by Jack Higgins
Ali Selim, standing up at the wheel, howled with delight. “There she is, ready and waiting.”
Kurbsky and Bounine had been drenched with waves engulfing them, and it had taken time for Kurbsky to wrestle the gutting knife free with his bound hands. He showed it to Bounine, who half turned, holding up his wrists at the rear, and Kurbsky sliced through. He held out his hands, and Bounine freed him and gave the knife back to him.
Kurbsky stabbed into the thwart of the Running Dog, the razor-sharp blade doing terrible damage, and it swerved and immediately started to slow. Ali Selim turned, hanging on to the wheel, trying to keep his balance. Bounine and Kurbsky tried to stand up.
Everything seemed to happen at once. Ali Selim held on to the wheel with one hand and drew his Beretta, loosing off a shot wildly as the boat swerved. Bounine was hit in the right shoulder and knocked back in the stern seat.
“You bastard,” Ali Selim cried, and shot Kurbsky twice, once in the nylon-and-titanium jacket, the second round passing straight through the left hip. He turned back to concentrate on the steering, the boat slowing down, and Kurbsky flung himself against his back, sliding his right hand around and cutting his throat.
Ali Selim fell to his knees, bowing his head across the steering wheel as his life ebbed away. Over to the left, the Garden of Eden was virtually invisible in the rain and mist. The engine suddenly died and the Running Dog drifted, half full of water, pushed by the current.
Bounine was trying to sit up. Kurbsky sliced the waist tapes of Ali Selim’s life jacket, removed it, and went and looped it over his friend’s head.
“Hang on, old lad, we’re going for a swim.”
“The bag, Alex,” Bounine croaked. “The Semtex.”
“Of course.” Things seemed to be happening in slow motion for Kurbsky. “I think we’ll leave it to go down with the ship.”
He was knee-deep in water as he helped his friend over the side and followed him. The tidal current pulled them away, Kurbsky holding on to a strap on Bounine’s life jacket. The Running Dog had disappeared completely now. It was quiet, distant city sounds, the rain muffling everything, and then the surface of the river heaved and an enormous fountain jetted up, the sound echoing with a curious flatness.
In the computer room, Roper said, “And what in the hell was that?” to Doyle, and hurriedly called Ferguson on his mobile, connecting with him instantly. “What’s going on?”
Ferguson said, “Don’t know. It wasn’t us. There was some craft proceeding very fast midriver and then it stopped and there was a muffled bang. The River Police are investigating.”
IN EXTREME CONDITIONS, a five-knot current can be found on the Thames, but three knots is relatively common, and it was enough to push Kurbsky and Bounine at some speed downriver. There was a certain amount of traffic, but visibility was so poor they simply weren’t seen.
They’d been in the water at least forty minutes, hypothermia kicking in, when their luck changed and a strong eddy in the water swept them in toward the shore. They drifted in toward an entrance between two wharfs. A notice board, paint peeling, said “Puddle Dock.”
Bounine said, “What the hell does that mean?”
“English humor, Yuri. Who cares? We’re alive.”
“Only just,” Bounine gasped as they were swept in between stone piers and ended up at broad stone steps leading down into the water.
It was only when attempting to scramble out of the water onto the steps that Kurbsky realized how serious his wound was. He sprawled on a step in considerable pain.
“The bastard got you twice?” Bounine said.
“I think I’d have been dead if I hadn’t been wearing a bulletproof vest, but the other one’s in the right hip. It’s bad, Yuri. What about you? Now we’re out of the water, I can see you’re bleeding like crazy.”
“Left shoulder.” Bounine looked about him at the decaying building, the rotting barges, the total desolation. “Well, I don’t know what we’re doing here at the backside of the world, but we’re alive, Alex, at least for the moment. What do we do?”
Kurbsky took out a mobile from his right breast shirt pocket. “Waterproof. I think we’ll hand ourselves in.”
Roper answered at once. “Good God, Alex, where are you?”
“In a bad way, Roper, with my good friend Yuri Bounine. Luzhkov’s dead at the hands of a very bad article named Ali Selim, who was going to blow up the Garden of Eden using a fast orange rescue boat with seventy pounds of Semtex primed with short-time pencil fuses in a suitcase. Bounine and I were his prisoners, we managed to break free, I cut his throat, and the boat went down and blew up. In the process, Bounine and I got shot to pieces. We must have left a quart of blood each drifting downriver with the current-and let’s get one thing straight, in case I die on you. Bounine’s one of the good guys in this. Treat him right.”
“Where are you?” Roper demanded.
“Don’t laugh, but according to the sign it’s called Puddle Dock. I can’t go on-I think I’m going to pass out.” Which he did, dropping the Codex on the step, and Bounine picked it up.
Roper was saying, “Hang on, Alex, hang on. We’ll send a helicopter.”
“Bounine here. Whatever you send, it better be quick-he’s out of it, and I’m not feeling too good myself.” He leaned against Kurbsky, tried to put his good arm around him, and fainted.
