The Sacred Vault

by Andy McDermott

  A faint smile. ‘You never really leave. However hard you try, if you are a natural fighter, you always get pulled back in. And I can tell you are a natural fighter. What is your name, by the way? I prefer to know who I am being threatened by.’

  ‘Chase. Eddie Chase.’

  Another flick of an eyebrow, this time at a memory. ‘Chase . . . Algeria, yes? About seven years ago? You blew up the warehouse of Fekkesh, the arms dealer.’

  ‘Might have done.’

  ‘And Fekkesh himself did not fare much better. I heard that he lost his—’

  ‘I’m not here to talk about me,’ Eddie interrupted sharply, deciding Interpol didn’t need to hear the details of a mission that, while justified, had not been entirely legal. ‘Let’s talk about you. And your dead mates. Especially Gennadi Sklar. Used to work out of Zimbabwe, didn’t he?’

  The tiniest twitch of Fernandez’s eyes revealed his unease that Eddie knew the background of his late associate. ‘He worked from many places,’ he said dismissively, trying to cover the fact. ‘It is part of the job, as you know.’

  ‘But he mostly worked from Zimbabwe. Which means he would have been getting jobs through Strutter. Been a while since I’ve seen him, but I’m sure he’d remember me. Now, I don’t like Harare, it’s a shithole, and Strutter’s a scumbag, but if I had a couple of drinks with him I bet I could catch up on the grapevine very quickly. Who’s where, doing what . . . and for who.’

  Fernandez’s discomfort was now far more evident. ‘Everybody knows something,’ Eddie pressed on, ‘and they’ll tell me stuff that a cop’d never find out. I might have been out of it for a while, but I’m still part of that world - and it’s a small world. Lots of little bits of information floating about . . . all I’ve got to do is put them together, and I’ll know who hired you.’

  ‘Nobody will ever tell you that,’ Fernandez insisted, but perspiration had started to bead on his thin moustache.

  ‘I dunno, I can be pretty persuasive.’ He leaned forward, gaze hard. ‘If I find out who your boss is, then any deal Interpol’s offering you goes straight out of the window. They won’t need you any more. And then you, mate, will be fucked. You want to go on trial in China? Or Saudi Arabia? Hell, you killed two cops in California - they’ve still got the death penalty there.’ He stood. ‘If I were you, I’d think about it. But do it quick. I’ve got a plane to catch.’

  He left, returning to the observation room. The two investigators were waiting for him, both seeming impressed. ‘Could you really find out who hired Sklar in Zimbabwe?’ Kit asked.

  ‘In theory,’ said Eddie awkwardly. ‘Only I wouldn’t be the best person to send, ’cause, er . . . I’ve got a death sentence on me there.’

  ‘What?’ said Beauchamp, shocked.

  ‘Yeah. A while back I helped some people who were high on the government’s shit-list get out of the country. Only problem was, it got me added to the list as well. So I don’t really want to go back there.’

  ‘I can see why,’ Kit said. ‘But hopefully, you won’t need to.’ He gestured towards the prisoner. ‘Fernandez definitely seems to be considering what you said.’

  ‘Then we should let him sweat for a while,’ Beauchamp said.

  ‘Very good work, Mr Chase.’ She turned to Kit. ‘I will brief the director. You look tired - both of you do. You should get some rest.’

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ Eddie agreed. He checked his watch, finding that it was after nine o’clock at night. He stifled a yawn. ‘Think I’d better get to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ said Kit. All three exited the observation room, then the two men made their farewells to Beauchamp and headed for the elevators.

  As they approached the security gate, their attention was caught by a uniformed female officer on the other side. Eddie guessed she was Indian, her black hair held up in a severe bun. She seemed to be having trouble, inserting her ID card twice before the system recognised it. The guard opened the gate and she marched through, not giving Eddie or Kit the slightest look. The reverse wasn’t true, both men turning their heads to track the attractive, if stone-faced, officer as she passed.

  ‘Hey,’ said Kit, ‘you’re married.’

  Eddie shrugged jokingly. ‘Can’t be sued for looking.’

  ‘Would you say that if Nina were here?’

