Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  “You stupid bastard!” shouted Reinhard.

  Montrose gasped as the gun stabbed hard into his kidneys. He heard her scream before she hit the water. Shouts went up from the quay. He looked over at Black Suit as people crowded around him, pointing to the middle of the river. Black Suit covered the muzzle of the rifle, stepped back from the quay and began running towards the bridge.

  Reinhard’s face twisted with rage. “You have an extraordinary capacity for fucking things up, Montrose.”

  “It’s a gift.” Jesus, I hope she can swim.

  Reinhard stared at Grey Suit. “What are you waiting for? Shoot the bastard!”

  People began gathering near the edge of the bridge. Grey Suit shook his head.

  “Shoot him!” hissed Reinhard. “He’s a fucking psychopath! We’ll say it’s an arrest. I mean, he just tried to kill one of his victims by trussing her up and throwing her off a bridge!”

  Passers-by crowded into the mullion, pushing them aside.

  Grey Suit pulled Montrose hard against him. “Get in the car. Or are you gonna try some fancy move where you spin around and sweep away the gun and then throw me over the bridge? Go for it. I’ll even shut my eyes.”

  Montrose stood his ground. He looked over and saw a bateau-mouche approach, the guardrail lined with people. One man was stripping off his jacket while the other was ready with a life belt.

  Grey Suit hissed in Montrose’s ear. “You’ll be dead before you hit the water.” His hand tightened around the waist of Montrose’s pants. “You’re just a geek. This is what I do for a living. Now, stop being a twat and get in the car.”

  Montrose felt his bladder tighten. I’m not going to piss myself in front of these guys. “You sure you wanna do that? Shoot me right here? There’s people everywhere.”

  “You call for the cops, I’ll shoot you. You try to run, I’ll shoot you. You make a move on me, I’ll . . . Do you see a pattern emerging here?”

  The wail of a siren came from the end of the bridge. Montrose saw the bateau-mouche slip out of sight under the edge of the bridge. He heard shouts and then a cheer and applause.

  The barrel of the gun twisted against his skin. “Enough of this shit,” said Grey Suit. “Three seconds to get in the car or I’ll drop you. One . . . Two . . .”

  He’ll do it.

  Montrose walked towards the car. He felt Grey Suit’s legs against his own, matching his steps. He slid into the back seat. Grey Suit got in beside him and closed the door. Black Suit was out of breath as he hauled open the driver’s door and jumped in, his shoulders spilling over the edge of the seat.

  Reinhard got in the front and heaved the bag of diamonds onto his lap. “Get the fuck out of here.” The Jag pulled away onto the bridge and accelerated towards the quay. He turned around in the seat. “Just fucking shoot him!”

  Grey Suit shook his head. “Don’t be a bloody fool.”

  “You watch your mouth!” said Reinhard. “You damn well work for me.”

  “We work for Herr Kessler. We don’t take orders from you.”

  Montrose realized he hadn’t drawn a breath since he got in the car. He inhaled greedily. Not such a happy crew. And these are Kessler’s goons? “Yeah, you tell him, Mr. Grey Suit. The little prick.”

  Reinhard tried to lean over from the front seat, but the bag of diamonds slipped from his grasp. He grabbed them and held them tight. “Give me the gun! I’ll shoot him right now.”

  “Not in the car,” said Grey Suit. “I mean, have you ever seen Reservoir Dogs? The young guy in the back seat when the gun goes off his face? Yeah? Well, this is my car. It’s not going to happen.”

  Montrose nodded. “That’s a good point.” Thank God for Tarantino. “Helluva mess.”

  “Shut up and hands out,” said Grey Suit, holding up a pair of handcuffs.

  The steel clamped tight around Montrose’s wrists and cut into the raw wounds. He stared at the back of Black Suit’s head. Got to get away from these psychos. He looked down to the steel chain hanging between the bracelets. The handcuff chain. Black Suit’s neck is as thick as one of my thighs. It would work. Wait until the car had built up some speed, then throw the cuffs over and choke the bastard from behind. The bigger the crash, the better. Running through the streets of Paris with handcuffs on isn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. Not today. He felt something cold on his thigh. He looked down to see the broad blade of a hunting knife.

