Szulu felt his mouth go dry. The three men didn’t bother climbing the small brick wall around the car park, they hurdled it like Olympic athletes, their feet making almost no noise. As they flitted under one of the overhead lights, he saw they were dressed in dark clothes and soft boots. And each man was carrying a handgun.
Szulu swore long and hard. This wasn’t good news. More bloody Russians? Had to be. Not police; they’d have had the place surrounded with lights and sirens and a risk-assessment team debating whether it was safe to go in or not.
He stepped out from his doorway, ready to take a run at the building and see what he could do. Maybe he’d find a weapon or something. Maybe he could pretend to be a cleaner arriving late for his shift. Maybe ‘That’s far enough, pal.’
No way! He’d forgotten the driver; taken his eye off the ball and missed the guy climbing out from behind the wheel. The man was dressed like his mates, all in black, and holding a handgun with a two-fisted grip, pointed at Szulu, his feet planted squarely. Shit, thought Szulu, this guy’s not messing. He looked fit and hard, like he knew what he was doing, and the gun looked big, too. Szulu’s legs felt like they were turning to water.
‘You don’t want to play Rambo,’ the man said, almost conversationally. ‘Best get back in your hidey-hole and wait. Your friends’ll be out soon enough.’
Szulu scowled at him, nerves forgotten as indignation asserted itself. ‘Rambo? Who you callin’ names, man?’ He stopped. Wait. The man didn’t sound Russian. And what did he know about who his friends were?
The man chuckled. ‘No offence. Szulu, isn’t it? Believe me, this isn’t the time for heroics.’ He gestured with the gun towards the building. ‘You’d best get out of sight and stay down,’ he advised. ‘If any of the bad guys get out and see you, they might not stop to ask questions.’
He turned and jogged back to the van and climbed in. Quickly reversing it back down the street, he tucked it into the kerb just out of the glow of the nearest street light. Now it was almost invisible; just another van parked up for the night.
Szulu had to admire the slickness of the operation. He swallowed and moved back to his doorway, wondering about something else which was a bit more worrying: how come a complete stranger — a gun-carrying stranger, no less — knew his name?
‘You had her taken and brought here?’ Vasiliyev was ready to burst. He spun round to face Fedorov as they entered the main office, ignoring the gun held to his head by Olek. ‘Are you insane? She is not going to help us — don’t you understand that? This operation is over. What’s the use of pretending? Why not simply put her name on the article and deal with whatever happens afterwards?’
Fedorov’s eyes grew round at this open challenge to his authority. He was not accustomed to his underlings speaking to him like this. Indeed he had killed men for less. He made a chopping motion, cutting off further protest.
‘Enough!’ he hissed, a fleck of spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and stabbed his assistant in the chest with a thin finger. ‘You forget yourself, Radko Vasiliyev.’ He placed a deliberate emphasis on the man’s real name. ‘I brought you here… I can just as easily make you go away!’ He snapped his fingers with contempt, the noise sharp in the sudden silence, and waited for an objection. When none came, he continued, ‘Now, get rid of the woman. And make it final. We are leaving this place as soon as we can and I want no traces to follow us. Do you understand?’
Vasiliyev licked his lips. He was shocked by the strength of Fedorov’s reaction and the gun pointed at his head. His boss rarely demonstrated more than a quiet, contained anger when things didn’t go right; it was what made the man so dangerous, as if he preferred to harbour his thoughts deep inside, using others to give physical vent to his emotions. But this was extreme. And the fact that he was still alive meant little; he was a realist and knew it might not last.
‘But-’
‘But nothing. Where is Pechov?’
Vasiliyev shook his head. He had lost track of Pechov long ago, and it was now clear why: while keeping him out of the way, Fedorov had given the muscle-bound thug other jobs to do — the most significant of which was to take Riley Gavin hostage. And for what? A simple lesson in who held the most power? It was insane.
He tried to think. The other man, a tall, lard-skinned Ukrainian thug named Roychev, was downstairs, keeping an eye on the approaches to the building. ‘Pechov is not answering his phone. Maybe he decided to run.’ It was all he could think of to say. ‘I will find Roychev and get him to check the building.’