  ‘Yeah, probably. It’s fun winding her up.’ They went through the gate. ‘Oh, I left my jacket in your office.’

  ‘No problem.’ Kit pushed a button to summon the elevator.

  Fernandez looked up as the door opened, concealing his surprise at the sight of the new arrival. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon.’

  Madirakshi Dagdu regarded him impassively with her one good eye, its artificial counterpart cold and glassy. ‘Have you told them anything?’

  He snorted. ‘Of course not! They’ve said nothing worth replying to. Asking the same questions over and over, offering their pathetic little deals for my co-operation.’

  ‘Which you turned down.’

  ‘Obviously. Or I would not be sitting here chained to a chair, would I? Now get me out.’

  She nodded and moved behind him. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘before I came in, I checked the next room to make sure it was empty. I saw a video camera.’

  Disquiet entered his voice. ‘You switched it off, I hope?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ A faint wet, sucking noise behind him. ‘And then . . . I watched the recording.’

  Fernandez suddenly remembered the sound from the apartment in Florence. ‘No, wait, I only—’

  The garrotte wire lashed round his throat and pulled tight.

  Eddie retrieved his leather jacket. ‘What hotel’ve you booked me into?’

  ‘The de Ville, across the river. You should see the Festival of Lights while you’re here, by the way - there’s a big show in the Place des Terreaux. It’s only a few minutes from the hotel. Very impressive.’

  ‘I’ll see how knackered I feel when I get there.’ He pulled on the jacket, grimacing as his stiff muscles protested at the movement.

  ‘Are you okay, Eddie?’ Kit asked.

  ‘Yeah, I will be. Got pretty bashed up, that’s all.’

  The Indian grinned. ‘Lots of new scars you can use to impress the ladies.’

  ‘My lady’s seen all my scars already . . .’ He tailed off, the jokey discussion unexpectedly triggering connections in his mind. A scar . . .

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That woman who went into the cells while we were coming out - she had a scar on her face.’

  Kit looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘You weren’t looking at her face. But I’ve seen it before . . .’ He frowned, thinking - then his eyes widened. ‘San Francisco! Shit, she was there just before we were attacked! She was with the Khoils.’

  ‘Pramesh Khoil?’ asked Kit, surprised. ‘The Qexia man?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Everyone in India knows him - he’s our Bill Gates. Are you sure it was the same woman?’

  ‘Positive - and now she’s been in the same place as Fernandez twice.’ Realisation dawned. ‘She might be trying to bust him out! Come on!’

  They ran from the office, hurrying to the elevators. Eddie jabbed repeatedly at the call button before losing his patience and barging open the stairwell door, clattering up it with Kit right behind.

  Seventh floor. They raced for the security gate, getting startled looks from Interpol personnel as they ran past. Another frustrating delay as they waited to have their IDs checked, then they rushed to the interrogation room—

  The woman had been there, all right - but not to free Fernandez. He was still cuffed to the chair, but now his head lolled horribly, mouth no longer curled in a smirk but gaping in breathless terror. His neck had been sliced open almost from ear to ear, dark blood still flowing from the deep wound.

  ‘Shit!’ Eddie gasped, pushing past the startled Kit and running back to the gate. ‘That woman - b
lack hair, scar down one eye - where is she?’

  ‘She left just before you came back,’ said the guard, confused. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘What’s going on is that she just strangled one of your fucking prisoners!’

  Kit ran up. ‘I want a full security alert - lock down the building! Nobody gets out until we find this woman. Now let us through!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The guard hurriedly opened the gate, then picked up a phone to raise the alarm.

  ‘How many ways are there out of here?’ Eddie demanded as they pounded back along the corridor.

  ‘The main entrances are on the east and west sides, and then there are the fire exits, the underground car park . . .’

  ‘She won’t be trying to get away on foot.’ Interpol’s headquarters were close to the southern bank of the river Rhône, a nearby lake limiting possible escape routes. They reached the elevators; one had stopped at a basement level. Eddie hammered at the call buttons again before going for the stairwell.

