His glance showed him a gloomy cavern lit by oil lamps, On the garage side a car was perched on an elevated platform about a foot above a service pit. He walked in when he was satisfied only one person was inside.
'Mr Gallagher?"
'That's me. What do you want?'
'I've come to collect the merchandise, the type with a sting in its tail.'
'So, you're the one? Brought the money?'
'Of course.'
Gallagher was six feet tall and broad-shouldered. He spoke with an American accent. In his late thirties, his manner was offhand and he moved silently. Like a big cat. Anton studied the insolent expression, the restless eyes. The arms dealer was not a man Anton liked the look of. Still, he had come prepared.
Gallagher held out a large hand. He made the universal gesture with thumb and forefinger.
'I'd like to see the colour of your money first.'
'That is reasonable.'
'Wait! We need a little privacy for our business transaction.'
He walked over to the wall, pressed a switch and the double doors closed automatically. The place was not so down at heel as Anton had thought. Sealed inside the cavern, the stench of petrol and oil grew stronger. Anton laid his case on the table, unlocked it, raised the lid and stood back. While Gallagher walked back to the case and picked up bundles at random, rifling through the banknotes, Anton hoisted his pullover a little higher.
'Just how much is here?' Gallagher demanded.
He had the flattened nose of an ex-boxer, a mass of untidy hair the colour of ripened wheat, a hard jaw. His pale eyes watched Anton, waiting for an answer,
'One hundred thousand pounds in Swiss francs. The agreed price in the agreed currency. For three Stingers. Plus six missiles.'
'Price just went up,' Gallagher informed him. 'Law of supply and demand. Been a heavy call for Stingers. IRA, Angolan rebels, Iranian nutcases. People like that.?145,000 is the going rate. Take it or leave it.'
'But the price was agreed,' Anton protested coldly. Volkov had been very clear on that. 'Your reputation rests on keeping to a deal once concluded.'
'Grow up, buddy boy. I said the going rate is the price. You can't raise it? Get lost."
'I didn't say I hadn't got that much,' Anton replied. 'Since you insist, I'll pay it. But first I want to see the weapons.'
'You need to go to the bank?' Gallagher pressed, arms folded. 'Or is it in there?' He nodded towards the case Anton had shut and relocked. 'You came ready for the bad news? I heard it on the grapevine,' he sang the old melody and then laughed.
'I hid more money in the Rua Garrett earlier,' Anton told him. 'You'll never find it – but it's within a hundred yards of where you're standing. Now, show me the weapons.'
"Good to do business with a gentleman.' Gallagher grinned and walked back to the bank of switches and buttons on the wall. He pressed one and the elevated platform supporting the car rose up four more feet. The arms dealer lowered himself into the pit, pressed a switch which illuminated the darkness. Against one wall was a large canvas bundle. He unstrapped it, rolled back the canvas with care, exposing three Stingers and six missiles. He looked up.
'Satisfied?'
'Bring one up, plus one missile. No – take the middle ones in each case.'
'Leery sort of bastard, aren't you?'
Gallagher placed a Stinger and a missile on the garage floor, hauled himself up. 'Show you how it works.' He grinned again. 'You get value for money here. It's shoulder-launched by one man. Weighs only thirty pounds. It has a hundred per cent hit rate – mainly due to its infra-red heat-seeking system, plus its amazingly accurate aiming system. You fire in the direction of the aircraft and leave it to do the rest – home in on the target. God knows how many Soviet fighters it's wiped out back in Afghanistan. Take hold of it.'
Anton balanced the weight in both hands, surprised at its lightness. It looked like a mobile telescope with a wide muzzle at the front tapering to a slimmer barrel resting on his shoulder. To his right as he held it was a large rectangular plate. He peered through the aiming system.
This is how you load it,' Gallagher said, inserting a missile. 'Don't pull the trigger or we'll both end up as red goulash.'
'I want a demonstration,' Anton remarked as he handed back the weapon. 'Don't argue. For?145,000 I'm entitled to check the damned thing works…'
Gallagher had driven them in his Volvo station wagon into the hills. Leaving Rua Garrett, Anton had noted the donkey still stood patiently with the cart where he had parked it; it looked as though it would stay there all night.
Gallagher pulled up at a lonely spot overlooking the sea. Getting out, he grasped the Stinger and the single missile concealed under a travelling rug. They picked their way past a cactus grove and Gallagher halted at the top of a cliff. Out at sea a lone fishing vessel was returning to port, navigation lights twinkling. Gallagher handed weapon and missile to Anton.
'There's your target. There's always one conies crawling back late."
'I don't understand.'
'That fishing vessel. Get on with it. It's about two miles away. How tar will your target be in the air?'
'Less than two miles. I still don't understand…'
'Oh. for Christ's sake! The missile is heat-seeking. Thai boat has a boiler in the engine room. Aim straight for it.'
'Won't there be an enquiry?' Anton inserted the missile, raised the Stinger, cuddling it into his shoulder. 'The police might start searching – when they realize what did it.'
"Except they won't. A month ago a similar fishing vessel blew up – the boilers they use are ancient as these hills. It will be recorded as another case of inefficient maintenance. They don't bother that much round here.'
Anton aimed at a point well below the wheelhouse. He squeezed the trigger, the missile left the launcher, curved in a low arc above the Atlantic at such speed he didn't see -its flight. A dull boom echoed in the humid night. The fishing vessel turned into a pillar of flame after a brief flash. The flame died fast.
Lowering the Stinger, Anton gazed at the smooth surface of the sea. The fishing vessel had vanished. He lifted the Stinger, peered through the aiming device. He could see no trace of any wreckage.
'Satisfied?' Gallagher demanded. 'If so, let's get back to the garage.'
'How many in the crew?'
'Roughly half a dozen. Plenty more where they came from…'
'Drop me at the entrance to the Rua Garrett,' Anton told the arms dealer as they drove along the front. 'I have to bring my transport.'
That the transport?' Gallagher enquired as Anton, carrying his executive case, alighted by the donkey cart. 'You'll get a long way with that. And I bet I know where you hid the balance of the money. In that mess of a hillside at the end of the street.'
'And you could search for years and never find it. See you at the garage. Don't wrap the merchandise until I'm there.'
'Anything you say, buddy boy…'
I don't think he's American at all, Anton was thinking as he led the donkey cart into the side street, following the Volvo. Under the accent, the over-use of American slang, he had detected traces of some unidentifiable Mittel-European language.
He left the donkey cart outside the open garage doors. Inside Gallagher had lowered the elevated car back over the pit. A careful man, Mr Gallagher. Anton continued down the dark tunnel of the narrow street.
He'd noticed when he first arrived that at the end the street stopped where a steep hill rose, its slopes covered with undergrowth and trees. He found a narrow path twisting up and followed it a short distance. Crouching down, he unlocked the case, lifted the lid.
He took a number of bundles of banknotes and stuffed them inside his pockets until his pullover bulged in an ugly manner. This would appear to be the extra money. He locked the case, made his way back down the tortuous path, walked back to the garage.