We Are Death

by Douglas Lindsay

  The moment wasn’t over. The longer it went on, the greater the chance they got out of there alive, but until they were all actually out of the house and the police had arrived it wasn’t going to be finished. And whoever had started the killing was less likely to allow things to play out so calmly.

  Of course, on top of that there was the other presence. Someone else hovering in the background, just out of sight and sound and understanding, waiting to play a part Jericho did not understand.

  A gun went off. No one really knew where it came from, but that didn’t matter. It was Morlock. Having decided there had been enough silence and introspection for several gunfights, never mind just the one, he’d removed the silencer and taken a shot, without aiming at anyone in particular.

  But who fires the bullet that gets things going is a question for investigators and historians. For the combatants at the time, all that matters is the sound of the gunshot.

  A moment, another brief silence, and then the air exploded.

  53

  They could still hear footsteps, the occasional bullet. They had also begun to recognise the duller thud of a silencer and knew that the Grindelwald killer was at work.

  Haynes, Badstuber and Jericho had retreated to the room along the corridor in which the Indian non-bidder lay dead, along with his two bodyguards. Jericho had led them there, the fact that all three of them were now wounded helping his conscience in leading them from the fight. It might have been sensible, but it still felt wrong.

  As well as the wound in his arm, Haynes had received one in the side, this bullet also passing through. There was blood, but as far as any of them could diagnose, it was unlikely to be life-threatening. Badstuber had been shot in the lower leg, and had had a narrow escape, with a bullet cutting her cheek. Jericho had been shot in the thigh.

  They had hobbled along to the first room they came to, bundled inside, closed the door, and were now waiting with guns drawn for the door to open.

  The police sergeant ahead of them on the stairs was dead. The other officer with whom they’d arrived had returned to the fray, and as far as they could make out more police had arrived, but the reinforcements did not yet seem to include an armed SWAT team. This in itself, to Jericho, felt peculiar.

  Jericho was behind an armchair, Haynes and Badstuber behind a small sofa, all three of them trying to hide the pain. The sounds from around the house were punctuated by occasional gasped breaths.

  ‘Just like a Saturday evening in Wells,’ said Jericho, and Haynes grimaced in return.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ asked Badstuber, seriously.

  ‘No,’ said Haynes. ‘If you take away the guns, the excitement, the ancient magical books and the ridiculous sums of money.’

  Badstuber nodded, winced again as another burst of pain shot up from her leg.

  ‘I could do with your mate, Durrant, sir,’ said Haynes, ‘and his thesis on withstanding pain. Fuck...’

  Jericho shook his head, didn’t look at his sergeant. Durrant was the last thing anyone needed in any situation. Yet he was here, somewhere. He could feel him, his lingering presence, and still with his part to play. Outside there was a lull, yet there was something about it. Something to make it feel temporary.

  ‘You never know, you may get your wish,’ said Jericho.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ asked Haynes, although he wasn’t really concentrating on the conversation.

  Jericho had his eyes on the door. Badstuber looked at him, only a couple of feet away.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said.

  Jericho glanced at her, caught her eye, then looked away, troubled. Didn’t want to talk to Badstuber about it. Didn’t want to face the truth.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she repeated.

  ‘Who’s not here?’ asked Haynes.

  ‘The voice I heard... when I was outside your hotel room in Marrakech, the voice I heard. It wasn’t Durrant. It wasn’t even a man’s voice. Who was it?’

  Jericho closed his eyes. Sure it was Durrant. That made sense, didn’t it? That Durrant was still haunting him. That was what happened in life. You were haunted by your past, and he was being haunted by Durrant. Bound to him, attached to each other by some strange cord neither of them could explain.

  ‘You were talking to a woman,’ said Badstuber. ‘Who was it? Why did you say it was Durrant? Why do you keep saying you’re being haunted by Durrant?’

  ‘It is Durrant,’ said Jericho. ‘It has to be Durrant.’

