The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,35

it. ‘She filed a story shortly after we spoke.’

‘I read it.’

‘Yes, the turtles. A good piece.’

‘Did she go home?’

‘This is all I know, Monsieur Greene. Now if you will please–’

Clay cut him off. ‘She’s in danger, LeClerc.’

Silence.

‘Regina Medved wants her dead.’

The line burned empty, just air. Clay let the silence hang between them. Finally LeClerc spoke. ‘I am sure she is fine.’

‘Fine? Did you hear what I said? They’re going to kill her.’

‘Surely it is not as bad as you suggest.’ LeClerc’s voice sounded thin, coming through walls and glass.

‘You know what her story did to them. The story you published.’

Silence.

‘LeClerc, are you there?’

‘Please. This is all I know.’ The guy was seizing up. Clay could hear the cold terror in his voice.

‘Jesus, LeClerc. What the hell is going on?’

‘Nothing is…’ Shaky. ‘Nothing is going on.’ An attempt to stabilise. ‘I am trying to run a news agency. Now if you will please allow me–’

‘I need your help, LeClerc.’

Another pause. And then: ‘Please, Monsieur Greene, if that is your name. I have told you what I know.’

‘You sent her to Cyprus. You insisted she go. Why? Why this story in particular?’

‘Do not insinuate.’

‘Answer me.’

‘It was her interest. Hers.’

‘When do you expect to hear from her?’

‘I don’t know. Tomorrow perhaps. I don’t know.’

‘Expect a call from me tomorrow, then.’

‘Please, non. I will be in meetings all day. I cannot.’

‘Convince yourself.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Tomorrow, LeClerc.’

Clay expected LeClerc to hang up but he did not, just stayed there on the line, the silence thick between them. ‘There is something…’ LeClerc stopped dead.

Clay waited. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Something, something difficult…’

Clay let the line hang, gave him time.

LeClerc stalled a moment, restarted. ‘I’m sorry, Mister Greene. I…’

Now he had Clay worried. This was not the decisive, confident LeClerc he knew, the one Rania held in such esteem.

Clay pulled in oxygen. ‘What’s wrong LeClerc?’

Nothing back.

‘Tell me. I can help. Is it Rania?’

More silence. Clay could hear him thinking it over. And then: ‘Something has just come across my desk.’

Relief in his voice; this not the something he had started to tell.

‘A suspect in the murder of Rex Medved has just been apprehended by police in England. He was caught on the south coast, trying to flee the country by boat. He is now in hospital under close guard, recovering from a gunshot wound. The police haven’t released his name, but apparently he’s South African.’

Well, leave me in the sun for the vultures. The police must have picked up the Boer he’d wounded near the cottage, the one he’d seen in the passenger seat of the Merc in Falmouth. It had to be him.

The line went dead.

Clay put down the phone, considered this a moment, the obliquity of things. After a while he picked up the phone again and punched in the number for his Cayman Islands bank. He was going to need more money.

A ring tone, far off, the line engaging. Clay gave his name and codeword.

He was put on hold, a thin, drifting melody.

Then: ‘There is a message for you, Mister Greene.’

‘Read it to me please.’

The sound of paper being shuffled, the bank clerk clearing his throat. ‘It says only: “I know where she is.”’

Clay took a breath, his heart arrhythmic. ‘That’s it?’

‘Nothing else. No sender identified.’

13

Purgatory

A few hours later Clay boarded the Iberia 737 non-stop to Geneva, managed a flat smile to the pretty stewardess, adjusted the tie that felt like a noose around his neck and settled into his business-class window seat. In his new suit and black brogues he looked like any of the other three dozen or more businessmen on the flight, off to make deals, sign contracts, pitch for sales. As the doors closed and the engines started, Clay thought of the little ketch that had delivered him through the storm, now lying in her cradle at Gonzales’ boat yard. Over the phone from the airport departure lounge, Clay had agreed to pay the old guy nine thousand euros to step a new mast, fit new rigging, fix the hatch, service the engine and make her seaworthy again. After some intense bargaining via Gonzales junior, Clay had agreed to wire three thousand euros direct to Gonzales’ account, plus four thousand more once the work was complete. Gonzales promised to have the ketch safely in Larnaca harbour in Cyprus in three and a half weeks, in a secure pre-paid, six-month berth. Punk’s queen would make it to the Med after all.

With all the tourists coming and going, access to Larnaca harbour was easy and anonymous. The