She spun past the next landing, sobbing against the fire in her skin, and kicked open the door. Too hard; the restraint was broken and it bounced against the wall, reverberating through the building like a twenty-one gun salute. Damn. Too late to worry now. She had to get out of here or Palmer would think she was a real wuss.
Down to the next floor. Bits of grit on the stairs, digging into her bare feet. She caught her ankle against a sharp edge, and felt the skin break. She ignored it. No time for pain. The alternative was far worse. Still no sounds of pursuit, but she had the ground floor to negotiate, which was the most dangerous part of the building. It would be like running across a bare, well-lit landscape.
She charged down the final flight of steps, through the fire door and saw the door to the basement facing her.
And a body lying bundled into the corner.
She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she guessed by the cheap suit that it was one of Fedorov’s thugs.
She hesitated, momentarily forgetting Palmer’s instructions. The words NO ENTRY stood out in big lettering on the basement door, a tempting invitation. Then his words clicked in again. Good advice, she thought; too many people in films went right up to the roof or down to the cellar, and promptly met disaster.
She turned and ran towards the main doors. And skidded to a stop.
A tall figure was standing with his back to her. He turned.
It was Vasiliyev.
********
46
Riley’s felt a stab of despair. Was this as far as she went? She had almost made it! Life really wasn’t fair.
Vasiliyev looked indomitable, balanced evenly on the balls of his feet, like a fighter waiting for an opponent to attack. But there was a subtle difference. He seemed thinner, less sleek, somehow, and his clothes, once so elegant, had lost their sheen. Or was it simply the man wearing them, she thought, his bearing now diminished in her eyes?
‘I didn’t want any of this, Riley,’ he said softly. Now, for the first time, Riley thought she could detect the faintest trace of another accent in his voice. Or maybe knowing his origins, and who he was - what he was – had begun to play tricks with her imagination.
‘You didn’t do much to stop it,’ she pointed out accusingly. Her breathing was laboured and she coughed as she stooped to put her shoes on. She winced as the pain in her feet and ankle blossomed to join the other hurts. It probably didn’t matter anymore whether she wore the shoes or not, but she was damned if she was going to stand here barefoot. As for using them as a weapon, it was a non-starter; this man was built like a tree. ‘What do you do now – finish me off and then vanish back to your mafiya pals?’ Her voice dripped with contempt, and she wondered how she could have been taken in by him. Then she realised that maybe she hadn’t; that deep down, there had always been something about him that had held her back. ‘Is this the end of the game - Vasiliyev? Or is that also a false name?’
A flicker of something touched his eyes. It might have been regret, she thought. Or surprise. Could men like him ever experience much in the way of emotion?
‘It’s Radko.’ He brushed a weary hand across his face. ‘Radko Vasiliyev. None of this was supposed to happen, Riley. I thought I had it all under control. It was… ’ He shrugged and gave the faintest of smiles. ‘Meeting you, I guess I forgot for a while just who I was dealing with. I doubt they’ll let me make that mistake again.’ He sounded genuinely sorry.
A door banged overhead, the noise echoing down the stairs. It was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. The newcomer was shouting something unintelligible. Riley guessed it must be Russian.
She looked towards the main doors, then at Vasiliyev. She wanted to suggest something – anything – that might offer a way out. To tell him to run, perhaps, to say he could give himself up or simply disappear into the night. But something wouldn’t let her. If he was going to do anything, he had to decide for himself.
The footsteps came closer. Another voice called from higher up. Whoever the runner was, it wasn’t Frank Palmer. He’d have moved a lot more quietly.
Then Vasiliyev shook his head, and a look of something approaching pain touched his face, as if he had reached an impossibly difficult decision.
He stood aside and gestured at the open door.
‘Go,’ he said quietly. ‘Go quickly. Whatever you do, don’t look back. Run for the lights – anywhere bright. The man coming after you won’t stop at holding you. Go!’ He waved her away with a fierce gesture of his arm, the snap in his voice jerking her into motion.
