by R J Bailey
‘And we were meant to keep a low profile,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘It’s what they expect.’
‘I am going to use the washroom,’ Mrs Irwin said in a low voice.
‘Hold on. I’ll come with you,’ I said.
There’s nothing unusual about two women going to the bathroom together. That is unless one of them goes in first and checks both cubicles to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting. While she had a noisy piss, I threw water on my face and tried to make myself look more awake than I felt. I remembered I had neglected to take my Pro Plus or the Ritalin I kept as emergency back-up when mere caffeine won’t do. But perhaps it was best I didn’t rely on artificial stimulants until I really needed them.
Mrs Irwin came out and joined me at a mirror that looked like it had scabies. From her bag she extracted three tubs of cream, two lipsticks, a fancy palette of eyeliners and some wet wipes. She used the latter to scrape off whatever remained from the previous day, examining the black smudges under her eyes with a frown. They weren’t going to come off with wet wipes.
‘I would like you to cut my son some slack,’ she said to the mirror.
‘I’m just doing my job, ma’am,’ I said.
‘Can you do it with a much more consolatory tone? Please. He’s just a boy. He had a rough crossing. He’s tired. After he has had a rest, you’ll see a different side of him. He can be fun. Funny.’
‘I’m sure.’ I wasn’t, but I’d have to take her word for it. ‘He was a surprise addition, though.’
‘I appreciate that and I’m sorry. But he’s here now and I’d appreciate it if you’d deal with the new situation in a civil manner. He’s worried about me, even if he doesn’t show it. About the arrest warrant.’
‘Me too.’
‘I didn’t do it, you know.’ Now she looked at me properly, trying to gauge my reaction.
She offered me the packet of wet wipes and I took one. I dragged it over my cheeks and forehead. ‘That’s not my concern,’ I said, keeping my voice idling in neutral.
‘I didn’t bribe anyone. Manipulate the Euribor rates. I play the markets, sure, but I do it above board. It was someone trying to cut a deal who gave the authorities a long list of names. Mine was just one.’
‘It isn’t important to me what you did or didn’t do with the rates,’ I said. ‘The police notice just makes the job trickier.’
‘I just want you to know, that’s all. The sort of person you are dealing with. The charge is a total fabrication. A smear. It is easy to pay enough to make sure a name goes on a list. A ploy designed to stop me going to the meeting.’
She fixed me with a stiletto glare, waiting for a response.
‘I understand. And I agree, it isn’t hard to throw mud at a wall and wait for it to stick. But why would anyone want to stop you getting to Luxembourg?’
‘Who knows? I am a very rich woman, on paper at least, Miss Wylde. Is that right? Wylde?’
It was good to have my real name back. ‘Alison Cooke’ had been an alias created for the Kubera operation, just in case someone had thought to check out my previous history. And in case anyone came looking for the retrievers later with the thought of doing them harm. ‘With a Y, yes.’
‘And as you know, you make enemies on your way to that position. Not all of whom are rational. Perceived slights can grow into personal vendettas.’
I shifted to a more placatory tone. She was in a very defensive mode. I didn’t think it would take much to get her hackles rising. ‘Ma’am, if you have any idea of who it might be, no matter if it is embarrassing or illegal, you really must tell me. And Konrad. He has to assess what we are up against.’ And maybe whistle up some reinforcements.
‘Miss Wylde, let me assure you I have done nothing embarrassing or illegal,’ she said, giving me a quick flash of those hackles. ‘I simply need to attend to some business.’
I was about to ask more about the business when the door opened and a mother and young daughter came in. Once I had checked they were what they seemed, I left Mrs Irwin to her expensive make-up. I’d put on a smear of Chanel lipstick. It didn’t improve matters much, but it would have to do.
I sat back down and moved my chair so I could see her come safely out of the lavatory, which she did two minutes later, just as the coffee and pastries arrived. I placed some euro bills on the table, in case we had to make a hasty exit. It was probably too much but I wouldn’t be waiting for the change if we had to abandon the café. And I didn’t want a waiter chasing me down the street demanding another euro or two while we were trying to make a swift exit from Marigny. We ate and drank in silence.