Turning away from Fedorov was possibly the hardest thing Vasiliyev had ever done. But he had to move before his boss changed his mind and nodded to Olek to take him out. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristling all the way to the door, sure that a bullet was about to follow. He nearly gagged with relief when the door swung to behind him.
He walked down the main stairs, silently wishing that if Pechov had jumped ship, he could have had the courage to do the same thing. He wondered how much longer the other two would stick around. On the other hand, as they all knew, Fedorov’s reach was long — very long. And his memory was extensive and vengeful, as Vasiliyev had witnessed.
Desertion, if that’s what Pechov had actually done, was the worst kind of sin in Fedorov’s book. Almost as bad as failure. It would attract shame and humiliation, and the derision of his peers, to have a man walk away. Few of them would allow Fedorov to forget such a thing, the story following him wherever he went. Give it a few weeks and Pechov would turn up. But he doubted it would be a pretty sight.
He reached the ground floor and found Roychev standing by the entrance, yawning.
‘Where is Pechov?’
Roychev grunted, sneering, bringing thoughts that he must have been alerted by Olek to Vasiliyev’s sudden fall in status. ‘I haven’t seen him since he brought the woman here and took her upstairs.’ He sniggered nastily. ‘He’s probably enjoying himself with her. I hope he leaves some for me.’
‘Pig,’ Vasiliyev swore. ‘Put a finger on her and I’ll cut you into strips.’ The Ukrainian swallowed and stepped back, his already pale skin turning whiter at the realisation that he’d overstepped the mark, change of status or not. He was heavier than Vasiliyev and probably tougher physically, but until he received orders, he knew his place in the order of things.
‘I was only joking,’ he said, and sought to make amends. ‘Maybe he’s downstairs. He said he was going to check the basement doors to make sure they were secure.’ He stifled another yawn and grumbled, ‘I could do with some coffee.’
Vasiliyev ignored him and made his way to the rear stairwell. In one corner was a single door bearing a NO ENTRY sign. He opened it and was met by a wall of warm, stale air and a steady hum from the air-conditioning system feeding the building. He stepped through and descended the single flight of concrete steps, treading carefully. If Pechov were down here, he might easily shoot first without bothering to identify his target. He reached the bottom and stopped. A patter of footsteps echoed overhead. He shook his head. Roychev, probably, stamping his feet to keep himself awake.
He edged along the passageway, eyes piercing the poor light, and wished he had a gun. Then he saw the body, lying in the spread of light from an overhead lamp. He recognised the bulk of Pechov’s shoulders, and the suit. He bent down to check the man’s throat. There was no pulse. He stood up and let out a lengthy sigh, wondering what they had brought down on themselves. He’d have bet almost anything against anyone taking Pechov — the man was a brute, and ferociously strong. Just not strong enough, apparently.
He turned and went back upstairs to the lobby. A feeling of impending disaster was growing in his gut and it wasn’t simply because he had stood up to Fedorov — maybe for the first and last time. Something was seriously wrong here.
Roychev had disappeared.
Then he saw something in the shadows towards the rear of the lobby. He walked over to take a closer look.
45
Riley heard a sound at the door and struggled frantically. It could only be Fedorov coming back to continue where he’d left off. The only question was, how long would it last before he tired of his sadistic game?
‘Hello, Cinders. Time to go home.’
‘Palmer?’ She jerked her head up and saw him smiling down at her. He looked rumpled, his clothes dusted with what looked like grey flour, and he was holding a length of steel pipe in one hand and one of her shoes in the other. She was puzzled about the shoe, then memory flooded back and she remembered losing it as Pechov had bundled her along the corridor and into the washroom.
‘Stone me,’ Palmer muttered, and coughed at the tang of bleach. ‘Did they have you doing some housework?’
Riley was choked with overwhelming relief, unable to reply. She felt a tear run down one cheek and turned her head away. If she broke down like a big girl in front of him, she’d never forgive herself.
