…LONDON…
‘His name is Constantine Niemand. South African, an ex-soldier, a mercenary, worked as a security guard in Johannesburg. Two days before he arrived here, he was on the scene of an affair in Johannesburg, a burglary gone wrong, five people killed, three blacks, one a security guard, the other two…’ ‘Losin me, boy.’
‘A white couple were killed. Brett and Elizabeth Shawn, British passports.’
‘Your Krauts running that name?’
‘Yes.’
‘The woman, what’d you do there?’
‘There’s a watch on the place. She hasn’t shown.’
‘And the old address?’
‘The old address?’
‘Your reliable pricks heard the phone ring. Then he wasn’t there. Who the living fuck do you think called him? And how the fuck did she know to call him? Hasn’t crossed your brain has it? And don’t say in essence to me again, I’ll strangle you with my own hands.’
‘With respect, Mr Price, I’m not prepared…’ ‘Sonny, deal with me or deal with the devil. There’s much worse coming up behind me. I’m the good cop. You want to walk from this fucken Waco you created, get the fuck out. And wherever you go, get on your knees every morning noon and fucken night and pray the Lord to take away the mark on your fucken forehead.’
‘We’ll cover this stuff, Charlie.’
‘I truly hope so, Martie. I truly do. Or we’re talking missing in action.’