by Andrew Grant
The remaining four rooms - a kitchen, two bathrooms, and one other, perhaps a staffroom - were deserted as well. That only left a pair of double doors on the opposite side of the corridor. They were closed. A keypad dangled on its wires from the frame, so I was confident they weren’t locked. I stood and listened for a moment. There was nothing to be heard, so I moved silently to the far end, then turned, took out the phone I’d taken from the driver, and dialed the emergency number he’d given me outside.
The call was answered on the first ring.
“Yes?” a man said, in German. “What?”
“Quickly,” I said, whispering to make my voice less recognisable. “Six guys. Front of the building. All armed. Looks like they mean business.”
“On our way,” the man said, then the line went dead.
I switched the rifle to semi automatic - Kalashnikovs are famously reliable, but notoriously hard to control on full auto - and lay down on my front. Five seconds passed. Then the double doors burst open. Two men charged though and started racing away from me, towards the exit. They were tempting targets, but I waited. They covered half the distance to the outside world. Three quarters. Then two more men emerged, running hard, and I finally squeezed the trigger. Four times.
The nearer pair had no chance to react. The other two slowed down a little. The final one even managed to half turn around before the three shells hit him. That was more of a chance than they gave their ‘customers,’ I thought, as I blew the stinging cordite out of my nostrils.
The main warehouse was a broad rectangular space, maybe 5,000 square feet all in. The walls and roof were bare metal, with an exposed skeleton of beams and girders. There was no merchandise left. No boxes, or containers, or even debris. Whoever had cleared the place out had been thorough. But they’d also been in a hurry. They hadn’t unbolted the redundant shelf legs from the floor. They’d just chopped them off about three inches above the surface, leaving scores of jagged L-shaped uprights sprouting from the concrete like the shoots of uniform metal plants.
The only item not physically attached to the ground was the table that held the two piles of drugs. It was standing at the exact centre of the giant room, almost glowing in a pool of moonlight that spilled through a jagged hole in the roof. Three people were in front of it. The two Marines. And Kevin Truly.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, approaching the group.
“Sir,” the biker Marine said, stepping back from Truly but not lowering the gun.
“Any more of his friends around here?” I said.
“There was one outside in the corridor, sir. And the four who just went running out of here, a second ago.”
“They’re all accounted for. Seen anyone else?”
“Not inside, sir. But I think our cab was followed by two guys from the hotel bar. They might be around somewhere.”
“They’re outside. Not in a position to trouble anyone, though.”
The Marines glanced at each other.
“So, then, what we do with him?” the Marine said, gesturing to Truly.
“He’s coming with me,” I said. “A couple of my people are waiting to chat with him.”
“Couldn’t we just... you know?”
“You know, what?”
“Slot the bastard. Get it over with. Here and now.”
I took a long, hard look at the Marine, and then turned to his colleague.
“After what he’s done to us?” the biker Marine said. “He deserves it.”
“And it’s his gun,” the other one said. “It’s not traceable to either of us.”
For people trained to find swift, decisive solutions to problems like this, you could see how the idea would appeal to them. Specially when their heads were on the block, and he was the star witness against them. So for a second, part of me – a tiny part – wished I could just look the other way.
“Not a chance,” I said.
“With due respect, sir, you’ve ‘accounted for’ what, seven of the bastards already, tonight?” the biker said. “What’s one more?”
“Asked, and answered,” I said.
Neither Marine spoke for a moment.
“What if he tried to make a run for it?” the other Marine said. “We’d have no choice, then.”
“OK,” I said. “Tell me this. Who else at the Embassy is involved in this?”
The Marines glanced at each other again, but this time neither one spoke.
“What was going to happen next?” I said. “More drug shipments?”
The biker Marine shrugged.
“Or was this one just to get the noose tighter around your necks?” I said. “So you’d give them, what? The Ambassador’s home address? Floor plans of the Embassy? Details of VIP visits?”
“Forget it,” the biker said. “We’d never give them stuff like that.”
“Spare me,” I said. “And something else. He didn’t do this to you. You did it to yourselves, by acting like morons. Killing him serves no tactical purpose. Not like the people outside. So if you expect any kind of leniency from the Navy, you’ll help me get this guy safely out of here. Are we clear?”
“Sir,” both Marines said after long a pause, but their body language made it clear they weren’t happy.
“Time to move,” I said. “Get him on his feet.”
“On your feet, arsehole,” the biker Marine said to Truly.
Truly didn’t move.
“Feel free to encourage him,” I said.
The Marine stepped forward and jammed the toe of his motorcycle boot into Truly’s left kidney. He squealed and pitched forward, saving himself just before his face hit the concrete. The Marine grabbed him by the collar, hauled him upright, and sent him stumbling towards the exit. I stepped back to avoid his flailing arms, and then something caught my eye. Movement. Above me. From the hole in the roof.
“Gun,” the other Marine shouted, spotting the same thing.
