The Game

by Tom Wood

There was a pause, silence. Victor remained motionless. He pictured the Chechen on the other side going through the universal pattern – surprise to confusion to curiosity to action. Footsteps.

  The door opened. The Chechen remained on the other side.

  Victor pivoted and punched him in the solar plexus. The Chechen doubled over, breathless. Victor grabbed him under the jaw with one hand, planted the other on the side of his skull, and wrenched.

  The Chechen went straight down in the doorway.

  Victor checked his pockets. As with the one outside, he found a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He also found a Makarov pistol, a small knife and a set of keys. There were several keys of different sizes for different kinds of locks. One was for a padlock, either the one securing the metal gate leading to where Lucille and Peter were being held or the mill’s main gate. He placed the keys in the trouser pocket where he still had the Phantom’s valet key and put the Makarov in the other pocket.

  Inside the planning room he saw the model of the embassy, destroyed and in pieces on the floor, half of it stuffed into garbage bags as the flipcharts had already been. Victor looked up to see a sprinkler in the centre of the ceiling. Just as the new mill was protected externally from intruders by a perimeter fence topped with metal spikes, it was internally protected from fire by a state of the art system.

  Beneath the sprinkler, he made a pile of plasticard fragments and strips of flipchart paper. He then took the disposable lighter from his pocket and thumbed the striker twice. A small flame rippled in the air. Slowly, he placed the lighter on its side on top of the pile. The flame continued to burn, but didn’t touch the paper it rested on. Without contact with a flame, paper auto-ignited when it was heated to about four hundred and fifty degrees Centigrade. The lighter was just a cheap disposable, but its butane flame burned at almost two thousand degrees Centigrade. Without knowing the exact temperature of the flame or the auto ignition point of this particular type of paper, Victor couldn’t calculate a precise time, but he estimated the paper would begin to smoulder after a couple of minutes. Then it was down to the sensitivity of the carbon monoxide detector in the sprinkler system as to how long the paper would need to smoke before the sprinklers activated and the fire alarm blared. It was a modern system. He figured it would take less than thirty seconds.

  He dashed back through the building, gun out and up because the fire alarm would sound in no more than three and a half minutes.

  And in three minutes Hart would know Victor was no longer at the embassy.

  SIXTY-THREE

  The old mill was a rectangular building, but one of its two narrow walls, the north wall, rounded into a semicircle of rendered stone. At the outward point of the semicircle, an alcove was cut into the wall and a set of narrow steps led down approximately three metres below the ground to where a door had once stood but had been replaced by a steel gate. A ventilation grille was mounted in the stone above the doorway, its rusty iron bars having survived where the door below had not. The rendering was crumbling around the opening and on the walls either side of the steps, revealing the bare bricks beneath. Victor descended along the centre of the steps, as people had done over many centuries, wearing the once square edges of the steps smooth.

  It was the only entrance to the subterranean pressing room as far as he could make out. Perhaps there was another way down from somewhere inside the old mill that had been built on top of it. A chimney perhaps, or some form of antiquated dumb waiter.

  A dim orange light glowed from somewhere on the other side of the gate. Victor tried the padlock key. It worked. The gate squealed and he stepped down into the chamber. Half of the room was in deep shadow. On the other side of the opening stood a circular room, about ten metres in diameter. Alcoves and openings led off it. At the room’s centre, an uneven circle of stone bricks formed the wall of an olive press. A giant pressing stone lay on its side on the inside of the circular wall. No other equipment had endured. Around the wall a shallow groove had been worn into the rock floor by the endless rotations made by the mules when turning the heavy stone. The chamber had been carved out of rock and reinforced and improved with stone pillars and archways by medieval masons. On the far side, it opened out into a room that had once served as a stable for the mules that turned the pressing stone.

  The ceiling was low. The air was cool and damp and smelled musty. A raised fireplace was housed on one side to keep the chamber warm during the winter months. Along one section of the wall were half a dozen square-sided holes in the floor, about half a metre wide and deep, to collect oil from individual presses. The chimney rose into the ceiling and Victor pictured it ending under the floor tiles of the mill above.

  The source of the light was Kooi’s son. Peter sat on the floor with his back to an uneven section of wall. In one hand he had a big torch that was as long as his arm. His other hand was pressed over the end of the torch so the bright white light shone through his palm and emerged orange.

  Peter hadn’t looked at him, but Victor tucked the pistol into his waistband so he didn’t scare the boy any more than he presumably was already. Victor approached him.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ he whispered.

  Peter didn’t answer.

  Victor squatted down. ‘Is she here?’

  Again, Peter didn’t answer, but a scraping noise alerted Victor to a presence in the darkness. Lucille stepped into the light, moving fast, a chunk of masonry in her hand. She swung at Victor, a wild attack fuelled by terror and desperation, but her wrists were bound together and the stone was never going to reach Victor’s head.

  He took hold of her by the arms and removed the improvised weapon from her grip. She would have collapsed to her knees had he not held her upright.

