To his left, there were parapets alongside the pavement, separating it from a lower level. Over the side, he saw that a second road ran below it, with a handful of cars parked on the quay.
He scanned the river, right to left. A boat was docked almost directly under the bridge to his left, close to the Restaurant Le Quai. A second footbridge preceded the Passerelle de Solférino, crossing the road before descending in a spiral and ending near the bank.
There was movement on the nearest footbridge, four dark figures crossing it and preparing to descend the staircase.
Kit spoke as he ran. “Edward to King Richard, I have visual. Subjects are attempting to escape by boat.”
*
Mr White didn’t need any running commentary to know what was happening. For the last three minutes, his eyes had remained fixed on the boat, the metal railing barely registering against his cold leathery hands.
“I can see them myself, Edward. You’re cleared to proceed by any means necessary.”
*
Mike saw them before Kit. Wasting no time, he sprinted to his left, along the Quai Anatole-France, followed closely by Jay.
He needed to get to the lower level but estimated the drop to be at least twelve foot – a risk on such hard ground, particularly with oncoming traffic. The road was dual-lane but one-way; headlights moved from east to west, cars passing at speeds of over sixty miles per hour.
A locked gate closed off a gap between the stone parapets. As he approached, Mike could see that it guarded a stairway leading down to the road below. His first thought was how – or why – Randek had missed it, but he quickly realised that it had been a wise decision. To head for the footbridge, though further away, led directly on to the quay, only metres from the boat.
If he took the stairway, Mike’s only option was to cross the busy road.
*
Kit opened fire from above. Deciding against taking the first stairway, he sprinted towards the footbridge, stopped, inhaled, and steadied himself as he squeezed the trigger.
His target hit the floor immediately, his legs buckling beneath him. Taking breath, he opened fire again, this time unleashing further bullets.
A second hit; he guessed from the man’s actions he was still alive. As he looked to his left, he saw Beauchamp had made it to the footbridge, followed by Salisbury and Stafford, both of whom were firing. Though the gunfire was audible it was muffled, like a series of cars backfiring.
So far, it seemed to have gone unnoticed.
He saw movement on the road below: two men crossing the rarely broken traffic. Moments later, he saw gunfire.
Coming from Mike.
*
The traffic was bad. It would be, wouldn’t it? Ever since the episode at the opera, he sensed Sod’s Law had it in for him.
The road was flanked by pavement on both sides; even on the left, it was wide enough to run along. Trees had been planted at equal intervals, their branches obscuring his view above. Among the sounds of traffic he heard gunfire, apparently from above. He saw one of the thieves on the spiral stairway falling, then another. The other two were nearing the bank; he recognised Everard from his superior size.
The traffic remained unchanged, prohibiting him from crossing. There were cars approaching on both lanes, their headlights blinding. Jay was following close behind, less than ten metres away and looking to cross.
As a gap appeared, Jay went for it, stopping on reaching the dotted line and attempting to slow down the traffic. Mike saw what he was doing and sprinted across. He made it to the other side and jumped the metal fence that separated the road from the quay. Once over, he stopped, steadied himself and fired. A series of bullets left his gun, causing the barrel to light up like a firework. Bodies moved on the bank. He saw the man he guessed was Randek jump aboard the boat, bag in hand. The man behind him began to slow, his pace little more than a stagger.
Finally he collapsed to the ground.
*
Everard had never experienced pain like it. It felt like intense burning and freezing at the same time.
The first bullet had missed him. He saw a spark rise as it deflected off the stairway, reflecting away on to the nearby concrete.
The second caught him on the right shoulder, causing it to seize up immediately. The third entered his left hamstring, leaving him with the feeling that a significant chunk of flesh had been removed. The first thought that entered his mind was that he would live, probably recover.
And that meant telling the tale.
*
Mike skidded to a halt alongside Everard, his gun pointed squarely at his forehead. He saw fatigue in Everard’s eyes, reminding him of the night before.
