Terror's Reach

by Tom Bale

  Cassie looked thrown by his suggestion. “I’m not sure.’

  Any reason to think it’s not safe at the Blue Anchor?’

  'No.’ But she said it much too quickly.

  Before he could comment the distant blast of a horn drew his attention.

  He looked in the wing mirror and saw a big silver Mercedes

  SUV cutting into the outside lane to overtake a bus. The car behind

  it wasn’t happy, and neither was Joe.

  'Hold on tight,’ he said.

  The A259 ran east to west along the seafront, two lanes in each direction.

  There were junctions and pedestrian crossings perhaps every

  hundred yards, all controlled by traffic lights. Get the lights in your

  favour and you might glide effortlessly along to Have and eventually

  out of the city, reflecting on what a delightful experience the Sussex

  coast offered to motorists. More likely you’d endure a long, slow

  journey punctuated by frequent stop-starts and all kinds of frustrating

  bottlenecks.

  Which was how it was now. The city’s geography narrowed Joe’s

  options for escape, and the sheer density of the traffic limited them

  still further. But he would have to try. He’d screwed up enough already

  today.

  Behind him, about ten cars back, the Mercedes changed lanes

  again, tailgating the car in front until it got the message and indicated

  to move over. The queue ahead began to stretch, each

  successive vehicle taking an age to get up to speed. Joe was already

  in the outside lane and saw no point in switching, even if doing so

  appeared to offer a minor advantage. For one thing, there were no

  junctions on the left. To get off this road at all he would have to

  turn right. But where?

  Joe searched his memory. He’d brought Cassie to Brighton on six

  or seven occasions, and years ago he had worked here for a short time,

  so he knew the city reasonably well. The next major junction was

  Preston Street, which led up to Western Road. Before that, there was

  a turning that would enable him to feed through to Preston Street a

  little sooner. But traffic on Western Road itself was usually even slower

  than the seafront: lots of buses, lots of pedestrians.

  He got up to thirty miles an hour, sailed through the lights, then

  watched his mirror, praying the Mercedes would get caught. It nearly

  did. At the last moment it swerved around a compliant motorist and

  went through on red, putting an end to any uncertainty Joe may have

  had about its purpose.

  He heard a gasp from Cassie. She’d twisted in her seat and was

  looking out through the rear window.

  'Is that who I think it is?’

  'Afraid so.’

  The Mercedes leapfrogged a couple more cars. At this rate it would

  be on their tail by the time they got to the junction at Grand Avenue,

  where they would be sitting ducks. He had to get off the main road

  before then.

  The Have lawns were coming up on the left. Lots of people about,

  walking dogs, playing football, lounging on the grass. On the right,

  the hotels and restaurants had given way to elegant Regency terraces,

  their facades the colour of butter in the warm evening sun.

  Approaching Brunswick Square, Joe prepared to make a sudden

  right turn. Then the doubts set in. He had a feeling it was closed off

  at the top: no way through to Western Road.

  He checked the mirror. The Mercedes was still gaining ground,

  just four or five cars behind them. He could see the vague shapes of

  two men in the front.

  Up ahead, a set of pedestrian traffic lights was turning to red. At

  the same time, a gap appeared in the oncoming traffic. Joe wrenched

  the wheel to the right and cut across the main road, into Brunswick

  Terrace. This was a two-lane slip road, running parallel to the coast

  road and divided from it by a narrow pavement. With the main road

  so busy, a few other people were using it as a rat run, and the speed

  at which Joe was driving earned him some angry looks.

  From Brunswick Terrace he turned right into Lansdowne Place. As

  he did, he glimpsed the Mercedes crossing the A259 in pursuit,

  bumping over the pavement into the slip road.

  Shit.

  Lansdowne Road ascended as it ran north. It was a clear route up

  to Western Road, but offered no concealment. In terrain like this Joe

  knew he couldn’t realistically outrace his pursuers. He had to lose

  them.

  He took the first left into a side road, Alice Street. It was about a

  hundred yards long, with parked cars on the right and double yellow

  lines on the left. He flashed past garages and a pub car park, but was

  forced to brake hard at the junction and wait for a passing truck.

  In his mirror he saw the Mercedes almost overshoot the entrance

  to Alice Street. It stopped, backed up, came after them. Joe turned

  right into Holland Road and raced up the hill. By now he’d abandoned

  any pretence at civil driving, and the children had picked up on it. Both were crying softly, with Cassie doing her best to soothe

  them.

  More traffic lights at the top. Joe prayed they would stay on green,

  and they did. He shot through the junction, crossed Western Road

  and continued north on Holland Road. He passed a boarded-up Indian

  restaurant and a Gothic stone church, and even though the lights at

  the next junction were on red he managed a grin.

  'There’s a police station up ahead.’

  He expected to hear jubilation from the back seat, or at least a sigh

  of relief. Instead he got a brief, suppressed wail of panic.

  'No,’ said Cassie. She was looking over her shoulder again. 'They’re

  caught at the last lights. We can get away.’