  ‘Who are you?’ she sobbed.

  ‘That’s not important. You have to trust me.’

  ‘Where’s Felix? Why do those men think you’re him?’

  Victor pushed the hair from her face. ‘There’s no time to explain. You and Peter need to come with me. If you don’t those men are going to kill you. Do you understand?’

  She nodded and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  ‘It’s going to be okay, Lucille,’ Victor said. ‘Just do as I say and I promise I’ll get you both out of this. I’m going to take out a knife, but that’s just so I can cut your wrists free. Is that okay?’

  Lucille nodded, and Victor took out the Chechen’s knife and sawed through the tape that linked her wrists together.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are we safe now?’ Lucille said.

  Victor shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  Lucille managed to nod in response. She hugged Peter and kissed the top of his head. He didn’t hug her back. He just stared at Victor.

  He handed her the Makarov. ‘For protection.’

  She hesitated, then took it.

  ‘It’s ready to fire,’ Victor explain. ‘All you have to do is squeeze the trigger. Aim for the centre of the torso.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Bring Peter,’ Victor said. ‘I need to put you somewhere safe till this is over.’

  Peter resisted when she took his hand, and pulled backwards when she tried to lead him away. ‘Come on, honey. We need to go.’

  He made a keening sound and pulled harder. The noise got louder.

  ‘Shh,’ Lucille pleaded. ‘You need to keep quiet.’

  But Peter wasn’t quiet. Victor didn’t know much about children, but he knew what fear looked like. ‘I like your dinosaur T-shirt, Peter,’ he said. ‘I used to like dinosaurs too at your age. I still do. Which is your favourite? Mine’s always been T. Rex.’

  He didn’t respond, but the noise stopped.

  ‘Some people don’t believe he hunted. They say he wasn’t a fearsome beast but a scavenger,’ Victor continued. ‘I don’t agree. I think he was a hunter. I think he was big and scary and chased all the other dinosaurs around. What do you think?’

  Peter hesitated. He looked to his mo
ther and then back at Victor. ‘That he was big and scary.’

  ‘King of the dinosaurs, right?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Do you think you can come with your mother and me and be very quiet?’ He nodded again and Victor gestured to Lucille. ‘Let’s go. There isn’t much time.’

  The AK-47 was a fine weapon. Developed by Yuri Kalashnikov in 1947, it had proven itself as the rifle of the twentieth century. Frequently copied and hugely popular for its low cost, ease of use and extreme reliability in any and all conditions, Dietrich liked it because the bullets ripped huge chunks out of those unlucky enough to be hit by one. He’d used one plenty of times as a mercenary on the circuit and was a little envious that the Chechens were going to have the fun of using them tonight and not him. It was a waste. A fine weapon in the hands of an amateur who probably couldn’t hit a man-size target beyond twenty metres.

  It was a waste, to which insult had been added by the fact Dietrich didn’t even have a firearm. Not that he needed one to kill Kooi’s bitch wife and bastard son, but that wasn’t the point. He sat in the pressing room of the old mill, throwing playing cards at a bucket, one at a time. He missed five or six for every one that went in. The boredom was killing him. Leeson was no kind of company and the Chechens were preparing to assault the embassy. At least it was almost over now. A clock that looked so old Dietrich was surprised it still worked showed the time as 8.45 p.m. Not long until the job was over and a briefcase full of money was his.

  Leeson stood, phone in hand, waiting for Hart’s next update to say that Kooi was in position on the terrace, ready for Prudnikov’s speech to begin.

  He didn’t like the bitch Lucille. She looked at him like he was nothing, like most women did. Dietrich willed Kooi to chicken out or screw it up so he could put his knife to good use.

  An alarm blared.

  Dietrich sat up and turned in the direction of the noise. It was coming from the new mill. ‘Is that a fire alarm?’

  Leeson looked at him. ‘Yes.’ He glanced at the phone and then back at Dietrich. ‘Go and see what’s caused it.’

  He stood. ‘It can’t be Kooi, can it?’

  ‘That’s what I want you to go check.’

  ‘But he’s at the embassy.’

  Leeson tapped the screen of his phone. ‘Let’s not hang around to find out, shall we?’ He put the phone to his ear. ‘While I’m doing this, take two men and confirm Kooi’s family are secure. Then investigate that alarm. If it’s not Kooi it still needs shutting off. Hurry.’

  He shouted at the Chechens in their own language and two followed Dietrich. They armed themselves in the antechamber. The third grabbed a rifle and moved to Leeson’s side.

  Dietrich exited the old mill, the two Chechens following him. He walked fast, the stock of the assault rifle firm against his shoulder, his eyes peering along the length of the barrel, index finger inside the trigger guard, taking no chances, ready to blow Kooi full of holes if he had returned. Dietrich hoped he had. They could finally settle their differences.

  He led the two Chechens down the corridor of space between the two buildings, gaze sweeping back and forth in line with the AK’s muzzle. They hurried to the north end of the old mill, where the staircase led down to the ruins of the ancient mill underground.

