I

The meet with the gun dealer was set for four that afternoon, but Boris showed up shortly after three. Buying guns was notoriously risky on missions like these, partly because gun dealers were scum, but also because so much stock came via the military or the police, who’d often make a token arrest just to show that they were taking the problem seriously. That was why he’d taken such pains yesterday over choosing this site. It was deep in the spiny forest, far enough from Morombe that he could test the guns without attracting undue attention. And, while there was just one track big enough for a car to get here, there was also a forest track along which he could make a quick getaway on his bike, if it should come to that. He parked it in cover, then walked around the glade to check for ambush before finding himself a vantage point. He lifted his shirt and taped his hunting knife to his stomach, lest things turn ugly, and settled down to wait.

Four o’clock came and went. Four-thirty. Five. He cursed and wondered if his directions had got garbled. The light was beginning to fade when he finally heard engine noise, and a banged-up blue Mercedes 4x4 trundled into the clearing. There were two men in the front, which immediately put Boris on alert, as he’d only expected one. But the passenger stayed inside while the driver got out. He was short and grossly fat, with a tomatored T-shirt. Boris relaxed at once. If he couldn’t handle this guy, he needed to get out of the business. He put on his sunglasses and went out. The tomato popped his rear door and opened a large steel box inside, revealing three handguns of varying hefts and styles, plus spare magazines, boxes of shells and other gear designed to appeal to Special Forces wannabes: knives, balaclavas, holsters, flexi-cuffs, night-sights.

Boris took the semi-automatic Beretta 92G first, ejected and checked the box magazine, slotted it back in. He’d used one before, and it felt reassuringly familiar, but there was a hairline crack in its frame. He gave the tomato a look and put it back. He passed over the Taurus Raging Bull, which was less a handgun than a midlife cry for help, and took the Heckler & Koch. It was a few years old, but he couldn’t see any obvious flaws. It was fitted with a laser sight for competition shooting too, and its elongated barrel was threaded for a noise and flash suppressor. He took up his favoured stance. It felt good in his hands. It felt like authority. ‘Silencer?’ he asked, miming fitting one to the barrel.

The tomato went to consult. The passenger got out, tall and cadaverous, with hair like melted vinyl. He looked nervous, which made Boris nervous too. He opened the rear door, rummaged inside, then stood back up and shook his head. Never mind. Boris hadn’t expected one. He spotted the red dot on a tree across the glade, squeezed the trigger. A chunk of soft flesh exploded from the tree only a little below where he’d aimed. He visualised Knox and fired three more rounds: stomach, heart and head. Perfect. ‘How much?’ he asked.

‘How much have you got?’ replied the tomato. And there was enough amusement in his voice for Boris to know, even before he looked around, that the Raging Bull and the Beretta would both be aimed directly at his back.