Instead of being on a roof in a container port in the middle of the night? You’ve got to be joking?’
They chuckled.
Banquo switched on a penlight. ‘This is what I wanted to show you.’
Macbeth held the light and shone it on the drawing Banquo passed him.
‘There’s your Gatling gun. Beautiful job, isn’t she?’
‘It’s not the appearance that’s the problem, Banquo.’
‘Show it to Duncan then. Explain that SWAT needs it. Now.’
Macbeth sighed. ‘He doesn’t want it.’
‘Tell him we’ll lose as long as Hecate and the Norse Riders have heavier weaponry than us. Explain to him what a Gatling can do. Explain what two can do!’
‘Duncan won’t agree to any escalation of arms, Banquo. And I think he’s right. Since he’s been the commissioner there have been fewer shooting incidents.’
‘This town is still being depopulated by crime.’
‘It’s a start. Duncan has a plan. And he wants to do what’s right.’
‘Yes, yes, I don’t disagree. Duncan’s a good man.’ Banquo groaned. ‘Naive though. And with this weapon we could clear up and—’
They were interrupted by a tap on the tarpaulin. ‘They’ve started unloading, sir.’ Slight lisp. It was SWAT’s young new sharpshooter, Olafson. Along with the other equally young officer Angus, there were only four of them present, but Macbeth knew that all twenty-five SWAT officers would have said yes to sitting here and freezing with them without a moment’s hesitation.
Macbeth switched off the light, handed it back to Banquo and slid the drawing inside his black SWAT leather jacket. Then he pulled away the tarpaulin and wriggled on his stomach to the edge of the roof.
Banquo crawled up beside him.
In front of them in the floodlights, over the deck of MS Leningrad, hovered a prehistoric-looking military-green lorry.
‘A ZIS-5,’ Banquo whispered.
‘From the war?’
‘Yep. The S stands for Stalin. What do you reckon?’
‘I reckon the Norse Riders have more men than Duff counted on. Sweno’s obviously worried.’
‘Do you think he suspects the police have been tipped off?’
‘He wouldn’t have come if he did. He’s afraid of Hecate. He knows Hecate has bigger ears and eyes than us.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait and watch. Duff might be able to pull this off on his own. In which case, we don’t go in.’
‘Do you mean to say you’ve dragged these kids out here in the middle of the night to sit and watch ?’
Macbeth chortled. ‘It was voluntary, and I did say it might be boring.’
Banquo shook his head. ‘You’ve got too much free time, Macbeth. You should get yourself a family.’
Macbeth raised his hands. His smile lit up the beard on his broad dark face. ‘You and the boys are my family, Banquo. What else do I need?’
Olafson and Angus chuckled happily behind them.
‘When’s the boy going to grow up?’ Banquo mumbled in desperation and wiped water off the sights of his Remington 700 rifle.
Bonus had the town at his feet. The glass pane in front of him went from floor to ceiling, and without the low cloud cover he would have had a view of absolutely the whole town. He held out his champagne glass, and one of the two young boys in riding jodhpurs and white gloves rushed over and recharged it. He should drink less, he knew that. The champagne was expensive, but it wasn’t him paying. The doctor had said a man of his age should begin to think about his lifestyle. But it was so good. Yes, it was as simple as that. It was so good. Just like oysters and crawfish tails. The soft, deep chair. And the young boys. Not that he had access to them. On the other hand, he hadn’t asked.
He had been picked up from reception at the Obelisk and taken to the penthouse suite on the top floor with a view of the harbour on one side and the central station, Workers’ Square and Inverness Casino on the other. Bonus had been received by the great man with the soft cheeks, the friendly smile, the dark wavy hair and the cold eyes. The man who was called Hecate. Or the Invisible Hand. Invisible, as very few people had ever seen him. The Hand, as most people in the town over the last ten years had been affected in some way or other by his activities. That is, his product. A synthetic drug he manufactured himself called brew. Which, according to Bonus’ rough estimate, had made Hecate one of the town’s four richest men.
Hecate turned away from the telescope on the stand by the window. ‘It’s difficult to see clearly in this rain,’ he said, pulling at the braces of his own jodhpurs, and took a pipe from the tweed jacket hanging over the back of the chair. If he’d known that they would turn out dressed as an English hunting party he would have chosen something other than a boring everyday suit, Bonus thought.