Incitement (40 page)

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” He spent the next couple of hours enjoying himself immensely, even being dragged up to dance at one stage by some of his fellow crew members. When the
party started to wind down, he sat down beside Sims, the CEO.

“Well, happy you changed your mind?”

“Absolutely. Being here’s shown me how much I’ve been missing. I was thinking of talking to you about maybe taking a more active role than I have been recently.”

“That’d be great. As long as you’re not thinking of taking my job,” Sims laughed.

“No, no, I was ...”

“Mr Wallace?”

He looked up at the manager of the yacht club, who stood beside their table. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you but there’s an urgent phone call for you inside.”

He had deliberately not brought his cell phone, wanting to have a complete break from the stresses of the past few months. He smiled in apology to Sims and headed into the club-house.

“Hello, this is Lawrence Wallace,” he said into the phone.

“Enjoying your little jaunt?” asked a man’s voice.

“What? Who is this?”

“My name is Thomas Hughes and this is just a call to let you know that this isn’t finished for you yet. You have no idea how much damage you’ve done, but I intend to show you.
I’ll let you get back to your friends now.”

The line went dead but Wallace remained standing there listening to the dial tone. Everything started to fade and the sound of the party grew steadily more distant.

T
HREE MONTHS LATER

Hughes settled into the comfortable kitchen chair and opened the tablet edition of the newspaper. He would read it in more detail when he returned from his run, but five or ten minutes scanning
it, over a cup of coffee, would give him time to wake up. He liked the early mornings best, here in Gweedore, the small town near the most northwestern corner of Ireland. Everything was so quiet
and the air had a special quality to it. It was a magical time when the sun was just clearing the horizon after the pitch-black winter night and everything seemed freshly scrubbed. Winstone and
Feeney were still in bed, sleeping off the effects of a substantial amount of Bushmills from the looks of the bottle on the kitchen table. It was difficult to justify having them here and he would
probably let them go in the next week or two. He couldn’t see them being too unhappy as he knew the solitude was starting to get to them. The ruggedness of the landscape and feeling of space
had restored him, though, and even after his imposed exile was over he could see himself returning here at some point. Saying that, he certainly didn’t envy the locals who battled to eke out
a living here. Most of the land was shale-covered hills supporting nothing but hardy scrub grass on which only a few herds of sheep were able to subsist. The limited dealings he had with the people
were friendly enough, and they respected his privacy.

A headline halfway down the page immediately caught his attention. It reported that Lawrence Wallace had died the previous night, after a steady decline in health over the last couple of months.
He had mixed feelings about the news. There was no doubt that Wallace had been partly responsible for his current situation. It was one less item to attend to but also meant he would miss the
pleasure of confronting the industrialist himself. He would just have to make do with the fact that his phone call may have played a part in the rapid deterioration.

Hughes had gone over and over what he knew about the days leading up to his forced flight. By the time he had reached Europe he knew Mesi must have enlisted Wallace’s help to put it all
together. Although how she could have been sure Wallace was not an ally of his was just another question he had no answer for. It tormented him that he had made a mistake he could not identify.
Surveillance he had put in place informed him that, weeks after his departure, she had resurfaced. Since tendering her resignation from the DEA, she had become a virtual recluse, sticking mostly to
her apartment and barely venturing out. The photos he had seen of her, long-lens shots, showed a moping, slovenly woman who was finding it difficult to cope with everyday life. Not at all like the
assertive, ambitious Diane he remembered. He supposed that the brittle, vulnerable traits he had detected and exploited had been brought to the fore by recent events. Obviously, much the same as
Wallace, she lacked the necessary fortitude. It would be fairly easy to have her lifted when he was ready. Once he had worked out her culpability in his downfall, all residual affection had fallen
away. There would be no compunction in doing whatever was necessary.

It was painful thinking back to those first few weeks on the run. He had been so on-edge that, even in this obscure bolthole, he had contracted Winstone and Feeney, ex-Royal Marines, as
security. It was embarrassing now, considering the precautions he had insisted they take. Regular patrols, alternate night watches, thorough vehicle checks. As the weeks had passed, he saw how
unnecessary these were and relaxed the demands on the men. In the last couple of weeks their duties had been so minimal that it had become a well-paid holiday for them.

He put the tablet down and started a series of callisthenics as part of a dynamic warm up. Once he was happy that he was properly prepared, he set off for his daily exercise. Running here
required a lot of concentration because of the uneven ground. He made good progress and was soon sweating freely, moving quickly along the route. At the fifty-five-minute mark, the hill came into
sight. This was the last leg of the run; after this he only had an easy ten-minute jog back to the cottage to cool down. Gathering his breath, he started up the steep incline. By halfway, his lungs
and throat were burning. Fifty or so paces from the top, he put his head down and pumped hard, focusing on one step at a time. He almost fell over when he reached the top, stumbling a few times
before righting himself. Standing up straight, he looked out at the ocean. A few drops of rain fell and a quick glance skyward told him that he had better head for the cottage.

He took his first step down the hill and the shale exploded less than twelve inches from his foot.