  He saw the gate was open and dropped into a crouch, knowing now for certain that Kooi was here. He gestured for the Chechens to go down first into the darkness in case Kooi was waiting down there, ready for an ambush. Initially, the Chechens didn’t understand. In return, Dietrich didn’t understand what the men said to him, but he gesticulated and pointed and eventually they got the message. He followed them down, watching their flanks and rear because they were watching the front.

  One used a torch to check the crumbling pressing room and the many chambers and alcoves leading off it. No woman. No kid. Expected, but no less bad for that.

  Leeson had the third Chechen cover the entrance to the old mill’s pressing room while he spoke to Hart, holding the phone in his left hand so he could keep his pistol in his right.

  ‘He’s not on the terrace,’ Hart said. ‘And I can’t reach Francesca. The only explanation is Kooi’s gone. The job’s over.’

  ‘Detonate the bomb,’ Leeson said.

  ‘There’s no point, Robert. He isn’t here, let alone within range of Prudnikov. We’ve failed. It seems you made a catastrophic error of judgment in hiring Kooi.’

  ‘Detonate the bomb,’ Leeson said again. ‘Then get back here. Right now.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not going to do that. The job is over so I no longer work for you. Kooi outsmarted us all, and he’s proved far more capable than we gave him credit for. So if he’s already at the mill then I would strongly recommend vacating the vicinity as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’m ordering you to get back here,’ Leeson yelled down the phone.

  ‘Goodbye, Robert,’ Hart said with some sympathy. ‘And if you do happen to get out of there then you best find a good rock to hide beneath because if Kooi doesn’t find you, I will.’

  The call disconnected. Leeson shook with rage and fear. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He opened up his list of contacts to find the number for the mobile phone detonator.

  Coughlin was sweating so badly that no amount of darkness was going to hide it. He watched and listened while Hart spoke on the phone to Leeson. He had heard Hart say the job was over and they’d failed and Kooi was gone. Shit. This was bad. All Coughlin had wanted to do was get paid and now Kooi had destroyed any chance of that. Coughlin didn’t know what to do. Taking the minivan and driving out of Rome and far away seemed like the only option. But he was owed money and he wasn’t going to get far on what he had in his pockets. Plus, there was another problem: Hart.

  ‘The job’s really over?’ Coughlin asked.

  Hart nodded. He dropped the phone to the floor and crushed it under his heel. ‘No one can win them all. And neither should they.’

  Coughlin closed his eyes and exhaled. ‘I haven’t been paid yet. How am I going to get my money if Kooi kills Leeson?’

  ‘A financial contribution for your services should be the least of your worries.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We?’ Hart echoed. ‘There is no we. There is only you and I. And what I am doing now is ensuring none of this debacle leads back to me.’

  There was something in Hart’s voice Coughlin liked even less than usual. He backed away and hesitantly asked, ‘What should I do?’

  ‘All you need do is not resist,’ Hart answered as he stepped closer. ‘It’ll be far less painful that way.’

  ‘Back out,’ Dietrich ordered. He pointed when the two Chechens didn’t respond. They hesitated, so he ascended ahead of them.

  The ambulance exploded.

  The noise was deafening. The overpressure wave destroyed the back compartment, ripping through the roof and sides as it expanded out, blowing out the back doors and tossing them away. The windows shattered. Great gouts of flame followed the wave, funnelled by the two mill buildings either side. The ground shook. Smoke billowed and mushroomed.

  Dietrich dived to the ground. Heat and pressure washed over him. Debris and the ceramic shards peppered his body, but he was far enough from the blast for them to have lost their capacity to kill and injure. Oily black smoke thickened the air around him.

  Behind Dietrich, the first of the two Chechens hesitantly climbed up the steps.

  Gunshots made Dietrich remain prone. The first Chechen contorted and stumbled backwards, collapsing down the steps, his face a bloody mess. Dietrich scrambled across the ground and followed the corpse, hearing more gunfire as he rolled into cover.

  The shots had been a double tap of single shots, the distinctive noise almost a pop. Which meant Kooi was using a handgun. Close range, lacking in stopping power. No match for an assault rifle. He gestured for the other Chechen to keep clear, then crouched to keep his head lower than the ground and held up his
rifle to release a burst of rounds. He wasn’t trying to hit Kooi – he didn’t know where he was hiding – but he wanted to grab his attention and make him get his head down.

  Dietrich raised his head and shoulders from cover, sweeping the AK in a fast one hundred and eighty degree arc. Through the smoke, he spotted a figure between the two buildings dart through the doorway into the new mill. Dietrich fired another burst and the recoil lifted the muzzle up. He charged from the sunken staircase, barking orders and motioning wildly for the Chechen to flank Kooi through the other entrance at the end of the building. The Chechen seemed to understand and hurried off to do as instructed.

  Rifle aimed at the entrance to the new mill, Dietrich hurried down the corridor of space between the buildings and backed off until he was close to the open doorway to the antechamber of the old mill.