Behind him, the boat was departing, its motor kicking up waves as it sped towards Notre Dame. Though he didn’t recognise the driver, Randek was clearly aboard, his concerned eyes on his accomplice.
“Where’s he headed?” Mike asked, grabbing Everard around the collar. Blood was pouring from the man’s shoulder, staining his shirt and sticking to Mike’s fingers.
Mike put pressure on the wound. “Where?”
Everard growled in pain. “Eleventh arrondissement!”
Mike released him and rose slowly to his feet. Only metres behind him, Jay was standing with his eyes on the Seine; the boat was picking up speed, heading east towards Le Pont Royal.
Back on the footbridge, Beauchamp, Salisbury and Stafford were standing over the slumped bodies of the other men, both of whom appeared to be dead.
Mike scanned the footbridge, then the road above, realising someone was missing.
“Where’s Edward?”
*
What’s the greatest crime? The crime that occurred yesterday or the crime that occurs tomorrow?
Mr White’s words echoed in Kit’s mind. He’d seen the two men he’d shot stumble to the ground, whether fatally or less seriously wounded he was unsure. He saw Mike crossing the road, closing in on the bank. Fair dos, the boy had chosen well. Unlike himself, he had a chance of making it to the boat.
Reaching it himself was now impossible.
He made a snap decision. Heading in the opposite direction, he sprinted east along Place Henry de Montherlant.
“Maria, I’m going to need your maths skills. What’s my distance to Le Pont Royal?”
*
Maria was standing on the lower deck, away from her laptop. “That’s hardly maths.”
“All right, perception skills then. How far?”
Maria eyed the bridge from the deck, its ornate arches illuminated by streetlights. There were cars on the bridge, travelling south on to the Rue du Bac or north towards the Louvre.
She gazed back towards the Musée d’Orsay and made a calculation in her mind.
“I don’t know, I’d guess four hundred and fifty metres,” she said, confused by why it would be important. As she scanned the road that led alongside the museum she noticed a figure sprinting east.
“Are you . . .” She paused as she spoke. “You’re not going to do what I think you are, are you?”
*
Four hundred and fifty metres was just over a lap of the track. He remembered seeing Michael Johnson do it in less than forty-four seconds. He was no Michael Johnson, but he knew he was fast, particularly on the flat. Better yet, there were no cars in front of him to slow him down.
Keeping to the pavement, he sprinted east, passing the main entrance of the museum. He heard Maria break off before rephrasing the question. On this occasion, he decided not to answer.
It sounded like a rhetorical question anyway.
The road forked after a hundred metres as Place Henry de Montherlant merged with the lower section of the Quai Anatole-France – the road Mike had just crossed. A pedestrian crossing connected the pavement near the south bank with the entrance to the museum. He crossed it at speed, pleased the Paris drivers had chosen to obey the rules.
Once over, he kept to the pavement, now running alongside the river. As he lo
oked to his left, he saw the boat had cast off, unsurprisingly heading east. He estimated he had twenty seconds before it passed Le Pont Royal.
He picked up the pace, breathing steadily. Thankfully the pavement was deserted, his running unrestricted. As he reached the bridge, he saw the boat approaching beneath, the sound of motors buzzing in his ear.
Fifteen seconds . . . ten seconds . . . five . . .
There was traffic on the road, heading both ways. Chancing it, he narrowly avoided contact with a silver Renault Clio and continued to the east side of the bridge. As he got to the wall he jumped.
And landed on something solid below.
*
Standing below deck in the galley, Randek thought they’d hit something – that the boat was in danger of sinking. The crash had definitely occurred near the front of the boat, somewhere close to the bow. Returning to the upper deck, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
One of the Englishmen had made it aboard.
*
Kit landed within a metre of the railings that flanked the exterior of the boat from the bow to the stern. As he opened his eyes, seeing the brightly coloured metal reflecting the nearby lights, he realised he’d almost lost a massive gamble.