  ‘What?’ said Haynes, but he realised he was superfluous to whatever was going on. He wasn’t about to get an answer.

  ‘Durrant’s dead, Robert!’

  Jericho twitched, lowered his head, pressed it against the back of the seat.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘I was talking to Durrant,’ said Jericho quietly, his voice low and wavering.

  Haynes looked over at him, then back to Badstuber. She was staring at Jericho, her face compassionate, demanding almost that he let her help him, but he wasn’t returning the look.

  What was he avoiding, Haynes wondered. Why was it that Badstuber could know that much about him in a few days, that she could see through him so easily, when he had barely scratched the surface after working for him for nearly three years?

  The answer to that, at least, was straightforward. Jericho was always more likely to let a woman in. Men got nothing other than a brick wall. Women also got the brick wall, but just occasionally there would be a brick missing, occasionally they would get a glimpse of the other side.

  The door opened. Immediately they were all up and alert, eyes and weapons aimed round the side of the furniture, although Jericho was still not armed.

  Nervous eyes looked into the room, then the door opened further and Geyerson walked in, clutching a folder to his chest. He did not appear to be armed, nor did it seem as though he spotted the three figures hiding behind the seats.

  Looking warily down at the bodies of the Brazilian and his men, he quickly stepped further into the room, closed the door behind him and turned.

  Jericho was standing up, Haynes and Badstuber had raised their heads, but had not got to their feet.

  Geyerson jumped, let out a sharp expletive, and then looked annoyed at the three of them.

  ‘Jesus, this is where the police are. You guys find a nice place to hide? Did you get yourself a drink? Hope you’re comfortable.’

  ‘You’re not hurt?’ said Jericho, ignoring the sarcasm.

  Haynes bridled, knowing he had a point. If they had stayed out there, they would all be dead by now, yet it had felt wrong backing away from the fight.

  ‘Well, I’m fine,’ said Geyerson, ‘but then, I’m supposed to be. I was the one they were all protecting.’

  ‘That’ll be why they were shooting at the police,’ said Haynes.

  Geyerson glanced over his shoulder, aware that he was still close to the door and that this incident could hardly be said to be over. He moved further into the room, looking around for some way in which to protect himself, then scowled back at Haynes.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he said, as more of an expression of disbelief than an actual instruction. ‘There’s something... there are people here...,’ and he indicated the book, he was holding, ‘there are people here who want this.’

  ‘We know,’ said Jericho.

  ‘Then we get here to help you and your men started shooting at us,’ snapped Haynes. ‘So, if we all get out of this alive, don’t just think you’re walking happily back up some fucking mountain.’

  ‘That’s just bullshit,’ barked Geyerson. ‘There are like, hundreds of these people killing my guys. Hundreds of them.’

  Haynes and Jericho stared angrily at him, then Jericho lowered himself back down behind the chair, the pain of the gunshot wound coming back with the realisation there was little point in having the conversation. Haynes followed, as the pain jabbed through his side.

  ‘Oh, nice, you guys just going to hide behind there like fucking ra
bbits until help arrives? Perfect.’

  ‘How many of your men are left?’ asked Jericho, the strain on his face and in his voice, head pressed back against the seat, not looking at Geyerson.

  Geyerson laughed, shook his head.

  ‘All dead.’

  ‘Your visitors?’

  Another laugh.

  ‘All fucking dead. There goes the money. For the moment, anyway. We’ll get this set up again soon enough.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just keep the damn book, if it’s so fucking... magical?’ asked Haynes angrily. ‘What did you need the money for?’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Geyerson, utterly disdainful. ‘Of course I wasn’t giving them the actual, fucking book. Jesus. This? This isn’t the book!’

  He spat the words out, as though he was the only one in the room with any common sense, or even the slightest grasp of the situation.

  ‘So, as far as you know, we’re it?’ said Jericho, not wanting Geyerson to linger in his moment of contempt. ‘The four of us?’

