The Present Bech drives along in the dark, making his way to the rendezvous.
Finallyâ¦.
Got the bitchâ¦.
Once Klempnerâs had his little partyâ¦.
â¦. Got it out of his systemâ¦.
Should be able to persuade him to get rid of herâ¦.
â¦. and the other oneâ¦.
If they just disappear, thereâll be a fuss for a while, then it should be back to business as usualâ¦.
â¦. Need to find a new baseâ¦.
His good humour vanishes as he considers his personal situation, the hair-raising moment when he heard the message on the radio and realised his cover was blown.
Almost walked into thatâ¦.
Need to get a change of IDâ¦.
And a different area. Maybe a different country?
â¦. fucking inconvenientâ¦.
â¦. Still, canât make omelettes without breaking a few eggsâ¦.
Might be nice to make a fresh startâ¦. A change of airâ¦.
Someplace more third-world maybeâ¦.
â¦. Where a few bribes mean you can get on with the businessâ¦.
As he approaches the isolated building, even from several miles away, against the dark and velvet night, light can be seen playing weirdly across the blackness, flashing amber and blue against the blackness.
What the fuck�
Bech slows the car, thinking. He flips a square of gum from a packet, chewing thoughtfully, then turning off, takes a side road.
The track is barely a road at all, simply mud and rock deeply rutted. Occasionally something scrapes or bangs under the chassis, but he continues his long detour, watching the skyline all the while. After some while, driving at a snailâs pace, he turns off his headlights.
At the last moment, he avoids a collision with another vehicle, an off-roader, parked, but jutting into the track.
What the fuck?
In this lonely spot, why should there be another vehicle parked?
Campers?
Poachers?
Then, risking a little light, he flashes a torch over the plateâ¦.
Itâs hisâ¦.
â¦. Summerfordâsâ¦.
As silently as he can, he passes the vehicle, driving another few hundred feet along; far enough to be beyond casual discovery. Then, still well away from his target, he pulls up.
Creeping through the darkness, cautiously he approaches the isolated farmhouse.
A shadow against deeper shadows, he watches:
The area is a mess of police cars and ambulances. A prisoner security van pulls in and cuffed figures are pushed inside. Bech counts.
More figures are stretchered from the farmhouseâ¦.
Dead? Or just injuredâ¦.?
Is it going to make a difference?
Moving silently as a flake of soot, he detaches himself from the darkness, edging closer before merging with the deep gloom.
Another stretcherâ¦.
Fuckâ¦
Itâs Klempnerâ¦.
In the other-worldly amber-blue darkness, the blood trickling down his face seems black, but there is no mistaking the identity of the unconscious man Thatâs Klempner finishedâ¦.
Theyâll not let him out againâ¦.
â¦. If he livesâ¦.
Bech bites down on fury and frustration.
Whereâs the bitch?
â¦. End thisâ¦.
Milling like blue-uniformed ants, police gather in groups, talking into phones. Car radios sparkle static and noise. Ambulances turn over their enginesâ¦.
â¦. Enough noise to cover any sound made by the careful figure that slips from one shadow to the next, aiming for one of the brightly lit windows.
Angling his face away from the light, Bech peers in.
Where is she?
He sees a tall, blond, muscular figure, arms folded, staring down at his feet, tapping a foot as he listens to somethingâ¦.
Summerfordâ¦.
A little way away is one of the women, red-haired, face streaked with tears, being held close by a tall, steel-haired figureâ¦.
Haswell and his cringing wifeâ¦.
â¦. Where is she?
Moving carefully, Bech adjusts his position to see the rest of the roomâ¦.
Ahhhâ¦.
The second red-headed figure stands head bowed, while a tall, dark-haired man, his back turned to Bech, spits questions at her, demands answersâ¦.
Alexandersâ¦.
â¦. tearing strips off herâ¦.
She accepts it from himâ¦.
The two move and shift. His view of her is blocked by the manâs body, but even so it is easy to see the girl has bruises on her face, her hair is awry, and she is wearing clothes that hang on her in rags.
Looks like Klempner started the party without meâ¦.
â¦. Shameâ¦.
He pulls his weapon from where it lodges in the back of his belt, angling for a clear shot. But Alexanders moves and shifts, blocking the line of sight.
Bech curses under his breath, then with a glance over his shoulder, gun at the ready, he slips into the darkness.
*****