by Ian Young
And then there was mayhem.
Chapter 29
The car’s stopped again. I try to imagine what Mason would do in my position. Count the seconds, count the turns, try to judge which way they are taking me. But it’s ridiculous. That’s just something you see in the movies, or read about in books. I consider myself quite clever, capable of multi-tasking (Howie said multi-tasking was impossible; I used to tell him only a man would say that). But I can’t count the seconds and the turns without scrambling my brain within a minute.
It’s the second time we’ve stopped, though; I know that much. The first was when Unsworth got out and they bundled me in the trunk. This time someone’s got in. They’re talking but I can’t work out what they’re saying. There’s plenty of space in the trunk. They haven’t bound my hands but what would be the point in banging on the sides? Whose attention would I attract? Only the goon up front and he seems frighteningly strong.
Hell, it’s sweltering in here. It’s like a tin hut in the sun. What am I saying? It is a tin hut in the sun. That’s exactly what it is. Am I losing my mind already? It would hardly be surprising. It’s like being back in the submersible, only it’s my life sinking this time. This is how we cope with impending death. I no longer fear it, I just want them to get it over with. Actually, I’d love them to throw me in the river right now. After it had cooled me down, I’d drink it.
American. The guy talking is American. His voice is louder now – they’re arguing about me. Probably arguing about who’s going to take me to the Prom. Or perhaps about who’s going to shoot me and dump me in the river. It’s fifty-fifty.
There’s no way I’m going back to my research post in UCLA. No way I’m going back to the US! Something told me I’ll spend my life in prison for murder – whose murder isn’t important. Why do I think I’ll be done for all the murders: Howie, Steiner, Kendrick and the prick in my apartment? The only way I’m likely to be proved innocent of any of these murders is by being murdered myself. And why? All because of that damned baseball from the bottom of the ocean – the ball that proves God doesn’t exist. But if there is a god, surely I wouldn’t be in this position. Whoa! Hang on a second. If there is a god, the last thing he’ll want is a crazy woman trying to prove he doesn’t exist. This is exactly the position I should expect to be in. So what am I saying? I can’t quite rationalise it. God exists and wants me dead? Don’t get me started on the ethics of that.
There’s a tap on the side of the car. Another voice, English, like … Mason!
I start banging on the lid. ‘Mason! Mason! Hey, I’m here. Mason!’
Gunfire. Fuck! I jump and hit my head on the trunk lid. Shouting, grunting. I’m rolled forward and slammed into the back of the rear seats. The car’s racing backwards and I hear the tyres screech across the road, the car shaking as the rubber slides over … over … cobbles? Probably. And then I roll back as the car changes direction. My heart’s pounding so fiercely I can’t count the seconds. But I know when we take a corner because it feels like the car will roll.
They’ve shot Mason and left him for dead. Mason is dead. They don’t miss at that range, do they? But Mason is indestructible, I’ve seen it. Mason dead? But he trains bodyguards, trains them to protect themselves and others, for God’s sake. What the hell is the point of being a security expert when you can’t even keep yourself alive? So typical of Mason.
I bury my face in the crook of my arms and close my eyes. Now there really is nothing to live for.
I don’t know how long we’ve been driving for, don’t really care, but when the guy opens the lid and lets me out, the relief is like getting into heaven. I squint at his silhouette, one hand holding the lid the other reaching in for me. He could have been rougher, but he eases me out like helping his mother out of bed. Whoever he is, he isn’t the driver. He’s wearing normal clothes, casual even: grey slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he says.
I try to work out whether that’s sorry for keeping you locked up in the trunk or sorry I’m about to put a bullet in your head. I guess I’ll have to wait and see.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head.
He’s talkative. Not. We’re in a parking lot behind an industrial unit, there are no other cars around. As the car pulls away, the American hauls me towards a door in the metal-clad building.
‘You shot Mason, didn’t you?’
‘Who?’
