by Matt Hilton
Chapter 26
January 28th 1988
Clapham, London
There were two men hiding behind a low counter over the top of which smaller consignments were once handed to drivers for delivery elsewhere in the country. The front of the counter was constructed of wood, sheathed in pine board cladding that had discoloured and warped over time. The top was formed of burnished steel, but it was scratched and nicked and covered in a greasy black film, the accumulated filth from sweaty palms and dirty sleeves that had leaned on it throughout the years. When Rembrandt’s bullets struck it they left bright scrapes in the metal work. He’d tried shooting through the wooden front, but it was apparent that the inside of the counter was well constructed and he’d failed to pierce it and either of the combatants behind it.
He’d emptied a clip of ammunition trying to get at the men, and was now on his second. He had spares pushed into his waistband, and it wasn’t as if it was pure waste. He was shooting in order to keep the men’s heads down while Jamal flanked them.
One shooter popped up, his gun barking. In the dim light each muzzle flash was as good a target as Rembrandt could hope for. He held his position, ignoring the bullets flattening against the doorframe he used for cover, waiting, watching the flashes. He timed his response, measured the distance between the muzzle and the hand aiming it, then along the arm to the body. He eased out a breath, held steady. He fired.
Rembrandt’s reward was the coughing curse of a man and the gun-wielder dropped down behind the counter. There followed angry exclamations, and then a prolonged moan of agony. Rembrandt knew he’d gained a hit, but not clean enough to kill the man outright. It didn’t matter, because in the next instant Jamal rushed from concealment on the opposite side of the room and vaulted over the countertop. Before Jamal had even landed Rembrandt was out and running.
Jamal hit the back wall, but he used the collision to spin him and he was ready with his gun before the kidnappers knew he was there. He fired. Return fire clipped the wall next to Jamal’s head and he was forced to duck aside to avoid the flying chips of brick as much as the ricochets.
Rembrandt went belly down over the burnished steel counter, allowing the slick surface to carry him across obliquely, and as his upper body cleared the counter he was looking down at the man he’d previously wounded. It was difficult to see where he’d hit him, but the man’s face glowed palely in the dimness. Rembrandt fired at the pasty face and saw a red dot appear right of centre of the forehead. The man slumped. Rembrandt jerked back over the counter and on to his feet, checking behind him, leaving the final man to Jamal. The Asian fired twice and killed his opponent. Then he turned and stared back at Rembrandt, his face feverish.
Rembrandt understood what caused Jamal’s discomfort: they were killing with impunity, with no real sense that these men were the ones definitely responsible for bringing on the imminent nuclear conflagration. Rembrandt had settled his own mind in the knowledge that – if they were wrong – it didn’t matter, because the lives of the people here were counted in days at any rate, because they were slated for immolation when the bombs began dropping. Not only that but the kidnappers were criminals, and they were armed. Where was the issue?
In the darkness Jamal’s eyes were rheumy, the sclera a pale yellow. He recognised the man’s fear and revulsion and wondered why he hadn’t experienced a similar response to the killings.
From further away came the rattle of gunfire, punctuated by the steady roll of Harry Bowlam’s machinegun.
Rembrandt looked at Jamal.
‘Everyone must die,’ Rembrandt said.
Jamal nodded, but his mouth was held in a tight slash.
Rembrandt’s nod was much briefer, and pointed.
‘Let’s go.’
He led the way past the counter into a large warehouse space, filled almost to capacity by piles of cardboard and bundled paper. Dull sunlight came through grimy windows, but the place was more shadow than light. The air was redolent with a mustiness that caused his nostrils to itch. He also caught a whiff of something more pleasant, a woman’s perfume. He ignored it, moving on between two rows of teetering piles of flattened cardboard boxes. Everyone must die. As he came to the end of the unnatural chasm, he paused to check the ground ahead. At the far right was the police van used to snatch Barry Miller. The rest of the large room was empty but for a plastic chair with metal legs. Taking things easy, he moved forward, trusting that Jamal had his back. As he approached the chair he could see fresh gouges in the linoleum flooring, as though someone had been scraping and bouncing the legs around. There was the residue of sticky tape adhering to the arms and back of the chair. He guessed that Miller had been bound to the chair only minutes earlier. But where was he now?
