Resolution to Kill

by E. V. Seymour

  ‘Anna, this is madness.’

  I swallowed hard. You know nothing of madness, of pain, of war, of suffering, I thought. This is the sanest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I jutted out my jaw, determined. ‘If you will not help me I will do it on my own.’ And you will never see me again, I thought but did not say.

  Thomas let his hands drop. He’d read the defiance in my eyes. He knew that I would tear down the walls and rip our lives apart if he didn’t do as I said. Eventually he gave a nod of quiet resignation and dropped down into a chair. I sat on the floor, curled up at his feet as I always did, and rested my cheek on his knees.

  ‘I will watch the building,’ I began. ‘I will time their movements, see where they go, work out where would be the best place to meet and make the deal. Sabina’s minder will be slack about security.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because Albanians have an awesome reputation for violence and revenge.’

  ‘My point, entirely,’ Thomas said, the light that had crept back into his voice disappearing.

  I glanced up at him and grinned. ‘It will be all right. You ensure that Sabina escapes. I will take care of her pimp.’

  ‘But Anna…’

  ‘Hush. It will be fine. Everything will be fine.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tallis hit the water hard, punching the slimy surface and disappearing as though someone had stuck lead weights into his pockets. Drowning was not his immediate problem. Being hit by a salvo of firepower was. He let his body go limp even though weeds clawed at him and he knew he would soon have to surface for air.

  A wall of impenetrable darkness met his open eyes. Unable to get his bearings, he swam blindly away from the perceived range of fire. A fresh fusillade of bullets drilled the surface, a slug coming perilously close. He jerked away from the danger, then, drawing on all his reserves, allowed the water to take him and sank even deeper, each breath discharged, leaked out, fast running out of oxygen. Desperate, he kicked his feet but felt immediate resistance. A thick blanket of algae had trapped one foot. His lungs burnt in his chest. Blood rushed through his brain. Muscles and tendons screamed. Fighting the urge to panic, and knowing he had only seconds to act, he realised that he still had the knife. Hands fumbling in the depths, he unzipped the pocket, shoving his fingers over the sodden material and removed the blade. Five seconds, and five hacks at the drifting trail of fern and plankton later, and he was free.

  He shot to the surface, his instinct for air stronger than his instinct to avoid a bullet in the head. Waterlogged, he gulped and coughed, chest smouldering with pain, but the canal greeted his arrival with an eerie silence. Glancing up, the aperture in the building yielded no visible presence, certainly no clues as to the identity of the shooter.

  With slow strokes, he made his way through a film of slime that possessed the sucking quality of quicksand. After two abortive attempts he finally levered himself out and on to a towpath. He had been in the canal for little more than fifteen minutes and day was breaking over Berlin. Thin rain began to fall.

  He located his rucksack and, with a squelching gait, set off towards civilisation. Dishevelled, soaked through, and shivering, he flagged down a taxi. The driver, a German-speaking Turk, declined to pick him up. When Tallis explained that he’d been mugged and pushed into the canal the cabbie’s reluctance vaulted to keen determination to contact the police on Tallis’s behalf.

  ‘No need. Really,’ Tallis insisted through chattering teeth. ‘I’ll report the incident as soon as I get back to the hotel.’

  Sitting in the rear of the cab, he was able to consider the night’s events. He arrived at two conclusions: whatever he’d stumbled across was worth killing him to buy his silence. Whoever fired the shots had gone for a pray-and-spray rather than a professional and targeted approach. It spoke of panic, of being caught off-guard. That was good. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that his movements were being monitored, that the operation was leaked and therefore compromised. Again he thought of Clay and what he might have told the folks back home.

  Next, he considered the factory, which could have a variety of criminal uses, from housing drugs to providing a transit point for people-smuggling. It could also be the place where, as Ivonne had sweetly suggested, the missing American was held.