‘The man who asked about me when we stopped, back there.’
‘Best if you keep quiet, miss.’
‘It’s just as well you killed him,’ I say, defying the American’s advice. ‘Because he’d have come after you and wiped you out.’
The man taps a code into a box beside the door and, after a clicking sound, pushes me through the open door. ‘In here, and keep quiet.’
I step into an empty warehouse and back into the dark. Behind me, the man starts flicking light switches and slowly the cold space brightens.
‘This way.’
‘What is this place?’ I ask, feeling myself being firmly escorted along.
‘Empty, that’s what it is.’
What would Mason do? He’d start hitting and kicking the man until he stopped moving. I could do that. Mason didn’t use martial arts, he just went crazy. I can do crazy. I look at the American and assess whether crazy would work. Clearly he has a gun, still warm from Mason’s murder; could I get crazy enough to beat the crap out of him before he could draw the gun and blow my head off?
He ushers me through another door and along a corridor. Offices, open to the front, stretch along the right side of the corridor. Through the windows, I can see cars parked along a road, and more units opposite. At least I’m not in the middle of nowhere. This unit might be empty, but others aren’t.
At the end of the corridor we step into a hallway, the reception area (unmanned), and the American pulls me left up a staircase. I pass a rest room and take my chance.
‘Please, I need the bathroom.’
‘Sure.’
I hesitate, not expecting that at all. Isn’t that a good sign? I mean, if he’s going to kill me it wouldn’t matter if I needed to pee. But I do need to pee, an awful lot, and I lock myself inside the cubicle. If I weren’t so desperate I would find it impossible to go with the guy stood outside. As it is …
He’s on the phone; he seems to be arranging something. I stop my flow to listen better, but I can make out only times. There’s a place too, I suppose, but there’s no way I would understand Czech place names, even if I were standing right next to him. He doesn’t say ‘Vltava’ though, so that’s good.
There’s no point staying locked inside until help comes; help isn’t coming. Besides, he’ll just shoot the lock off like they do in the movies. At least that’s realistic. I wash up then emerge. He’s still on the phone, but immediately hangs up when he sees me. We enter another corridor, then the guy nudges me into a kitchen. Very fucking funny!
‘You want me to make you some coffee or something?’
‘Just had one, but you can make yourself one, if you like.’
‘Is there any point?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Will it be my last request? A cup of instant coffee?’
‘I’m not going to kill you. So please, help yourself to whatever you find in here.’
I look around. There’s a two-seater sofa and couple of armchairs surrounding a coffee table, and a TV up on the wall. The American takes one of the armchairs, then pulls his phone out again. I check the cupboards. There’s coffee and teabags on little strings, but no milk. This guy’s obviously confident he can catch me if I run, because there’s nothing between me and the door. My heart races as I think about running. My cheeks burn too. Any killer worth the m
oney would detect that kind of change in my emotions. Mason would. He’d probably smell the pheromones. And then I sigh like a deflating balloon. At this, the guy looks up and stares at me.
‘I guess you realised all the doors are locked, right?’
And I guess he is worth the money. I didn’t want coffee in the first place – a large tequila definitely, but I’m not going to bother looking for a bottle in here.
‘So, if you’re not going to kill me, why are we here?’
‘Beats me,’ he says, going back to his phone. ‘First you’re a threat, then you’re not. Who knows?’
I slam the cupboard door closed and take a seat as far from him as possible. I’m no threat – whatever that means.
Chapter 30
As soon as Mason mentions the scientist, the driver opens his door and tries to slam it into Mason’s legs. But the Englishman is fast, like he expected it; he steps away from the door before it even opens. Immediately the car speeds backwards and skids across the cobbles. Within seconds it’s heading for the soldiers at the bottom of Tržiště.