A muffled exclamation rewarded him, followed moments later by the scrape of a shoe on the gritty floor. Rembrandt brought up his sidearm, aiming at the source of the noise.
‘There,’ Jamal whispered from behind him.
Rembrandt glanced once at his friend, following the direction of his nod to where two figures emerged from a side door barely ten feet from the front of the police van.
Barry Miller was a short, unremarkable-looking man with thinning hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. His suit was rumpled, the coat he’d previously worn missing. In contrast his captor was stunning. She was a beauty the likes of which Rembrandt had never seen before: even Crystal Kwolek who he’d found a new appreciation for paled alongside this woman’s gorgeousness. To Rembrandt, she looked as if she might be of the Eastern Bloc; she had the chiseled cheekbones and deep eyes, the slim nose and pert lips he’d seen on other women with a Russian heritage. Her short but chic hair, the cut of her clothing on a strong but very feminine form, set a pulse pounding in his throat. The only thing that spoiled his ideal image of loveliness was the gun she jammed under Miller’s chin as she guided him towards the van.
‘Keep back,’ the woman shouted, ‘or I’ll kill this man.’
Rembrandt heard the echo of his own words, and grimaced at them. Everyone must die. Not that he was blinded by the woman’s beauty, because she was as valid a target as the men who’d stood against them. But he regretted that the only way to get to her was by way of dropping Barry Miller first. When all came to all, Miller was the victim in all this. Of course, the best way to ensure that the man never got to shoot the president was by killing him before the event. Right now, because Miller shielded her, Rembrandt understood there was single recourse to the situation.
‘Kill him,’ he shouted back at her. ‘Give me a clear shot at you, you bitch.’
His words struck the woman like a blow. She blinked at him, her mouth working soundlessly. But it was a moment of shock only, because she again wrestled Miller towards the van, believing that Rembrandt was bluffing. What kind of policeman told a kidnapper to shoot their hostage?
She moved for the front of the van, hoping to place it between her and Rembrandt’s gun. Rembrandt fired, striking sparks from the van’s bonnet. The woman shied away, but had the presence of mind to tug Miller along with her. She made herself a smaller target behind the man.
‘You’re not getting out of here alive,’ Rembrandt called. He was conscious of Jamal making his way through the stacks to gain a better crossfire position on the woman.
Suddenly it was as if Miller came out of a trance. ‘Please! For God’s sake, don’t shoot her. They have my wife and daughter. If you hurt her, they’ll be murdered.’
‘Shut up!’ The woman stabbed the barrel of her gun deep into Miller’s throat, causing him to gag. She swung the gun away, seeking Rembrandt once more. Although, in the next instant, it was as though she realised the importance of his words, and that he’d found a way out for her. ‘It’s true. If I don’t make contact with my people, his wife and daughter will be killed. Do you wish that on your conscience?’
‘Personally I don’t give a fuck,’ Rembrandt said, as he edged towards her. Yet his resistance to shoot told the lie. ‘What’s m
ore important is that you die, and the planned assassination won’t happen.’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘You’d be surprised what I know.’ Actually, there was little that Rembrandt knew about the people responsible for the plot to assassinate President Reagan in this timeline. Learning that others held Miller’s family came as no surprise – Miller’s final words had more or less said as much, and his wife and kid had later turned up dead – but it was enough to give him pause. What if Miller was only one of a number of patsies that the group was coercing into being their lone gunmen? He could kill both the woman and Miller here and now, and his conscience would remain clean, but what if that meant they’d only move onto some other poor sap forced to do their bidding for fear of their loved ones’ lives? ‘Now drop the fucking gun, or I’ll shoot.’
‘No you won’t. If you were going to go through with your threat you’d have done so by now. This is what’s going to happen: You’re the one who’s going to drop his gun.’
Rembrandt raised an eyebrow.
