Part 15 (1/2)

He could see the Farm now. See its roof, anyway. Another roughstone dwelling, though much bigger than the tumbledown bothy: this one, anyway, largely underground. Like a James Bond hideaway, though severely low-tech; more like, now Crane came to think of it, an ancient church one of those secret caves where the early ones gathered to celebrate ma.s.s, always with one ear open for the coming of the soldiers. Now that was a long time ago. Here, the Farm, was a different kind of throwback. When it was built, the people responsible had had one eye on the skies and the other on the rock. The skies were where the bombs would fall from. The rock was the best chance of surviving them.

Crane had never known, and did not particularly care, exactly what the original purpose of the Farm had been. That something nasty had been explored here was a given. Images of men in protective clothing nursing volatile liquids came to mind. But the old order, when it faded, had carried many such inst.i.tutions with it: budgetary restrictions weren't entirely Howard's invention. Came the day, the Farm was shut down: he wondered now what had happened to the equipment that must have been used here. Most of it dismantled, trashed; compacted into cubes that might have been anything. But the product wouldn't have been so disposable. They could have dumped it in the sea, of course, but that would have had something of an impact on the local marine life, no doubt.

But he didn't know, exactly. That was speculation. Nowadays, the Farm was a largely empty building with a number of underground rooms carved into the rock, and as far as he was concerned, it was a great place for putting people you didn't know where else to put. Scream their lungs out, there wasn't going to be anybody pa.s.sing. Start a signal fire, no one would ever see. And in the end because it would always come to this, that was one thing Crane had learned in the business; there was always a bottom line, and everybody reached it when you didn't know what else to do with them, you just packed your bags and left. Wave at them from the back of the boat, or the helicopter, whatever. And a year or so later you could come back and clean away their bones, because Christ knows that's all there'd be left when the salt wind and noisy birds were done.

Of course, there'd always be f.u.c.kers like Singleton and Downey.

He had reached the inner compound of the Farm now. Like its original purpose, the name was something of a mystery. No guessing games, though, about the figure waiting to meet him: he was six two, face like a brick, and wore a gun in an underarm holster. Muscle. Crane had specified muscle when he'd arranged for a team to be put together, because trainees had been used back when Downey and Singleton were here. And that was a mistake that was never going to be put right, because all the trainees were dead.

'That's far enough.'

'I'm Crane,' he said.

'Put the bear down.'

He put down the bear.

This time it was just a little girl, and her chances of causing maximum havoc had to be rated at nil. Which was exactly the same rating a number of others had given the chances of Downey turning up here, looking for her. He'd have to be a complete f.u.c.king madman, Crane had been told, and he'd laughed. He'd have to be a twisted thinker, somebody else had said. And he'd laughed again. In the end, though, he'd told n.o.body his true reasoning: that this was where he'd have come looking, if he'd been Downey.

Simple as that.

'Jacket off.'

He removed his jacket.

'On the ground.'

Hence muscle, he thought, as he lay on the ground.

This particular muscle kicked his legs apart so he'd have a clear shot if Crane tried anything. Then he picked the bear up.

'It's for the girl,' Crane said.

Muscle didn't say anything. He tore open the transparent bag, and dropped it at his feet.

'Before we go any further,' Crane said pleasantly, 'anything you do to that bear, I'm going to do to you.'

Muscle stopped.

'Just so we know.'

'You're Crane, huh?'

'I'm Crane.'

'You're older than I thought you'd be.'

Crane didn't say anything.

After a while, Muscle said, 'You got any ID?'

'Is that supposed to be funny?'

'Only we weren't told you were coming.'

'If you were any good, you wouldn't need to be told. You'd have seen me three miles off.'

'There's only two of us.'

'The reason I look uncomfortable,' he said, 'is because you're breaking my heart. Can I get up now?'

'I need to check you for weapons.'

So he lay there while Muscle patted him down; or patted him along, rather, Crane being horizontal. He wasn't carrying a weapon, so Muscle didn't find one. Then he was allowed to stand up.

'You haven't said why you're here,' said Muscle.

'I'm trying not to say anything too complicated,' Crane said. 'I hate to watch a grown man's head explode.'

'f.u.c.k you.'

Crane smiled. 'Now we've done the small talk, can we go inside?'

'You've not convinced me you're Crane yet.'

'Who else would turn up holding a teddy bear?'

Muscle laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched bark. 'You really are him, aren't you? Everyone says you're a mad piece of s.h.i.+t.'

'I hear good things about you, too.'

Muscle spat. 'Well, you've been here before, then. Christ knows why you'd want to come back. Place is a f.u.c.king hole.'

'I'll just get my bear.'

He picked up the toy and its wrapping, then preceded Muscle to the door. As they pa.s.sed through Crane paused, waved a hand: the big man went ahead. And Crane, behind him, dropped the bear; stretched lightly on his toes and pulled the polythene bag over Muscle's head, wrapping it round him with one deft twist even as Muscle reached up to claw himself free. Crane kicked his knees from under him, and he dropped to the ground still clawing. And Crane leaned forward, his right hand twisting a tightening knot in the bag, to bend over Muscle's shoulder, to watch his dying face.

'Are you listening?' he asked. 'Can you hear me?'

Muscle thrashed back and struck him in the face. Crane didn't even blink.

'You listening?'

He thought he was speaking aloud, but couldn't be sure. Such moments always squeezed him full of joy; he could feel his own vitals, his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, tightening with each twist of the knot. And anyway, they never heard, the dying: that man in the bath in the hotel room; he'd been deaf at the finish too. Crane might as well be talking to himself 'I don't care how much iron you pump,' he said. 'You show disrespect to me, and I'll cut you in half. We clear on this?'

Muscle's face was turning blue. And they were on the same side, Crane reminded himself: that was undoubtedly what Howard would say. But he'd never done one like this before. Like watching someone drowning on dry land.

From the stairs leading down to the cellar a young blond man appeared, chewing an apple. Crane dropped Muscle, who hit the floor with a thump, then flapped for a bit, reaching for great ragged breaths. Blond dropped his apple too, which hit Muscle on the head. He didn't appear to notice.