Macbeth

‘But,’ Hecate said, ‘you have the gifts of ruthlessness, disloyalty and influence that give you power over the people I need to have power over. I hope I can rely on you when help is needed. I hope you can be my invisible hand.’

There was a loud bang.

‘There we are!’ Bonus laughed, patting the boy on the back as he tried to get as much of the unrestrained champagne into the glasses.

Duff lay still on the tarmac. Beside him his men stood equally still watching the Norse Riders, less than ten metres away, preparing to leave. Sivart and Sweno stood in the darkness outside the cone of light, but Duff could see the young officer’s body shaking and Sweno’s sabre blade, which rested against Sivart’s throat. Duff could see that the least pressure or movement would pierce the skin, the artery and drain the man’s blood in seconds. And Duff could feel his own panic when he considered the consequences. Not only the consequences of having one of his men’s blood on his hands and record, but the consequences of his privately orchestrated actions failing miserably just as the chief commissioner was about to appoint a head of Organised Crime. Sweno nodded to one of the Norse Riders, who dismounted from his motorbike, stood behind Sivart and pointed a gun at his head. Sweno pulled down his visor, stepped into the light, spoke to the man with the sergeant’s stripes on his leather jacket, straddled his bike, saluted with two fingers to his helmet and rode off down the quayside. Duff had to control himself not to loose off a shot at him. The sergeant gave some orders and a second later the motorbikes growled off into the night. Only two unmanned motorbikes were left after the others had followed Sweno and the sergeant.

Duff told himself not to give way to panic, told himself to think. Breathe, think. Four men in Norse Rider regalia were left on the quay. One stood behind Sivart in the shadows. One stood in the light keeping the police covered with an assault rifle, an AK-47. Two men, presumably the pillion riders, got into the lorry. Duff heard the continuous strained whine as the ignition key was turned and for a second he hoped that the old iron monster wouldn’t start. Cursed as the first low growl rose to a loud rumbling rattle. The lorry moved off.

‘We’ll give them ten minutes,’ shouted the man with the AK-47. ‘Think of something pleasant in the meantime.’

Duff stared at the lorry’s rear lights slowly fading into the darkness. Something pleasant? A mere four and a half tons of drugs heading away from him, along with what would have been the biggest mass arrest this side of the war. It didn’t help that they knew Sweno and his people had been there right in front of them if they couldn’t tell the judge and jury they had seen their faces and not just fourteen sodding helmets. Something pleasant ? Duff closed his eyes.

Sweno.

He’d had him here in the palm of his hand. Shit, shit, shit!

Duff listened. Listened for something, anything. But all that could be heard was the meaningless whisper of the rain.

‘Banquo’s got the guy holding the lad in his sights,’ Macbeth said. ‘Have you got the other one, Olafson?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You have to shoot at the same time, OK. Fire on the count of three. Banquo?’

‘I need more light on the target. Or younger eyes. I might hit the boy as it is.’

‘My target has lots of light,’ Olafson whispered. ‘We can swap.’

‘If we miss and our lad is killed, we’d prefer it if it was Banquo who missed. Banquo, what’s the maximum speed of a fully loaded Stalin lorry, do you reckon?’

‘Hm. Sixty maybe.’

‘Good, but time’s getting short to achieve all our objectives. So we’d better do a bit of improvising.’

‘Are you going to try your daggers?’ Banquo asked Macbeth.

‘From this distance? Thanks for your confidence. No, you’ll soon see, old man. As in see.’

Banquo looked up from his binoculars and discovered that Macbeth had stood up and grabbed the pole on to which the light on the roof was bolted. The veins in Macbeth’s powerful neck stood out and his teeth shone in either a grimace or a grin, Banquo couldn’t decide which. The pole was screwed down to withstand the feisty north-westerlies that blew for eight of the year’s twelve months, but Banquo had seen Macbeth lift cars out of snowdrifts before now.

‘Three,’ Macbeth groaned.

The first screws popped out of their sockets.

‘Two.’

The pole came loose and with a jerk tore the cable away from the wall below.

‘One.’

Macbeth pointed the light at the gangway.

‘Now.’

It sounded like two whiplashes. Duff opened his eyes in time to see the man with the automatic weapon topple forward and hit the ground helmet first. Where Sivart stood there was now light, and Duff could see him clearly and also the man behind him. He was no longer holding a gun to Sivart’s head but resting his chin on Sivart’s shoulder. And in the light Duff also saw the hole in the visor. Then, like a jellyfish, he slid down Sivart’s back to the ground.

Duff turned.

‘Up here, Duff!’