I threw myself forward, crashing my shoulder into Truly and sending him flying. We hit the ground together. I landed on top of him and the impact dislodged a lungful of his foul cigarette-breath, pumping it straight into my face. A bullet hit the ground near my feet, right where Truly had been standing. I grabbed him and rolled, not wanting either of us to offer a static target. I heard three more shots. They were coming from my left. I looked round and saw the biker Marine holding Truly’s Colt two-handed, aiming at the hole in the roof.
“Don’t think I got him,” he said. “He might be running. Shall I go and see?”
“No, stay where you are and give us cover,” I said, pulling out the Ruger I’d taken from the guys in the car and throwing it to the other Marine, who was closer to the exit. “You, outside, quickly. Find him.”
The echo of his footsteps died away and for a moment the warehouse was silent, except for the slight whimpering sound Truly made as I lifted my weight off his chest.
“Come on,” I said to the biker. “Let’s get this idiot out of harm’s way.”
Truly’s legs only managed a weak wriggle when he tried to move so I leaned down to lift him.
“Careful,” the Marine said as I pulled Truly to his feet. “He’s hit. His face is covered with blood.”
I couldn’t think how. I counted the shots I’d heard, and replayed what had just happened in my mind. Then I became away of a familiar throb at the back of my head. And a warm stickiness spreading down my neck. I looked down at the ground and surveyed the stubs of metal left by the shelf legs. It wasn’t obvious at first, because of the lack of light. But if you looked closely, you could just see the tip of the nearest one was darker than its neighbours.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not his.”
St Joseph’s Hospital
London
Patient Admission Record
This patient, a telecommunications consultant who appears to be in his mid-thirties, presented this morning having been driven by his boss from work. He is complaining of a blow to the head suffered
on a business trip to Europe. He appears to be moderately disoriented and is unable to state clearly the circumstances of the accident, his date of birth, or his health service no.
He is not happy about being admitted and has repeatedly stated his intention to self-discharge.
This is the second occasion within the last 6 months that the patient has suffered a moderate to severe blow to the head. It is therefore recommended that an MRI scan be carried out at the earliest opportunity to assess the risk of permanent brain injury.
Chapter Three
I’ve ended up needing treatment many times, over the years. It’s an occupational hazard. But I’d never been hurt saving a drug dealer, before.
I’ve found myself in all kinds of different medical institutions. Huge teaching hospitals. Tiny, charitable clinics. Sick bays on ships. Even a veterinarian's office on one unfortunate occasion. But never anywhere as picture-perfect as St Joseph’s. It was made up of four matching buildings. They dated from the early eighteenth century, according to a round blue sign I saw on my way to the MRI suite, and were arranged symmetrically around a rectangular garden. Three of the wings contained the patients’ wards and private rooms, plus operating theatres and suites for all the specialist treatments the hospital offered. The other housed the kitchens, offices, meeting rooms, and stores.
I’m usually desperate to leave hospital before the doctors want me to. I even had to break out of one, once. But I’d never wanted to be cooped up for longer. Not until that morning, after a bored technician had taken two hours to fill his machine with little electronic slices of my brain. Because someone had taken that time and used some of it to slip into my room. Poke around in my locker. Spill my water. Search inside my pillowcases. Scrabble around under my bed. Rifle through my clothes. Toss my keys and empty wallet onto the floor. And skulk out again, unnoticed.
But whoever this person was, and wherever they went, they didn’t leave empty handed. They took something with them. Something that didn’t belong to them.
A pair of boots.
Grenson brogues. In black. They were nice to look at. The leather was supple, so they were comfortable to wear. Even for days at a time. And the toecaps were solid - almost as good as steel - which is essential in my line of work.
I’d bought the boots in London, the last time I was here for more than two nights in a row. That was three years ago, now. Since then I’d worn them on four continents. In fourteen countries. During twelve jobs. And there’s plenty of life left in them, yet. Enough that I’d figured to keep them another couple of years, at least. Till they got too scruffy. Or I found something I liked better. But either way, I was going to make the decision when to change them. It wasn’t going to be forced on me by some small-time sneak thief. Not at home, in England.
I want to be very clear about those boots. They weren’t government issue. There were no secret gadgets hidden in their heels. They weren’t needed as evidence in any high stakes trial. They were simply my boots. Chosen by me. Paid for by me. And now stolen by someone I’d been injured while protecting. Which meant those boots represented something more than footwear. They represented betrayal. And that’s something I’m never going to take lying down.
There was a practical aspect to the theft, as well. Consider the circumstances. What was I supposed to do without boots? Wander into town in a pair of disposable slippers? Hospital footwear was good enough to get me to the admin wing, though. And, appropriately enough, the first office I came to belonged to the Head of Security. But there was a snag. His secretary spilled the beans within twenty seconds of me approaching her desk. It turned out the guy liked playing golf more than he liked doing his job. Specially when the weather was good. It was unheard of for him to show his face in the office when the sun was out, she said. That doesn’t happen all that often in England, particularly in late autumn. But it was everyone’s bad luck that for the second day running, the sky was blue. So, having verified that his room really was empty, I moved on to the next door in the corridor. It led to the Chief Executive’s secretary’s desk.
