Even as his mind raced through these thoughts, he was yelling to Annaka to wipe off and put away the water glass, wipe down the kitchen faucet. He grabbed Molnar’s laptop, wiped down the stereo and the knob on the front door, and they sprinted out of the apartment.
Already, they could hear the police pounding up the stairs. The elevator would be filled with police and so was out of the question.
“They’ve left us no choice,” Bourne said as they mounted the stairs. “We have to go up.”
“But why have they come now?” Annaka asked. “How could they have known we were here?”
“They couldn’t,” Bourne said, continuing to lead her upward, “unless we were under surveillance.” He didn’t like the position the police were putting them in. He recalled all too well the fate of the sniper at Matthias Church. When you went up, all too often you came down, hard.
They were a floor from the roof when Annaka tugged on his hand and whispered, “This way!”
She led him into the corridor. Behind them, the stairwell resounded with the noises any group of men would make, especially one on its way to apprehend a heinous murderer. Three-quarters of the way down the corridor was a door that looked like an emergency exit. Annaka pulled it open. They were in a short hallway, not more than ten feet long, at the end of which was another door, this one made of battered metal plates. Bourne went ahead of her.
He saw that the door was bolted at top and bottom. He slid the slides back, pulled it open. There was only a brick wall, cold as a grave.
“Would you look at that!” Detective Csilla said, ignoring the new recruit who had vomited all over his polished shoes. The academy certainly wasn’t turning them out the way they used to, he mused as he studied the victim, curled stiff in his own refrigerator.
“No one in the apartment,” one of his officers said.
“Dust it anyway,” Detective Csilla said. He was a burly, blond-haired man with a broken nose and intelligent eyes. “I doubt the perpetrator was stupid enough to leave his prints, but you never know,” he said now. Then he pointed. “Look at those burn marks, would you? And the puncture wounds seem to go very deep.”
“Tortured,” his sergeant, a slim-hipped young man, said, “by a professional.”
“This one’s more than a professional,” Detective Csilla said, leaning in and sniffing as if the corpse were a side of meat he suspected of having begun to rot. “He enjoys his work.”
“The phone tip said the murderer was here in the apartment.”
Detective Csilla looked up. “If not the apartment, then surely the building.” He backed away as the forensic team arrived with their kits and flash cameras. “Have the men fan out.”
“Already done,” his sergeant said in a subtle reminder to his boss that he didn’t want to remain a sergeant forever.
“Enough time with the dead,” Detective Csilla said. “Let’s join them.”
As they went down the hallway, the sergeant explained that the elevator had already been secured, as had the floors below. “The murderer has only one way to go.”
“Get the sharpshooters onto the roof,” Detective Scilla said.
“Already there,” his sergeant replied. “I put them into the elevator when we entered the building.”
Csilla nodded. “How many floors above us? Three?”
“Yessir.”
Csilla mounted the stairs two at a time. “With the roof secured, we can afford to take our time.”
It did not take them long to find the doorway to the short corridor.
“Where does this lead?” Csilla asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” his sergeant said, irked that he couldn’t provide an answer.
As the two men approached the far end of the corridor, they saw the battered metal door. “What’s this?” Csilla took a look at it. “Bolts at top and bottom.” He leaned in, saw the gleam of metal. “They’ve been recently pulled.” He drew his gun, pulled the door open onto the bricked-up wall.
“Looks like our murderer was as frustrated as we are.”
Csilla was staring at the brickwork, trying to discern if any of it was new. Then he put a hand out, tested one brick after another. The sixth one he touched moved just slightly. Aware that his sergeant was about to exclaim, he clamped a hand across his mouth, gave him a warning look. Then he whispered in his ear, “Take three of the men and canvass the building next door.”
At first, Bourne, his ears straining to catch the slightest sound in the pitch blackness, thought the noise was one of the rats with whom they were sharing this dank and uncomfortable space between the walls of Molnar’s building and the adjacent one. Then it came again, and he knew it for what it was: the scrape of brick against mortar.
“They’ve found our hiding place,” he whispered as he grabbed hold of Annaka. ‘We’ve got to move.”
The space they occupied was narrow, not more than two feet in width, but it seemed to rise indefinitely into the darkness above their heads. They stood on a floor of sorts, made up of metal pipes. It was not the most secure of floors and Bourne did not care to think about the open space below them into which they would plunge should one or more of the pipes give way.
“Do you know a way out of here?” Bourne whispered.
“I think so,” she said.
She turned to their right, felt her way along the space with the palms of her hands on the wall of the adjacent building.
She tripped once, righted herself. “It’s here somewhere,” she muttered.
They continued onward, putting one foot in front of the other. Then, all at once, a pipe gave way beneath Bourne’s weight and his left leg plunged downward. He canted wildly over, his shoulder striking the wall, and Molnar’s laptop was thrown from his grip. He tried to catch it even as Annaka was reaching down to grab him, pull him up. Instead, he saw it strike a pipe on edge, then plunge through the gap the rotten pipe had made, lost forever.
“Are you okay?” Annaka said as he regained his feet.
