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.Hello,’ I add cheerfully.‘You,’ she breathes.‘Take it as a compliment.I needed someone capable of getting me out of police custody, someone who would risk everything and stop at nothing to pull it off.I chose well, it seems, other than you mangling my fucking hand.’‘If I’d known, it would have been your balls.’‘Oh, dry your eyes, it’s simpler this way.You said it yourself: the deal is the same.You get the hostages, including your folks, and I get the money.You just don’t get me for a trophy.Sorry to short-change the constabulary, but I never fancied HMP as a provider of palliative care.’We drive the rest of the way in silence, de Xavia sitting there numbed as she contemplates the humiliating enormity of what a mug she’s been taken for.It’s just a pity she won’t live to relate this embarrassment to her erstwhile brother-in-arms, Larry the Little Drummer Boy.I’ll have to live without avenging myself on that little cock-stain, however.I’ve put too much time and effort – not to mention every last penny – into this, and once it’s done I won’t be risking what I’ve built for anything so insignificant.Three years I’ve been working on this: planning, surveying, constructing, purchasing, learning new skills, researching, reconnoitring, patiently putting all of the elements in place.That’s right, three years.It was the idea that germinated and grew on those visits to see my son: The idea that didn’t go away; the sense of untapped power and possibilities that grew and grew, while only the price never changed.What seemed inescapable was that identifying myself as the author of my deeds would be at the cost of my own life.Then one day I realised there was a way of paying that price with a dud cheque.I’m made up in latex right now, distorting and disguising my features to a quite unrecognisable extent.It takes a bit of preparation, but it’s mandatory.I’ve worn the same face on all my recent excursions around celebrity-land.More significantly, I also wore it when I photographed myself for the plastic-surgery headshots I secreted in Lydon Matlock’s medical file – along with those forged hospital documents containing the sad, sad news about the big C.The truck has a bit of a wobble as I change down in order to turn right, about a mile outside Marfleet docks in Essex.De Xavia comes out of her fug to look askance as I direct us towards what appears to be a rusty corrugated-iron fence.I push a button on the dashboard and a section of the fence slides inside behind another, opening a gap wide enough to let the truck pass through.From there, it’s a quarter of a mile down the single-track approach road to where my operations base sits in dry dock, a rusty old hulk of a container vessel.It’s in no shape to face the high seas, but it will play its part in my sailing off into the sunset nonetheless.It won’t be cancer, but I will die tonight, much the same as I died over Stavanger.I won’t be able to sink all of the evidence in the depths of a fjord this time, but there will be too many half-incinerated body parts to make individual identification remotely possible, including whatever is left of Nick Foster, Four Play, Darren McDade, Wilson Gartside and the sad homeless fucker I selected because his age and build were a close enough match to my own.Simon Darcourt will die in a massive explosion, along with Angelique de Xavia, her parents and all the over-celebrated oxygen-thieves in the cells adjacent to them.All that will survive will be the farewell video I upload to the web before hitting the detonator.But just before the fireball engulfs the ship, a solitary figure will invisibly slip away.A new man, a reborn man.(Albeit reborn minus two fucking fingers.) Most importantly, though, a very, very rich man, able to provide handsomely for his dependents, as well as financing an extremely comfortable retirement.The one that got awayThe drape in front of Zal’s face has bunched a little on the left-hand side, so he only has a clear view out of his right eyehole, but as he merely has to follow the figure in front, it doesn’t matter so much.He sees the front doors ahead, being hurriedly held open by cops, the red carpet of the covered walkway beckoning beyond [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]