Only she was missing, too.
I’d imagine Chief Executives aren’t generally too concerned about pilfered footwear, unless it’s their own belongings that have gone missing, but the whole boot situation – robbed by one of the people I’d been hurt looking out for – was making my blood boil. So, I didn’t waste any time. I went straight for the inner sanctum.
For a moment I thought this office was empty, too, but then I saw the top of a bald head peeping out from above a huge computer monitor that sat on a desk at the far end of the room. The head was strangely pointed, and as I moved closer I could see that its owner was surprisingly young. Probably no older than his late thirties. He was tapping away at a wireless keyboard, and made no effort to look away from his screen even when I would have been near enough to reach out and wipe away the tiny beads of sweat that covered his shiny scalp.
“You’re in the wrong place,” he said after another fifteen seconds, still without even glancing at me.
I turned back, took hold of a wooden chair that was tucked under an oval meeting table by the right hand wall, brought it over to the desk, and sat down.
“What are you doing?” he said. He was looking at me now, and struggling to contain a slight tick in the corner of his left eye. “Don’t waste time making yourself comfortable. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Because I’m not a doctor.”
“You think I’m looking for a medic?”
“Well, let’s see. You’re wearing Health Service pyjamas, which means you’re a patient. And you’re in a hospital. What else could you want?”
I took a moment to look around at the walls of his office. They were lined with motivational posters. Seventeen of them. All neatly framed. And all utterly nauseating.
“You’re the Chief Executive of this place?” I said.
“Well, let’s see,” he said. “This is the Chief Executive’s office. And my name’s on the door. So, the answer must be yes.”
“Then tell me something. To become the boss of a whole hospital, do you go through some kind of training?”
He nodded, very slightly.
“And when you were doing this training, did you pick up anything about making assumptions?” I said.
He didn’t respond.
“It’s a straight-forward question,” I said. “Did your tutors recommend assumption-making? Or not?”
“OK,” he said, after a long pause. “Point taken. You have another reason to be here. Let me guess. You want to complain about something. Another dissatisfied patient who thinks he knows best. What is it this time? The food not tasty enough? Pyjamas not comfortable?”
Before I could reply I heard a noise, behind me. It was the door opening. Someone came through. They were wearing heels. I looked round and saw a woman approaching. In her early fifties, I’d say, with a long blue skirt, cream blouse, and auburn hair cut into a neat, symmetrical bob. She held my eye as she moved, and couldn’t help drifting wide of my chair as she passed me, as if she was afraid I’d pass on some revolting disease.
“Found it,” she said, handing the manila file she’d been carrying to the man behind the desk. I could see a logo on the front - the words Human Resources formed into a circle around the hospital crest - but not anyone’s name.
“Sebastian had it?” he said.
“He did,” she said. “Just as we thought. He was off-site today, but I had to wait for his assistant - that useless Julie - to nip out to Starbucks.”
“They both denied having seen it. Idiots.”
“They always do.”
“It was in his bottom drawer?”
“Where else? And look,” she said, pointing to a coffee stain on the folder’s tattered front cover. “See the state it’s in? It wasn’t like that when we sent it back to them, last time.”
“Well, that’s the least of our worries,” he said. “Good wor
k, finding it. And Mags? Keep your ears open. Any more complaints about you-know-who - any incidents at all, however small - I want to know.”
The woman started back towards the door, but stopped after one step.
“Your visitor,” she said. “He doesn’t have an appointment. Is he...? Or do you want me to...?”
“What do you think?” the man said, turning back to me. “Are you...?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, after a moment. “You clearly have bigger problems than me. Lost files. Coffee stains. The stuff nightmares are made of. I’ll be getting out of your hair now. So to speak. And I’ll find someone else to help me.”
“Good idea,” the man said. “Best of luck with that.”
“I think I’ll start with the police. I’m sure they’ll be much more interested.”
I wasn’t even half way out of my chair before the man spoke again.
“Wait,” he said. “You’re calling the police? Here? To the hospital? Why? What’s the problem?”
I lowered myself back down and met his gaze, but I didn’t reply.
“Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said after a few seconds, then flashed me a sickly smile. “Why don’t we start this conversation all over again? If there’s a problem, I’d be more than happy to help. That’s what I’m here for, at the end of the day. There’s no need to go calling anyone else. So, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I didn’t answer. His change of heart wasn’t fooling anyone. I was inclined to just walk out and let him believe I was following through with the police. The local plod was unlikely to spring into action over a pair of stolen boots, obviously, but the prospect of a horde of uniforms descending on the place seemed to have got him pretty rattled. In another second I’d have been heading for the exit, but then my eyes were drawn to the poster above the man’s head. It showed a huge shark about to snap up a tiny minnow, with the caption, “AMBITION - If you can’t swim with the big fish, stay out of the water.”