  He looked around at Geyerson, who had crumpled onto the ground against the wall on the other side of the door, so when the door opened, he would be obscured. At least, at first. At least, for a second or two.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The hero and three chickens.’

  Haynes kneeled up, wincing with the pain and aimed his gun at Geyerson, Badstuber immediately touching his arm. Geyerson laughed.

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘What a fucking pussy.’

  He shook his head, looked away from the gun.

  ‘Stuart,’ said Jericho, his voice quiet, understanding, and he nodded to Haynes to sit back down. Another scowl, and Haynes slumped down behind the sofa, flinching again with the movement.

  Jericho pulled out his phone, pressing redial, having already been in touch with Torsveg.

  ‘Hey. Yeah, pretty much everybody. There’s one shooter left. Yes, one. Yes, our assassin. Don’t know, but Geyerson’s still alive. We’ve got him. First floor, along the corridor to the right, first door on the left.’

  He hung up. Head back against the sofa, another deeply drawn breath fighting the pain, then he put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘The Norwegians are here in numbers. They’re sending their guys in. Should be here in a minute, although they’ll want to be cautious.’

  As he spoke the windows suddenly lit up, as the police flooded the front of the building with light.

  ‘Did you just say there was one shooter left?’ asked Geyerson.

  Jericho didn’t respond.

  ‘One?’

  ‘This doesn’t look good,’ said Haynes, head shaking. ‘All their guys are dead, and we’re still here.’

  ‘It never looks good when people die,’ said Badstuber. ‘Be thankful you’re not one of them.’

  He gave her a quick glance, having expected similar from Jericho, then rested his head back against the sofa, allowing a low, muttered, ‘Fuck,’ to escape his lips.

  ‘So, what, we just sit here?’ said Geyerson. ‘Seriously, there is not one guy. And if there is one guy, why the fuck are we waiting for him? There are three of you with guns. Jesus, get me the fuck out of here.’

  There was silence in the room. Haynes had had his moment, he had lost his temper, he’d had to endure the smug look on the man’s face. There was nothing else he could do, except sit it out. How often, after all, were they taunted at home by small-time criminals and petty thugs, safe in the knowledge that the police weren’t the police of old and weren’t going to suddenly start smacking them around the head? This guy, just because he had money and some stupid ancient artefact that had caused so many people to die, was no different. Just a petty thug who thought he was safe taunting the police.

  ‘The reason all those people are dead out there is because of that one guy,’ said Jericho, his voice slow and low. Matter of fact. ‘If he can do all that, he can certainly take care of three injured police officers who can’t move very quickly, and a stupid old bastard hiding behind a bit of parchment. We wait here until–’

  The door flew open as though the lock was pinging off, rather than being broken down. The three behind the furniture all rose quickly, guns in the hands of Haynes and Badstuber, but the door had been broken down by Morlock, and they were inevitably too slow.

  In the same manoeuver as entering the room, a blur of tumbling movement, he put a bullet in Geyerson’s head, and then turned, completely exposed, towards the other three.

  Jericho, unarmed and reacting just as he had done in Morocco, automatically leapt at Badstuber. Of course, his actions had only been quick enough in Morocco because Morlock hadn’t been intending to fire at Badstuber. Tonight, however, she was on his list.

  Morlock’s second bullet hit Badstuber in the throat.

  Strangely, his third bullet hit the ceiling.

  54

  Morlock was dead. Just like that, Morlock’s day at the office was over. All the killing, all the training, all the identities, all the subterfuge, gone in an instant. And surprisingly, for Morlock, he never saw it coming.

  His killer appeared in the doorway, barely taking a step into the room. Her appearance had been as sudden and as silent as Morlock himself. She had, after all, done much of the same training.

  Haynes’s mouth opened; his hands, still clinging onto the gun, fell away. He was so distracted, he felt no pain.

  Jericho looked at the door and saw Durrant, just as he had been seeing Durrant all this time. Just as he had been talking to Durrant all this time. His head had been filled with Durrant.