  Grey Suit leaned over. “You know, that might work. He could lose control of the car. But by the time you’ve got the cuffs around his neck, I’ll cut you right here.” The tip of the knife pressed into the top of Montrose’s left leg.

  Femoral artery. Colossal loss of blood. Virtually unstoppable without an artery clamp. That’s if you managed to cut open the thigh and locate the deflated artery as it spewed blood and shrank behind some of the biggest and toughest muscles in the body. Combat medics have to shove their hands up into the pelvic cavity to find it. It rarely worked. Death in five minutes.

  Grey Suit slit the cloth of Montrose’s pants. “Your move.”

  “Thought you didn’t want to mess up your car?”

  “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

  Whatever I’m gonna do, it’s got be quick. As soon as we step out the car, I’m dead. Grab the knife with both hands and go for it. Don’t think. Just do it.

  The driver blasted his horn over a pedestrian crossing.

  They’re heading out of town. There would be no witnesses, nobody to call the cops. Nobody to see me die. There’s only one option. Wait for a corner to the left. Pick your spot.

  At the end of the avenue cars streamed around the Arc de Triomphe. The craziest junction in the world. No rules applied, just a foot hard on the accelerator and a hand on the horn. He could see the cars jostling for position. The driver would have to slow to find a gap. Now or never.

  Reinhard turned his head. “I know your story, Montrose. And your sister. The whore? Is that true? I heard about the porn videos. Might check it out later. Watch her taking it doggy from some junkies. Bet she loved a gangbang.”

  Calm. Focus. Montrose glanced at the door handle. A fist slammed down into his groin.

  “You’re still thinking about it,” said Grey Suit. “How about I just keep the knife pressed against your balls? Do you think you could do it then?”

  Montrose let his head drop back against the seat as nausea swept through him.

  Grey Suit produced another pair of handcuffs and locked Montrose’s wrist to the door handle. “Now try it, tough guy.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The afternoon sun was dipping in the sky as Montrose stepped from the Jaguar. Northern hemisphere, so the sun would be in the south. We’re west of Paris. A thick forest lined both sides of the road. He watched Grey Suit unscrew the suppressor from his gun and eject the magazine. He slipped both into his pocket and pulled out another magazine.

  Grey Suit looked over at Montrose, grinned and slotted the magazine home. “I like to make a statement.”

  What did he just load? A black Mercedes drove past at a crawl, then pulled into the side of the road. A passenger got out. Jacques Kessler. The whole gang was here.

  Reinhard emerged from the Jaguar and held the leather bag aloft. “You know, Kessler, if you want something done . . .”

  Jacques Kessler nodded to the driver of the Mercedes. “Muller, please help Herr Reinhard with his bag.”

  Muller pulled a silver pistol from his coat. He walked over to Reinhard and held out his hand. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “I think it’s better if it remains with me until we reach the vaults,” Reinhard scoffed. “You didn’t take particularly good care of it last time.”

  “Sir. Give me the bag,” said Muller.

  “Enough of this nonsense,” replied Reinhard. “The bag stays with me.”

  “No really, I insist,” said Muller as he snapped back his arm and pistol-whipped Reinhard across the face.

  Holy s
hit. Montrose watched him stagger around and then drop to the ground. The goons all work for Kessler. He’s been pulling the strings all along. And the shooting in Zurich? Christ, he took out his own security staff.

  Reinhard lay on the road, gripping the bag with one hand and holding his mouth with the other, blood trickling through his fingers. His eyes said it all. He tried to turn away but Muller stepped over him. “Get away from me!”

  Muller stamped on Reinhard’s wrist and snatched up the bag.

  “No!” Reinhard got to his knees, but Muller turned and kicked him full in the face. His head snapped back and he slumped down onto his back. Muller reached inside Reinhard’s jacket and pulled out the envelope and memory stick.

  “That’s mine!” Reinhard stumbled to his feet and spat out a tooth.