  He rested his eyes, leant back in the seat. Was Fitz a victim of abduction, a victim of anything? Were they all forcing connections when there were none to be had? Tallis examined the evidence, such as it was. The American had not been seen since the fateful night he crossed paths with the black girl. There were certain pointers in his past that connected with the UN Key, both Asim and Beckett shared the opinion that Fitz was indeed part of a wider picture. Tallis was used to players higher up the pay grade possessing and withholding additional information, so his wasn’t exactly an idle assumption. If so, if Fitz really had been kidnapped, Tallis thought an escalation in violence a given, in fact, a necessity. When someone wants to make a point, only a matter of time before demands are made. He wondered whether Fitz was the only victim, whether there were others. As for Fitz, Tallis thought with a chill, it could already be too late to save him. His own actions had probably secured a death sentence for the man. It was unfortunate. Deeply regrettable. The reality in his job was that innocent and not-so-innocent people got hurt.

  The driver pulled up, stated he wanted dry money not soggy euros. Tallis told him to wait.

  Ignoring the mystified expressions of residents and hotel staff, Tallis crossed the lobby to the lift. The doors opened and Clay stepped out as Tallis stepped in.

  ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve dried off. Do me a favour and pay the cab driver,’ he added as the doors closed and he pushed the button for his floor.

  Inside his room, he shed his wet clothes, ran a hot shower and stood underneath it, trying to stimulate heat back into his body. Afterwards he ran a razor over his face and changed into clothes warmer than he might otherwise choose for an average June day in Germany. By the time he got back downstairs, Clay was prowling around the entrance to the dining room. He had a mean look in his eye.

  ‘You owe me fifty euros,’ he glowered.

  Tallis pulled out a wallet and handed Clay the notes, then indicated a table for breakfast. They pulled up chairs and sat down facing each other. Clay’s slightly off-centre features seemed more apparent than before.

  Famished after his early-morning dip, Tallis ordered ham and eggs, juice and coffee. Clay did the same.

  ‘So?’ Clay began, studying his fellow diner, attentive.

  Tallis described how he’d checked out the Lichtenberg area of town.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Because it seemed the most likely place to hold someone captive.’

  Clay blinked slowly. Tallis noticed a pulse ticking under Clay’s left eye. The scar on his face also looked more pronounced.

  ‘Howdo you know?’

  ‘I asked around. Very discreetly,’ Tallis added, the reckless side of him tempted to give the American the complete rundown.

  ‘Why didn’t you come get me?’

  ‘Didn’t see the point in disturbing your beauty sleep.’

  The pulse flickered some more. ‘We’re supposed to be working as a team.’

  ‘We are,’ Tallis said, knowing full well they weren’t.

  When Clay spoke there was menace in his voice. ‘You have theories, you come check them with me first, then we’ll decide whether they’re worth examining. And - ’ he raised a hand to block the threatened protest, ‘- you broke the first rule of security. You didn’t tell me where you were going. What was supposed to happen if you didn’t come back from last night’s little adventure, huh?’

  ‘But I did,’ Tallis said with a cool look.

  Their breakfast arrived. Tallis fell on his like a starving wolf. Clay wasn’t done yet. Like the
seasoned spook he was, he kept pushing for answers.

  ‘Where is the factory?’

  Tallis told him.

  ‘How come you ended up in the waterway?’

  Tallis dabbed at his chin with a napkin, poured out some coffee. ‘Someone tried to kill me.’

  With each detail revealed, he watched the tension mount in Clay’s jaw, the irritation in his eyes, the anger and exasperation.

  ‘How am I supposed to trust you?’

  ‘Works both ways.’ Tallis’s eyes locked on to Clay’s with the same accuracy as a smart bomb. ‘We both know that you’re working your own number.’

  ‘Bullshit. You know nothing,’ Clay fired back. He wasn’t visibly rattled, but the tone of his voice was more defensive than it should have been.

  ‘Have it your own way.’ Tallis shrugged a smile, confident now that Clay had his own agenda. ‘Going back to Fitz.’ He spoke quietly, with precision. ‘Are you telling me I’m on the wrong trail?’

  ‘Depends…’ Clay said grudgingly.

  ‘…on what we find when we go back,’ Tallis said.