Riley ran past him and out into the night. Behind her, she heard the fire door smack back on its hinges as somebody burst out from the emergency stairway.
Vasiliyev waited calmly for Riley’s pursuer. After hearing his given name on Riley’s lips, he thought he was experiencing something like an identity crisis. The Varley persona had lasted longer than most he had used, and had meant more than merely a temporary name; it had, against his expectations, brought something of a revised outlook… and, thinking of Riley, even a new optimism, impossible though that now seemed.
He breathed deeply and forced himself to relax. It was too late for regrets. But it was good to be free of the pretence at last. The Varley existence had been a job, that was all. An act. But it was now over; it was foolish to pretend otherwise.
He had always known, ever since first meeting Fedorov and recognising him for what he was, that a day like this would come eventually. For men in their line of work, a cosy retirement and a villa in the sun did not figure high on the list of happy endings. Like moths to a flame, he thought wryly. After what had happened in the last couple of days, he knew that even if Fedorov didn’t get away, orders would have already gone out to other associates, in Europe and further afield. Vasiliyev had made too many mistakes, and the loss of the Batnev bid, which he guessed was now inevitable, was the result.
For Fedorov, there would be no return to Russia with his future intact, no guaranteed place in his homeland. It would be his greatest humiliation. And somebody would have to pay.
He stood in front of the entrance and listened to Riley’s footsteps fading across the parking area. He held the image of her face in his mind for a moment, and silently wished her well.
Olek appeared, breathing heavily.
Vasiliyev stayed where he was, blocking the doorway.
‘Out of my way!’ Olek grunted, and charged, his shoulder bunched like a rugby player. At over six feet tall and 250 pounds, with a history of military service and years in the gangs, Olek was a formidable person to take on. He was also utterly loyal to Fedorov, like a pit-bull to its master.
Vasiliyev was taller, with a longer reach, although not so heavy. But he was quicker on his feet. He swayed to one side just as the man’s shoulder was about to make contact. Reaching out, he grasped at his opponent’s jacket with a powerful hand and tugged viciously. As he did so, he spun on his feet, presenting his hip and using Olek’s momentum against him.
It was too late for the other man to stop himself. He flipped off his feet and through the air, landing half on his back with a loud cry of dismay. The impact made a pot plant tremble over by the window. But Olek was strong and resilient, schooled in a hard arena of combat. He sprang to his feet and turned, eyes burning with pain and aggression. He stepped in fast and threw a wicked punch at Vasiliyev’s head. But it was a feint; with frightening speed, he followed it with a spinning back kick, catching Vasiliyev full in the ribs.
Vasiliyev tried to curve his body away in a desperate attempt to lessen the damage, but it wasn’t enough. The impact spread through his torso in a fierce wave and something cracked close to his heart.
He struggled to breathe, stunned by the power of the kick. All he could think of was to stop the man from getting through the door and going after Riley. As he edged around his opponent, his vision fading, he glanced towards the open door to see if Riley had disappeared into the dark. It was only for a split second.
But
it was a fatal mistake.
Olek lunged in with frightening speed, his arm rigid. This time, he wasn’t using his hands or feet. A glint of metal reflected off the overhead lights. He was holding a short commando dagger.
Vasiliyev, caught by surprise and paralysed by the increasing pain in his chest, felt a hollow drag of despair, and waited with knowing acceptance.
This was a fight he could not win.
Riley kicked off both shoes and sprinted across the car park. She swerved round the barrier, spilling tears of frustration and anger, and stumbled across the pavement. She ignored the pain in her feet, imagining the breath of a pursuer on her neck every step of the way and certain that Vasiliyev would have stepped aside to let his colleague do his job.
Then a tall shape rose up out of the darkness and wrapped strong arms around her, lifting her clean off her feet.
Riley screamed and struggled with rage, frustration and pain, and they both fell over in a tangle of arms and legs. Without thinking, she lashed upwards with her knee and felt the satisfying squish of full contact with something soft.
