The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,19

leaving a wreckage of shattered vowels, amputated syllables.

‘A few relics aren’t worth dying for, Rania.’

Silence.

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I. This goes a lot deeper than religious artefacts. It is theft on a massive scale, cultural genocide. Extinction.’

‘Jesus Christ, Rania. Even more reason to get out. Pass it over to the authorities.’

‘I cannot, Claymore.’

Money clicked away in the display. They didn’t have long, seconds.

‘Why the hell not?’

‘I think the authorities are involved.’

Clay swallowed hard. They were almost out of time. ‘I’ll be at the chalet in ten days, maybe less. Meet me there.’

‘No, Claymore.’

‘Okay,’ he snapped. ‘Just promise me you’ll get out.’

‘I will return when I am finished here.’

‘How long?’

‘I do not know. A week perhaps. Maybe longer.’

‘For God’s sake, Rania, please.’

Less than a pound left, the last few pence draining away.

‘Clay…’ she stumbled, broke off. He could hear her crying. ‘You broke…’

The line went dead. The phone card had expired.

Clay smashed down the receiver handle, stood shaking, staring into the winter sea of the phone’s toll screen as if the time could somehow be recaptured, credited to his account, reversed. So much more he needed to say.

After a while he stopped staring at the phone, opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Five minutes later he was back at Punk’s place. The BMW was still where they’d parked it, awaiting its imminent dismantlement and resurrection. He knocked on the door and stepped inside without being asked. The smell of frying bacon and hot toast filled the place. Despite everything, his stomach started working, anticipating.

Punk peered out from the kitchen, a floral-print apron slung over his neck, a spatula in one hand, an H&K nine millimetre parabellum in the other. ‘Make the call you wanted?’ he said.

Clay stopped, staring at the handgun.

‘Found it in the glove box,’ said Punk. ‘Yours?’

‘Keep it,’ said Clay.

Punk put down the spatula, worked the handgun’s action, slid out the magazine, ejected the round from the chamber and put it all on the table.

‘No thanks,’ he said, putting a plate in front of Clay. Fried eggs, bacon, tomato, fried onions, two thick slabs of dark toast, dripping butter.

Clay devoured the breakfast, for those few minutes concentrating only on the food, on the slaking of his hunger. It had been the same in the bush, even during the worst days: opening the rations, forgetting everything, the blood, the fear, the danger. An animal fulfilling its basest instinct. Survival. He ate quickly, methodically. Did not look up. Did not speak. Ignored the weapon there beside him.

When Clay had finished, Punk tossed something onto the table. It rattled to a stop next to Clay’s plate. Metallic, about the size of a pack of smokes.

Clay looked up at Punk, questioning.

‘Found it in the Beemer. A custom extra.’

Clay turned it over, examining it.

‘It’s a transmitter,’ said Punk. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve disabled it.’

‘Shit.’

‘They’re here, aren’t they?’

Clay nodded. Punk must have killed the signal just before the Boer drove past.

‘How long do you have?’ Punk leaned against the table.

‘Not long.’

‘Let’s get you on your way then, Guv. The tide’s right.’

Clay stood, looked Punk in the eyes. ‘If they come, tell them I forced you.’

Punk smiled, waved his hand. ‘Don’t worry about me, mate. I can look after myself.’

Clay was sure he could.

8

Candaules’ Queen

Punk rowed him out to the boat. The wind was coming in strong now, furrowing the estuary, pushing the muddy water into a crisscross of brown chop. The little dory’s bow flung up spray as Punk leant into his strokes, head to wind. From a distance, the yacht looked settled and sturdy, unworried in the rising wind, a streaming wake emerging from her stern and swirling out across the rippling surface. Low clouds scuttled in from the west, heavy with moisture, an Atlantic distillation, one part water, three parts pure energy, dew point and latent heat ready to collide in the dark boiling hammerheads massing on the horizon.

‘Wait till the storm blows through,’ said Punk between clenched teeth, straining at the oars. ‘You’d be a nutter to go out in this, unfamiliar boat and all.’

Clay looked past him, out towards the ketch and the headlands to the battlefield of the horizon. ‘If you had a chance to go back and do it over, would you?’

Punk looked him in the eyes, slowed for a moment, then dug the oars in and pulled hard. ‘Not a day I don’t think about it,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘Not a day.’

Clay nodded, realising that he would never see this man again, never call him