When we had finished, I pointed to the bar and said, ‘That payphone there is too public. I’d best wait until the Post Office opens.’ There was a good chance that the PTT in a town like Marigny still had old-fashioned booths like the one I had used in the brasserie. ‘With a bit of luck that’ll be eight o’clock on market day.’
‘I’m going to take a turn round the square,’ said Konrad, rising from his seat.
‘Sure?’ I asked.
‘I like to be . . . what’s the word . . .’
He rarely struggled with his English vocabulary, so I waited a beat before I helped him out. ‘Pre-emptive.’
‘Yes, pre-emptive.’
After he had gone I ordered more coffees and placed some extra notes on the stack.
‘Can I speak now?’ Myles asked.
I looked around. Nobody had given us a first, let alone a second glance. ‘Sure. Just keep it down.’
‘What’s he doing?’ he hissed. ‘Your scary friend?’
‘Checking everything is as it should be.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He’ll have a sniff around, see if there’s anyone who might be looking for us. You can tell sometimes. People who have a different agenda, who aren’t in town for a string of onions or cheap shoes. They have tells sometimes, like poker players.’ In truth, you had to be very, very lucky to spot them. But maybe Konrad was just that. Unlike our delivery driver.
‘Do you think we are in much trouble, Miss Wylde?’ Mrs Irwin asked.
I decided I had best be honest. ‘Yes. I think there is trouble. I don’t know how far into it we are yet.’
I had the fresh cup of coffee to my lips when I heard the distinctive sound that told me we were in pretty damn deep. I looked around the room. Nobody else had so much as cocked an ear. Maybe they weren’t tuned in for those sounds like I was. But I knew immediately what I’d heard. Gunshots.
Three of them.
PART FOUR
SIXTEEN
I could tell by the pallor of Konrad’s skin that he was hurt, but his face was absolutely still. He was standing at the entrance to the alley that led from the rear of the café. His right hand was in the pocket of his windcheater. His left was gripping his waist. I couldn’t see any blood on his fingers. That didn’t mean there wasn’t any.
‘You OK?’ I asked.
‘Min egiten du,’ he said, before remembering he was talking to an English speaker. ‘It’ll keep.’ Then, quietly: ‘Must be gettin’ old.’
‘Don’t say that.’ I meant it. I didn’t want a gunman who thought he was losing his edge. Not when we had armed opposition out there. Dammit, though, he shouldn’t have got himself shot. But it was no time for recriminations. ‘I’ll take a look at it as soon as I can. You OK to walk?’
A weak smile. ‘Run if I have to.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ I wasn’t joking. If we ended up running, then we were in deep shit. I glanced down at Mrs Irwin’s shoes. She wasn’t going to challenge Usain Bolt in those heels. Myles’s eye-bleedingly bright sneakers might just come into their own, though, but I knew we were going to have to dump them at some point. Too damned memorable.
Mrs Irwin and Myles pressed forward, starting to crowd me, and I waved them back, unsure whether it was safe to step out into the street. Plus I wanted room to manoeuvre if
need be.
‘Take your shoes off,’ I said to Mrs Irwin. ‘Please. Just in case we have to move quickly. There’s cobbles out there. I don’t want you turning an ankle.’ I certainly didn’t want to have to do a fireman’s lift on her.
She did as she was told. I turned back to Konrad, who was resting his weight against the wall. Shit. I had a sudden unwelcome thought. I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to die not having seen Jess again.
‘Is the Peugeot compromised?’ I asked.
‘It was,’ he said, with a sharp intake of breath I didn’t like the sound of. ‘It isn’t now. I saw two flies, paying undue attention to it. I swatted them away.’
‘How are they?’ I meant had he hit them in the exchange of gunfire. Three shots, I had heard. I assume only one got him. Where did the other pair go? And who else had heard them and recognised them for what they were? ‘Do they have any men down?’