He squeezed his trigger and his gun bucked. The bullet struck Miller and the sudden collapse of his body was too much for the woman to control. Miller slid boneless to the ground, his mouth opening in the beginnings of a startled and pain-filled cry. Before he could utter a word, or the woman could react, Rembrandt fired again. This time his bullet struck a more disabling target than a meaty thigh, catching the woman high in her right shoulder. She yelped, her arm spasming and her gun flying from her grip. She staggered away towards the van, but Jamal was waiting for her and delivered an uppercut blow to her midriff that took any resistance out of her. She practically folded over his forearm, and he grappled her into a better position where he could snake an arm around her throat. He gave her neck a hard squeeze and she collapsed, almost unconscious in his grasp.
Rembrandt stalked towards Jamal and his captive with barely a glance for Miller. The man was sitting on the floor trying to stem the flow of blood from his leg, a look of shock cast up at the man who’d shot him.
‘Y-you shot me! I thought you were bluffing, but – bloody hell! – you shot me!’
‘Stop whining,’ Rembrandt snapped. ‘I saved your miserable life, didn’t I?’
Ignoring the pained man, Rembrandt approached the woman. Jamal gave her a shake, and she moaned in agony. He had to hold her up to stop her from collapsing. Rembrandt doubted that his bullet had shattered her shoulder: he’d fired for the outer edge of her deltoid muscle and struck gold. But, from the way her arm hung loosely at her side he thought he might have broken the collarbone. She’d come off lightly considering what her actions preordained.
Pinching her chin between the fingers of his left hand, Rembrandt forced her to meet his gaze. With his right, he placed the muzzle of his gun against her cheek. She hissed at the heat from the barrel, her flesh immediately growing red where the metal touched.
‘Who are you?’
The woman’s face screwed up in pain, and there was no longer anything lovely about it. She spat at Rembrandt.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t wipe away the saliva that clung to his cheek. ‘Who are you?’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Not the lady I assumed,’ Rembrandt said. He nodded at Jamal. ‘Your knife please.’
Jamal frowned at him, but handed over the large kukri blade. Rembrandt put away his gun, transferring the knife so it was against the woman’s jawline. ‘Pretty,’ he said. ‘But not for long.’
Barry Miller struggled across the floor, trailing dripping blood. ‘Don’t kill her! Please…they have my family!’
‘Shut your hole,’ Rembrandt snapped at him, before returning his gaze to the woman. ‘Last chance before I gouge out your eyeball. What is your name?’
‘M-Mina Feeney,’ she said.
‘You’re not Russian?’
She shook her head weakly.
‘But you are KGB?’
Even through her pain she frowned in puzzlement.
‘I’m British,’ she said.
Rembrandt and Jamal shared a glance.
‘Why do you want the US president dead?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Rembrandt jabbed the point of the kukri under her left eyelid, enough that it pierced her skin and drew blood.
‘I said I can’t tell you,’ Mina Feeney shrieked, ‘but not because I won’t. It’s because I don’t know the reason. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
‘Who is behind this?’
‘I don’t know that either.’
‘There’s little you do know. I’m wondering if I’m wasting my time speaking to you.’ Rembrandt bunched his forearm as if preparing to drive the blade into her eye socket.
‘Wait, wait! I’ll tell you what I can.’ Mina sobbed with relief as the blade was withdrawn from her face. ‘I’m simply a facilitator, a broker. I was approached via an intermediary. An anonymous group paid me to organise the abduction of Barry Miller and his family. I was to work on him, get him to agree to terms that they had set out and he would be repaid by the return of his family after the event.’ She was babbling but Rembrandt allowed her to continue. ‘You say that this is a plot to kill the American president? I didn’t know that: the target was yet to be confirmed. I was to prime Miller, prepare him for the moment he was required. That’s all!’
‘Forgive me if I don’t believe you,’ Rembrandt said.
‘It’s true. I’m a mercenary, yes. So were the men you killed. Do you really believe we’d be trusted with such information as who the intended target is? The president of the United States?’
‘I do believe that,’ Rembrandt said.
‘I knew that Miller was being prepped to murder someone, and I’m intelligent enough to conclude that the target was someone important – no one would pay that kind of money to have him shoot a nobody. But I swear that I didn’t know it was Ronald Reagan.’
‘If you knew, you wouldn’t have accepted the commission?’
