‘Of course, Chris Faulkner. I recognise you from the photos. The Nakamura thing. Well, this is a great pleasure. So what can I do you gentlemen for?’
‘Señor Barranco is fighting a highland jungle war against an oppressive regime and well-supplied government forces,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s our feeling he’s under-equipped.’
‘I see. That must be very difficult.’ Sally Hunting was all mannered sympathy. ‘Are you relying on Kalashnikovs? Mmm? Yes, I thought so. Marvellous weapons, I have clients who won’t look at anything else. But you may want to consider switching to the new Heckler and Koch. Now, it’s a little more complicated to operate than your basic AK, but—’
Barranco shook his head. ‘Señorita, my soldiers are often as young as fourteen years old. They come from bombed-out villages where most of the adults have been killed or disappeared. We are short of teachers, even shorter of time to train our recruits. Simplicity of operation is vital.’
The saleswoman shrugged. ‘The Kalashnikov, then. I won’t bore you with details, they’ve been making essentially the same gun for almost a hundred years. But you might like to have a look at some of the modified ammunition we have here. You know, shredding rounds, toxic jacket coatings, armour piercing. All compatible with the standard AK load.’
She gestured across at a display terminal.
‘Shall we?’
Barranco left the North Memorial armed – on paper – to the teeth. Seven hundred brand new Kalashnikovs, eight dozen Aerospatiale shoulder-launched autoseek plane-killers, two thousand lightweight King antipersonnel grenades and two hundred thousand rounds of state-of-the-art ammunition for the assault rifles. They were unable, despite Sally Hunting’s best efforts, to sell him landmines or a complex automated area-denial sentry system.
‘No big deal,’ she told them while Barranco was with one of the clinical experts, having immune-inhibitor toxins explained to him. ‘I’ll get standard commission on the AKs. Not as much as the Heckler and Koch, obviously, they’re still trying to break the lock Kalashnikov have on the insurgency market, and they’re being very generous this year. Still, with what I’ll make off the Aerospatiale stuff and the grenades, I’m not complaining.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ growled Mike, ‘because my impression was I just handed you a crippled rabbit on a four-lane drag. You owe me big time for this, Sally.’
She twinkled at him. ‘Collect any time, Mike. I’m a busy girl, but I can always fit you in, you know.’
‘Behave.’
On the drive back, Barranco was quiet. If his new acquisitions pleased him, he gave no sign. For the whole journey he held a single jacketed rifle slug in his hand, rolling it back and forth between his fingers like a cigar. His face invited neither conversation nor comment. He looked, Chris thought in one particularly morbid moment, like a man who has just been told he has a disease for which there is no known cure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
They dropped Barranco at the Hilton, and were about to pull away again when the security entry alarms went off in violently coloured LEDs and nasal braying. Still buried in his brooding, the Colombian had tried to walk through the scanner with the AK round in his hand. Chris nipped up the steps to the entrance and unwrinkled things, clapped Barranco on the shoulder and told him to get some rest. He’d see him at nine the next morning to go over contractual stuff. Then he piled back in the BMW and they drifted out into the sparse traffic. Mike hooked around Marble Arch and picked up Oxford Street heading east. Still plenty of light in the sky.
‘Want to get something to eat?’ Mike asked him.
‘Sure, why not.’
‘Noodles?’
‘Sounds good to me.’ Chris jerked a thumb back the way they’d come. ‘You think he’s okay?’
‘Barranco? Yeah. Just shellshocked. Probably never seen so much hardware in a single day.’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t look happy.’
Mike snorted. ‘Well he bloody should be happy. That’s the biggest single credit-card payment I’ve ever made.’
‘You didn’t buy any toys for Echevarria yesterday?’
‘On account.’ Mike grinned at him. ‘Sixty-day cancellation clause.’
‘You route that stuff through Sally Hunting as well?’
‘No way. Total account separation, remember. Anyway, Sally doesn’t get her commission unless the money clears. Wouldn’t want—’
The BMW’s phone lit up with a priority call. Mike made a quiet gesture at Chris, and answered.
‘Yeah, Bryant.’
‘Mike. It’s Troy. That stuff about Faulkner you ran past me? Something came up.’
‘Right, he’s here with me, Troy. Tell us what you got.’
There was a brief pause. ‘It’s better we meet. I don’t want to talk on this line. Can you come out to my place?’
Mike glanced across at him. Chris nodded.
‘We’re on our way.’
Troy’s house seemed strangely quiet in the early evening light. It took Chris a moment or two to understand that he was comparing it with memories of the last time he’d been here, when the party was in full swing. He got a determined lock on his creeping paranoia, and followed Mike up to the front door.
The worry must have shown on his face. Mike grinned encouragingly at him.
‘Be alright,’ he said.
Troy Morris answered the bell by securicam before he opened up, ushered them in as if there was a storm coming, and then threw every bolt and security device the door had before he spoke again. The anti-tamper unit whined rapidly up to full charge. Mike looked at Chris and raised an eyebrow.
‘Little jumpy, aren’t we?’
‘You’d better come through,’ said Troy. ‘Someone I want you to meet.’
In the lounge, a thin black man in his early twenties sat twitching restlessly in one of Troy’s armchairs. There was a scar across his lower jaw and his clothes said zone gangwit. He surveyed the new arrivals without enthusiasm.
‘This is Marauder.’ Troy told them. ‘Marauder, this is Mike Bryant. Chris Faulkner. Friends of mine.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever.’
‘Mike, Chris, you want to sit down? Get you a drink?’
Mike Bryant nodded, most of his attention fixed on Marauder. ‘Some of that Polish vodka you keep in the freezer. Small one.’
‘Chris? Single malt, right?’
‘Yeah, if you’ve got it. Thanks.’
‘Aberlour or Lagavulin? Or I’ve got Irish.’
‘Lagavulin’s good. No ice.’
‘Marauder?’
The gangwit rolled his head once back and forth, slowly. He said nothing. Troy shrugged and went out to the kitchen. They sat and waited.
The silence stretched.
‘Who you run with?’ asked Mike suddenly.
Marauder lifted his jaw. ‘Fuck’s it got to do with you?’
Chris tensed. Neither he nor Mike were carrying, and Marauder looked street enough to be a problem in a straight fight. He checked Mike out of the corner of his eye, but saw no signs of impending violence.
‘Just curious,’ said Mike lazily. ‘Just wondered what kind of fuckwit outfit lets its soldiers get strung out on the merchandise.’
Marauder sat up. ‘Hey birdshit, you want to fuck with me?’
‘You don’t understand.’ Mike Bryant’s voice was patient. ‘I’m a suit. I represent the establishment. I wanted to fuck with you, you’d be in a penal hospital donating a kidney to society and your momma’d be out on the street, evicted and giving blowjobs to pay your post-op. Sit down.’
The gangwit was up out of his chair. On the way there, he’d magicked a blade out between the knuckles of his right hand. He brandished it.