Snap, crackle, pop.
'Bloody hell! Hello… can you hear me?'
Steve nudged his elbow. 'Here they come.'
'I got to go,' said Dillon quickly. 'Don't call me unless it's an emergency, 'cos I'm working!'
He cradled the handset and hopped out, tugging his jacket straight and squaring up his cap.
' London, sir?' Dillon asked, opening the rear door.
Salah Al-Gharib gave a curt nod. 'White Elephant,' he said, climbing in after the big man.
Dillon pulled a face at Steve through the window, who returned Dillon's blank look with one of his own. Dog track? Indian restaurant? Mosque?
All the way down the M11 Dillon anxiously watched the red needle of the fuel gauge creeping to within a hair's breadth of Empty. Finally, scared to death they were going to run out, he ordered Steve to pull off at the service station just outside Epping. Luckily the clients were going through some papers, taking no notice; even so, Dillon blocked their view of the petrol pump meter as he carefully measured out £2.72 pence' worth to the drop, then surreptitiously palmed the handful of loose change from Steve. Now they were both skint.
It didn't take them long to find him. Taffy's glass of Murphy's stout was still half-full when the phantom drummer's redheaded older brother, a couple of his mates in tow, walked into the saloon bar. Three customers took one look and shifted rapidly out of the way, leaving Taffy alone on his bar-stool in the corner. Slowly, all the time in the world, Taffy turned his head to look at them. They were a mean-looking bunch but his expression didn't alter, kept its same level, sullen stare, unimpressed by this walking pond-life.
'Oi! You three -' The landlord was across, pushing his rolled-up shirtsleeves further up his arms, pointing at the door. 'Out! Out now!'
Taffy's red head neighbour stopped in the middle of the floor, head lowered like a bull about to charge, eyes glittering. 'Gonna have you,' he murmured softly, just loud enough for Taffy to hear. 'You want to come outside?'
'Police – call the police,' the landlord told the blonde barmaid, who scuttled to the phone. He put both hands flat on the counter and leaned forward. 'Did you hear me? I'm calling the cops. Now – all of you – out. Get out!'
Redhead and his mates stood their ground, a tight little knot of hatred, and as the landlord raised the hatch, Taffy saw a stealthy movement and there was a knife in the redhead's hand.
'No trouble, lads… come on now…'
Taffy stood up. He lifted both hands, palms open, to indicate that he didn't want any trouble either. The red-head came for him. Taffy side-stepped, got an elbow lock on the knife-arm, twisted the redhead round to the bar with his arm up his back, wrist bent double. Taking the knife off him, Taffy dragged his head back by his red hair and slit his throat.
'Put your hat on,' said Steve. 'Get the doors open!'
While Dillon rammed his cap on and fixed his tie his eyes never left the wing-mirror, which he'd been anxiously studying for the past fifteen minutes. He gripped the doorhandle and said, 'You clocked that red Sierra parked at the back of us? They've been around the block twice and come back. They seem very interested in us…'
Steve flicked the air-spray round the back of the car and switched on the engine. He waggled his thumb urgently, indicating that Dillon better attend to the clients, stepping out of the White Elephant after a dinner that probably cost as much as Susie spent on food in a month.
Dillon held the door open, and while they were settling in he glanced sideways under the peak of his cap, attempting to make out the occupants of the Sierra and how many. In the darkened interior he saw the glow of a cigarette, nothing more.
He nipped round and climbed in. 'Back to base is it, sir?' Dillon inquired, glued to the wing-mirror. Steve flashed the indicator and pulled out into Curzon Street, the Sierra's dimmed headlights springing on. It began moving off without indicating.
'Yes,' the secretary replied, polishing his gold-rimmed spectacles. 'Then that's it for today!' His boss, the big man, was dozing off, hands clasped comfortably on the swell of his paunch, recently replenished.
Steve drove up Park Lane, crossing into the right-hand stream to make the approach into Oxford Street. At this late hour, traffic was fairly light, at least by London standards, and Dillon could see the red Sierra merging into the same lane, two cars behind. He spoke quietly, hardly moving his lips, 'Keep your eye on 'em, they're right behind us.'