  The window of the Mercedes slid down. A voice came from inside. “What is going on?” Kessler leaned into the window. “Nothing to worry about, sir. Just tidying up some loose ends. The airport is only five kilometers away. I’ve scheduled take-off in fifteen minutes. That’s plenty of time.” He pointed towards Montrose. “Muller, have the English team take care of these two. We have to go.” Kessler took out his cell phone. “Father? We have them. The list and the diamonds. Yes, the video too. Muller, place the list in the bag.” He slipped the memory stick into his suit pocket and looked over at Reinhard as he spoke into the phone. “Not for very much longer. Montrose too. I’m leaving for the airport. Yes, I have him with me. We’ll be in Kabul in three hours.” He cut the call.

  “Jacques!” said Reinhard. “You can’t do this!”

  Kessler didn’t look at him. He stepped into the Mercedes. “You know, I think I can.”

  Grey Suit grabbed the free handcuff bracelet hanging from Montrose’s wrist and tugged him forward, then slapped it onto Reinhard’s wrist.

  Muller placed the bag of diamonds into the trunk of the Mercedes and drove off.

  Shit, this is not what I need, handcuffed to this jerk. Reinhard’s face was white with shock. Montrose grinned and shook the cuffs. “Welcome to my world, tough guy.” A hand shoved him hard in the back. “How does it feel?”

  Black Suit stood by the Jaguar. “You need a hand, mate?”

  Grey Suit grinned and held up his gun. “Not with this bad bastard.” He pulled back the slide and chambered a round. “Into the forest,” he said. “I don’t have all day.”

  Montrose pushed his way through the scrub and into the trees. There’s no point hanging about. There’s more cover in the forest. If I make it that far. His arm was hauled back as Reinhard stood rooted to the spot.

  “No!” screamed Reinhard, turning back towards Grey Suit. “Please, for God’s sake! I’m on your side!”

  Montrose tugged the handcuffs. “What the fuck do you think this is? Cowboys and Indians? Hurry up, you yellow bastard.”

  “It’s him you want!”

  Grey Suit brought up a fist. There was an audible crack and Reinhard’s nose burst across his face. “Move it, rich kid, or I’ll shoot you right now.”

  Reinhard dropped to his knees, holding his face, blood streaming through his hands.

  Montrose pulled Reinhard to his feet and dragged him into the trees. He searched around the scrub. Grey Suit would have to go in further if they want to dump our bodies. The further the better. The forest was thick with pine and silver birch. In the clearings, some young oak saplings and low scrub. No paths. No animal tracks. The only cover is the trees. He felt Reinhard stumble behind him.

  No. The only cover is Reinhard. Pick your time.

  Before them the ground started to become uneven. He heard Reinhard cry out. His arm was nearly wrenched from the socket as Reinhard stumbled into a dip and slammed into a tree. Montrose managed to stay upright and tugged hard at the handcuff chain. Pick your time? Seriously? Any time now would be good. Do it from low down. “C’mon, tough guy, get up.” He squatted down and widened his stance then placed his hands around Reinhard’s torso.

  “Get away from me!” squealed Reinhard.

  “Let’s just do it. We played, we lost. Man up.” He felt a tremor in his thighs as they took the strain of Reinhard’s weight. Legs, don’t fail me now. Glancing over Reinhard’s shoulder, he waited until Grey Suit was directly behind Reinhard then launched himself up with all his strength and slammed Reinhard into Grey Suit.

  The breath blew out of Grey Suit as he smacked into the tree.

  A shot rang out and they tumbled backwards into the undergrowth.

  Reinhard slid to the side and Montrose smashed his right fist down onto Grey Suit’s face, then chopped the heel of his left hand down onto his throat.

  Grey Suit tried to bring up his gun, but it was pinned down under Reinhard, whose left arm flailed about as Montrose hammered down with both hands. Grey Suit’s head hung limp to the side and blood sprayed from Montrose’s knuckles, mixing with the mucus and blood bubbling from Grey Suit’s nose.

  Montrose fell back, pulling Reinhard’s arm with him.

  Reinhard mouthed a silent scream as he looked down at his guts spilling forward over his waist. His lower chest was an unidentifiable mass of shredded meat and bone. He tried to pull his arm back from Montrose and scoop up the tattered intestines as they slipped through his hands. He began to scream in short bursts, red froth blowing from his ruptured lungs. He slumped to the side and earth and dried leaves stuck to his guts as they spilled out, his blood spreading and seeping into the ground, darkening the soil.

