Though the doorway was considerably larger than many others, Latour had to duck slightly as he came through it, his broad shoulders filling the entrance. There was that impression of irregular, misplaced lumps beneath the manservant’s jacket, of muscles that were too big and in the wrong place, and his twisted face regarded Hayden with a mixture of anger and amusement, as though looking forward to swatting an annoying fly.
With a gulp, Hayden realised that this was no time to exercise discretion as the better part of valour. Roaring in an attempt to steel his nerves, he rushed forward to try and throw the gigantic opponent off balance.
Latour’s blow was slow, almost lazy, a massive sidewinder that swung through the air and smashed into Hayden’s back as he bent down to try and crash into his enemy. Had it connected with Hayden’s head it would have knocked him out, but as it was it sent him tumbling to the floor and Latour ambled forward, reaching out with huge plates of hands to grab the smaller, muscular man.
Rolling to one side, Hayden scrabbled away in an undignified fashion. He had to get past Latour somehow and, in desperation, he grabbed hold of an oriental vase in his hand. Latour’s eyes widened slightly as he saw it—no doubt some precious objet d’art belonging to generations of Valmont’s treacherous family—and Hayden saw his opportunity, flinging it towards the giant’s head. Too late Latour lifted his hands and it crashed into his face, smashing into fragments and cutting his brow.
As Latour fumbled, Hayden saw his chance. Darting to one side, he rushed through the door into a cold, stone stairwell beyond. There was no key in the lock but Hayde dropped an old wooden bar across the latch: he wasn’t sure how long that would hold Valmont’s servant, but he had no time to consider other options as he turned and bounded up the worn flag steps leading above.
The room he entered was grim and forbidding, but what stopped Hayden was the even grimmer sight that lay before him.
On some sort of bench or horse which he vaguely recognised from the video he’d glimpsed, Karla was strapped by her wrists and ankles. Her dress had been torn from her back and hung in tatters, and though he felt sick at the sight of her bound this way at least he could see from her skin that Valmont had not yet begun his degenerate work on her. He couldn’t see her face, hidden as it was by the Marquis who was bending in front of her, his back to Hayden as he said something in a low voice, but her whimpers of fear were unmistakable.
Hayden had paused only for a second to take all this in and now he bent his head down, arms spread wide as he ran full tilt into the Marquis, throwing all his weight into the tackle so that the two of them went down, crashing into a table on which whips and various other implements had been laid. The wooden board collapsed beneath them and Hayden lifted his hands, throwing in two hard, solid punches before Valmont recovered from his surprise and began to fight back. Trying to stand, something tangled around Hayden’s legs and he fell, though he managed to pull Valmont back on top of him.
All he could think of at that moment was his hatred towards the Marquis, blind fury that drove his fists, knocking Valmont almost senseless. When Karla screamed his name, however, he looked up at her face, bruised and full of terror, then past her to where Latour stood at the other end of the room.
Hayden was desperate now. All he could think of was the dreadful necessity to get Karla away from that place. His own safety meant nothing to him and, staggering to his feet, he gave a terrible shout and ran straight into the giant, catching him off balance so that both of them tumbled to the floor. Hayden was faster, pummelling into Latour with his fists in swift succession, but whenever the servant landed a blow it stunned Hayden so that he gasped in pain.
Nonetheless he ignored the agony. He had to win—he had to. Karla’s safety, perhaps her life, depended on it and nothing else mattered now. And though each assault the giant made caused his head to spin, his body to shriek in agony, he had the satisfaction of seeing a look of fear in Latour’s eyes as he continued his relentless fight. Latour was making some weird, moaning noise, but above this Hayden suddenly heard Valmont’s voice.
“Monsieur Rider, I should congratulate you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone handle themselves so well against Latour. However, I should warn you that if you don’t stop this minute, I shall not hesitate to slit her throat.”
That made him stop. Almost exhausted, he let go of Latour’s torn jacket and dragged himself to his feet. To his horror, he saw Valmont standing there, one hand holding up Karla’s head by the hair while his other held a straight razor to her throat.
“No!” Karla yelled. “Hayden, don’t do it! He’s bluffing!” Valmont began to laugh at this and his grip tightened on her.
“Let her go,” he growled. “You bastard! I’ll kill you!”
He barely heard Valmont’s reply but instead was focussed entirely on Karla. She had turned her face towards him and his chest throbbed with pity and horror as he saw her pale features, the bruises on her face, the traces of tears streaking her chin, her green eyes full of fear and love. Behind him, Latour was brusquely binding his hands, but the sight of Karla in so much distress made him forget everything. His heart full of hate and rage towards the Marquis, he dropped his head and began to run forward, his hands tied up behind him. As such, he didn’t see the punch that ploughed into his head: he tried to keep on his feet, to ignore the agony in his head, but at last—defeated—he fell to his knees.