“I’m fine,” he said grimly, “but Molnar’s laptop’s gone.”
A moment later he froze. Behind them, he could hear movement, slow and stealthy—someone else was breathing in the space—and he took out his flashlight, his thumb on the slide switch. He put his lips against Annaka’s ear, “He’s here with us. No more talking.” He could sense her nod, even as he smelled the scent of her rising off her bare skin, citrus and musk.
Something clanked behind them as the policeman’s shoe struck a protrusion of solder where two pipes joined. All of them stood very still. Bourne’s heart beat fast. Then Annaka’s hand found his, guided it along the wall where a line of grout was missing or had been deliberately gouged away.
But another problem presented itself. As soon as they pushed in the section of wall, the policeman behind them would see the pale patch of light, however feeble, coming in from the other side. He would see them, know where they were going. Bourne took a chance, put his lips against Annaka’s ear and whispered, “You must tell me the moment before you push through the wall.”
She squeezed his hand in response, kept hold of it. When he felt her squeeze it again, he aimed the flashlight directly behind them, snapped on the beam. The burst of glaring light temporarily blinded their pursuer, and Bourne lent his energy to helping her push through the three-foot-by-three-foot section of the wall.
Annaka ducked through while Bourne kept the beam focused on their adversary, but he felt the pipes vibrate under the soles of his boots and an instant later he was struck a terrific blow.
Detective Csilla tried to fight off the light-dazzle. He had been caught totally unprepared, a fact that enraged him, as he prided himself on being prepared for every possibility. He shook his head, but it was no good—the beam of light had temporarily rendered him blind. If he maintained his ground until the light was turned off, he had no doubt the murderer would have already fled. So he used his own advantage of surprise and attacked even though he was blinded. With a grunt of ef
fort, he rushed along the pipes, crashing into the perpetrator, his head down in a street fighter’s crouch.
In such close quarters and in the dark, eyesight was of little value, and he proceeded to use his fists, the edges of his hands and the heels of his stout shoes precisely as he had been taught in the academy. He was a man who believed in discipline, in rigor and in the power of advantage. He knew the moment he launched himself that the murderer would never have suspected him of attacking blind, and so he rained down as many blows as he could on the other in as short a space of time as he could manage in order to make the most of the advantage of surprise.
But the man was strong and solidly built. Worse, he was an accomplished hand-to-hand fighter, and almost immediately Csilla knew that in a prolonged fight he would be defeated. He sought, therefore, to end the combat swiftly and surely. In doing so, he made the fatal error of exposing the side of his neck. He felt the surprise of the pressure but no pain. He was already unconscious as his legs buckled under him.
Bourne went through the hole in the wall, helped Annaka slide the square of bricks back into place.
“What happened to you?” she said a little breathlessly.
“A policeman was smarter than he ought to have been.”
They were in another short brick-lined utility corridor. Through a door was the hallway of the building next door to Molnar’s, warm light emanating from etched-glass sconces along the flowered-paper walls. Here and there were scattered dark wooden benches.
Annaka had already punched the button for the elevator, but when it rose to their level, Bourne could see through the cage two policemen with their guns drawn.
“Oh, hell!” he said, grabbing Annaka’s hand and dragging her to the stairwell. But he heard the heavy tread of footsteps and knew that egress was denied them as well. Behind them, the two policemen had opened the elevator cab gates, were in the hallway, racing toward them. Bourne took her up one flight. In the hallway he quickly picked the lock of the first door they came to, closing the door before the police followed them up the stairs.
Inside, the apartment was dark and still. Whether anyone was home was impossible to say. Crossing to the side window, Bourne opened it, looked out at a stone ledge that overlooked a narrow alley housing a pair of huge green metal trash bins. Illumination came from a streetlamp on Endrodi Street. Three windows over, a fire escape led downward to the alley which, as far as Bourne could see, was deserted.
“Come on,” he said, climbing out onto the ledge.
Annaka’s eyes opened wide. “Are you crazy?”
“Do you want to get caught?” He looked at her levelly. “This is our only way out.”
She swallowed uneasily. “I’m afraid of heights.”
“We’re not that far up.” He held out a hand, waggled his fingers. “Come on, there’s no time to lose.”
Taking a deep breath, she climbed out and he closed the window behind her. She turned and, glancing down, would have fallen if Bourne hadn’t grabbed her, pulled her back against the stone side of the building. “Jesus Christ, you said we weren’t that far up!”
“For me, that’s true.”
She bit her lip. “I’ll kill you for this.”
“You’ve already tried.” He squeezed her hand. “Just follow me and you’ll be fine, I promise.”
They moved to the end of the ledge. He didn’t want to push her, but there was good cause for haste. With the police swarming all through the building, it was only a matter of time until they came around to this alley.
“You’ll have to let go of my hand now,” he said, and then, because he saw what she was about to do, he added sharply enough to arrest her, “Don’t look down! If you feel yourself getting dizzy, look at the side of the building, concentrate on something small, the carving of the stonework, whatever. Keep your mind occupied with that and your fear will fade.”