  Clay held Tallis’s gaze. His lips formed a thin smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Wake up,’ Martinovic hissed, roughly shaking Mrs Everett’s shoulder.

  At once the older woman gasped. Her eyes, red-rimmed from fatigue and anxiety, stared up at her abductor. She had already made the mental calculations: this was no bad dream; this was for real. She sat up straight, letting the threadbare blanket slip from her shoulders. Everything was as before: her hands cuffed together; a dank cellar that smelt of mildew; two single light bulbs swinging from the cracked ceiling; a low cot with an old duvet thrown over it; a toilet bucket, the rank smell from which swallowed up the small space; kettle on the floor boiling; tray of mugs, tea and coffee, no sugar, an opened bottle of milk; a curtained-off area behind which the two abductors often engaged in intense conversation in a language she did not understand.

  ‘Where’s my husband?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ Martinovic said, jutting out her chin. ‘He is preparing to speak to the nation.’

  Mrs Everett’s jaw slackened. She tried to speak but no words came out. Martinovic’s grip on her tightened, and she was forced to her feet and propelled behind the curtain. What greeted the older woman next caused her entire body to go limp with fear. The general was sitting in a chair, his wrists bound as before. In front of him was a tripod on which sat a video camera. The other kidnapper, a dark-haired woman with sad haunting eyes and perfect bone structure who in other circumstances Mrs Everett may have considered beautiful, was fiddling with the controls. The Serb called her ‘Bina’, but Mrs Everett wasn’t sure whether that was her real name. As for Nasik, the bitch who had slapped her face, there was no sign.

  The general cast his rheumy eyes in the direction of his wife and tried to smile, but it was no good, his effort to reassure an abject failure. She grimaced. They both knew that something momentous and terrible was about to take place. And then it dawned on her. Their abductors had to be Muslims, working for whoever had taken over from Bin Laden. The only thing that was missing was the orange jumpsuit. Worst of all they were going to die. They’d probably cut their heads off. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She began to scream. A stinging blow across her face silenced her.

  The atmosphere crackled with savagery.

  Bina, sweat cresting her top lip, pulled a piece of paper from her coat pocket and held it with shaking fingers in front of the general. ‘You read this when the camera rolls.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You will,’ Martinovic cut in. ‘If you don’t we will pour boiling water over your wife’s face.’

  The general’s wife gave a frozen cry and promptly wet herself.

  ‘Now look what you’ve made her do.’ Disgust tugged at Martinovic’s mouth.

  In anguish, the general surveyed his wife and the puddle on the floor. He blinked, looked away. When he spoke his voice trembled with strain. ‘I don’t have my reading glasses. I’m sorry.’

  Frowning, Bina looked at her partner for a response. Martinovic stared back, her face without expression. ‘I will do it. It makes no difference. No difference at all.’

  The two big dogs lay dead at the entrance. Handsome-looking creatures close up, both had been killed by single shots to the head. Tallis didn’t think the deaths were due to safety considerations, but down to the simple fact that where the owner was going the dogs couldn’t follow. They’d outlived their usefulness. He thought the same fate had befallen Fitz.

  Armed, Tallis with a Glock, Clay with a Colt, they ventured inside and found themselves standing in a wide space with rafters in the ceiling, dirt and dust on a floor studded with piles of dog excrement. Clay chewed gum with a slow, easy bite, his eyes examining the area in a way an eagle surveys prey.

  To one side, a long wooden workbench with an assortment of tools including lathes and clamps, and items Tallis frankly didn’t recognise. He looked at Clay, who nodded and advanced towards a metal staircase leading to the upper storey. With a soft tread, he eased his way up the steps, hardly making a sound. Tallis followed, his mouth dry, body primed.

  There were three large interconnecting rooms filled with planks and chain and sailcloth. A cursory investigation revealed no signs of human activity. No litter, food wrappings, debris, empty cartons or bottles. No human remains. The end room, the smallest, narrowed at one end contained a hatch in the wall with a door large enough for a small person to squeeze through. When Tallis opened it he was given a view of a storeroom filled with piles of empty sacks. Dead ahead was a hole with the remains of a rotting window frame that displayed a view of the canal, and where, he realised, he’d tried to gain entry in the small hours. He glanced around the room: no shell casings. He examined the hatch to see if any fibres of clothing clung to it. There were none.

