“ ‘Fraid so. It really does seem Mr. Komarov wants that file of his back. Not because it’s a forgery. He’d never have known about it if another hand had written it. It’s true. It’s what he intends to do.”

“And you think he can be terminated? With extreme prejudice? Taken out?”

“No, I said ‘stopped.’ Not the same. Terminating, to borrow your quaint CIA phraseology, would not work.”

He explained why.

“But you think he can be stopped, discredited, finished as a force?”

“Yes, actually I do.”

Irvine eyed him keenly, sideways.

“It never quite leaves you, does it? The lure of the hunt. You think it will, but it’s always there, hiding.”

Monk had been in a reverie, his mind going back many years and many miles. He jerked out of his thoughts, rose, and refilled their glasses from the pitcher.

“Nice try, Sir Nigel. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he can be stopped. But not by me. You’ll have to find yourself another boy.”

“My patrons are not ungenerous people. There’d be a fee of course. Laborer’s worthy of his hire and all that. Haifa million dollars. U.S., of course. Quite a tidy sum, even in these times.”

Monk contemplated a sum like that. Wipe out the debt on the Foxy Lady, buy the bungalow, a decent truck. And half left over shrewdly invested to produce ten percent per annum. He shook his head.

“I came out of that damn country, and I came out by the skin of my teeth. And I swore I’d never go back. It’s tempting, but no.”

“Ah, hum, sorry about this, but needs must. These were waiting in my keyhole back at the hotel today.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and handed over two slim white envelopes. Monk eased a single sheet of formal letterhead paper out of each.

One was from the Florida finance company. It stated that due to changes in policy, extended loan facilities in certain territories were no longer deemed acceptable risks. The loan on the Foxy Lady should therefore be repaid in one month, failing which foreclosure and repossession would be the company’s only choice. The language involved the usual weasel words, but the meaning was plain enough.

The othe

r sheet bore the emblem of Her Majesty’s Governor of the Turks and Caicos Islands. It regretted that His Excellency, who was not required to give reasons, intended to terminate the residence permit and business license of one Jason Monk, U.S. citizen, with effect from one month from the date of the letter. The writer signed himself as Mr. Monk’s obedient servant.

Monk folded both letters and placed them on the table between the two rocking chairs.

“That’s dirty pool,” he said quietly.

“I’m afraid it is,” said Nigel Irvine, staring over the water. “But that’s the choice.”

“Can’t you find somebody else?” asked Monk.

“I don’t want anybody else. I want you.”

“Okay, bust me. It’s been done before. I survived. I’ll survive again. But I ain’t going back to Russia.”

Irvine sighed. He picked up the Black Manifesto.

“That’s what Carey said. He told me, he won’t go for money and he won’t go for threats. That’s what he said.”

“Well, at least Carey hasn’t turned into a fool in his old age.” Monk rose. “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, after all. But I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other.”

Sir Nigel Irvine rose too. He looked sad.

“Suppose not. Pity, great pity. Oh, one last thing. When Komarov comes to power, he will not be alone. By his side stands his personal bodyguard and commander of the Black Guard. When the genocide starts, he will be in charge of it all, the nation’s executioner.”

He held out a single photograph. Monk stared at the cold face of a man about five years older than he. The Englishman was walking up the sand track to where he had left his buggy behind the house.

Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net