  A siren blared as they reached the third floor. ‘Lockdown, lockdown,’ said a man over the PA system. ‘Security personnel, seal off designated exits. All other personnel, remain where you are.’ The message was repeated in other languages as they continued their descent.

  Basement level. Eddie kicked open the door - to find a uniformed man sprawled in front of the elevators in a pool of blood. The holster on his belt was empty.

  ‘She shot him with his own gun,’ he told Kit, dropping into concealment behind the parked cars and signalling for him to do the same. ‘Which way’s the exit?’ Kit pointed. ‘Okay, you get more people down here - I’ll try and find her.’

  ‘Be careful, Eddie,’ warned Kit as he went to the emergency telephone by the elevators.

  ‘What do you bloody think I’m going to be?’ Hunched low, he checked for any signs of movement before scurrying towards the exit. A door slammed, but the echoes of the car park made it impossible to tell where. He weaved through the ranks of vehicles to a concrete ramp leading up to ground level. Yellow and black striped barriers blocked both exit lanes.

  Still no movement. Maybe she was trying to get away on foot, doing the unexpected . . .

  ‘Eddie!’ Kit called. ‘The guards are on their way!’

  The shout spurred their quarry into action. A big Citroën C6 peeled out of a bay and sped towards the exit - then swerved at Eddie.

  He dived on to the bonnet of a Renault Clio as the Citroën ripped off the smaller car’s bumper, then crashed into one of the security barriers. The windscreen cracked as the obstacle rode up the car’s bonnet, but the C6 had built up enough momentum in its charge to smash through, the broken barrier clanging to the concrete.

  Eddie ran back to Kit. An elevator disgorged a trio of armed guards. ‘We need a car!’ he told them. ‘Someone give me your keys, quick!’ One of the men fumbled in a pocket. Eddie snatched the keys from him and pushed the button on the remote. Lights flashed a few rows away. He ran for the vehicle, an ageing, dented little Volkswagen Polo - not his ideal choice to pursue a large and powerful executive cruiser, but all that was available.

  He started the car and pulled out. By now, Kit had issued orders to the guards and run to the main lane, waving him down. Eddie skidded the hatchback to a stop. ‘Come on, get in!’

  ‘I don’t have a gun!’ Kit protested as the Englishman set off again.

  ‘You’ve got a phone, haven’t you? Call the Lyon cops and get them to set up roadblocks!’

  The car reached the ramp and raced up to ground level. The road curved away from the Interpol building to join a street to its south. Eddie braked hard at the junction, not sure which way to go until he saw flashing hazard lights to the right - the fleeing Citroën had hit another car. He swung past the stricken vehicle and headed southwest, parallel to the river. They passed a bridge over the Rhône, but more signs of collision and chaos told him the C6 had turned south.

  Kit shouted instructions in French into the phone. ‘There’s a unit in front of us,’ he reported. ‘It’s going to cut her off.’

  Eddie spotted the C6’s distinctive vertical tail lights carving through the traffic about a hundred yards ahead. The Citroën sideswiped another car, which spun out - he veered on to the wrong side of the road to avoid the scrum of vehicles skidding to a stop behind it.

  Flashing lights, a police car shooting out of a side road on to the boulevard. Madirakshi braked hard, the C6 fishtailing to duck down another street to the right. The cops followed, Eddie turning in after them. He crashed down through the gears, trying to recover speed as quickly as possible. Ahead, the police car closed on the Citroën.

  Vertical brake lights flared—

  The cops crashed into the C6’s back. Glass shattered, the big car’s mangled hatchback flying open - but the pursuers came off worst. The police car veered off course and hit a lamppost head on, folding around it with a shattering crunch that echoed through the street. Kit gasped what Eddie assumed was a Hindi obscenity.

  One of the C6’s rear lights was still working, a single red slash speeding away. Eddie followed, sounding the horn. A near miss at a crossroads as the Polo swerved wildly to avoid a van cutting across their path, then back in pursuit. The closely packed apartment blocks, candles flickering in their windows, gave way to open space. They were back at the river, multicoloured searchlights waving skywards on the far side where the waterfront buildings were illuminated in every colour of the rainbow.

