The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  ‘Yes. Although it does raise the question of how we arrange the last payment. I will have the final part in my hand before it is paid, yes?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Thorpe said. ‘But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. I’ve had time to think this all through so we both end up with what we want.’

  ‘As you say. Please begin.’

  ‘Okay. If your friend goes back to the entrance hall and climbs the stairs, he’ll take the left-hand corridor. There are three doorways on the left. He’ll take the second one. There’s a walk-in wardrobe against the room’s far wall. If he pulls up the carpet in there, he’ll find a floorboard that comes away with a little effort. Tell him to bring you what he finds.’

  ‘Very well.’ On the screen, Thorpe watched Sayyid saying a few words to the bigger man, who then marched off.

  Thorpe leaned back against the wall and waited. For the most part he was in good spirits now that everything was working out as he’d planned. But the anger he felt at Danny’s failure to show up soon threatened to override his satisfaction. The stupid, smelly bitch just couldn’t keep her mind on the end game, could she? She was trustworthy in so many other areas, why did she have to give in to her addictions so easily? Once this was over, she’d need to be taught a lesson or two. Thorpe closed his eyes, and after a few moments his good humour returned as he considered ways in which he might punish her. Painful ways.

  He opened his eyes and the big man was already on the living room monitor again and in deep conversation with his boss. He’d missed him entirely. Careful, Martin. Keep your thoughts on the job at hand. He watched Sayyid bring the radio to his mouth and say, ‘There is nothing there.’

  Thorpe frowned. So the big one was as stupid as he looked. He got the sigh out before he pressed the transmit button. ‘I put it there less than two hours ago, Sayyid. Left-hand corridor. Second room on the left. Loose floorboard in the wardrobe. Explain it to him. It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘That is unnecessary. Naji speaks your language far better than I and he followed your instructions to the letter. He found the loose floorboard already open, but nothing inside.’

  Thorpe’s mouth opened as he finally understood why Danny hadn’t showed up. Bishop. And if he’d taken her cell, that meant . . . ‘There’s somebody else in the house, Sayyid,’ he said. ‘Name of Bishop. He must have heard the directions and got there first.’

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘I used him to get the file,’ he said, shrinking the cameras down so he could fit all six on screen. ‘He’s dangerous.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  Thorpe thought for a moment. ‘I suggest, since you’re all probably armed, that you find him and take him out.’

  Sayyid looked at his colleagues and said, ‘This is your problem, Martin. We are not your personal assassins.’

  ‘Not even for ten million bucks?’

  Sayyid lowered the radio and spoke to the others. A minute later, he raised it to his lips again. ‘My associate, Hanif, has offered up a far more acceptable solution. The original arrangement was fifty million dollars for the file, yes? If you are willing to stick to that agreement, we would be more than happy to help you in this situation. In effect, Martin, you lose nothing, depending on how you choose to look at it.’

  ‘Be serious,’ Thorpe said, trying to ignore the sick feeling he was getting in his stomach.

  ‘I generally am about such matters. Come now, my friend, as a businessman you must realize the scales have shifted in our favour. And unless you are willing to take on this man by yourself . . .’ He let the sentence hang, knowing he held the winning hand.

  Thorpe closed his eyes and banged his head against the steel wall. Shit. Shit. Shit. He tried to think of another way around it, but knew it would ultimately mean giving away his position. And he couldn’t do that. Not for any price. Without Danny at his side, Sayyid’s offer was the only option left open to him. Which meant Bishop had just cost him fifty million dollars. Fifty million. He couldn’t believe it.

  He raised the walkie-talkie and said. ‘You’re a goddamn thief, Sayyid.’ A pause, and then he said, ‘Do it.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Sayyid said. ‘But please refrain from blas—’

  At that moment, all six cameras went dark.

  NINETY-SEVEN

  Bishop took his hand from the ruined fuse box and ran up the basement steps. He passed through the utility room and turned left for the rear stairs. At the turn halfway up, he climbed two more steps and crouched down. He kept his gun and flashlight aimed at the bottom of the stairs.

  Wherever Thorpe was, and Bishop had his suspicions, he’d be giving this Sayyid his location right now before assuming radio silence. One or more of them would undoubtedly be along in a matter of seconds to check it out.

  Bishop was counting on it.

  He’d entered the house the same way as before and hadn’t had long to wait before the terrorists showed up. After logging each face as they’d entered, he’d listened in on the conversation and beaten the one called Naji to the first location. Right now, the abandoned Zodiac letter, the envelope, the medical report on Ebert and the book on codes and ciphers were safely hidden in the wardrobe in Natalie’s den.

  Six seconds had passed since he’d plunged the house into darkness. He figured they’d just send one to check the basement and cover him from a distance. About thirty yards directly ahead, the rear windows let in just enough light for him to make out basic shapes in the darkness. And then he saw a movement.

  The silhouette of a machine pistol was gradually coming into view from the left. For a second Bishop thought it might be another Heckler & Koch, but the extended magazine wasn’t curved. Maybe a Steyr of some kind. Then came the hand holding it and part of a big forearm. Bishop heard no sound at all and he knew these weren’t amateurs.