  ‘Hey, Tallis,’ he heard Clay call. Tallis followed the sound of the voice, which was coming from the middle room. As soon as he entered, his eyes travelled to a single metal chair butted up against a wall. The arms had ropes attached, and as he approached he could see visible signs that the seat was badly soiled. Clay was on his haunches, inspecting an area in the centre where several brownish-coloured stains marked the floor. Tallis squatted down next to him, rubbed his fingers in the dry crust and lifted them to his nose.

  ‘Blood?’ Clay said.

  ‘Not sure,’ Tallis said. ‘Maybe. Even if it is, it might not yield any DNA.’ A pathologist had once told him that ninety-nine per cent of cells in a blood sample are red and therefore contain no nuclei; only DNA from blood obtained from white blood cells is of value.

  ‘Doesn’t look swell, huh?’ Clay said, his eyes travelling to the chair.

  Tallis was forced to agree. Worse, with no body the trail had gone cold.

  Having cleared the upper floor, they went downstairs. Clay loped over to the workbench and picked up a pair of copper cutters, feeling the weight, turning them over in his hand. Tallis looked to him for comment, but Clay missed his gaze, put the implement down and picked up another, a mallet of some kind.

  ‘Know what it is?’ Tallis asked, his voice echoing off the walls. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He thought the tools had been used for torture and remembered the unfortunate prostitute Ivonne had described to him.

  Clay gave a slow nod. ‘It’s a caulking mallet. Used in boatbuilding. Drives the fibres into the seams between the planks.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’

  Clay issued a wide smile. ‘Because my daddy was a carpenter in a New Jersey boatyard.’

  Tallis jutted his chin towards a window at the far end. ‘Can you explain that lot over there?’ Underneath the ledge, lining the wall, was a large collection of twenty-litre-size drums with smaller one-litre tins stacked on top.

  ‘My guess it’s coal tar, or marine oil.’

  Tallis nodded and crossed the floor to investigate. Taking out a penknife, he levered
the lids off several containers, the heavy acrid smell from the contents enough to clear a hangover. Then his attention was taken by something more interesting, a big brown block of a substance wrapped in polythene. For a fleeting moment he thought it was cannabis resin. He cut into it and broke off a piece. It was pliable, like putty.

  ‘What’s this stuff?’

  ‘Best-quality Swedish pitch. Used to seal bilges. Great for keeping out water. Vital for wooden vessels. Some craftsmen melt it and add it to coal tar to thicken it. Very versatile, as my daddy would say.’ Clay flashed a grin.

  Tallis stared off, a fragment of nautical history flashing through his mind. He suddenly felt cold and nauseous. Not a superstitious man, he swore that an evil presence had descended on the place.

  ‘You OK, bud? You look a little grey, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Adrenalin dump in my bloodstream, or something,’ Tallis mumbled, alluding to his earlier skirmish with death. ‘Look, Clay, I think we should check the rest of these cans.’

  Clay pulled a face. ‘You think?’

  ‘I do.’ He had a really bad feeling.

  ‘If you say so,’ Clay said, humouring him, it seemed.

  Between them they prised off the lids of twenty-eight tins containing an assortment of products including tar, pitch, wood oil, creosote and wood spirit. Tallis was starting to feel light-headed from the sinus-busting odour.

  ‘Doesn’t this stuff come with a health warning?’

  ‘Sure should do,’ Clay said. ‘Twenty-nine and counting,’ he said, attacking the next with such vigour that the lid popped off and flew on to the floor. Clay glanced inside and took a sharp step back, the back of his hand flying to cover his mouth and nose. ‘Aw, shit.’

  Tallis moved closer, lowering his gaze. The partially decomposed remains of a man’s hand attached to an arm, the lower limb clearly cut off at the elbow, stared up at him. Even though he’d strongly suspected as much, it was a shocking discovery.