  Eddie had no time to appreciate the sight. Madirakshi was heading for a bridge. He realised her plan: to disappear amongst the tourists flocking to see the spectacle of the Festival of Lights.

  Another police car tried to block her path across the bridge. She didn’t slow, deliberately aiming for its back end and smashing it out of the way. The crumpled police car whirled like a top, spinning on to the pavement and scything down a pedestrian.

  Kit gasped again. ‘People are getting killed - we’ve got to break off !’

  ‘No, wait!’ They were gaining quickly on the Citroën; the second crash had caused serious damage. ‘She’s slowing down. We’ve got her!’

  The struggling C6 cut straight across the avenue at the far side of the bridge, more people scattering as the woman drove on to a broad footpath. Horn a constant wail, the Polo followed in the wake it had cleared through the crowd.

  A large plaza opened up ahead, more tourists heading to the city’s heart. Two people were knocked down by the Citroën as Madirakshi swerved on to a swathe of lawn, but her car was in its death throes, steam billowing from the bonnet. She braked and skidded in a shower of earth and torn grass, ploughing the car into the crowd. Screams filled the plaza.

  Eddie stopped the Polo, jumped out and saw her sprint into the shocked onlookers. He raced after her, Kit following. ‘Place Louis Pradel, vite!’ the Indian said into the phone, before yelling ‘Police!’ and gesturing furiously for people to clear the way.

  More shouts of protest and alarm as Madirakshi clawed through the crowd told Eddie the direction she was heading. The narrow street he entered was illuminated by a canopy of lights overhead, thousands of tiny bulbs sparkling like stars. He couldn’t see his target in the crush of gawkers. If she doubled back, he could pass three feet from her and never realise—

  A high-pitched shriek just ahead. She had knocked down a child. An enraged man yelled after her, her police uniform deterring him from violent retaliation. Eddie and Kit pushed past him - but the father grabbed the Interpol officer and yanked him backwards. No uniform, no deterrent. The man hurled him to the ground, about to kick him in the face—

  Eddie smashed a punch into the furious father’s jaw, knocking him down. The fallen child screamed again. No time for apologies. He pulled Kit upright.

  Where was the killer? He pushed forward, the street opening out into another large plaza - the Place des Terreaux. Any more yells from irate tourists would be drowned out by the carnival clamour of one of the Festival of Light’s main attractio
ns; the square was crammed with people.

  Eddie blinked in momentary confusion at the sight, its sheer visual impact like a slap to his eyes. The surrounding buildings were acting as massive projection screens, turning the city into a kaleidoscopic, almost psychedelic explosion of colours. The images were constantly changing, one moment perfectly matching the ornate façades and picking out each window frame in dazzling hyperreal shades, the next swirling into motion as giant animated characters danced above the crowd.

  There were other displays within the square itself. A towering sculpture spiralled towards the cold night sky, neon lights blinking in sequence to create the illusion that it was rotating. Next to it a surreal figure, a ten-foot-tall hollow man composed of pea-sized balls of light, performed acrobatic motions above a tall pedestal. A hologram; the constant crackle where intersecting laser beams from below literally set the air alight was audible even over the booming music and crowd noise.

  A loud whoosh and a cheer came from nearby. Eddie saw flame dispersing from a fire-eating act. No sign of Madirakshi, and the constantly shifting light from the enormous projections made it near impossible to pick out any particular person.

  ‘Do you see her?’ Kit asked, catching up.

  ‘No.’ He spotted a drainpipe on a nearby building and pushed his way to it. Climbing a few feet gave him enough height to see over the surrounding crowd. He scoured the milling heads, searching for anyone in a hurry—

  There! Closer than he expected - she had apparently also been taken aback by the spectacle, hesitating at the plaza’s entrance before moving diagonally across the square near the fire-eater. Eddie pointed, then jumped down and joined Kit, shoving through the throng after her.

  A startled woman yelled in French not far ahead. For a moment the crowd in Eddie’s path parted, giving him a glimpse of the police uniform. He was twenty feet behind her, less. Another whump of fire, people instinctively flinching away from the billowing flame as they applauded. Madirakshi changed direction, the retreating wall of people blocking her path.

  She was an arm’s length away—