The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,34

chalet, each time met by that same empty silence, that absence. He checked his watch. If he was going to find her, wherever she was, he needed to get out of these rags, get cleaned up, buy some new clothes and get going.

After a hot shower and a shave, he walked down to the dock, collected his passport and cash from the priesthole onboard Flame, closed it up tight with the guns and ammunition inside and threw Crowbar’s old leather jacket over his rags. When he emerged from below deck, Gonzales and his son were there on the dock, refuelling a pretty little sloop. They looked up at him and waved. He waved back.

Clay walked back up to the office, scribbled a quick note of thanks, a promise to call and discuss repairs to Flame, laid out two thousand euros in cash as a down-payment, folded the note around the bills, placed it all on the desk where they would see it, and started into town. As long as he was here, they were in danger.

After five days on a churning sea he rolled like a lost drunk, his inner ear still compensating for the swell. He walked west, along the tree-lined esplanade of the Avenida de la Reina Victoria, the empty beaches of the Punta de San Marcos on his left, the harbour spreading grey and muddy beyond. He watched the road ahead, stopped and turned every now and again to look back. He had no reason to believe that Medved or Crowbar knew he was here, but the fear was there.

After the best part of a kilometre his sea legs settled, and soon he was into the old city, treed streets lined with buildings from the turn of the last century, wrought-iron lamp posts standing like elegant reminders of another time, a time of gas light and belief, tradition. He found the Mercado del Este and walked into a men’s clothiers.

They were not happy to see him. The sales assistant looked ready to call the cops, had even started to pick up the phone when Clay set a pair of heavy drill canvas trousers and five one hundred-euro notes on the counter. The clerk looked down at the cash, up at Clay, an obsequious smile blooming on his face. Forty-five minutes later Clay emerged wearing a dark, good-quality wool suit, a white collared shirt, dark tie and a pair of black leather brogues. In a bag slung over his shoulder he carried the trousers, a heavy flannel shirt and a new pair of sturdy boots. They’d even thrown in three pairs of boxers and sewn up the arm of Crowbar’s leather jacket. He stuffed his torn and bloody rags into a plastic bag and dumped them into a roadside bin fifty metres from the store.

Not far away he found an Iberia office, bought a return ticket to Geneva for Declan Greene, and in a nearby travel agency another to Nicosia made out to Marcus Edward. The Geneva flight left at 23.30 that evening, the Nicosia flight the next morning. He stopped at a streetside café, ordered a coffee and watched the people go by, the cars, thought about Rania, where she was right at that very moment, what images her retina were processing as if by knowing these he could somehow divine her whereabouts. The sun was low now and the wind came cold from the sea. A young couple walked by, his arm around her bare shoulders. The girl had long, dark hair like Rania’s, a pretty upturned nose. She was laughing at something her man had said. Clay could hear the ring of her voice, the joy there. And then they were past, swallowed by the city.

It was just after five pm. He bought a phone card, found a public telephone and tried the chalet again. He was about to hang up when the line opened. A woman answered, automated, formal. A recording. This number is not available. Clay checked the number, dialled again. Same result. He put the receiver back into its cradle, a hollow place opening up inside him.

He keyed in another number.

LeClerc answered immediately.

‘This is Declan Greene.’

There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling. ‘Ah yes, Monsieur Greene.’

‘Where is Rania? It’s important.’

‘Will you wait a moment, please?’

Clay could hear voices, footsteps, a door closing.

‘Monsieur Greene?’

‘I’m here.’

‘The last time I heard from her she was in Nicosia. That was two days ago.’ His voice was tense, half an octave higher than Clay remembered