He ignored that. ‘We should get going. The cops will . . .’ Another gasp. ‘They’ll know. That there’s been gunfire. They probably won’t know from where yet.’ It is always surprisingly hard to pinpoint where gunshots have come from. You only have to see videos of cops under fire from a sniper to realise it’s a while before they can get a bead on the location of the shooter.
We walked briskly out, as unobtrusively as we could, Konrad in front, me behind. I spotted a small hole in the back of his jacket. Exit wound. So the bullet either passed through his body or simply took a chunk out of his side. Either way, the hole was good news. Well, better news anyway.
‘Myles, eyes front,’ I said. His head was swivelling like he was at Wimbledon.
An old guy with his enormous belly barely contained by his blue overalls stopped to watch us, filling his pipe as he did so. It looked like he could smell our . . . well, fear was too strong a word. Or maybe it wasn’t. Someone called his name and he turned to greet an old friend. We were forgotten.
‘Up on the left,’ I said. ‘Window.’
Konrad shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
A young woman appeared and tossed keys down to a teenage boy, who let himself into the house.
Konrad dropped back a pace. ‘We can’t make the first move. Too many innocent people. They’ll have to show themselves.’
We reached the car without anyone yelling for us to stop or put our hands up. I blipped it open from a safe distance and Konrad told me to hold my horses. Although it clearly pained him he went through his routine – underneath, under dash, engine bay, boot. From the boot he extracted the punchier gun he had been talking about, although I didn’t get a clear look at it. But it had some heft to it judging by the grunt he gave. I grabbed the smaller of my two first-aid kits from my RTG bag and tossed it to Myles.
‘Satisfied?’ I asked Konrad.
‘Clean as a whistle,’ he said, and we climbed in, taking up position as before.
‘I think I’m about to drip on the expensive upholstery.’ Konrad raised his left hand. The palm was bright scarlet.
‘It’s wipe-clean,’ I said.
He laughed.
‘How badly are you hurt, Mr Konrad?’ asked Mrs Irwin.
He glanced at me and managed a half-smile. ‘If only we had a medic who could tell me.’
‘Yeah, if only . . .’
I pulled out of the street and set about getting out of yet another town with indecent haste. It was becoming a habit, I reflected, as we powered on up the tree-lined hill that led towards Saint-Lo. Luckily all the traffic was coming into town and the road ahead was pretty clear.
‘I’ll find somewhere we can stop and take a look,’ I promised. ‘You OK, Myles. Myles?’
The boy looked paler than Konrad. He swallowed hard and nodded. Ah, the blood.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ I said. It was our stock phrase in Iraq, used no matter what the situation. It isn’t as bad as it looks. You’ll be OK, it hasn’t hit anything vital. Chopper will be here in five. You’ll be running marathons again before you know it. Ordinary, everyday lies.
Konrad gave a wheezing laugh. ‘That’s OK for you to say. It’s not your blood.’
‘Sorry. I’m sure it’s painful.’
‘I’ve had worse,’ he snapped.
The tone told me just how much it hurt. I know what it is to have a bullet wound throbbing in your side. It is deep and painful and seems to vibrate through your entire skeleton. I had caught one in Afghanistan, when I was carrying Jess and before I had decided whether to keep her or not. The bullet – the thought of what it might have done to her in the womb and the fierce protectiveness that triggered – rather made my mind up, about both having Jess and leaving the army. I couldn’t seem to stay away from them though. Bullets weren’t done with me yet, it seemed. Plus there was another source of pain for Konrad: his pride. Gunmen aren’t meant to get shot, they are meant to do the shooting.
I checked the mirror. Only a lorry labouring after me. ‘How did you leave them?’ I asked. ‘The flies?’
‘Why are you so worried?’
‘Because it’ll slow them down if you got one in any of them,’ I snapped. ‘You know that. Or you should.’ I took a deep, deep breath. ‘Sorry. That was the adrenaline talking.’
He nodded to show it was OK. The analysis could come later, but he would be aware that this was a situation we shouldn’t have found ourselves in. ‘Put it this way. They won’t be doing much tap dancing from now on.’
