by Mark Dawson
His momentum raised the legs from the floor a third time. They clattered back down again.
He tried once more, grunting with the effort as he tried to transfer all of his weight to his left, straining against the tape that held him to the chair.
The chair swung to the left, teetered there on the remaining legs, and then toppled over.
He tried to stiffen his neck to absorb the impact that he knew was coming, but he was only partially successful. His left temple bounced against the cold tile and he felt a sudden gust of dizziness that he thought was going to be beyond his capacity to master. The impact slammed his teeth down on his tongue and it was the coppery taste of the blood in his mouth that he focused upon. He anchored on it, squeezing his eyes shut so that he could see starbursts of light against his lids and then, when the moment had passed, he opened them.
He was on his side, still secured to the chair. The shards of the glass bowl were inches away from his face. He reached up with his bound hands, his fingers latching onto one of the larger pieces and twisting until he could wield the sharper, jagged edge. He turned it around again so that the sharper edge was pointed backwards, towards his chest, and used it to start to rip through the tape.
* * *
MILTON GLANCED at Matilda.
Enough.
It had to be now.
He spat out a mouthful of crimson blood. “Avi.”
Bachman turned back to him.
“You got any more?”
Bachman ducked his head and bull rushed him. Milton started to fall back, but didn’t try to evade him. Bachman wrapped his arms around Milton’s waist, put his shoulder down and tried to force him to the ground. Milton pressed up until his thighs burned, desperate to stay on his feet, knowing that he was dead if he fell. Bachman pushed down and Milton pulled up, and they stumbled back toward the parapet.
Milton reached down and locked his arms around Bachman’s chest.
Bachman guessed what he was doing and redoubled his efforts to force him down onto the ground. He hammered blows onto Milton’s torso, pummelling his kidneys, each blow triggering fierce jolts of pain, but Milton did not let go and he did not go down.
Bachman changed tactics, reaching for Milton’s legs and trying to trip him.
Milton held on and yanked Bachman up, with a sudden surge of strength that allowed him to lift him off his feet.
Milton staggered another step towards the parapet.
Bachman reached down, pressed his face against Milton’s thigh and bit down as hard as he could.
The pain was intense, but it helped. Milton found the strength for one last heave.
The rail of the parapet bumped into his body, against his buttocks and just below his waist, and, with Bachman still held aloft, Milton allowed himself to fold over it.
His feet left the surface of the terrace as he overbalanced, quickly flipping upside down. His shoulders dropped violently and the terrace disappeared as he tumbled to the clashing water below.
* * *
MATILDA WATCHED in horror. Milton had grabbed Bachman around the waist and, with a loud groan of exertion, he pulled up so that Bachman was briefly upside down. Milton stepped back and overbalanced across the guard rail. They both toppled over the parapet and fell out of sight.
She ran the remaining distance to the parapet. She thought she heard a splash, but, as she reached the parapet and looked down, there was no sign of either man. The tide was pummelling the rocks, white froth and spume blasting up, but that was it.
She couldn’t see either of them.
* * *
MEIR SHAVIT picked up Avi’s Glock and hobbled across the balcony.
He saw the girl with his shotgun.
He saw Avi facing away from him.
He saw John Milton.
Milton had grabbed Avi around the waist and was dragging him back toward the parapet.
Avi didn’t know what Milton was doing and hadn’t realised the danger he was in. Shavit understood, but there was nothing that he could do to prevent it.
He tried to take aim with the pistol, but Avi was in the way. He didn’t have a shot.
Milton gave a big heave. Avi’s feet left the ground as he was turned upside down.
Milton overbalanced.
Both men fell over the parapet and disappeared from view. Shavit knew that the drop was fifty feet to the surface of the sea, and the tide there was strong. Too strong for them to swim clear, and that was in the event that they survived the plunge.
He felt hot tears sting his eyes.
He turned, stumbled down the stone steps and, holding the gun out in front of him, approached the girl.
* * *
“DROP THE SHOTGUN!”
The old man was standing at the foot of the steps. He was carrying a pistol and, as Matilda turned to face him, he brought it around and aimed it at her.
“Drop it!” he barked again.
She did as she was told. It would be impossible for him to miss from this close. He held the pistol in a firm two-handed grip and started to walk down the platform to her.
“You killed him.”
She could see the tremor of emotion that passed across the old man’s wrinkled face: distress and, immediately afterwards, fury. He brought the pistol up a little and walked on, stopping at the parapet. He looked down into the water, just a quick glance. When he turned back again, his face was set into a pitiless mask. She had no doubt that he was going to pull the trigger.
Matilda knew that she was about to die.
She closed her eyes.
There was a loud report, a crack that came out of the darkness.
Matilda didn’t feel anything.
No pain.
She heard a heavy thud.
She opened her eyes, confused, and saw the body of the old man on the ground. He was face down. Blood was pooling around his head.
