The garage is to one side of the house. Solidly built in brick, the windows are painted out and barred. The door may look wooden but under the facade, is reinforced steel. And the motion-sensitive security lights, which do in fact mark a safe path for an old woman not too steady on her feet, also, and not coincidentally, illuminate all the means of access to the outbuilding. If anything larger than a small dog tries to approach in the dark, the area will light up like Vegas on party time.
A large sports-bag, currently containing nothing but another bag, acquired from Michael’s hotel shop, slung over my shoulder, I unlock the door. It vibrates slightly as the internal bars slide open and clunk into position.
Inside, I turn on the light and, pausing in the doorway, I look.
Sand lies scattered in a thin layer over the concrete floor in an elaborate pattern of swirls and whorls. Not obviously so. The casual eye would take it as spillage from the open sack propped in one corner, scattering its contents. But I know better, comparing what I see to the image on my phone, taken as I locked up last time I was here.
No footprints. No shifting of the small grains. There’s nothing out of place larger than a few mouse droppings.
Nothing disturbed.
The racks and shelving contain my Aladdin’s cave… One of them at least.
Basics first…
AK-47… reliable as it comes… I can’t think how often I used the model in my younger days in Africa. Not the most modern of firearms, but a solid, hardy weapon useable in the worst of conditions.
And the SCAR for flexibility…
I stow both machine guns into the bags.
Just me? Or should I arm them too?
James, yes… Something for an amateur with nerve… Point and fire.
The P226
Michael… Hmm…
Need to think about that…
Handgun for myself…
Ammunition…
Knives… Often the best choice for close up…
Holster…
With the holster strapped under my jacket and a Glock in place, I feel properly dressed again.
Jenny?
What to give a pregnant woman?
Perhaps a woman in labour…
… To defend herself…
Anything?
Rely on her men?
?
?
She’s not the reliant kind.
I stash an extra Glock in the bag. She’s handled one before. Even managed to nick that moron Ben with it. At least the weapon should feel familiar.
And not forgetting… the thug’s favourite: a small leather slapper, something to fit the pocket.
What else?
I move through my stock, letting imagination work through what possibilities might evolve from the current situation.
Such fun…
… Even with the stakes…
Everything packed, I sweep my layer of sand smooth then reshape it into spirals and curves right up to the edge of the thresher. A couple of snaps of the pattern from my phone camera, and I reverse out, locking the door behind me.
The bag swings heavy in my hand as I stash it onto the back seat. As I pull away, Mrs Polevski gives me a little wave from her window.
I wave back.
*****
James
The front door opens and Klempner breezes in. A newspaper tucked under one arm, a couple of sports bags swing heavily over his shoulder, and he has a carry case in one hand.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back.”
“As I said, I needed to check up on a few things. And to do some research. Get up to speed with what’s happening out there. I went out early so the day would be ahead of us. You heard anything new?”
“No, nothing.”
He saunters into the dining room where Michael looks up from at his laptop.
Klempner sets the bags down on the table where they settle with a metallic clinking. Shifting my laptop along the top, then Beth’s, he makes a space, then unzipping a bag, starts methodically to unpack it.
Guns, ammunition, knives…
Michael leaves his laptops, moving silently across to watch the performance as the armoury grows.
I eye the growing arsenal. “I thought you went out for research?”
“That’s right.” Klempner wears the happy smile of a small boy who’s just discovered the Golden Ticket in his candy bar. “And to pick up a few things.”
“That looks like the kind of research the Japanese fishing fleet conducts on whales.”
“With some of the people I want to talk to, James, I can’t walk around naked.” He sounds testy. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
He sees the look in my eye. “Don’t worry. I’ll not leave them out on display, but I need to check that everything’s in working order. It’s a while since any of these were used.”
He sits, spreading out his newspaper on the table, then takes up some kind of pistol and starts methodically dismantling it.
Hmmm…
I pick up a plastic-wrapped packet of what could be carbolic soap…
… if I didn’t know Klempner…
“What’s this?”
“Hmmm?” He glances up. “That? Oh… Semtex.”
“Semtex? You’ve brought high explosives into our home?”
He blinks, as though in surprise…
Is that genuine?
Could be…
Some things just don’t occur to him.
“You’re an engineer James,” he says. “I’m sure you know high explosives are as safe as any other chemical if they’re treated with respect.”
Which is true of course…
“And what’s in here?” I examine a small tin. It rattles a little in my hand.
His reply is equally offhand. “Detonators.” He jabs a finger at my hand. “Don’t shake the box.”
The dial on my boiler has left the green zone and is climbing rapidly through the amber to the red. “Detonators? High explosives and detonators? And you have them spread out on my dining room table…”
Klempner looks exasperated. “Oh, be fair, James. The explosive’s no damn use without detonators, is it?” He could be protesting over being told to wash behind his ears. “I realise this isn’t your area of expertise, but I’m sure you know that.”
Perhaps the steam exiting my nostrils is visible. He sniffs, caressing the barrel of some kind of assault weapon. “You’re a civilised man, James. Why don’t we simply agree that I’m not, and take it from there?”
I’m lost for words, beginning to understand how that kid felt in that movie when his new best buddy was The Terminator.
Easing out the top page of Klempner’s newspaper from under the dismantled parts of his handgun, I scan the front page. Charlotte’s abduction is news, mainly because of her known connection to Richard.
“So… did you catch any whales?”
Klempner jerks me a look, then relaxes into a lop-sided grin. “Fishing’s not my favourite metaphor right now. However, I went fishing in other waters. And no. No whales. Not even a minnow.”
“Nothing at all?” I brandish the newspaper, its headline… No Word On Kidnap Of Billionaire’s Friend… “No one’s even taking a pot-shot theory?”
“No, not even that.” Klempner cocks an eye at me “Isn’t that interesting? There should have been something.”
He leans back against the table, plucking at a lip. “People always hear rumours. Build on them. Invent them. Invest in them. Information is money. The abduction of a friend of the billionaire’s wife, possibly intended for the wife herself. That should have had a buzz going around. For me to come up with a complete blank…”
His gaze shifts to Michael. “Nothing to say? No contribution to offer?”
“People like to talk. I like to listen.”
Klempner gives him a slow look. “Interesting you put it that way. Yes, people do like to talk.”
“And..?” prompts Michael.
“And… they weren’t talking.”
Michael scratches at the back of his head. “Perhaps it’s time to get the police involved with your contacts?”
Klempner drips contempt. “It doesn’t work like that. If they wouldn’t talk to me, they’ll certainly not talk to Haswell’s chum Stanton and his minions.”
“So, what do you deduce from this echoing silence?”
“I deduce that we’re not hunting whales. We’re looking for sharks swimming among the minnows.”
Klempner looks around, brow knotting. “Where is Haswell?”
*****