7
The air con was still doing its stuff to keep the windscreen clear on the inside. We were well out of the suburbs, up in the high ground and shrouded in mist, when the tarmac stopped abruptly and we hit a wide gravel track.
Charlie sparked up from the back. ‘How are Hari and Kunzru?’
Bastard shrugged. ‘How the f*ck should I know? I got the call; at least one of them was still breathing. I was heading back there when I saw you guys on the road. Anyway, f*ck ’em. Welfare ain’t my responsibility.’
The mist cleared as we wound down the side of the mountain. A wide, fast-flowing river sparkled in the sunlight below us. Apart from the vivid brown scar that cut across the lush green of the valley floor, we were back in Sound of Music country.
Bastard jerked his thumb towards the point at which the line of freshly turned earth cut back towards us and started to run level with the road. ‘There’s your pipeline.’
‘Where’s the metalwork?’ I’d been expecting to see something above ground, as I had in the Middle East.
‘They’ve buried it. Makes it a whole lot tougher to blow up.’
Charlie leaned between us. ‘Our old mates the militants?’
‘Militants, Kurdish separatists, Muslim extremists, Russian a*sholes, you name it. They all either want a piece of the action, or to use the thing as a bargaining counter.
‘The Kurds wanna split from the Turks: you give us our country, we don’t f*ck with your pipeline.
‘The Russians, well, they just want to f*ck the pipeline up, period. Perestroika, my ass; the cold war never ended for those guys.
‘And closer to home, there’s the Georgian politicos, doing side deals with whoever comes within reach – and charging the oil companies a f*cking fortune to give the pipeline house room in the first place.’
Charlie nodded. ‘And we have a few bits of paper tucked away explaining where our late lamented friend Mr Bazgadze fitted into all this.’
Bastard glowered at him. ‘Don’t count on it, a*shole.’
The rain started again. I flicked the wipers back into overdrive, but still had to press my face against the windscreen to see where we were going.
Bastard squinted through the curtain of water ahead of us. ‘But who gives a shit? My job was just making sure things ran real smooth.’
‘F*cked up there then, didn’t you?’ Charlie tapped the package in his jacket pocket. He’d wrapped the camcorder tape and the documents from Baz’s safe in a plastic bag he’d found in Bastard’s carry-on. ‘And I’m no expert here, but the local media seem to be painting a rather different picture than the one you gave us . . .’
Bastard couldn’t help himself. ‘Hey, I only told you what I’d been told myself.’ He gave a deep, frustrated sigh. ‘I’m not the decision-maker here. I’m like you guys; I’m a worker bee – a worker bee who just wants to get the f*ck out of here.’
I’d promised myself to stay out of this, but my blood was starting to boil. ‘Worker bee, my arse. You’re a f*cking maggot. You feed off situations like this, and leave the real worker bees to pay the price.’ I changed down to take a bend. ‘Remember Anthony, the Brit you slapped around at Waco?’
He went quiet for a moment. The rain was now hammering so hard on the Pajero’s roof it sounded like we were trapped inside a snare drum, but I could almost hear his mind whirring. ‘Anthony? Anthony who? I don’t remember slapping any Brit at Waco.’
‘Yes, you do.’ My eyes were fixed on the mud-covered gravel ahead. The Pajero was starting to slip and slide, and I had to fight the wheel to correct it. ‘He designed the gas you used, but shouldn’t have, remember? He committed suicide about a year afterwards. He couldn’t live with the guilt.’
‘Oh, that Anthony . . .’ Bastard ran an index finger over his moustache. ‘Sure I remember him . . . f*cking Limey fag. He shouldn’t have been there. Never send a boy to do a man’s job . . .’
I swung the Pajero up a track that suddenly opened up to the left. We bucked over the pipeline towards a stretch of trees.
I shouted back at Charlie. ‘Let’s see if this arsehole’s bollocks are as big as his mouth.’
I braked hard at the treeline, killed the ignition and shoved Bastard towards the passenger door. ‘Get the f*ck out! Now!’
I swivelled in my seat, leaned back against my door and kicked at him with both feet as he scrabbled for the handle. ‘I was there, I was with Anthony. I saw the whole f*cking thing . . .’ I kicked him again as his door swung open and he slithered out into the mud.
He picked himself off the ground, his face a mask of fear and indignation. ‘It wasn’t me who gave the order. That was way above my pay scale.’
I followed him out while Charlie rummaged in the back of the wagon.
‘I thought you’d got the message about that worker bee shit,’ I yelled through the rain. ‘None of those kids stood a chance, and you enjoyed every f*cking minute!’
‘Bingo!’ Charlie gave me the thumbs-up, slammed the rear door and headed for the Pajero’s bonnet.
‘Wait until I’ve climbed aboard him.’ I brought my pistol up. ‘I’m going to have this f*cker.’
Bastard backed away until he was pressing against the front wing. ‘Hey, I knew it wasn’t right. I knew it was wrong to kill those people.’ He raised his hands, half pleading, half trying to make me keep my distance. ‘Those were American citizens . . . my own people . . .’ He pointed at me. ‘Our people.’
‘Down! In the mud! Now!’
He slid down the side of the vehicle and slumped against the wheel. The rain kicked up the puddles all around him. We were both soaked to the skin. My sleeve weighed heavily on my arm as I raised my pistol to his head.
‘Who are you working for?’ My first kick caught him square in the ribs. ‘Who gave the order to drop Charlie?’ My second disappeared into the mountain of flesh that spilled over his waistband. ‘What’s in those documents? What the f*ck happened at the house?’
Charlie had released the bonnet and was now standing on the other side of him.
Bastard heaved air into his lungs and his face tilted up towards me, eyes screwed up against the rain. ‘What you gonna do, son? Pull that trigger? F*ck you, then. Just get on with it. ‘
Charlie shook his head, then leaned down and clipped one of the Pajero’s jump leads onto the roll of fat above Bastard’s collar and held the second against his ear.
Bastard screamed and his whole body shuddered. He collapsed like a rag doll, legs splayed out in the mud.
The jump lead was still clamped to his neck. Charlie handed me the other and slid into the driver’s seat.
I gave Bastard another kick, just because I wanted to.
Charlie fired up the ignition, and gave the pedal a squeeze.
Bastard said nothing, just lay there whimpering, listening to the steady throb of the Pajero’s engine, staring down at the mud. He was starting to get the message.