  Part of the big man’s body came into view and Bishop heard a faint breath as the silhouette changed, the profile morphing into a shapeless mass as the man turned towards the stairwell.

  Bishop aimed his flashlight at the head area and clicked it on. The man squeezed his eyes shut against the light and Bishop pulled his trigger twice. He saw two roses instantly bloom in the centre of the man’s forehead before he switched the light off. Then Bishop ducked into the steps at his left, pulling his feet out of the line of fire as a stream of bullets ploughed into the wall and ceiling behind him. Small particles of plaster erupted at each hit, striking the back of his neck like hailstones as the dying man reflexively emptied his gun.

  Bishop ran up the rest of the steps and took the right fork at the top. As he ran through the dark hallway towards the front of the house he heard short, controlled bursts of gunfire in the stairway behind. He pocketed the flashlight and pulled out a five-inch-long steel hexagonal tube instead. The M84 stun grenade he’d found in Cortiss’s apartment and stashed in his knapsack. Perfect for taking out the man stationed at the front door.

  But as Bishop passed the last door on the right, something big slammed into him. He landed face down on the floor without his gun, but still holding the flash-bang. He rolled onto his back and a pair of hands grabbed his collar and pulled him to a standing position. Then the man’s arms wrapped themselves around him and squeezed, trapping his arms hard against his side and lifting him off the floor. The fourth guy, he thought. The man must have raced upstairs the moment he heard the shots and waited for Bishop to run right into him.

  The man’s strength was remarkable and Bishop felt a rib snap under the pressure as his breath exited his lungs in a single burst. In response, he slammed his head forward and felt it connect with something soft. It felt like a nose giving way. The man gave a sharp grunt and took a step back and his grip loosened enough for Bishop to pull his left hand free.

  Bishop took the stun grenade and smashed it into the man’s mouth, jamming it in as far as it would go. The man choked and let go of Bishop as his hands went to his busted face. Bishop pushed the man’s hands awa
y and grabbed hold of the grenade’s primary and secondary pull rings. He yanked them free, then pulled the man’s polo-neck up over his face to keep it all in. He took two steps back, dropped his shoulder and aimed a side-kick at the man’s stomach. The man doubled over, and as he fell backwards on to the landing Bishop turned and dived to the floor, clamping his eyes shut and pressing both hands against his ears.

  The grenade detonated inside the man’s skull and a brief, thunderous explosion of sound and light reverberated throughout the open space.

  Taking the Maglite from his pocket, Bishop got up and swept the beam around the floor. Ignoring the man’s body as it rolled down the stairs, he found his Beretta a few feet away and picked it up. He turned off the light and ran back down the corridor. He turned right at the end, past the rear stairs, then right again until he was in the next hallway along.

  Bishop remembered the house layout well enough. There were three rooms on the left side. On the right, opposite the middle doorway, was the door to a windowless storeroom. That would be okay, except the door had always been locked before, and he needed to move quickly. And the first and third rooms on the left both contained floor-to-ceiling windows. No good, either. Too much chance of throwing light on his position when he opened either door. But the one in the centre had just a normal-sized window facing some trees. Not much light at all. Bishop jogged down the hallway and brushed his fingers against the right wall. When they felt the storeroom door, he gripped the handle and pushed. As he’d suspected, still locked. Instead he entered the door opposite and closed it behind him.

  Bishop leaned against the door and touched his left rib, wincing at the sudden flare-up of pain. Felt like it was cracked. He was falling apart at the seams. But he was alive, while the terrorists were down two men. Just the ones called Sayyid and Hanif left. And they wouldn’t be as careless now they knew what they were up against. They’d search the rest of the house together, each covering the other’s back.

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling and the familiar shape there made him wonder if Thorpe was watching him now. Bishop knew top-end surveillance cameras could make the most of low-light situations, but even if Thorpe could see him, so what? He couldn’t transmit anything by radio without making targets of the other two.

  But nothing was stopping them from conveying messages via cell phones. And sooner or later Bishop would have to pass through the kitchen or some other monitored area where Thorpe could see him. He couldn’t stay here and wait to be cornered like a rat. Not when they had automatic weapons and ammo to spare.

  Bishop closed his eyes. And thought of ways of turning a liability into an advantage.

  NINETY-EIGHT

  Thorpe watched the miniature screens and asked himself why he hadn’t put a camera in every room. The answer was obvious: because he’d banked on Danny being here with him to take up the slack. So much for covering all bases.

  At least he had decent equipment, although the one he’d placed in the hallway directly underneath had become next to useless. He’d shut all the doors down there and with no natural light coming in from the windows the screen just showed black.

  But the living room monitor showed movement as the two surviving terrorists made their way to the entrance hall. Sayyid was in the lead while Hanif covered the rear. Then Thorpe’s attention was drawn to the monitor showing the hallway underneath him. For a moment there, he thought he’d seen a flash of something from one of the doorways. He kept his eyes glued to it. Then a vague movement around Naji’s body on the kitchen monitor diverted his attention. He peered closer to see if it happened again. The man’s legs were sprawled on the kitchen floor while the top half lay in deep shadow on the bottom four steps. The left arm was still in an unnatural position behind his back. Sayyid had moved it there to retrieve some extra magazines from one of the pockets. Thorpe watched, fascinated, as the arm slowly slid off and came to rest on the stairs. There was no more movement after that.