KATYA AND SVETLANA had moved back to the conservatory after turning off the television. The buzzer sounded and Katya discovered Billy Salter on the screen.
“Let me in, Katya, it’s important.”
She did, and was waiting at the front door when he appeared in his Alfa Romeo. He got out, and she knew from his face it was bad news.
“What is it, Billy?”
“I’d rather keep it for both of you.”
“That bad?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He followed her in and along to the conservatory, where they found Svetlana sitting on her wicker throne. “Why, Mr. Salter, it’s you.”
“And my news isn’t too good.”
“Then let us hear it.”
“SO THE HELICOPTER found them half dead at this place Puddle Dock and rushed them straight to Rosedene. It’s in the same area of Holland Park -local people assume it’s a nursing home, but it’s a very private hospital maintained for security personnel, run by Professor Charles Bellamy, the finest general surgeon in London. I should know-he’s put me back together again twice.”
“And he’s operating now?” Katya asked.
“He and his assistants are taking care of both Alex and this Bounine guy as we speak. The very best of treatment, and by God they’ve earned it. The Prime Minister, the Israeli Prime Minister, the President of Palestine, and the Vice President of the United States. If this guy Ali Selim had managed to bring it off, it would have shaken the world.”
“To put it mildly,” Katya said.
“So can we go now to this Rosedene?” Svetlana asked.
“That’s what I’m here for. Ladies, your carriage awaits.”
IT WAS LATE evening at Rosedene, and dark outside, and they sat in the lounge with Dillon and Monica, the women talking in low voices. The matron, Maggie Duncan, looked in. “We’ve two teams working away, Professor Bellamy alternating. Both patients have lost phenomenal quantities of blood, but that’s down to the time they were floating along in the river. Bounine took a shoulder shot that passed straight through, so he isn’t too bad.”
“And Alex?” Katya asked.
“Much more serious. His bulletproof vest stopped the first round, but the second caught him in the hip and fractured the pelvis. He’s going to need a plate, and that’s being attended to now.”
Katya said, “That’s not too good, is it?”
Surprisingly, it was Svetlana who said, “He’s alive, which, considering his activities in past years, is a miracle. The hip will mend-there is excellent therapy available these days.” She shrugged. “The love of a good woman. Who knows?�
��
Maggie Duncan said, “He isn’t going to die. We specialize in desperate cases here, so I’m an expert. I expect you’ll want to hang on for the long haul? We have accommodations available if you’d like.”
Katya glanced at Svetlana, who nodded. “Thank you, we’d like that.”
Dillon and Monica got up. “We’d better be off.”
“Me too,” Billy said.
They went, and Maggie Duncan said, “I’ll have one of the girls bring you some fresh tea.” She turned to go, and Professor Bellamy came in wearing theater scrubs. Maggie made the introductions.
“I won’t pretend it isn’t serious,” he said. “It is and it will take time, but he will respond to the right treatment. His friend is a different story. He’ll be up and about quite soon, but let me say this about your nephew, Mrs. Kelly. He has been wounded many times. He can’t continue like this.”
Svetlana smiled. “We’ll try to see that he doesn’t.”
“Give it an hour, then you can look in, but don’t stay too long,” and he left them there.
THEY HAD MORE tea and a sandwich, and about an hour later, the outer door opened and Roper appeared in his wheelchair, followed by Ferguson. The General was in excellent spirits.
“I’ve just had Bellamy on my phone telling me how things stand with our two heroes. We’ve played the whole episode down, so there won’t be any media follow-up. I think we can get away with it. We’ve put out a cover story on the boat exploding. An overheated gas tank, pure accident. No one could see or hear anything anyway, so I think we’ll be all right there too.”
“And where does that leave Alex?” Katya asked.
Roper answered. “Remember what I said? That he could always sit around somewhere, let his hair grow, write a truly great book, and reappear on the international scene when it suited him? The Americans have agreed to give him asylum, so he can start that process whenever he wants to-wherever he wants to.”
“And this friend of his?”
“Bounine? Asylum-from us-too. He can work for me.”
Maggie looked in. “He’s stirring. If you want to take a quick look, do.”
Katya turned to Svetlana, who shook her head. “I can see him anytime now, thanks be to God. You go, my dear.”
Katya opened the door and stepped in. The light was dim and he was propped up, a cage over him from the waist down. He looked very frail lying there, his head bald, the eyes closed. She moved closer, filled with an incredible tenderness.
His eyes flickered open. “Katya, is that you?”
“Yes, Alex.”
“Good.” His eyes closed again.
She went out, full of energy, dazzled by hope. Ferguson and Svetlana were talking, and stopped, and Svetlana said, “How is he?”
“He’s well, I think, and he’ll be better.” She turned to Ferguson. “What you were talking about-Alexander’s future? Is that a definite offer, slate wiped clean?”
“Absolutely, my word on it.”
“And you can do that?”
General Charles Ferguson smiled, and for a moment there was a touch of the wolf there. “My dear lady, I can do anything,” he said.
Jack Higgins
***
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