She turned. A woman was advancing toward her, holding a pistol steadily with two hands. She saw movement on the balcony and looked up to see another figure looking down at her. A man. She couldn’t make out his features in the poor light.
She kept her hands aloft. “Don’t shoot.”
The woman advanced. Matilda recognised her. It was the woman she had first met on the road outside Broken Hill. Keren Rabin. The man on the balcony descended the stairs and joined her. Malakhi Rabin.
“Bachman?” the woman asked her.
“Dead.”
“Milton?”
“The same. They went over the edge.”
The man reached the parapet. He kept his weapon on her and glanced down. Matilda looked at him, then at the body of the dead man, and then at the water. Should she jump? Was that her best chance now? Would it afford her an opportunity to get away?
Keren Rabin shared a look with her husband. Something was exchanged, an agreement made.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said as she took aim at Matilda’s head. “You’ve been very unlucky.”
There was nothing in Rabin’s face that suggested empathy. There would be no reprieve. She straightened her arm. Matilda stared into the little inky spot of the muzzle and then closed her eyes.
“Wait!”
She opened her eyes. It was Ziggy.
“Put the gun down.”
Malakhi Rabin turned and aimed his pistol back up the steps. Ziggy was at the parapet, his left hand held up before him. His face was bloodless and, as he moved closer, pain distorted his expression.
“Shooting her isn’t the right move.”
“So maybe we’ll shoot you, too.”
Ziggy was unarmed. “I wouldn’t do that.” He started to descend the stairs. “I’m the one who broke into your servers. Took all of your data. And I’m Milton’s fallback.” Matilda didn’t know what that meant, but she registered the flicker of concern that passed across Keren’s face. “Milton’s no fool. He knew you’d come after us. And I’m no fool, either.”
He reached the bottom of the steps and turned so that
Matilda could see him fully. He was walking with the stick that the old man had used. His trouser leg looked as if it was sopping with blood. His face was covered with sweat. It looked like he might throw up.
“The information you want isn’t even in this country. It’s on several servers, in places you’ll never find it. I need to check in every six hours or the next thing that’ll happen is an email triggers. All the newspapers, TV stations and Internet sites I could think of—they’ll get it all. The Mossad’s secrets will be broadcast to the world. It’ll make WikiLeaks look like a minor diplomatic disagreement.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? I know Blum has a reputation for gambling. Milton told me. But we both know that he won’t gamble on this. So put the guns down, please. We all know you’re not going to use them.”
The agents exchanged another glance, but did not speak.
Ziggy shuffled, putting a little too much weight on his injured leg, and he winced. He walked away from Malakhi, passed Keren and came to Matilda’s side. “Come on,” he said quietly, and tugged at her wrist.
She walked. The sensation was weird, as if she was out of her own body. The agents kept their weapons raised, but, as they approached, they stepped apart so that Ziggy and Matilda could pass between them and onto the decked area.
“You’re a lucky man,” Keren said. “Bachman was an agent, once. And the old man was a soldier, too, a hero, and they’re both dead because of you. We won’t forget that.”
Ziggy swallowed, and Matilda saw his larynx bobbing. He had put on a good show, but she could see how frightened he was. She was frightened, too. She reached out and took his hand.
“You’re going to have to help me,” he said. “I think I’m going to faint.”
She braced him with her arm and he leaned in.
“Where’s Milton?” he said groggily.
She bit her lip.
He turned to look at her.
“I think he’s dead.”
“How?”
“Went over the side with Bachman,” she said.
“Did you see him in the water?”
“No, neither of them. And that’s a long drop.”
They continued through the grounds of the villa, neither of them speaking. Matilda felt an itching sensation between her shoulder blades, as if the agents behind them were aiming their weapons at her, but there was no gunfire and no attempt to stop them. Ziggy grunted with the effort of walking. She braced his weight again and kept them both moving.
Eventually, as they passed around the house and made their way into the gardens at the front, Ziggy broke the silence.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s Milton.”
Matilda shook her head once, wordlessly, and Ziggy looked down at the ground and closed his eyes.
There was no point in pretending otherwise.
Milton was dead.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
MILTON HIT the water and plunged beneath the surface. His momentum was slowly arrested and, as he opened his eyes, he looked, but could not find Bachman. There were lights up on the stone platform, but he was several metres down by now and the illumination they cast beneath the water was minimal. He swivelled left and right, and saw nothing. He had to find him.
He felt a disturbance in the water above him.
He looked up. Another man was an arm’s length above him and to the right, closer to the shelf of rock that curved away to demark the edge of the plunge pool. The man was struggling to the surface, his legs kicking without rhythm, desperate and frantic.
Bachman.
Milton kicked his legs and stroked up, quickly closing the distance between them.
They both broke the surface at the same moment.
Bachman gasped for air and reached for the first rung of the ladder.
Milton kicked harder.
Bachman was too far from the ladder and his desperate hand fell short.