  But, of course, it wasn’t Durrant. How could it be Durrant? Durrant was dead. Durrant had been dead for over seven months. So, how could he have been visiting Jericho, turning up in his house, following him around?

  It was just easier, that was all. It was easier for him to see this. It was easier for this to be Durrant than who it actually was. Because the woman standing there should also be dead. He’d given up hope of ever seeing her again, he had given up on her a long time ago. He believed she was dead, and he had been acting as though she’d been dead all this time.

  How many times might she have stood over him, while he lay in bed with another woman? Inevitably, she must have seen him. Seen him betray her. Stab her memory in the back. Stab her in the back, as she wasn’t dead.

  But it wasn’t about the other women. It was the fact that he had given up. That was what made him feel guilty. He had looked for so long, he had held onto his belief for so long, but in the end he hadn’t had the conviction. He had lost faith. And now she was back, standing in front of him, as she had done several times recently, and he couldn’t handle it.

  He didn’t want her to see him. He didn’t want her to know that here he was, the Detective Chief Inspector, who had solved all his cases bar one, and who had given up. He couldn’t make his eyes see her. All he could see was the brute of the man whose case he had solved twice. The man to whom he owed nothing. The man whom he would happily chase to his grave. The man whose survival, bizarrely, he would almost prefer to that of his wife, whom he had so badly let down.

  Haynes looked at Jericho when he’d managed to drag his eyes away from Amanda, standing in the doorway, a gun in her hand, dressed in black. Jericho was staring blankly at her, dumbstruck. More than dumbstruck. It wasn’t just words that wouldn’t formulate.

  ‘You should attend to her,’ said Amanda, indicating the stricken Badstuber. ‘I think she might still be alive.’

  She stared at Jericho, a look that seemed sympathetic. Haynes couldn’t work it out, couldn’t work out what was going on between them.

  ‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘This has a long way to go yet.’

  She looked back down at Geyerson, the book of papyrus sheets lying on the ground beside him, undamaged, unmarked, as though all the blood that had flowed had known not to go anywhere near it.

  ‘They can have that,’ she said. ‘It’s worthless, anyway.’

  She looked round again, Haynes sti
ll unsure what exactly had just happened, and Jericho staring at his wife, his mouth closed, his eyes blank, his right arm unconsciously gripping the wound in his thigh.

  ‘Your professor’s all right, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘I left her at the Radisson, eating dinner. I said you might be a while.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘The man who took her is dead. They’ll be back, although maybe not for her, I don’t know. For the moment they’ll be in a bit of disarray. She’s fine. Get your wounds seen to before going to see her. And see to the inspector first.’

  Outside there was the cacophony of more police vehicles and ambulances arriving, the air filling with sound and light. Jericho’s phone started ringing.

  Haynes looked round at him, his boss still impassive, staring straight ahead. Lost.

  ‘Sir?’

  Nothing.

  Haynes looked back at the door. She was gone, and another glance at Jericho showed he was still staring at the space where she’d been.

  Haynes reached around his boss, into his pocket, and lifted out his phone.

  ‘Sergeant Haynes...,’ he said. ‘No, no, stand down. All clear, we’re all clear. All shooters are now dead. We need a medic.’

  He bent down, his hand immediately feeling for a pulse in Badstuber’s neck. It was hardly necessary to look. She was obviously breathing, her eyes blinking. Jericho had pushed her just enough that the bullet had missed her throat, passing through the side of the neck.

  Haynes lifted Badstuber’s jacket and pressed it against the blood, attempting to stop the flow.

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ he said, their eyes meeting. ‘The medics are coming.’

  Badstuber stared expressionlessly back at him.

  Haynes wondered how Amanda would get out of the house, past the phalanx of security and police now arranged out there, but he had no doubt she would.

  *

  Twenty-six people were dead in all. A bloody evening, coming completely out of the blue for the Norwegian authorities, representatives from several of the major world powers amongst the deceased. A tricky evening for the Ministry of Justice, The Police, and the Ministry Of Foreign Affairs.