Hanzel spots the policeman drawing his gun, staggering forward like his legs haven’t agreed to what his brain’s demanding. Mason turns round and slaps the policeman’s arm from underneath, just as the shot goes off. The bullet whizzes skywards and Mason wastes no time. He kicks the policeman’s right leg, just to the side of the knee and it buckles. Mason holds the gun arm up in the air and forces the cop to the ground. Hanzel jumps out of the car, the awfulness of the scene confusing his decision-making. He was once a policeman; he now works for the Security Service. And here is a foreigner assaulting an officer of the law in Prague. Hanzel does nothing.
A shout comes from across the square. The policeman guarding the embassy has drawn his gun and has already reached the back of Hanzel’s car. He shouts again for Mason to stop.
Hanzel snaps his head around to the soldiers at the bottom of the road. They have stopped the white Octavia, guns pointing at the windscreen. He looks back at the chaotic scene surrounding him. Mason now has a gun and is pointing it at the policeman. The Englishman steps away from the cop on the floor and starts moving stealthily towards the car, step by step, never taking his eyes or the gun off the other policeman.
‘Get in the driver’s seat,’ he says to Hanzel, his level voice masking any stress Mason might be under.
Hanzel puffs air out, then jumps back into the car, sliding over to the driver’s side. A glance down the road – the soldiers have their automatic weapons poking inside the Octavia’s windows.
The policeman keeps shouting at Mason but it’s clear who’s in control. Hanzel doubts the cop has ever fired his gun in anger.
‘Tell him to drop the weapon,’ says Mason.
Hanzel doesn’t hesitate. The policeman looks into the car but keeps his weapon trained on Mason. Hanzel repeats the instruction; he considers showing his ID, but that now seems like career suicide given that Mason was clearly foreign.
Mason edges back to the front of the car and to the cop on the floor. ‘Stand up!’
Even if the cop doesn’t understand English he’s compelled to obey. Mason grabs his arm and thrusts it behind the cop’s back. He repeats the command to the other policeman, who finally realises he’s out-muscled. The cop lowers his weapon.
‘Put it in the car,’ says Mason, nodding with his head.
The cop tosses the gun to Hanzel and starts retreating across the road. Mason shoves the other cop away and jumps into the car.
‘Drive, now!’
Hanzel glances down the street again – the soldiers have waved away the Octavia and begin running up to the scene outside the US embassy, the building they are meant to be protecting.
Hanzel is frozen with indecision. It’s too late. They’ll be here in seconds, firing from the hip. Hanzel is about to close his eyes and prepare for the rat-a-tat of their Heckler & Koch machine pistols when a car flashes past his vision. The soldiers stop their run and take up a defensive stance, levelling their weapons against the oncoming car. Hanzel turns the key and reverses from the parking space, chasing the policeman across the road. The cops will radio for backup, calling in the car’s license plate, and blowing Hanzel’s identity instantly. He knows his career has just ended.
Up ahead, the soldiers stand aside and allow the car to slip past, then turn their urgency back to Hanzel’s approach. He grips the wheel, waiting for the windscreen to shatter under a hail of bullets. Mason is talking, but Hanzel doesn’t hear a word; his eyes are fixed on the muzzle of one of the guns pointing at this head. Any second, the barrel will light up with the tiny explosions that will send the 9mm rounds his way. It seems like everything slides into slow motion, then he realises he has slowed the car to a stop. The soldiers creep round the front towards the two side windows, steady and confidently like Mason had done moments ago.
Hanzel snaps to at the sound of Mason’s voice.
‘You’re an intelligence officer,’ he says, through closed teeth, ‘pursuing foreign terrorists.’
Hanzel glares at Mason, mouth hanging, his ears pounding at the soldiers’ shouts. Both he and Mason raise their arms. They’re not going to shoot; the soldiers are not going to shoot him. Hanzel identifies himself and nods to his jacket pocket. The soldier hesitates, then Hanzel slowly pulls his jacket open. Inside is the CZ 75 pistol. The soldier jabs his Heckler & Koch closer, but says nothing. Hanzel carefully extends finger and thumb to reach for his secret service ID and slowly hands it to the soldier.