  'You don’t want to report this?’

  'I can’t, Joe. I just can’t.’

  Twenty-Two

  The American returned and sat down heavily. They heard the creak

  and groan of his chair: possibly canvas on a steel frame. Not quite

  strong enough for a large man.

  He was offered another drink, but declined. 'I’d like to get a few

  things straight, including remuneration. I’ll warn you now, gentlemen,

  I don’t come cheap.’

  'But you will do it?’

  'I’ll talk to him, see if I can set up a meeting. But not till the first

  instalment is paid. Ten thousand dollars.’

  'You want ten grand for making one phone call?’ said McWhirter.

  'Not negotiable. I’ll draw up a fee schedule, then it’s up to you.

  Take it or leave it.’

  'Ten thousand is acceptable,’ Nasenko told him. 'We can have that

  transferred to your account on Monday.’

  'Sounds good. Bobby’s in France this weekend. I’ll talk to him when

  he gets back, see if we can set up something later next week.’

  'You have spoken to him recently?’

  'I touched base briefly.’

  'So he already knows we are meeting?’

  'No. I wanted to see what you had to say before I mentioned it.

  But he did suggest we have lunch while I’m over here.’

  'Excellent.’ Nasenko couldn’t disguise the satisfaction in his voice.

  'Hey. All I’m gonna do is pass on what you’re tellin
g me. I can’t

  guarantee he’ll go for it.’

  'Of course not. But I am an optimist.’

  'Good for you. But you’d better know that Bobby Felton likes to do

  his homework. He’s gonna want every little detail before he signs up

  to anything.’

  'We can provide that.’

  'Right now? To me?’

  McWhirter started to speak but something cut him off. A look or

  gesture from Nasenko, perhaps.

  'To show our goodwill we can outline the basic proposal. You have

  time, while we enjoy the sights of the harbour?’

  'Sure.’ Travers didn’t sound overly impressed – either with Nasenko’s alleged generosity or the quality of the views. 'I want enough to

  convince me that you’re on the level. Nothing personal, but I’m far

  too old to get screwed by anyone.’

  'You don’t trust me?’ said Nasenko.

  'Maybe. Maybe not. What’s more important, if I’m acting as go

  between here, is that I don’t endanger Bobby’s trust in me! Travers

  gave another humourless chuckle. You remember those stories about

  the Nazi occupation? How if the resistance ambushed a single German,

  they’d retaliate by rounding up the locals and wiping out ten or twenty

  at random? Well, that’s kinda how Felton operates.’

  Nasenko was bristling as he interrupted. 'It is not necessary to—’

  'I sure hope not, but I’m telling you anyway. There are no boundaries

  with that guy. No proportionality. He just doesn’t understand the

  concept. If you’re loyal to him, and he knows it, there’s no better man

  to work with. But cross him and you’ve signed your own death warrant.’

  Nasenko chose to laugh, making light of the warning.

  'Robert Felton is a formidable operator, I don’t dispute that. But I

  am no amateur myself. And you should know that I work on exactly

  the same basis.’

  Twenty-Three

  The tone of Cassie’s voice left Joe in no doubt of her sincerity. She

  clearly believed there was a good reason not to involve the police,

  and that would have to do.

  Behind him, the lights changed. The Mercedes accelerated towards

  him. The lights ahead remained on red. There was no traffic in front

  of him, and nothing coming through the junction.

  Joe put his foot down and blew through the red light. Took a tight

  left into Lansdowne Road, past an ugly municipal building: the law

  courts. Went right, then left again, short hops of fifty or sixty yards

  that he hoped would be enough to throw their pursuers off the scent.

  They were in Eaton Road, a pleasant tree-lined street with a mix

  of suburban homes and small blocks of flats in a grimy pale yellow brick.

  He passed the cricket ground, recalling an enjoyable Sunday he’d spent

  watching a game and an even more enjoyable Sunday evening

  spent in the pub next door.

  Another right took him into Wilbury Road, a wide street with

  parking at each kerb and two lanes of additional parking spaces in the

  centre of the road. Joe was halfway along the street when a battered

  old Datsun pulled away from the kerb, coughing clouds of exhaust.

  Joe hit the brakes, slowing to a crawl. He checked the mirror: still

  clear behind them. The Datsun showed no sign of gaining speed. And

  there were empty spaces in the centre of the road.

  Cassie gasped as he cut through a narrow gap between a couple

  of parked cars, accelerated for fifty or sixty yards on the wrong side of

  the road, then veered back across to the correct lane. The elderly

  driver of the Datsun, now safely behind him, seemed oblivious. But

  coming up fast behind the Datsun was the silver Mercedes.

  Worse still, Joe could see the westbound traffic was backed up across

  the junction at the top of Wilbury Road. That was the route he’d

  intended to take, and he wasn’t sure of an alternative. He knew the

  railway line was around here somewhere, and that usually meant a

  lot of treacherous cul-de-sacs.

