The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,63

story – the one that derailed their oil operations in Yemen. Cost them millions.’ Clay dropped his head to his knees, the alcohol swimming in his blood. It had been Rania’s story, and Clay’s, a lot of other people’s too, most of them now dead. Including LeClerc. Clay shuddered.

‘Makes sense,’ said Crowbar.

‘So who was van der Plaas working for?’ Clay said. ‘Who killed Eben? Who was threatening Rania before Regina Medved had even connected me to her brother’s murder?’

He told Crowbar about Rania’s investigations in Cyprus, the threats to her life, her disappearance a few hours ago from this very room.

Crowbar pulled a Beretta 9mm automatic from his waistband and handed it to Clay. ‘Look, broer, I’m not sure of anything. But one thing I can tell you: the guy who was tracking you before LeClerc spilled it to Medved was Bulgarian, arms dealer type.’

Clay froze. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘You know him?’

‘Zdravko Todorov. I watched him massacre twelve unarmed civilians in Yemen, gave evidence to the French government that led to his indictment. I also put a bullet in his knee, left him as a hostage with some Yemeni friends of mine.’

Crowbar was silent for a moment, that word hanging in the air between them like bad blood: massacre. ‘Good reason to go after someone,’ said Crowbar.

‘Todorov is here? In Istanbul?’

‘Ja, definitely. But I haven’t seen him for almost twenty-four hours.’

Clay pushed the Beretta into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. ‘Here’s the irony, broer. Todorov did an arms deal with the Medveds during the civil war in Yemen. But the deal went bad. He stiffed them out of twenty million dollars. Regina Medved has a hit out on him, too.’ He pointed at the two dead men on the floor. ‘So if these guys are Medved’s, then they sure as hell weren’t working with Todorov.’

Crowbar laughed, lit another cigarette. ‘Beauty.’

There was a knock at the door. Room service.

Crowbar stepped over the bodies of the two dead Russians and looked back over his shoulder. ‘If we’re going to find your bokkie, Straker, we’re going to have to get rid of these kills, clean up this mess and get the fok out of Turkey before the police invite us to stay in one of their very nice luxury prisons. Hungry?’

24

A Few Miles from Deep Water

There was something about all that blood. The wet, ferric smell of it in his nostrils, in the back of his throat. The way it seeped into the gaps between the wood and held tight, organic bonding to polar organic. That unexpectedly slippery viscosity.

On his knees, Clay towelled up the rich arterial fluid as best he could, suppressing the urge to gag. After a while he stood, stared at his arms, red to the elbows. Crowbar was stripping the sheets off the bed. He gathered them up and set to work mummifying the two Russians, winding the bundles tight with the rest of Clay’s medical tape. They squeezed the bodies onto the lower shelf of the dinner trolley. With the two leaves of the table folded down, the tablecloth hung down and covered the lower shelf. Only the corpses’ feet, wound in the white bedsheets, protruded. It would have to do.

They wiped down every surface as best they could, gathered up the bloody towels and stashed them in the trolley with the bodies. Clay looked at his watch. Almost midnight.

‘I’ll bring the car around,’ said Crowbar.

‘Go to the back of the hotel,’ said Clay, sliding Rania’s Koran into his bag with Erkan’s file. ‘There’s a delivery bay. I’ll use the service lift, bring down the trolley, meet you there.’

‘Five minutes,’ said Crowbar, slipping out into the hallway.

Clay took an envelope and some hotel stationery, wrote a brief note to the proprietor thanking him for all his help, regretting they hadn’t been able to have that drink together. Clay stuffed the envelope with twenty-five one-hundred-dollar bills, more than enough to cover the bill and leave the proprietor with a healthy tip, one that would ensure silence and a determined cleaning of the room. He sealed and addressed the envelope, left it on the desk, took one last look around the room and started pushing the trolley towards the door.

The hallway was quiet, the lights turned low for evening. The service lift was at the far end of the corridor, near the fire escape. Clay leaned into the trolley, started to push. The casters groaned as he got the thing moving. It wasn’t built for this