Leg shots. At least we didn’t have dead bodies. Living, they could make themselves scarce. Dead, the police have a habit of finding them and making a fuss. With leg wounds they were going to need some sort of medical treatment and they were unlikely to opt for the nearest Outpatients. Chances were he’d bought us some time.
‘Good. Can you hold on for a while?’ I asked.
‘As I said, I’ll keep.’
I heard Mrs Irwin make a squeaking noise that might have been disgust. She met my eyes in the rearview mirror.
‘Men. Why can’t they just admit it hurts like fuck and be done with it?’ The swear word should have sounded strange, but I had a feeling it was, or had been, second nature at one time. But, judging by the look on her son’s face, not for a while.
‘It’s the Bruce Willis in me,’ said Konrad. ‘I worked with him once. One of the Die Hards. The one set in Russia. Nice guy. Anyone mind if I smoke?’
Nobody did. He had earned a cigarette. He opened the window and let the blue fumes trail out behind us. He kept the Gitanes in his left hand, which meant he had to twist slightly to let the slipstream snatch the smoke away and to flick the ash out of the window. But he wanted his right free.
‘Myles, open that first-aid pack, there should be a field dressing. Green pack, FD-W written on it.’
‘Got it.’
‘Rip it open, hand it to Mr Konrad. He’ll know what to do.’
I gave the gunman a sideways look and he nodded. With the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth he rolled up his polo shirt. I could see a splodge of blood, some of it already congealing. Taking the bandage, he ripped off the protective strips that covered the sticky surfaces of the dressing. I used my right hand to help him press it home.
‘Son of a bitch.’ He turned to Mrs Irwin. ‘It hurts like fuck.’
A smile flickered across her face and those chiselled features softened a little. It suited her. ‘That’s better,’ she said.
A red light on the heads-up display flashed at me.
‘Shit.’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Left rear tyre is deflating.’ And making a rattling noise as it did so.
‘Doesn’t feel like it,’ he said.
‘These are run-flats. It will feel like it when the last of the air goes. You see any spikes on the road back there?’
‘No. Not that I could see.’
‘It might just be bad luck.’ There was certainly enough of it around.
‘Don’t you have a spare?’ asked Myles.
‘Nope. Y
ou’re just meant to nurse the car to a garage, where you’ll be charged a fortune to replace the damaged tyre.’
‘That sucks.’
A second warning lamp. ‘Right rear. We’ve run over something, either deliberate or not.’
Konrad flicked the cigarette out of the window. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences like that.’
Nor me. Not when the rear tyres blow and the fronts don’t. Which was what the dash display was indicating. I listened for, and heard, another rattling sound. Odd. ‘You did check the tyres?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He almost succeeded in keeping the tetchiness from his voice. ‘But not tread by tread. We didn’t have that sort of time.’
True. His inspection would have spotted one of the larger devices cops use to split or spike the tyres of fugitives. But there were also small percussive caps that could be hidden in the tyre tread that could cause a blow-out. You had to check every inch of the wheel to find them.
‘Will we have to stop?’ asked Mrs Irwin.
‘Usually you have a limit on run-flats. Do not exceed eighty kilometres an hour or so. But even if we stay at that, they’re only good for ninety or a hundred clicks before we’ll be running on rims.’
I was just thinking we could still put some distance under our belts when I felt the accelerator soften under my foot. I pressed down, gently and then harder, eye on the rev counter. Not much happened.
‘Fucking computers,’ I muttered.
‘What is it?’ asked Myles.
‘I’m guessing there’s a limiter kicked in.’ The OBD – the On Board Diagnostic chip – had sensed we had a double deflation. It had gone into ‘nanny’ mode. The speed was dropping. We were barely at sixty. The lorry from Marigny was catching up with us.
‘We need two new tyres. I can’t get us to Luxembourg like this.’
‘You sure?’ asked Konrad.
‘I’m sure.’ My turn to be tetchy. I didn’t like this one bit.
‘They’ll know that we’ll need to stop,’ said Konrad pensively. ‘If it was a deliberate ploy.’
‘I don’t think they gave us a double puncture just as a parting gift, do you?’