Steve nodded, the Mercedes surging smoothly forward, whisper-quiet under the power of its three-litre, 140 bhp engine. Dillon, after a minute's private debate with himself, inclined his head to the rear of the car. He kept his voice calm, no sign of agitation.
'Excuse me, sir… we've got someone following us. They were parked outside the Club, and they've been on our tail since we left. It's a red Sierra – take a look for yourself.'
Raoul Al-Mohammed immediately blinked open his heavy eyes and with his secretary turned to stare out of the tinted back window. They turned back, eyes locked together.
'Are you sure they are following?' the secretary asked quietly, leaning forward.
'wE cAN maKe SUre iF yOU liKe
'What did he say?'
'We can drive around a bit,' Dillon explained, 'see if they are really following… Okay?' He glanced behind and got a single, firm nod.
Steve was too expert and experienced a driver to tip off those behind that they'd been rumbled. Besides, this wasn't ideal territory to lose a tail. Better to get them into a warren of back streets they possibly weren't too familiar with – but he was. So in no great hurry he turned into Tottenham Court Road and proceeded at a stately pace towards Euston Road, eyes doing a constant slow swivel from the road to the rearview mirror. Actually, he was starting to enjoy himself. The Merc was a joy to drive, he'd never got his mitts on such a large powerful, beautiful motor before. Plus – and it was a big plus – he felt the old tingling thrill of pitting himself against an adversary. Didn't matter who: it was the enemy, the bad guys, the ones who had to be beaten at all costs. That's what he'd been trained to do, and Civvy Street had no use for his talents and specialist skills. No use for him, period.
Slowing for the traffic lights at the junction with Euston Road, Dillon turned round in his seat. It was make-your-mind-up time, so he called for a decision. 'He's still with us, what do you want us to do?' He raised his eyebrows. 'We head back into Regent's Park and we'll play follow-my-leader all the way back to the house…'
Salah Al-Gharib moistened his lips. 'What is the alternative?' he asked, and now his voice had the suggestion of a tremor in it.
Steve sucked in air, burped, 'I can lose 'em, Frank. No problem.'
'You sure?'
At Steve's nod, Dillon turned back and said tersely, 'He thinks he can lose them, sir.'
The lights changed, and being in the left-hand lane Steve had no choice but to turn left into Euston Road. There was a confab going on in the back, the secretary doing most of the talking, his boss interjecting the odd comment or question now and then. Both men seemed distinctly uneasy, rather fearful in fact, Raoul Al-Mohammed clutching his alligator-skin briefcase to his chest, resting it on his heaving stomach.
At last the secretary leaned forward. Behind the thin gold rims, the whites of his eyes gleamed against his dark complexion. 'If it is possible, lose them. Do what you have to do.'
Dillon touched Steve's arm. He took off his cap and said to the men in the back, 'You want to put your seat-belts on?'
They did so, Dillon pulling his tight. Steve operated central locking, securing all four doors, took a long searching look in the mirror, and put his foot down.
CHAPTER 13
In the illuminated green dial the needle swept smoothly past fifty. Steve kept his foot down, the acceleration pressing them back in their seats… fifty-five – sixty – sixty-five in less than seven seconds, the needle hovering at seventy as they neared Regent's Park.
Through the wing-mirror Dillon had a clear view of the red Sierra, lag
ging behind but gradually picking up speed to match theirs; nothing in-between them now and very little traffic, so the two cars had virtually this entire stretch of road to themselves.
Dillon hadn't a clue what Steve intended doing. He hoped to God Steve had. But what Steve did, totally unexpectedly, as they raced towards the lights at the junction with Great Portland Street, was to flick on the left indicator. Crazy, Dillon thought, lost his marbles, Steve meant to turn into a one-way system, meeting the flow of traffic head-on! They were doing seventy, and Dillon braced himself for the turn, but what Steve did next was even crazier. Twenty yards from the lights he decelerated, and spinning the wheel hand-over-hand in a continuous, co-ordinated movement, he swung the Merc sharply to the right in a sliding 180-degree turn, tyres squealing and smoking, leaving burnt rubber on the tarmac as he completed a U-turn at the traffic lights and gunned back along Euston Road.
Rocking in his seat, Dillon glimpsed the flash of red in the mirror as the Sierra skidded into the turn, nearly losing its traction, then righted itself and came after them.
