The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

Amn al-Kharji had liked to show off how well briefed he was – had a story from the UK: two Irish approach the remote house of a man on a death list and set off the electronics and show up on a screen, white shadows, two cops inside with weapons because an attack is expected. They see the pair of them coming forward but still well down the garden. The cops arm their weapons, metal scraping on metal, but do it slowly and quietly, but the Irish leg it, had heard it. They were caught weeks later and in their car was an old person’s hearing aid, what you’d need in a care home to follow the soaps on the TV . . . Cammy had no hearing aid, but he had patience.

The kitchen was in darkness but he could see that the door into the hall was open and the ceiling light was on. No sound of a radio or a TV. He eased his strength against the door handle but it held firm . . . remembered. By his foot was the food box, went out each week for clearing with the bins. The key was always underneath. Bent, groped, found it. Cammy straightened, found a smile coming on to his face . . . would be hugged, and she might cry a bit and he’d do the charm and the love – and would get her to cook, and get her to clear out her purse so that he could be on his way as dawn broke. He had the key in the lock.

The tramper he had boarded in the Libyan port had sailed west up the Mediterranean then had put in at the docks of Marseilles, and immigration procedures were crap and he had gone ashore on a deck-hand’s papers and had a contact to make. Had expected a bigger welcome there, recognition of who he was, what he brought to the table, and to the level of anger he felt and the target he had chosen, and to hear of the promise he had made. The response had seemed distant. Like they regarded him as merely one more in a queue, and it had taken time, and messages had been exchanged between the Marseilles cell and those back in the old war zone. It had been sorted . . . he had been hidden away in a housing project known as La Savine: narcotics sales were done there and gang warfare was rife and the police stayed away. The ones who had housed him had seemed reluctant to wave him on his way and he might have had a career extension as a gun for hire. Money was in his pocket, and some documents that might pass inspection if the light was poor, and he was to head to Bordeaux where he would receive instructions for the next stage of the journey. Had bought his ticket at the station, had it in his breast pocket, had the cash in his zipped-up hip pocket and a photo of his mum . . . had been greeted, a long lost friend, by a man with outstretched arms – never seen him before – laughed about it and didn’t feel the slightest pressure on his backside. Caught like a sucker, and he was Kami al-Britani, and a cheapskate gang from north Africa had done him over. By the time he had realised they were well clear and the bustle of the terminus flowed around him. His hip pocket had been cut open and hung loose. He had his rail ticket and the phone number for the contact in Bordeaux. He had cursed silently, and boarded the train – had only his promise to cling to.

He turned the key, opened the door a few inches, then paused again and listened. If there had been guns then torches would have speared him and shouting deafened him and he would have been flattened on the step. Heard nothing, held his patience.

Her phone pinged. A text message, sent by their boss. She glanced at it, and grimaced.

Passed her phone across to Dominic, and he had to lean forward to read it.

She said softly, “Bit of a turn up.”

He murmured, “All part of life’s rich tapestry.”

Your passenger is a low-grade long-serving Fiver. Has few friends in-house but many admirers. My advice, don’t pick a fight . . . Keep calm, carry on. Bill. (Read and delete).

“Could be fun, being there at the end. Will know a whole heap that he isn’t sharing.”

“Breaking the duck and all that. Might get to squeeze the trigger.”

She sent back a message. Our guy is having a snooze and his best friend is a borrowed dog, kipping on his lap & (Delete – and go back to sleep).

They heard quiet snoring behind them and did not know if it came from the passenger or the dog: it seemed of little importance.

Jonas dreamed.

On the A303 and approaching Stonehenge.

Had a clear road ahead. Kept his pace and observed the speed limit.

Felt the drag of the caravan he towed. Had a friendly dog on his lap.

Vera talked to her friend on her phone, the one who managed the art gallery, and explained why she would not be there the next day. They were past Middle Wallop and nearing Winterbourne Stoke, and the weather seemed to be brightening in the west, and . . .

His phone shook.

He read the message. Maintaining vigilance. More impertinence from them. He did not like them or dislike them, they were what he had been given. If they failed him then he would bollock them off the park, and if they did well for him then he would curtly acknowledge that they had done what they were paid to do. Too intelligent for this kind of work? Probably what they thought.

Closed his eyes again. Stroked the dog’s head.

Saw the road stretching away in front of him and they would soon be at the junction for Codford St Mary and Fisherton de la Mere, and the weather improving.

But Jonas found it hard to sleep again. It came