Palmer put down the pipe and took out a small penknife, gently cutting through the tape and peeling it away. He wasted no time talking, but concentrated on the job in hand, his head cocked to one side, listening for the sound of footsteps.
As the final strip of tape fell away, Riley stood up and shrugged her jacket back into place, overcome by the sense of freedom. But she promptly cried out as the material brushed against the burns on her neck, sending her nerve-ends jangling, and her legs wobbled, the muscles unwilling as circulation was restored.
Palmer caught her before she fell.
‘Pins and needles,’ she muttered quickly, hating the catch in her voice. She flexed her wrists to divert his attention. ‘If I ever meet Pechov again, he’s dead meat.’
‘Too late. Been there, done it.’ Palmer’s eyes were carefully blank. He could almost have been telling her he’d taken out the rubbish. ‘Who did this?’
‘Fedorov. He probably pulls legs off spiders in his spare time.’
‘He’s on my list, too. Can you walk? We need to get out of here.’
She nodded, but the movement make her cry out again. Palmer put a gentle hand under her chin, studying her face and neck with care. She hoped she didn’t look as scared as she felt. Palmer always maintained that fear wasn’t so bad. Fear, he claimed, can make you run faster.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said finally. ‘Hell — these people don’t know who they’re dealing with, do they?’ His voice was calm, solid and reassuring, as always. Typical Palmer at a time of crisis — trying to deflect her attention away from bad news. Yet there was something in his voice, and she noticed he was standing between her and the mirrors.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said softly. ‘But thank you.’ She felt some of the tension ebb away, his calmness reassuring and contagious. God, it was good to know he was here, and on her side. ‘I’m good. Really.’
‘You will be, I promise.’ He stared into her eyes, willing her to take in every word, to cut through whatever she was feeling. ‘I’ve seen stuff like this before. It’ll heal, I guarantee.’ He glanced towards he door. ‘Now, shall we break out of the asylum?’
‘Yes, please. I’ve had it with this place.’
‘Good. Now listen. You’re going down the emergency stairway. You’ll be in decent light all the way, so don’t stop, don’t look back. When you reach the main lobby, head straight for the front door. Go out and keep going. Szulu is out there waiting for you. Got it?’
She nodded dumbly, then reached out and took her shoe from his hand. She took the other one off and held them both. She could run easier without them. ‘What will you be doing?’
Palmer smiled enigmatically. ‘I’ve got some clearing up to do.’ He took a gun out of his pocket and inspected it. ‘It’s a cheap bit of Czech rubbish, but for what I’ve got to do, it’ll be fine.’
‘Palmer-’ Riley wanted him to leave it, to get him to come down the stairs with her away from all this. To leave Fedorov and his thugs for someone else to deal with. She’d never heard him talk this way before, and was frightened for him.
But he placed a finger against her lips and gently shushed her, and she knew there was no changing his mind. Since hearing about Helen, there never had been.
‘No arguments, kid,’ he said firmly. ‘We don’t have time. Don’t worry — I’m not going to do anything daft. Well, not too daft, anyway. How’s the cat?’
‘He’s fine. Built like he is, why was I worried?’ She held onto his arm and flexed both legs in turn, the numbness and tingling gradually receding. If she could blank out the pain in her neck and face, she’d be fine. ‘Varley’s here. Vasiliyev. And Fedorov has two other men at least.’
‘I know. Don’t worry — I’ll chase them round the building until they get tired.’ He led her over to the door and opened it a crack, listening. Then he glanced back. ‘You ready to roll?’
She nodded. Palmer opened the door and stepped outside. Silence. He motioned her forward, leading her towards the emergency stairs. When they reached the door, he pushed it open and pointed downwards, mouthing the word, ‘Go’.
Riley hesitated for a second, then did as she was told. When she reached the bottom of the first flight, she glanced back. The door was closing and Palmer had already gone.