  Montrose retched, spitting yellow bile onto the leaf litter. He tore his gaze from Reinhard and shoved his hand into Grey Suit’s pockets. He pulled out a handcuff key, stabbed it into the cuffs and twisted it around. He picked up the gun and wiped the earth and blood from the pistol grip. Black Suit would be expecting two gunshots. If he doesn’t get them, he’ll come looking. No reason to disappoint him. He turned the gun towards Grey Suit.

  “No, don’t . . .” Grey Suit tried to lever himself up. A tooth tumbled from his bleeding lips. “No . . .”

  “You said you like to make a statement. So do I.” He leveled the gun at Grey Suit’s chest. “And you know what that statement is?” He squeezed the trigger. “Fuck you.”

  Grey Suit’s chest burst open and a pink mist sprayed over the bushes behind him. He collapsed back, the jagged edges of his ribs sticking out white from the gaping wound.

  He weaved through the trees, keeping low. Branches whipped against his body and he held up a hand to protect his face. The ground began to rise. He dived down onto his stomach and crawled flat over a ridge, then slid down a slope into a muddy creek, filled with leaf litter and pine needles. He set off in a fast crawl, keeping his head below the ridge. Water seeped into his shoes from the soft ground and his hands were caked with mud.

  The road was dead ahead. Rolling into a patch of ferns, he lay on his side, holding Grey Suit’s gun to his chest. SIG Sauer P220. Swiss issue. .30 Luger ammo. Maybe nine rounds. He wiped his muddy hands on his shirt and slid back the top grip of the SIG and saw the shiny brass cartridge in the block. The weapon was ready. He let the slide return and glanced back down the creek. Nothing. He rolled onto his front and snaked through the ferns. The image of Reinhard’s shredded guts flashed through his mind. What did Grey Suit load? Pushing the release catch, he dropped the magazine. The tip of the first round was cut with a deep ‘X’ into the tip. Dum-dums. Just get to the Jag.

  He replaced the magazine and peeked out from the ferns to the rear of the Jaguar. Wisps of smoke burbled from the exhaust. He’s ready to go. He turned and checked in the other direction, spotted another car parked near the forest. Who the hell is that? BMW. Paris plates. The cops? There was no one in the car. Maybe spooks. Oh, man, not those bastards from Langley. That’s all I need. He pressed his face to the ground and looked under the cars. There was no one around.

  With the gun held in front of him, he ran to the rear of the Jaguar. He looked up and saw the rear windshield shattered, with a hole on the left hand side. What
the hell? Pressing his body to the side of the car, he slid around and brought the gun up fast to the driver’s open window.

  Black Suit’s face was missing and the windshield and dashboard were spattered with blood and shredded flesh.

  He heard his own breathing coming short and fast. That explains the hole in the rear windshield. Who is driving that BMW? CIA? Whatever. Just go! He opened the driver’s door and hauled the corpse onto the road, dragging the legs clear of the door. The steering wheel was sticky with blood as he slammed the auto stick into drive. The tires screeched, trying to grip the road, then the hood rose and the Jag lurched forward.

  He braked into a tight bend, keeping his right foot on the accelerator, then steered for the apex and stamped hard on the accelerator. The Jag immediately snapped into an oversteer as the back end shot out, thumping and dragging the rear wheel against the edge of the road. He steered into the skid and weaved across the road, trying to get the Jag to go in a straight line. Christ, this thing’s got some power. He recognized the banshee wail from under the hood and looked down at the dashboard. Boost gauge. The damn engine was supercharged.

  The tail end of the car came into line just before he hit the next corner. He stood on the brakes, but this time feathered the throttle and fed in the power. The rear end began to slide, but he brought it into line with a flick of opposite lock. A long straight opened up in front of him. Montrose braced himself against the steering wheel and hit the loud pedal.

  Director Spinks stared down at the phone in his hand, settled back into the rear seat and stared out of the window as the Mercedes sped past the tree-lined edge of the Tiergarten, towards the centre of Berlin. His cell phone buzzed and he jammed it to his ear. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Ferguson, sir.”

  “Have you found him?”

  “Montrose is in Paris, we sent . . .”