Murderous David Hickson (best thriller novels of all time TXT) 📖

knowledgably. “Roll it down the hill to the workshop, we’ll take a look. You going back out soon?”

“Two hours,” said the man.

“I’ll get them to change the schedule and take you off it. Take the morning off. We’ll have it ready end of the day.”

The man cursed, but let in the clutch, and allowed the vehicle to roll.

“Start the engine,” I suggested, “but just let it idle. You’ll get the brakes and steering that way. Don’t accelerate or it will cut out.”

He gave a snarl, but started the engine and coasted down the dusty track.

The workshop was at the lower edge of the complex, where there wasn’t a view, and where the oil spills and revving engines wouldn’t spoil the vacations of BB’s guests. The chief mechanic had the crippled vehicle up on the lift and he was opening up the fuse box when Chandler and I drove up. I had stripped the overalls off and was wearing the black uniform of the guards. I climbed out with a friendly wave.

“Water,” I said, “been running hot all morning.”

“Why is that my problem?” he asked.

“You got any? I can put it in myself.”

The mechanic threw the screwdriver he’d used to open the fuse box into a toolbox where it made a satisfyingly loud noise, then he wiped his hands on a rag and moved his head like he suffered from a nervous disorder, but which I interpreted as meaning I should follow him. The water can was around the back, and by the time we returned with a full can Chandler was already back in the passenger seat looking like an aristocrat planning to fire the hired help. The vehicle up on the lift was missing its licence plates, but the mechanic didn’t notice that.

At two minutes past oh ten hundred hours we rolled up to the security gates, and our licence plates were scrutinised by the camera placed at knee level for that purpose. A guard gazed at us blankly through the bulletproof glass and checked the number against his roster. A loudspeaker crackled.

“You’re late,” said the guard.

“Two minutes,” I agreed. “Had engine trouble.”

The guard gazed at me for a moment and one could have imagined there was a thought process happening, but then the boom lifted and the gates swung open. I didn’t accelerate too hard but kept us going at a reluctant thirty kilometres an hour. The gates swung closed behind us.

“Not too fast,” said Chandler.

“Any slower and we’ll only get to the border after midnight.”

Chandler sighed. “I’m worried about you, Gabriel, really I am,” he said. “You pulled too late. You know it. And how long does it take to switch a goddamn fuse? You could have blown the whole thing.”

“The engine was hot,” I said, but I knew that was no excuse.

“It’s all this nonsense with Robyn,” he said. “You’re becoming a liability, you know that? There was a time I thought I could rely on you.”

We drove in silence. I had known Chandler for many years, and fought alongside him in situations more stressful than this, but I had never seen him show this level of anxiety. I suspected that he thought we were heading into a disaster. Or perhaps I had become a liability. It would have been foolish not to acknowledge that. I had frightened myself that morning as I dropped to earth. I’d thought I understood the look in Chandler’s eyes, but maybe that was just another of my mistakes.

“We’re out in the open now,” said Chandler. “No turning back, nowhere to hide.”

“We’ll be on the highway in less than an hour,” I said, more to reassure myself than Chandler.

“They’ll be distracted by the lions,” said Chandler. “They’ll hardly look at the rest, won’t notice the extra beams under the crates. You’ll see, it will be fine.”

When I glanced at him, I found his cool eyes on me. “We’ll do just fine,” he said, and his mouth compressed into a flat line. “It’s plain sailing from here.”

Twenty

Maputo, capital city of Mozambique – South Africa’s eastern neighbour – lies beside the ocean trying its best to look like the ‘Pearl of the Indian Ocean’, which is what it had been called in the optimistic past. Portuguese explorers discovered the tiny fishing village that existed there five hundred years ago, decided they liked it, and built themselves a fort so they could keep it for themselves. That didn’t go very well for them. It turned out that the people in the fishing village didn’t feel like sharing it. And so fierce battles were fought over the beleaguered Pearl for hundreds of years, culminating in a civil war that destroyed most of the city near the end of the twentieth century. To this day the scars remain and the palm trees wave their fronds at the clear blue ocean as if they’re pleading for help, and the long, deserted stretches of sandy beaches do their best to look like a holiday destination instead of beaches trying to wash away the blood.

“That was in France,” said Fat-Boy. “The sailors dropped by the landing craft on the beach. I saw the movie. That kind of shit didn’t happen here.”

“It’s a goddamn miserable place,” said Chandler. “That’s what the Angel is saying, and he’s right. Goddamn miserable.”

We had spent most of the previous night transferring the gold into the base of the custom-built crates that Fat-Boy had brought down from the Gorongosa national park in the north. It had been a fifteen-hour drive so he slept through the loading, but woke up in time to watch us transfer the lions back into the crates. He refused to approach within fifty metres of them, so Robyn had to feed the lions and Chandler and I finished loading the boxes of weapons, while Fat-Boy glowered at us. Chandler had abandoned the jeep at the far end of the docks when we arrived, but Fat-Boy insisted on retrieving it to return early to the hotel in order to dress for