Someone was standing at the helm, separated from Kit by a thick layer of glass. The driver was a tall man with both hands currently fixed on the wheel. Kit used the opportunity to catch him unarmed and jumped the windscreen, bringing him crashing down on the helmsman. A punch to the face drew blood from his nose and lip.
The blow had knocked him unconscious.
Randek appeared in the doorway that led down to the galley, opposite the helm, holding a semi-automatic machine gun.
Kit fired, narrowly missing Randek’s head. A blaze of gunfire ripped through the upholstery; those that missed created a line through the water. Randek ducked and took shelter inside the galley.
“You can’t win this; your friends are dead. Return the painting and we can talk.”
Almost immediately, Kit heard gunfire coming from the galley. Randek reappeared at the doorway, a thick yellow blaze lighting up his firearm. Kit dived to his left, narrowly avoiding a bullet. As he returned fire he heard speech; whatever Randek said, the words were inaudible.
Randek fired until he was out of ammo, forcing him to reload. As the sound of gunfire was replaced by silence, Kit took the opportunity to do the same and approached the door to the galley. As Randek’s head reappeared above the gap, he kicked him hard and blood spewed from his nose. As he saw the Frenchman lose his balance, he felt hands around his feet.
They both crashed to the floor.
Kit rolled to his right, instinctive, the gun still in his hand. He aimed to his right and sought to fire but stopped. They had drifted precariously inland, less than five metres from the bank and the passing civilians.
He felt a presence above him, followed by a punch to the face, then another, causing him to lose his gun. As Randek’s fist appeared again, he rolled to his right, narrowly avoiding contact. The Frenchman’s knuckles crashed against the deck, and he cried out in pain.
Kit lunged for the wheel and turned hard to the right. Immediately he heard a crash, forcing them both off balance. He saw Randek stumble against the door to the galley, disappearing again below deck.
Kit went for his gun and pulled the trigger, his bullets ruining the white décor. As his magazine emptied, Randek moved quickly through the door and jumped at his legs. He felt arms around his feet, bringing him to the floor. Despite landing on his left shoulder, the impact was greatest at the small of his back, the area Everard had injured at the opera house. He felt a further punch to his face, catching him square around the jaw, then a second just below the eye.
He rolled to his left and struggled to his feet. Turning, he caught Randek with a right hook, drawing blood from the base of his nose. Two more followed, knocking the Frenchman to the ground as the boat surged forward, the impact throwing Kit against the wheel to his right. The boat was still moving; rebounding off the bank and back towards the heart of the river.
Randek was back on his feet. He kicked Kit in the groin and wrestled him for the wheel. As Kit tightened his grip, he elbowed Randek in the face, kicked him and raised the throttle. Again, he felt impact from his left, another hard punch. He spun the wheel right; another crash as the starboard side of the boat bounced against the bank. Stumbling, he felt a hard punch in the face, then blood drip from his nose as he lost control of his legs.
The final impact took him overboard, head first into the water.
When he rose to the surface he saw the boat accelerating away, heading east under the lights of Notre Dame.
26
Suffolk, 12 p.m.
The day started early, despite a night of little rest. Mike had spent most of it on a plane, then in his bed in Charlestown.
It almost felt strange waking up in his own room.
The stolen loot had been found in Paris. Thanks to Everard, it was located in time, in the cellar of an antiquarian’s bookshop on a cobbled street somewhere in the inner city. According to an inventory released by Interpol and the gendarmes, they included one by Sir Walter Raleigh: The Ocean to Cynthia. Also mentioned were seventeen items stolen from Edinburgh, including something called The Flower MacDonald, a clan text from the 1500s.
Apparently it had been the most important target.
The news on Everard was much as expected. He’d been taken to hospital immediately, wounded but in little imminent danger. According to the surgeon who had operated on him, the procedure had been straightforward. In the coming days, he’d be transferred to a high security cell where he would await trial on charges of terrorism. Bail was out of the question.