‘Fuck’s sake, woman - I’m tryin’ to help you - ow!’
Ray Szulu rolled away clutching his groin and gagging. He coughed and spat as he struggled to his knees, hissing, ‘Dammit, Riley Gavin – why you always tryin’ to hurt me?’
‘You!’ Riley jumped up, realising who it was. She turned and looked towards the building she had just fled. There was no sign of Vasiliyev, but another man had just emerged from the doorway, and was standing there looking around wildly.
‘Where are the others?’ Szulu grunted, getting to his feet, one hand clutching his groin.
‘What others?’ Riley was confused. ‘There’s only Palmer.’
‘Three guys with guns. They went in earlier. You must’ve seen them.’
‘No, I-’
‘Never mind. Come on!’ Szulu grabbed her arm. ‘I ain’t built for this hero shit. I want to live.’ He dragged her back into the darkness as fast as he could, and she stumbled after him, too tired to argue.
*******
47
Frank Palmer heard a door slam below, followed by the heavy lumber of footsteps receding down the emergency stairs. He hesitated. Someone had gone after Riley. Probably the last security guard… or Varley. He hadn’t seen the man anywhere, but he must have been here all the time. He briefly considered following, to try and head him off, but he knew he would never make it in time. Given the lead she had, Riley should be safe enough.
He walked along the corridor and stepped through the door into the main office.
Grigori Fedorov was alone. He was standing at the desk in the middle of the floor, stabbing impatiently at a mobile. He stopped when the door closed with a muffled thump, and turned. His face registered a brief flicker of irritation and puzzlement, but it was gone just as quickly.
‘What ho, Grigori,’ Palmer said softly, advancing into the room. ‘There’s good news and there’s bad news. The good news is, all your goons are down and out. The bad news is, all your goons are…well, I suppose you can guess the rest. It probably doesn’t translate well into Russian, anyway.’
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Fedorov’s voice was surprisingly calm, as if he had been interrupted in the middle of some boring but necessary paperwork rather than at a crucial stage of his operations to ruin a competitor’s reputation and kill off anyone who got in his way.
‘I want you, chum.’ Palmer’s voice had lost any hint of humour. He stopped at arm’s length from the man who had ordered the death of Annaliese Kellin, of Helen Bellamy and probably Goricz, the building supervisor, and his family. ‘I want you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You are nothing.’ Fedorov’s tone was dismissive. He continued pressing buttons on his phone as if Palmer was a minor interruption who could be swatted away like a fly. He swore and tried another number, apparently without success.
‘You can try ‘em all,’ Palmer told him, ‘but they won’t answer.’ He reached out and took Fedorov’s phone and tossed it away across the floor. ‘Varley or Vasiliyev… whatever you call him… the two tall guys – I don’t know their names – Pechov… now I know he’s not going to sit up anytime soon… they’re all out of the game.’ He jabbed stiff fingers into Fedorov’s midriff, sending the man sprawling backwards, coughing with pain and shock. He thought he heard a sound on the landing behind him, and hoped he wasn’t about to be proven horribly wrong about the diminution of Fedorov’s forces.
‘You are insane!’ Fedorov snapped, struggling to stand upright. ‘You cannot touch me! I have diplomatic protection. I can have you arrested for this!’
Palmer stared at him, amazed by the man’s arrogance. Or maybe it was something deeper than that. Perhaps in his own twisted world, he really believed he had done nothing wrong; that he could bully his way out of trouble; that he possessed some kind of diplomatic immunity. Maybe he was simply insane, having flipped over the edge into a realm where reality no longer mattered.
‘Good try. But no peanuts.’ Palmer lifted his hand and studied the gun he’d taken off Pechov. It would be an irony for this man to die by the same weapon used by one of his men. He stared into Fedorov’s cold little eyes, and saw something reflected in them; a flicker of something in the Russian’s face which cut through the arrogance and self-belief.