She turned and continued on down. Her breathing sounded harsh and loud in the confined space, and her head was pounding. The burns were a constant fire under the shifting clothing, each movement of her arms and shoulders bringing a further bout of torture. Too much noise, she thought, dully. Too much… bloody noise. They’d hear her coming from Belgium at this rate. On the other hand, she told herself fiercely, if anyone tried to stop her, they’d get a two-inch heel in the eye for their troubles. If only she still had Palmer’s baton.
She spun past the next landing, sobbing against the fire in her skin, and kicked open the door. Too hard; the restraint was broken and it bounced against the wall, reverberating through the building like a twenty-one gun salute. Damn. Too late to worry now. She had to get out of here or Palmer would think she was a real wuss.
Down to the next floor. Bits of grit on the stairs, digging into her bare feet. She caught her ankle against a sharp edge, and felt the skin break. She ignored it. No time for pain. The alternative was far worse. Still no sounds of pursuit, but she had the ground floor to negotiate, which was the most dangerous part of the building. It would be like running across a bare, well-lit landscape.
She charged down the final flight of steps, through the fire door and saw the door to the basement facing her.
And a body lying bundled into the corner.
She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she guessed by the cheap suit that it was one of Fedorov’s thugs.
She hesitated, momentarily forgetting Palmer’s instructions. The words NO ENTRY stood out in big lettering on the basement door, a tempting invitation. Then his words clicked in again. Good advice, she thought; too many people in films went right up to the roof or down to the cellar, and promptly met disaster.
She turned and ran towards the main doors. And skidded to a stop.
A tall figure was standing with his back to her. He turned.
It was Vasiliyev.
46
Riley’s felt a stab of despair. Was this as far as she went? She had almost made it! Life really wasn’t fair.
Vasiliyev looked indomitable, balanced evenly on the balls of his feet, like a fighter waiting for an opponent to attack. But there was a subtle difference. He seemed thinner, less sleek, somehow, and his clothes, once so elegant, had lost their sheen. Or was it simply the man wearing them, she thought, his bearing now diminished in her eyes?
‘I didn’t want any of this, Riley,’ he said softly. Now, for the first time, Riley thought she could detect the faintest trace of another accent in his voice. Or maybe knowing his origins, and who he was — what he was — had begun to play tricks with her imagination.
‘You didn’t do much to st
op it,’ she pointed out accusingly. Her breathing was laboured and she coughed as she stooped to put her shoes on. She winced as the pain in her feet and ankle blossomed to join the other hurts. It probably didn’t matter anymore whether she wore the shoes or not, but she was damned if she was going to stand here barefoot. As for using them as a weapon, it was a non-starter; this man was built like a tree. ‘What do you do now — finish me off and then vanish back to your mafiya pals?’ Her voice dripped with contempt, and she wondered how she could have been taken in by him. Then she realised that maybe she hadn’t; that deep down, there had always been something about him that had held her back. ‘Is this the end of the game — Vasiliyev? Or is that also a false name?’
A flicker of something touched his eyes. It might have been regret, she thought. Or surprise. Could men like him ever experience much in the way of emotion?
‘It’s Radko.’ He brushed a weary hand across his face. ‘Radko Vasiliyev. None of this was supposed to happen, Riley. I thought I had it all under control. It was… ’ He shrugged and gave the faintest of smiles. ‘Meeting you, I guess I forgot for a while just who I was dealing with. I doubt they’ll let me make that mistake again.’ He sounded genuinely sorry.
A door banged overhead, the noise echoing down the stairs. It was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. The newcomer was shouting something unintelligible. Riley guessed it must be Russian.
She looked towards the main doors, then at Vasiliyev. She wanted to suggest something — anything — that might offer a way out. To tell him to run, perhaps, to say he could give himself up or simply disappear into the night. But something wouldn’t let her. If he was going to do anything, he had to decide for himself.
The footsteps came closer. Another voice called from higher up. Whoever the runner was, it wasn’t Frank Palmer. He’d have moved a lot more quietly.
Then Vasiliyev shook his head, and a look of something approaching pain touched his face, as if he had reached an impossibly difficult decision.
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