She nodded, let go of his hand, and he stepped out, bridging the gap between ledges. His right hand gripped the top of the ledge above the next window and he transferred his weight from his left side to his right side. Lifting his left leg off the ledge on which Annaka was still standing, he moved smoothly across to the next ledge. Then he turned and smiled, held his hand out to her.
“Now you.”
“No.” She shook her head violently from side to side. All the color had drained from her face. “I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.” He waggled his fingers again. “Come on, Annaka, take the first step; after that, the rest is easy. You simply shift your weight from left to right.”
She shook her head mutely.
He continued to smile, showing none of the rising anxiety he felt. Here on the side of the building, they were completely vulnerable. If the police should come into the alley now, they were dead. He had to get them to the fire escape and do it fast. “One leg, Annaka, reach out with your right leg.”
“Christ!” She was at the end of the ledge, where he had been moments before. “What if I fall?”
“You won’t fall.”
“But what—”
“I’ll catch you.” His smile broadened. “It’s time to move now.”
She did as he bade, moving her right leg out and across. He showed her how to grasp the ledge above with her right hand. This she did without hestitation.
“Now shift your weight, left to right, and step across.”
“I’m frozen.”
She was about to look down and he knew it. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Do you feel my hand on yours?” She nodded, as if terrified that the vibration of her voicebox would send her spinning down into the void below. “Shift your weight, Annaka. Just shift it left to right. Good, now lift your left leg and step—”
“No.”
He put his hand around her waist. “All right, then, just lift your left leg.” As soon as she did, he pulled her, quickly and rather violently, against him onto the next ledge. She fell against him, shivering with fear and the release of tension.
Only two more to go. He moved them to the far end of the ledge, repeated the process. The quicker they got this over with, the better for both of them. She managed the second and third crossings somewhat better, either by sheer nerve or by shutting down her mind completely, following his orders without thinking.
At last, they made it onto the fire escape and began their descent to the street. The lamplight from Endrodi Street spilled long shadows down the alley. Bourne longed to kill it with a shot from his gun, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he hurried them onward.
They were one tier from the vertical extending ladder that would take them to within two feet of the cobbles of the alley when out of the corner of his eye Bourne saw the quality of the light change. Shadows moved in the alley from opposing directions; a pair of policemen had entered the alley from either side.
Csilla’s sergeant had taken one of their officers out of the building the moment the perpetrator had been spotted. He already knew that he was clever enough to have found his way from building to building. Having successfully escaped from László Molnar’s apartment, he didn’t now consider that the criminal would allow himself to get trapped in the adjacent building’s stairway. That meant he’d find a way out, and the sergeant wanted all bases covered. He had a man on the roof, one each at the front and service entrances. That left the alleyway on the side. He didn’t see how the murderer would get to the alley, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
Lucky for him, he saw the figure outlined against the fire escape as he turned the building corner and entered the alley. By the light of the streetlamp on Endrodi Street he saw his officer enter the alley from the opposite end. He signed upward to the man, indicating the figure on the fire escape. He had drawn his gun and was steadily advancing toward the vertical ladder that led down from the fire escape when the figure moved, seemed to pull apart as if dividing. The sergeant started in surprise. There were two figures on the fire escape!
He raised his gun and fired. Sparks flew off t
he metal, and he saw one of the figures launch itself into the air, rolling into a ball only to disappear between the two enormous Dumpsters. The officer broke into a run, but the sergeant held back. He saw his officer reach the corner of the Dumpster nearest him, go into a crouch as he approached the space between the two.
The sergeant looked up for the second figure. The feeble illumination made it difficult to pick out details, but he saw no one standing. The fire escape looked clear. Where could the seond one have gone?
He returned his attention to his officer, only to find that the man had vanished. He took several steps forward, called out his name. No response. He pulled out his walkie-talkie, was about to call for reinforcements when something dropped onto him. He stumbled, fell heavily, got up on one knee, shaking his head. Then something emerged from the space between the Dumpsters. By the time he realized that it wasn’t his officer, he had been dealt a blow hard enough to cause him to lose consciousness.
“That was really stupid,” Bourne said, stooping to help Annaka up off cobbles of the alley.
“You’re welcome,” she said, shaking off his hand, standing on her own power.
“I thought you were afraid of heights.”
“I’m afraid of dying more,” she shot back.
“Let’s get out of here before more policemen show up,” he said. “I think you ought to lead the way.”
The streetlight was in Khan’s eyes as Bourne and Annaka ran out of the alley. Although he couldn’t see their faces, he recognized Bourne by his shape and his gait. As for his female companion, though his mind registered her in a peripheral way, he did not give her much attention. He, like Bourne, was far more interested in why the police had been drawn to László Molnar’s apartment when Bourne had been there. Also, like Bourne, he was struck by the similarity of this scenario to the one at Conklin’s estate in Manassas. It had Spalko’s thumbprint all over it. The trouble was that unlike in Manassas when he had spotted Spalko’s man, he had come across no such person during his thorough recon of the four square blocks around Molnar’s apartment building. So who had called the police? Someone had to have been on the scene to tip them off when Bourne and the woman had entered the building.
The Bourne Legacy Page 26