Whoever they were, these guys weren't amateurs, Dillon realised. And the Sierra had more soup under its bonnet than its un-extraordinary exterior might suggest. He ought to have known that playing nursemaid to a couple of Middle-Eastern arms-dealers wouldn't turn out to be a vicarage tea-party. What had that prat Cliff gotten them into, him and his favours?
Nudging seventy-five, Steve took the centre lane down into the underpass, the yellow lights inset in the concrete walls smearing like racing stripes along the aerodynamic silver body. The 300SE barrelled through the echoing tunnel and up again onto the main road, the glass and granite splendour of the mainline Euston terminal flashing by to their left. The traffic lights were changing to red, but Steve went through them anyway, and so did the Sierra, as a glance in Dillon's wing-mirror confirmed. After that hair-raising U-turn back there he was beyond offering Steve any advice. The lad might be crazy but he could handle the Merc all right, sitting back in his seat, head up, arms at full stretch, displaying the cool nerve and aplomb of a stunt driver, a faint grin on his face.
All four of them were flung against their seat-belts as Steve suddenly slammed on the brakes and veered left off the main road, taking to the labyrinth of dimly-lit streets backing onto King's Cross. To Dillon it was a dark maze of terraced houses and small blocks of flats, shops and pubs, the whole area shut down for the night. Every street a replica of the one before. Not to Steve, apparently, who seemed to know the district like the back of his hand, jinking left and right and judging gaps between cars parked either side as if he possessed a built-in slide rule.
But the red Sierra was a tough bastard to shake. It kept right with them, never more than fifty yards behind, headlights now on full-beam flaring in the mirrors.
Without warning, Steve hauled the car down a right-hand fork, the brick archway of a rail viaduct looming up ahead. He gave himself a quick nod, as if making up his mind, and half-turning his head but keeping his eyes front and centre, rapped out: 'Tell 'em I can double back on the Ford – there's dead-ends all along here.'
Dillon craned back. 'You want us to stop their car? We can double back, come out behind them…'
A quick gabble of Arabic, and the secretary gripped Dillon's shoulder, his usual fluent English jerking out disjointedly.
'… we have no diplomatic immunity… they could be armed… we cannot risk…'
'Hang on, Steve.' Dillon reckoned it was about time to view the situation realistically. One thing, letting Steve have his fun like a big kid on the dodgems, quite another to find themselves in the middle of a shooting war that was none of their business. He said quietly, 'They seem to think these guys'll have guns. Maybe just lose them.'
Steve pointed to the fuel gauge. 'Petrol… no petrol.'
Dillon stared at the needle, hard against Empty, and closed his eyes. That was that then. Hobson's Bleeding Choice. He glanced behind. 'Get down – keep your heads down.' He shot a look at Steve. 'Can you handle it?' Steve grinned. Bastard was loving every minute. Best time he'd had in three years, since leaving the Paras.
Dillon had another disquieting thought, concerning thirty grand's worth of Mercedes-Benz 300SE. He turned to the rear, raising one eyebrow. 'What about damage to the car, sir?' The secretary was huddled in the corner, his fingers digging in the padded arm-rests.
'Sir?'
'Please… get us out of here…'
Steve adjusted his grip, hands crossed on the wheel, face lit up like a Christmas tree. 'Here we go…!'
The Merc slewed to the left, did a shimmy with its rear end, the bumper almost scraping the road, then went like the clappers as Steve jammed his foot to the floor. Two more screeching turns and they were back at the brick viaduct, which was exactly where Steve wanted to be – this time passing through the adjacent archway. A flick of the wheel, foot hard down on the brake-pedal. Hidden momentarily by the central, arch, the Merc went into a spinning half-turn just as the Sierra shot out from under the bridge and passed them, the driver's head whipping round in dismay and disbelief.
Steve whooped.
Gotcha!
Grinning from ear to ear, he applied reverse lock and the Merc's tyres steamed as he performed another spinning half-turn, gave the 140 bhp engine its head and zoomed up behind, the Sierra's arse-end in his sights.