Milton’s fingers fastened around Bachman’s collar. He pulled himself closer, wrapped his right arm across Bachman’s right shoulder and his left arm around his waist, cinching his fingers together at a point just above Bachman’s sternum.
He pulled.
Bachman struggled.
The waves pushed them up against the rocks. Milton planted his feet and pushed them away, into the middle of the pool.
Bachman tried to prise Milton’s fingers apart.
Milton held on. He inhaled as deeply as he could and then yanked back as hard as he could, pulling them both beneath the surface.
They were upside down. Bachman thrashed. Milton kicked, sending them farther down.
It was disorientating: their heads pointed to the bottom and their feet to the surface. Bachman’s arms and shoulders filled with a desperate surge of prodigious strength that was almost too much for Milton to withstand. His grip loosened just as Bachman’s first surge of strength waned, and he was able to lock his fingers again. They bumped together, Milton’s chest pressed up against Bachman’s back, and Milton scissored his legs around Bachman’s legs and locked them at the ankle.
Bachman found the strength for another attempt to break free. He jabbed the back of his head into Milton’s face, but Milton was not about to relinquish his grip. He butted him again, and again, but Milton held on. His shoulders bumped up against the rocky floor of the pool and he squeezed tighter. Bachman turned his head so that Milton could see his face. He saw hatred in his eyes, and panic, the knowledge of impending death.
Milton squeezed tighter, Bachman’s mouth fell open and he gulped down a lungful of water.
Milton held on.
Bachman’s body bucked once, twice, a third time, and then, finally, it was still.
* * *
MILTON GRABBED the lifeless body by the shoulders and kicked up. He broke the surface flush against the rocks, obscured from the villa above by the modest overhang. The sound of the waves crashing against the outcrop was loud and initially confusing after the eerie silence of their struggle beneath the water. There were a series of natural handholds, and Milton used them, one at a time, to shimmy across to the ladder. He reached for the rope, snagged it, and pulled up the waterproof bag. He untied it and then looped the free end of the rope around Bachman’s waist, anchoring him to the ladder until he had prepared himself.
He took out his flippers and put them on, one at a time. He collected his mask, washed it out, and put it over his face with the snorkel close to his mouth. He would have liked to have his wetsuit, but the water was reasonably warm and he didn’t have too far to swim. He was less buoyant without it, though, and didn’t need his weight belt to keep him below the surface. That was good, because he had another use for that. He removed it from the bag, took a deep breath, and dived down to where Bachman’s body was pulling against its tether.
Bachman had drifted away from the rocks, the eddies hungrily sucking him away from land and to the deeper water beyond the pool. Milton looped the belt around Bachman’s waist and clipped it together. He untied the rope, manoeuvred himself so that he was facing out through the gap in the rocks to the open sea, and pushed Bachman away.
Milton watched for a moment as Bachman drifted away from him. His arms were wide apart, as if inviting an embrace, and his eyes were open. The body descended, dragged down by the belt. Milton watched as the most dangerous man he had ever known drifted into the deep and slowly faded from view.
Milton stroked back to the surface to untie the other end of the rope, took another deep breath, and then submerged himself again. He kicked, the fins helping him to surge through the water. The eddy caught him and hurried him away from the rocks. He submitted to it and swam for the waiting boat.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
VICTOR BLUM sat at his desk and gazed out the window. A storm cloud had rolled in off the Mediterranean early in the afternoon and now, as dusk descended over the city, the rain started to fall. It quickly gathered in volume until it became a deluge, thundering against the glass and blurring
the view that he had always enjoyed. The sky was the colour of a bruise, livid and painful, and veins of lightning crackled across it. In the distance, out over the sea, thunder boomed.
His aide-de-camp put his head through the open door. “They’re here, Director.”
“Send them in.”
He turned away from the window and looked down at the papers on his desk. The report had been filed three days earlier, and it was voluminous. He had requested that its authors attend him this evening so that he could ask a few additional questions. Blum had found through long experience that sometimes the answers were more accurate when the interrogation was face to face.
His ADC returned, paused at the door, and showed the two agents inside. Malakhi and Keren Rabin looked a little nervous, as well they might. Blum’s reputation for irascibility went before him, and they must have known that the equivocation in their report would annoy him.
“Sit.”
There were two chairs in front of his desk. Keren Rabin took the chair on the left, her husband the one on the right. They sat quietly, waiting for him to speak. The two of them had kept Bachman under surveillance, as he had ordered. Blum knew that he and Milton would meet again to resolve their differences and he wanted to be absolutely sure that his intelligence regarding the aftermath was certain.
“Thank you for your report,” he said. “Very thorough, although the lack of a firm conclusion is disturbing. I’ll get straight to the point. There was no sign of them? Of either of them?”
“No, sir,” Keren said. “None.”
“The local police?”
“They were not informed. We didn’t think it would be wise.”
“No,” Blum said.
“I waited for an hour,” Keren said, “while Malakhi removed Shavit’s body.”
“That, at least, is taken care of?”