He froze at the sound of the gunshot. Not sure where it had come from, he couldn’t decide whether to continue down or run back over the brow. Another couple of shots slammed into the top
of the hill and made the decision for him. He began scrambling down the dangerous terrain as quickly as he could. Near the bottom of the hill, more shots struck close and he fell. Rolling over and
over, he gashed his knee deeply on the rocks before coming to a stop. Ignoring the pain, he dragged himself to his feet. The rain increased and quickly soaked him through. The now slippery scrub
grass was treacherous underfoot and the bare patches of earth were deteriorating into a mire. He slipped countless times and was soon caked in mud, carrying a number of additional small scrapes.
The more level ground, though, was easier on his legs and he felt himself recovering a little from his exertions. The cottage was close, less than half a mile; once he got there he would be safe.
The ground erupted behind him as the sniper opened up. He tried to move faster but fell again and felt his ankle wrench. Another bullet slammed into the ground beside him and he pushed himself up.
When he tried to stand the pain from the ankle was too much and he was forced to crawl on his hands and one good leg as best he could. He was the easiest of targets and he expected the fatal bullet
any second. After heart-stopping minutes of crawling frantically through the downpour, he guessed the sniper must have either given up or become unsighted. Either way it did not matter, he had
reached the cottage and was safe now.

“George, Charlie!”

The shouts died in his throat at the sight that greeted him. Feeney had been shot by something powerful, his bloodied body beside the overturned kitchen table and broken whisky bottle. He
hobbled through to the sitting room to find an even worse sight. Winstone’s body lay beside the sofa. His throat had been slashed and the white cloth on the back of the couch was stained with
arterial spray. Hobbling over to the set of drawers, he pulled one open and reached for the handgun.

“You don’t think it’s still there, do you?”

He spun around, eyes wide. A woman dressed in blue jeans and black sweater stood looking at him. Her red hair was pulled back tightly and she looked more worn than the last time he had seen
her.

“Diane?”

He started towards her but stopped when she raised the gun.

“Diane, what’s going on?”

“What do you think?” she asked, almost conversationally.

“Why are you pointing that at me? Can you please put it down?”

“I don’t think so.”

“My God, Diane, it’s me!”

He had to try and draw her out; if he could get her talking, an opportunity could present itself.

She continued to study him, her stare burning through him.

“Diane, please, I’ve been so worried about you. What have you been told?”

That seemed to get her interest.

“Told by who?”

“The same people I’m hiding from, obviously. The ones who’ve constructed a conspiracy against me. Diane, please, don’t let them make you forget what we’ve
shared.”

“Pretty good, Tom,” she said. “The mixture of outrage and appeal, the reference to that sick charade I believed in.”

“Can’t you see you’ve been lied to?” he pleaded. “That I’m the perfect fall guy for them?”

“Fall guys don’t usually have their own secret army and assortment of off-shore back accounts.”

“My work requires me to have those.” He tried to keep the panic from his voice, to inject a soothing tone. “It allows my superiors deniability, but you must see it also leaves
me vulnerable to deceit.”

“Deceit, there’s an interesting word. I won’t waste your time. The only reason I’m here is to tell you that you failed. In everything you tried, you failed.”

He tried desperately to think. To stall her, he deliberately exaggerated the discomfort his ankle was causing and limped over to lean against the fireplace while she watched him like a hawk.

Was she alone? Unlikely; she couldn’t possibly have fired those shots and made it back to the house. Besides, she was bone dry which would not have been the case had she been scrambling
around the hills. So she had at least one accomplice.

When he looked up at her, he put everything he had into it, words, pitch of voice, posture, all of the auto-suggestive prompts he had perfected. “You were right about Wallace; I did know
about it, but you have to believe me, we only let it run to bring about the Alliance’s demise. I was misled. I’d told my superiors about you and they’d guaranteed you’d be
picked up, protected. I didn’t know –”

“Give it up.”

The dismissive way she cut him off was too much. Who did she think she was? A lowly investigator who couldn’t even hack it in her own pitiful organisation. After everything, he had been
reduced to this, grovelling to her!

“You stupid, clueless little bitch. You stumble around blindly like the rest, no idea of what’s really required,” he spat.

She smiled at his outburst. “Careful Tom, you don’t want to drop the mask!” She lowered the gun.

“What are you going to do now?’ He faced her defiantly. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

“Look at your bodyguard over there and tell me how you can be so confident? There might be ten of Madrigal’s men outside, waiting to butcher you.”

His eyes shot to the door then back to her. He knew it was a lie. She was bluffing him, eager to extract her pound of flesh.

“You’re right, Madrigal doesn’t know about your hideout,” she said, reading his thoughts.

His spirits soared; someone had recognised that he was too valuable to simply discard.

She turned to leave the cottage.

“But I would take a closer look at the way your bodyguard died.” She stepped outside, leaving him alone with Winstone’s corpse.

What was the stupid bitch talking about? The way he died? Someone had slashed his throat with a knife, so what?

Then it dawned on him.