  Possibly gas escaping from the body. Or something else?

  He frowned and, without taking his eyes from the screen, reached over and picked up Bishop’s cell phone off the floor.

  NINETY-NINE

  As soon as he heard the floorboard creak, Bishop knew his text message to Sayyid had worked. He’d used the cell he’d taken from Naji’s suit pocket after replacing the SIM card with one of the spares Jenna had given him. So the message pointing them to Bishop’s supposed location wouldn’t be seen as originating from a dead man’s phone.

  The moment he heard the muffled sound of a door being kicked in, Bishop pulled his own door open and saw the two figures framed in the doorway of the room opposite. They had their weapons raised as they scanned the room.

  Bishop raised his Beretta and squeezed the trigger three times at the figure on the left. Two centre mass, one in the head. All three hit home and he saw blood spurt from the head wound as the man went down.

  He shifted his aim to the second one and saw the glint of spectacles on his face as he turned. The man was quick. Bishop fired off two shots at his chest section and saw him fall. He landed on the floor with his weapon pointing in Bishop’s direction. Bishop aimed for the head area and fired twice, but the man was still moving and both shots went wide.

  Then Bishop felt the pitter patter of rounds hitting the wall above his head, he leapt back and crawled to the wall at the left of the doorway. The terrorist’s machine gun spat a chain of bullets at the spot he’d just vacated, punching holes in the doorjamb and wall and littering the carpet with plaster and wood. Bishop heard the ejected shells clattering against a wall in the hallway, and then there was just a clicking sound. The man’s gun was empty.

  Bishop got to his feet and heard a magazine being pulled from its housing. He slipped around the doorframe, Beretta pointed at the spot where he’d seen the man fall.

  It was Sayyid.

  The terrorist lay on his back amidst a pool of blood. In the darkness it looked like black oil. His free hand struggled with a spare magazine that had gotten snagged in his well-tailored jacket pocket. He looked up at Bishop as he finally got the magazine free and snarled, ‘Yela’an mayteen ahlak.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Bishop said, and shot him in the left eye.

  His Arabic was poor at best, but he’d gotten the general gist of what Sayyid was saying. Something about God placing a curse on his family’s graves. Not that it affected Bishop one way or the other; insults were better left in the schoolyard. Bishop just hoped he’d meet his own end with a little more dignity.

  He turned to the other one. The one called Hanif was lying on his stomach with his arms outstretched, head on one side and dead eyes turned towards his associate. Placing the Beretta in the back of his waistband, Bishop leaned down and plucked the weapon out of his hand.

  It was a Steyr TMP. A lightweight, compact, Austrian machine pistol he’d used once in another life. Deadly accurate with almost no recoil. No wonder terrorists loved it. Removing the magazine, Bishop saw there were still six rounds left. He replaced the magazine, then leaned down and pulled his knife from its ankle holster.

  Then, with a weapon in each hand, he walked to the staircase that led to the next floor.

  Towards Thorpe.

  ONE HUNDRED

  By the time Bishop reached the third floor landing, he was still holding the Steyr but not the knife. He checked the bathroom and the old fitness room, then pushed open the double doors to Brennan’s office and stepped inside.

  There was enough light coming through the window to see the large desk straight ahead. He glanced briefly at the entranceway to the adjoining room at his right before he stepped over to the bookshelves. Inserting his hand into the fourth shelf down, he pressed the soft area on the side and slid the whole bookcase across.

  ‘No sudden movements, James,’ Thorpe said from behind him.

  Bishop stood motionless.

  ‘Know how much you’ve just cost me?’ Then, without waiting for a reply, Thorpe said, ‘Drop t
he hardware, keep your arms high and turn around real slow.’

  Bishop opened his left hand and dropped the Steyr. He raised his arms and turned to face Thorpe, who was standing six feet away with his Glock aimed at Bishop’s face.

  ‘A fortune, I hope,’ he said.

  Thorpe shook his head. ‘No. Much more than that. But don’t worry, there are plenty of other groups who want what I’ve got and you won’t be around to screw it up next time. I figure you’ve got your Beretta under the shirt, right? Get rid of it in slow motion.’

  Bishop sighed, reached back with his left hand and pulled it out. He threw it towards the desk and heard it land on the floor by one of the legs.

  ‘Now the knife. The one you always keep on your ankle.’

  Left arm stretched out for balance, Bishop leaned down and pulled the left trouser leg up with his bandaged hand to show him the empty holster. ‘Not any more,’ he said, rising again. ‘I found it a nice new home.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Lodged in the space where Danny’s vocal cords should have been.’ Bishop smiled, hoping Thorpe could see it. He raised his right hand with its blood-soaked bandage before lowering both arms to his sides, keeping the left one slightly angled at the elbow. ‘Skinny bitch took one of my fingers, but it was worth it. I slashed at her face a few times before I finished her. Pay her back in kind for what she did to Jenna.’