The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,61

table, put his empty tea glass on top, turned and walked out into the street.

He decided to go back to the Pera Palas. He still hoped that somehow Rania might have made her way back there to find him (stupid, illogical). And he had to retrieve Rania’s Koran (soft, emotional). Arriving back shortly after nine p.m., he made his way through the empty lobby and rode the ancient, creaking elevator to the fourth floor.

Inside the room it was dark. The balcony windows were open, as he’d left them. The curtains billowed in the evening breeze. He switched on the light and stepped back in surprise.

A man sat slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, a bloody towel wrapped around his forearm, a silenced Beretta 9mm cradled in his lap. Two men lay motionless on the floor at his feet. ‘Close the door,’ he said.

It was Crowbar.

23

Wanted Dead

Clay pushed the door to, stood with his back to the wall.

Crowbar grabbed a half-empty bottle of whisky from the side table and poured two glasses. ‘Was hoping you’d come back, Straker,’ he said.

Clay stood motionless, focussing on the Beretta.

‘Have a drink,’ said Crowbar, holding out one of the glasses.

‘Trying to quit.’

The corner of Crowbar’s mouth twitched. ‘Take it, Straker.’

Clay stepped over one of the bodies, took the whisky, downed it in one go and watched blood drip from the tip of Crowbar’s middle finger to the carpet. ‘Ever consider just knocking?’

‘I need you to get me a compress, disinfectant, bandages, sutures, if you can find them, and tape,’ said Crowbar, his voice wavering, stressed. ‘There’s an all-night chemist at the far end of the Tepebaşi road, past the Turkmen bank. Left out of the hotel. Get going.’

Clay stared at Crowbar’s arm, the handgun, the blood spreading into the towel, the corpses on the floor. ‘What the hell is going on, Koevoet? Come to collect?’

Confusion displaced pain on Crowbar’s face. ‘What the fok you talking about, Straker?’ he said in Afrikaans.

‘I’m talking about two million pounds, broer. Those three company men you sent to the cottage to take me out.’

Crowbar put down his glass, nodded. ‘Ja, ja. You did a nice job on those poes, Straker. Did I ever tell you you’d make a hell of a merc?’

‘Is that why you’re here? To offer me a job?’

Crowbar grunted, pushed his head to his knees. He’d lost a lot of blood. ‘Jesus Christus, Straker. What you gonna do? Stand there all night and watch me bleed to death?’

Clay widened his stance. ‘Where is Rania?’

Crowbar’s eyes fluttered. He looked down at the bodies leaking blood onto the floor but said nothing.

‘Rania,’ repeated Clay. ‘Lise Moulinbecq. The woman who was in this hotel room an hour ago. Dark hair, about five-seven, knockout.’

‘I know what she looks like, broer.’ Crowbar tried a grin, winced. ‘No one here but these two poes when I got here. I watched you leave the hotel, saw these two go in about half an hour later, followed them. Never saw Rania. Now get going, Straker, for fok’s sake, before I bleed out.’

Clay stepped over to the closet, pulled out his bag and patted its side. ‘Everything you need, right here.’

Crowbar looked pale. He held out his arm. ‘Get on with it.’

Clay stepped over the bodies, helped Crowbar to the bathroom and sat him on the toilet seat.

‘Bring the whisky,’ said Crowbar. His voice was faint. Clay feared he would pass out.

Crowbar took a swig from the bottle and pulled away the towel. A deep, clean gash cut diagonally across the outside of his meaty forearm. Blood welled from the wound, but he’d been lucky – they’d missed the artery. Clay poured whisky over the wound, applied pressure and wrapped the compress in place. Soon he had the arm taped up tight. The bleeding had stopped, for now.

They sat out on the balcony and watched the moon rise over the Bosphorus.

‘I should get you to a doctor,’ said Clay.

Crowbar shook his head. ‘We have to leave,’ he said.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Koevoet? Tell me.’

‘Looking after you, broer. Like you asked me to.’

‘Looking after me? Is that what you call it? Fuck you, Koevoet. You sold me out.’

Crowbar took a swig of whisky, put his feet up on the railing and lit a cigarette. ‘Let me tell you something, Straker. After you were demobbed, when I was still up in Angola fighting the commies, fokken kaffirs broke into my house back home in Jo’Berg. Killed my wife and baby