Recoil - Andy McNab [129]
I bent down and dug the ring out of my bag. ‘That makes two of us.’
I opened the box and turned to him as if I was going to ask him to marry me. ‘Take it, it’s yours. A little something from me to you, to fill that hole in your gob.’
I wasn’t sure if it was the shock of me offering it, or that you needed an electron microscope to see the diamond, but he hesitated.
‘Go on, mate. I know it’s a bit small and it’s one of those softie non-conflict ones, but think of it as a temporary filling until you can shoot your way to a newer and bigger one, eh?’
As he took the box from my hand, a tear rolled from under his John Lennon gigs. ‘No, man, I’ll always wear it. Every time I smile, I’ll think of you. And every time I think of you, I’ll smile.’
There were Glaswegian-accented shouts of victory thirty metres away. Lex complained bitterly and threw his club to the ground.
Crucial put out a big leathery hand. ‘It’s time to say goodbye, isn’t it?’
We shook.
‘I hope you change your mind and come back to us.’
I didn’t know what to say. Crucial was still bubbling. None of us had had a wash yet; the tears had to carve their way through dried mud.
Lex joined us under the net with Sam. ‘Looks like you got off Scot free, man.’ He punched Sam in the shoulder. ‘Scot free – it’s a joke.’
‘Try to remember what I said about doing something for your heart, Nick.’ Sam shook my hand and locked his eyes on mine. ‘And now fuck off, the pair of you.’
I grinned and turned away.
‘It’ll be easy enough to find us if you change your mind,’ he growled at my back. ‘Make sure you do.’
‘I’ll keep eyes and ears out for Standish,’ Lex called back, as he picked up his clubs. ‘But let’s hope he’s lying out there, half-eaten.’
We walked on board and the ramp was soon cranking up. I squatted by a window as Lex moved us down the runway. I wanted one last look.
The Antonov faced the command tents again and Lex hit the gas. The aircraft rattled down the strip a very short distance before climbing. I looked down to see Sam, Crucial and all eight of the little fuckers lining the strip, waving and grinning, and then they, the camp, the strip, the whole poxy place were lost in a sea of broccoli.
PART THIRTEEN
1
Lugano, Switzerland
Sunday, 18 June
It was ten days since I’d last sat here, but it was like I hadn’t been away. The money still drove its way along Riva Albertolli, or rested its rather large arse beside the lake. The rest sat in cafés and watched the guys in their electric mini-tankers water the immaculate flower-beds.
I’d flown into Milan this morning on an overnight from Cape Town, and got off at the railway station a couple of hours later with my holdall and a rolled-up copy of the Sunday Times. The moped had gone. I wandered the town, did a little shopping and, with nothing else on just yet, decided to do what I always did around midday: have a brew at Raffaelli’s.
The sun was out, the lake was a mirror. Families took their Sunday strolls along the palm-lined boulevards; airbrakes hissed as a coach prepared to kick out its payload. All was well in the land of Toblerone and tax dodgers. I sat back and enjoyed. I felt calm and relaxed. For the first time in ten days, things were under control. And there had to be worse places on earth to pass the time while you waited to exact a little vengeance.
I’d ordered a cappuccino. The waiter appeared and I moved my mobile to the edge of the small round table to make room for the tray.
‘Grazie mille.’ It was nice to be nice.
He smiled back at me. ‘Prego.’
He sort of recognized me, but couldn’t quite place me. For starters, I supposed, I wasn’t with a beautiful blonde. And then I looked much smarter than I usually did, in new jeans, shirt, a blue jacket and shoes so shiny I had to wear sun-gigs to look at them.
But there was also the grime I hadn’t been able to get out from under my nails, and the scratches, cuts and bites on my face and hands to confuse him even more. Also, he probably didn’t remember me scratching like I had fleas the last time