It was probably a look Fedorov himself had seen in the face of his victims.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ Fedorov’s voice wasn’t so certain anymore. His eyes were flickering back and forth, looking for a way out. But deep inside, Palmer recognised the thin borderline that hovers between hope and fear – and Fedorov was slipping inexorably from one to the other.
‘Annaliese Kellin,’ said Palmer softly. ‘Helen Bellamy. And nearly Riley Gavin.’
Fedorov remained silent, his eyes burning with defiance.
‘What you were going to do in the washroom,’ Palmer continued, his voice like cold silk, ‘with bleach and boiling water. She’d have been blinded at the very least.’ He checked the load in the magazine and flicked off the safety catch. He raised the gun, his arm straight out, body turned slightly to one side, the barrel centred on the other man’s forehead
Fedorov flinched visibly, and his mouth trembled.
Palmer felt no pleasure at seeing his fear. He was almost calm at the idea of what he was about to do. It wasn’t legal and it was undoubtedly something that might follow him into the still dark hours of the night, when thoughts of deeds done began to intrude. But the alternative was to allow this monster to go free, to continue his lethal trade. And that was something he couldn’t allow.
As his finger tightened on the trigger, Fedorov’s eyes flickered away from the gun barrel and settled on the doorway.
Palmer relaxed the pressure on the trigger and slowly turned his head. Three man were standing just inside the room. They were dressed in dark, casual clothing and baseball caps, their eyes hidden beneath the shadows of the brims. Each man wore a slimline comms headset. The two on either side were solid and young. They looked like men who worked out regularly and trained hard. The man in the middle was taller and older, but with the lean toughness of someone who has lost none of the edge gained from years of experience.
Palmer hadn’t heard them come in, and felt mildly annoyed at his carelessness. On the other hand, he knew instinctively who they were.
‘Koenig,’ the older man announced, reading his mind, and stepped forward. He was holding a handgun down by his side, as were the other two. They had come prepared.
‘About time you pitched in,’ said Palmer dryly. ‘I was just having a chat with this piece of rubbish.’
‘So I see.’ Koenig motioned to his men, who moved past Palmer and took hold of Fedorov, one on each arm. Koenig glanced at the gun in Palmer’s hand, still trained unwaveringly on the Russian. ‘We’re not going to have any trouble, are we?’
‘That depends what you’re going to do.’ Palmer glan
ced at Fedorov, who was looking even more agitated in the grip of the two men. He guessed it had finally occurred to him who Koenig and his companions worked for.
‘We’re taking him with us.’
‘To do what?’
‘You don’t need to know that. Sorry. I know what he did to your girlfriend. And the German girl.’ He seemed genuinely regretful. ‘I’d love to leave him in your care, believe me, but I’m afraid we have orders to assume prior rights on this one.’ He gestured at Fedorov as if the man were not human but simply a package, an object to be dealt with and delivered. ‘The boss has a tendency to go ape-shit if we don’t deliver.’ He smiled genially enough but neither he nor his men looked prepared to back down.
Palmer sighed. He knew his limitations. There was no point in trying to fight these men; they were motivated and professional, and he had neither the resources nor even the desire to prevent them taking Fedorov away. If he tried, he knew he might hurt one or more of them, but in the end he would lose. The fact that they were here right now meant one thing: that Koenig’s boss, Al-Bashir, was taking steps to dispose of the threat to his commercial bid and to his wife’s reputation.
‘Fine by me,’ he said easily. He had already taken care of the man he believed was responsible for Helen’s murder. The white heat that had allowed him to deal with Pechov was now beginning to seep away. He could leave the fate of the man who had given Pechov his orders to others. ‘There’s just one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know he had this building’s supervisor and his entire family killed?’
Koenig blinked. ‘I didn’t.’ He glanced at Fedorov as if seeking confirmation, but the Russian ignored him. He shrugged. ‘So?’
NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer) Page 23