Closing fast, he gave the Sierra a gentle nudge, pulled away and gave it a harder one. There was the tortured sound of grinding metal and then a clang as the Sierra's bumper was wrenched half-off, the dangling end scything a trail of orange sparks down the centre of the road. Getting desperate, the driver took the only evasive action he could, picking at random one of the streets to his left to get the hell out of the way. Turned out it was a desperate mistake too, because as Steve was well aware, all those streets finished in a sheer brick wall that bordered the tracks out of King's Cross.
The Sierra's driver very quickly got the message. Reacted fast too – but by then all he could do was slam on the brakes and helplessly watch, frozen at the wheel, as the car went into a skid and slid sideways, left side on, smack into the wall.
Dillon expected Steve to slow down, but unbelievably the crazy bastard didn't. He kept right on going. He was doing what he'd been trained to do, following the anti-terrorist manual to the letter: when you have the enemy pinned down and cornered, take all effective steps for total disabling action. In this case it meant ramming the Merc's beautiful gleaming bonnet into the side of the Sierra, trapping the two men inside and preventing further hostile action.
Dillon covered his face. In the back seat the two Arabs were crouched double, petrified with fear, the big man uttering a kind of sing-song dirge. Steam hissed out, and there was a fizzing and crackling as the electrics shorted, the fascia display flickering like mad.
Dropping his hands, Dillon peered through the steam rising from the crumpled bonnet. The Sierra's driver was slumped over the wheel, his head at a nasty angle. Blood was streaming from the other man's nose, and he looked groggy, but then Dillon saw his hand move – saw him reaching inside his jacket – and he didn't wait to see any more, screaming at Steve, 'Back off! Back off!'
There was a horrible jangled cacophony of tearing metal as Steve reversed, leaving the Merc's radiator grille and the remnants of all four headlights in the roadway. Dillon was out even before the car had stopped, flat to the ground, snaking forward on elbows and insteps. Behind him, Steve scuttled head down below window-level and did a neat shoulder-roll to land up against the Sierra's front wheel.
Dillon pointed to the door handle, pointed at Steve, made a twisting motion. Steve nodded and reached stealthily for the handle. Dillon rocked himself onto the balls of his feet, hands curled, ready to make the dive the instant the door was opened. The man inside the car was yelling something, difficult to know what because his voice was high-pitched with panic. Cautiously, Dillon raised his head and took a peep. Steve did the same. They bobbed back down again and stared at e
ach other with a sagging, sickly realisation.
Not a gun the man had been reaching for at all. But a badge. He was holding up a silver badge. The man was a police officer and they'd just rammed a Flying Squad car.
Squatting on his haunches, Taffy listened to the police siren getting nearer and nearer. Further off in the distance, the clanging of an ambulance bell. The two sounds converged, competing with one another, loud and clamouring, and then suddenly died away as both vehicles reached the pub three streets from where Taffy was crouching in a vegetable patch in someone's back garden. Reflected on the chimneys and slate roofs opposite, flashing blue and red lights, like the blue and red tracer fire spewing from the machine-gun emplacement the night they took Mount Longdon. Some of the blokes thought it made a pretty display, arcing out of the darkness, until they remembered that between each blue and red streak there were five live rounds, any one of which could have your name on it.
That had been some firefight. Taffy's bowels had become liquid and he'd nearly cacked in his britches. Belly-down in a rocky crevice, cushioned by his bergen, he'd stuck the business end of his L1A1 SLR rifle over the top and pumped the trigger. Didn't matter a flying fuck what you were aiming at, the object was to overwhelm the enemy with sheer firepower. That John Wayne Hollywood crap about picking off individual targets, with your head out in plain view, was strictly for the punters. You kept your finger on the trigger until the magazine was empty, slapped in a fresh mag, did it all over again. There was always more ammo where that came from, there was only one of you.
And yet, for all the bowel-churning fear, it was bloody great. What you'd sweated through years of training for, and never dreamed, in all your wildest hopes and imaginings, to be actually engaged in a live firing attack against a real enemy who were trying to kill you. Suddenly everything made sense. You had a role, an identity, a purpose. You were doing the job you'd been made for, doing it with skill, guts, pride, and total uncompromising commitment, and you were going to show those Argie bastards what it was like to come up against a real soldier.
Civvies Page 10