‘The car you just let go,’ says Hanzel, in Czech, ‘is involved in a terrorist plot. We’ve got to get after them.’
The soldier looks across at his partner then straightens himself, tossing the wallet back at Hanzel.
‘Drive,’ says Mason quietly.
In his rear-view mirror, Hanzel sees the soldiers arguing with the policemen.
Once back on Karmelitská, Hanzel heads right, back the way he and Mason came. He stares straight ahead, his mouth dry. They have to dump the car. What would Krystina say? She loves the little Audi.
‘Uh, Mason …’ Hanzel swallows, grimacing with the effort. ‘I’m stopping here. It’s a hotel car park. We can take a taxi.’
‘Let me drive. Find a backstreet that isn’t a dead end. The police will be looking on the main street. They’ll be rushing to the embassy first, then they’ll go from there. Get on to your camera operator and find the Octavia.’
Hanzel didn’t have much control of the situation to begin with; now he seems to have none at all. He pulls over then jumps out to let Mason in the driver’s seat. Now, back in the passenger side, he points left to a small street that fits Mason’s request and the Englishman calmly turns off Karmelitská, speeding along the narrow backstreet. Mason slows the pace as he weaves between parked cars, but he still has Hanzel gripping the sides of his seat.
‘Follow the road to the right,’ says Hanzel.
Hanzel directs him on to Zborovská, which runs parallel to the river. ‘We can turn right ahead and double back to Legií Bridge. We can park up and watch for police coming across the bridge.’
‘Right.’
‘No, left but not yet.’ Hanzel points across Mason’s view to make sure he understands which direction to take.’
‘Classic,’ says Mason.’
‘Co že?’
Mason looks across. ‘Left, I get it. Don’t worry.’
Hanzel shrugs. Is he joking at a time like this? At least the crazy-assed Englishman has taken Hanzel’s mind off the driving for a moment.
‘Here, go left.’
Mason waits until the front wheels were at the junction before he steps on the brakes, or so it seems. A Hollywood-style screech comes up from the road as the car takes the corner as though it were on rails. Hanzel thanks God that this was a one-way system.
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‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he says. ‘We can go a little further then take Jiráskův Bridge instead. The police won’t use that one.’
‘Sure?’
‘It takes them out of their way.’ Hanzel jabs his finger forward at the next crossroads and Mason speeds across the junction without hesitation.
‘Mason!’ he yells. ‘You’ll get us killed.’
‘I won’t.’ Mason’s outstretched arms twitch as he makes rapid adjustments to the steering. ‘I could see in the reflection of a shop window that nothing was within thirty metres of the junction.’
‘Bože,’ whispers Hanzel, shaking his head. ‘What were you, special forces?’
‘Oh, goodness, no.’ Mason lets out what Hanzel interprets as a contemptuous laugh. ‘They’re far too hard-core for me.’
‘Left here,’ said Hanzel. ‘So what were you?’
‘Just a regular soldier.’ He sweeps the car round to the left and heads toward the river. The bridge is just to the left as they reach the end of the road. ‘I was only in five years, then I left to go back to university. Did the protection course to fund my studies.’
‘And I let you drive my car around Prague thinking you were some highly trained special forces guy.’
Mason lets out a chuckle. ‘Is this the bridge?’
‘Ano … yes.’
‘Look at that,’ says Mason, sweeping his head left and right along the river. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘Bože! How can you admire the view right now?’ Hanzel stares at the Englishman, wondering how he could be so cool, when the phone rings.
‘No, prosím?’ Hanzel had often confused himself when he first learned English, since the abbreviated Czech word for ‘yes’ is ‘no’.
He listens with a sinking feeling, like the bridge was collapsing. ‘Dobře, děkuji. Ahoj.’