  Reaching the junction, he stared hard at the driver blocking his

  way. The driver got the message and edged forward, leaving Joe just

  enough room to squeeze through. There was a road straight ahead,

  and judging by its elevation it looked as though it went up over the

  train tracks.

  Fingers crossed, he thought, and powered across the road, north

  into Wilbury Villas. As the Shogun accelerated over the rise he knew

  the Mercedes wasn’t more than a few seconds behind them. Crucially,

  though, for those few seconds it would be out of sight. Joe had to

  make that time count.

  The next junction gave him three options. Wilbury Crescent to the

  left or right, or continue straight ahead along Wilbury Villas. Two

  things made the decision for him.

  The first was a sign, proclaiming that Wilbury Villas was a T-junction.

  In other words, a no through road. A dead end.

  The second was a big red removal lorry, double parked, maybe fifty

  feet away.

  Joe went straight ahead.

  'It’s a dead end,’ Cassie shouted.

  'I know.’

  He hit the accelerator and the Shogun jumped forward. He swung

  it past the lorry, cut in sharply and skidded to a halt. Looked back at

  Cassie, who was still clinging to her seat belt with both hands. Beside

  her, Jaden let out a laugh, more exhilarated than afraid.

  Joe leaned over so he could see the passenger-side wing mirror. It

  showed him a sliver of Wilbury Crescent. He imagined the Mercedes

  roaring over the railway line and slowing on the approach to the junction.

  Pausing as the men inside realised that they’d lost sight of their

  target. A moment or two to debate their options.

  Go left…

  He counted: five seconds. Nothing. He felt a tightening in his chest

  at the thought of the Mercedes suddenly rolling up alongside them.

  If it did, they were done for. No question about that.

  Ten seconds. Fifteen. Were they arguing amongst themselves over

  which way to turn?

  Then a flash of silver in the wing mirror, which echoed inside him

  as a kind of bright, metallic jubilation. It had worked.

  They’d gone left.

  Joe took a slow, calming breath. 'Everyone all right back there?’

  Cassie nodded. 'Just about.’

  'Good.’

  He studied the road ahead. It was capped off by a wide pavement,

  with a sturdy metal fence to prevent traffic getting through. Beyond

  that was a reasonably fast east-west route: the Old Shoreham Road.

  He released the handbrake and moved forward. Heard an exclamation

  from the back seat.

  'Aren’t we turning round?’

  He shook his head. 'If we turn round the only real option is to go

  the same way they did. I want to check another possibility.’

  As Joe got closer to the end of the street he found exactly what he

  hoped for. The fence was an obvious deterrent, plainly visible from

  the bottom of the hill. But it didn’t run the full length of the pavement.

  On the left-hand side there was a wide gap between the fence

  and the last house in the street: easily enough room to get through.

  Cassie snorted, as though sh
e couldn’t believe Joe’s luck. She said

  nothing as he bumped the Shogun up the kerb and crossed the pavement.

  They were on the edge of a major junction. Now all he had

  to do was wait for the lights to change and join the flow of traffic

  along the Old Shoreham Road.

  'Where does that go?’ Cassie asked. She leaned forward, pointing

  to where another road ascended to the north.

  'Out of town,’ he said, seeing that she’d hit on a much better route.

  Far less risk of inadvertently coming upon the Mercedes if they

  continued north rather than west for a bit longer.

  Joe timed his manoeuvre well, crossing into the northbound lane

  as the lights turned green. They raced up the hill to another set of

  lights, then left into Dyke Road.

  After a minute, Cassie said, 'I know where we are now. Valentin

  has friends who live along here.’

  'Makes sense. This is Millionaires’ Row,’ Joe said as they passed a

  succession of vulgar mansions. Another mile or so and they reached

  a major roundabout and joined the A27, heading west. Traffic was

  busy, but Joe quickly moved into the outside lane and was able to do

  a steady seventy miles an hour.

  As they left the city behind the silence grew increasingly morose.

  Joe thought it was just his imagination until Cassie issued a series of

  big, heavy sighs. Finally he grasped that this was an invitation for him

  to speak his mind.

  On the approach to the Shoreham flyover the road widened to

  three lanes. A light aircraft buzzed overhead, wobbling in a crosswind

  as it descended towards the airport. Across the valley, the Gothic

  revival architecture of Lancing College chapel resembled a Disney

  creation, a petite fairy-tale castle nestled in the Downs.

  Joe moved left into the slip road for the Shoreham interchange.

  From the back seat came another heartfelt sigh.

  'I take it you don’t want to loop round and go to the hotel?’

  'No.’ A distinct emphasis in Cassie’s voice. He glanced over his

  shoulder and saw her nodding towards Jaden. The boy was gazing out

  of the window with a dreamy, almost comatose expression. He looked

  exhausted.

  Joe said: 'What about home?’

  'Not sure about that, either.’

  'Okay. I get the feeling you may know more than I do about what

  just happened?’

  'Maybe,’ she said. 'I hope not.’

  'Let’s put it this way. You suspect there might be a Ukrainian involvement?’