She bit her lip.
‘Fuck. You are a mercenary, aren’t you?’
‘As are you, I’m guessing,’ said Mina. Her gaze suddenly hardened. ‘You’re not a policeman, and even MI5 don’t use your methods. You’re a freelancer like me. I could make you a wealthy man, you and your friend. Let me go and I’ll give you enough money for you to retire to a private island. Name your price and it’s yours.’
‘How do you put a price on the lives of more than five billion people?’ Rembrandt’s question was rhetoric, and he was rewarded by a look of confusion. ‘Nothing you could offer me would change a thing.’
‘My family!’ Miller croaked.
Rembrandt frowned down at the man, who reached up in beseechment, his palms bloody.
He turned and eyed Mina once more. ‘Miller’s family: tell me where they are and I’ll consider letting you go.’
‘Yes,’ Mina said, relief flooding through her. ‘I’ll have Miller reunited with his wife and daughter. But you must promise that you’ll release me, unharmed, once it is arranged.’
Rembrandt nodded.
‘Let me make a telephone call and it’ll be done.’
‘No. There’ll be no calls so you can warn your people. You’ll direct me to them. Do that and I’ll uphold my end of the bargain.’
Mina knew when she was defeated. She nodded once, then bowed her head. She was grimacing at the pain in her shoulder, but Rembrandt knew that she was also flooding with endorphins and soon her injury would be numb enough that she’d begin thinking more clearly. Once that happened it would be only a matter of time before she began plotting to escape, warn her people and to go to plan B. In her position it’s what he’d do.
‘Tie the bitch up,’ he told Jamal. ‘And watch her. I don’t trust her an inch.’
Suddenly gunfire sounded close by. It was recognisable as the rattle of Bowlam’s machinegun. Harry was yelling in anger. The gunfire curtailed, and Bowlam’s shouts became a roar of grief.
/> Rembrandt scowled. He shared a look of regret with Jamal, and then headed back through the stacks of cardboard to discover what brought such a cry of dismay from Bowlam. Already he had a horrible idea what he’d find.
Chapter 27
January 28th 1988
Clapham, London
Rembrandt came across Harry Bowlam standing over the corpse of the final man in Mina Feeney’s team. Bowlam still aimed the machinegun at the man’s chest…or what little there was left of it. Bowlam had emptied most of a full clip of ammunition through the man and he was now an opened carcass, with chunks of his viscera spread across the floor, blood everywhere. Bowlam was sobbing, still pulling on the trigger, but the smoking gun was unresponsive. He was aware of Rembrandt’s approach but didn’t look up. All his attention was on the man he’d killed. He looked as if he wanted to kill him again. And again.
‘Harry?’ Rembrandt moved in and laid a hand across the smoking machinegun, moving it aside. ‘What are you doing?’
‘The bastard killed Brent, Chief.’ Bowlam’s eyes were red-rimmed, snot dripping from his nose. It appeared he’d bit his own lips in fury, because a string of red drool hung from the left side of his mouth. ‘Fucking ambushed us and shot Brent like he was a sick dog.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Back there.’ Bowlam gave a weak nod towards a shadow-filled access corridor. ‘It’s too late for him, Chief, I saw him shot in the head. I chased this motherfucker here. I got him, Chief, I got the bastard.’
Rembrandt glanced down at the tattered corpse, barely recognisable now as a human being. Bowlam’s words were a supreme understatement.
‘Take me to Walker.’
‘It’s too late, Chief. He’s dead. I saw this bastard take off the top of his head.’ Bowlam nudged the corpse with his boot, looking as if he’d prefer to kick it.
‘Take me to him, Bowlam,’ Rembrandt said, a little harder.
Finally Bowlam shuddered, getting a hold of his emotions. He rubbed a sleeve over his face, clearing away the mucus and the blood. He released the empty magazine, inserted a fresh one and knocked over the charging bolt. It was a show that he was back in control, but Rembrandt knew that. Bowlam was hurting; Brent Walker had been like a younger brother to him, and his best friend. Rembrandt wished to reassure the man, tell him that everything was all right. Or at least things would be put right.