The two Mike had taken out on the stairwell were still asleep by the time Grosmont and the others came to tidy up the mess. Both woke up in a police car.
Both were now in custody.
The men shot on the footbridge were less lucky – or luckier, in Kit’s opinion. Neither survived long.
Neither would face trial.
*
Mike was seated in his usual seat, his eyes taking in the familiar surroundings. Kit was the only other person present, apart from the Director. It was approaching noon; the outside sky overcast, a light drizzle falling. The pub above, though open, was sparse with people, as usual at that time. Most who had arrived were of the older generation; in summer months many would congregate in the lounge and pass the time playing dominos or chatting whilst watching county cricket on Sky.
All knew better than to go poking their noses into other people’s business.
Mr White approached from the far side of the room, his appearance immaculate as ever. Despite the pressures of the night before, his face displayed little hint of fatigue.
“The business in France, just like that in Edinburgh, must never be known outside this room,” he said, walking in his customary slow and emphatic manner, his dark eyes looking towards the famous table. “As far as the wider world are to be aware, the business at the Musée d’Orsay was the same as Edinburgh. An art heist gone wrong. The Parisians will never know whether anything was taken or that we were even there.”
Kit bit his lip hard. Though his back felt better, swelling around his right eye and nose confirmed his night had been eventful.
“Any news on Randek?”
“The boat was found seven miles along the Seine,” Mr White said, raising his eyebrows and swiping his index finger against his electronic tablet. The large screen on the adjacent wall lit up, identifying a photograph of a deserted boat, set against a scenic backdrop that neither Mike nor Kit recognised.
“Needless to say, both the painting and the man were gone.”
“And the driver?”
“The entire ship was deserted. Two types of blood were discovered in separate parts of the helm. Of course, the possibility can’t be ruled out that one of these was yours.”
Quite probably, Kit said in his mind. “So t
he painting’s gone?”
“I’ve told you before, Masterson, our only concern is the protection of the realm. If the museum wants to protect its wares, I suggest they improve their security. The gendarmerie already has three suspects. The one that got away I think it’s fair to say is already well known to them. It’s only a matter of time before he’s caught.”
Mike nodded. He’d been quiet, but not just because of fatigue. The three attacks had all been the work of the same people, but carried out in different ways, for apparently different purposes.
The only definite connections were the person and the place.
Randek.
Bordeaux.
“How about the bastards who survived – I assume they’ve been questioned?”
Mr White walked towards the main console and returned carrying two items. “Everard confessed the crime at Edinburgh. Incidentally that also helped establish a result on the book taken from Montacute House.”
He circled the table and passed both objects to Mike. “I suggest you be more careful with these than I was with its doppelganger.”
Mike picked up the manuscripts and examined the one on top. Though the title was barely legible, it had been placed in a file, marked with references that only made sense to the staff of the National Library in Edinburgh. Inside, the content was handwritten, apparently of relevance to one of the clans of Scotland – the MacDonalds.
He had no idea what it meant.
The second was easier to read. The Ocean to Cynthia, also handwritten, apparently by a famous man. He opened it to the first page; the first thought that came to mind was of Shakespeare, iambic pentameter. Each letter was beautifully presented, which made him wonder just who was the real Raleigh? Great seafarers and calligraphers are rarely one and the same, particularly those who existed at a time when one role was as prominent as the other. As he skimmed through the pages, he made out words, as if he were reading the emotional story of a man whose heart currently lay in another time and place. Like the ocean, the walls of the Tower of London were restrictive, and separated him from what he loved. Whom he loved.
As he continued through the pages, the writing disappeared, replaced by blank pages. On the very last, a few lines were visible, their shapes vague and random as if a drawing had been rubbed out. He looked at it for several seconds, hoping to identify a meaning.
The Bordeaux Connection Page 20