“Very good, very good, Monsieur Rider,” he heard Valmont say quietly. “Actually, this works very well. In some ways you have interrupted my prospects of breaking this bitch.” Hayden could barely listen to the Marquis gloating. His ears were full of the sound of Karla’s low sobs and, when he lifted his head, he looked at her so beautiful, so vulnerable there, and he came to a decision.
Spitting out the blood that filled his mouth, he stared at the Marquis. “I’ll tell you anything you want,” he said quietly. “Just let her go.” Nothing else mattered now. So what if Valmont won? He would do anything to save the woman he loved.
“There’ll be no need to say another word,” someone said behind him. “You know what they say—loose talk cost lives.” In utter shock, Hayden turned around to see Uncle Coilin standing at the entrance to the room. He heard Valmont cry out in surprise and Coilin answered, tapping his shillelagh in his hands as he looked on the scene with barely suppressed anger. Compared to Latour, the older man looked slightly pathetic—but for the expression of fierce determination which glittered in his eyes.
Latour obviously thought that this old fool was even less of a threat than Hayden and began to lumber forward, but at that moment three uniformed figures piled into the room, almost crashing into Coilin as they gawped at what lay before them. Latour, suddenly uncertain, stood still, his huge arms dangling at his side.
“About bloody time,” Hayden gasped. “You were meant to come and find us in Monte Carlo.”
“Aye son,” Coilin replied almost apologetically. “It took a little more persuasion than I expected to convince these fellas to accompany me. Are you alright, lad?”
Hayden shook his head. “Karla,” he groaned. “Help her.”
He just had time to see the Irishman nod and move forward before the effect of Latour’s blows and his own exertions took hold of him, causing him to slip into darkness as his body slid down onto the cold, hard floor.
Chapter Eighteen: Coilin
Coilin was particularly alert as he entered the hospital in Aix en Provence. He was dressed more smartly than usual, his hair combed back neatly and his eyes glittering sharply as he looked around the reception room. He was carrying a very large black case and, as the situation was particularly delicate, he’d stayed off the juice for an inordinately long time (at least by his standards).
In the end it had proved an impossible task to convince the authorities in Monaco to make an arrest: it didn’t matter if the Marquis de Valmont was the devil himself, those in charge there had decided that they wouldn’t intervene under any circumstanc
e. Coilin was both smart enough and experienced enough to realise he faced a futile task. Fortunately, he knew that the left-wing mayor of Aix had his eyes on a larger political career, one for which a scandal involving a member of the aristocracy would be useful in so many ways.
Coilin’s heart had been full of sorrow when he saw Karla, bound to that despicable device the Marquis used to abuse his victims, and while the police had arrested Valmont and Latour he’d immediately gone to release her from the straps that held her in place. Despite her bruises, and negligent of her modesty, her first act had been to rush to Hayden who was on his knees on the floor, gasping for breath. Ignoring her uncle’s expressions of concern, she had lavished tender kisses on her lover which, despite his winces, Hayden returned eagerly. Looking at him, even Coilin felt sorry for the poor bastard. He’d taken one hell of a beating.
Valmont’s fury had seemed to know no bounds as he was dragged off, and he seemed incredulous that he was the one under arrest. Coilin had accompanied Karla and Hayden as they were brought to the hospital where Karla had been treated for concussion but, fortunately, had suffered few other substantial injuries. For his part, Hayden had several broken ribs, a fracture along his jaw and the possibility of internal haemorrhaging.
As yet, neither were under arrest and if the mayor of Aix had his way they were likely to be fêted as heroes—at least until their pasts were revealed. Added to that, it was only a matter of time before Hayden was charged with assault against the security guards in Monte Carlo. Coilin had suggested leaving the Englishman behind and heading off with Karla. She, of course, wouldn’t even consider the notion and—to his own mild surprise—Coilin realised he wasn’t much in a mood to pursue the idea.
Nevertheless, while the pair had only been subjected to the mildest of questioning, very soon they would be at the centre of a media storm once the first load of journalists turned their attention from the jail where Valmont was being held. It was time for Coilin to get them out of there.
It was because he was keeping his eyes peeled for any career-minded journos that the bluff Irishman paid particular attention to the man who was leaning across the desk talking to the nurse in French. He was smartly dressed in casual clothes and fairly nondescript, with sandy hair and a plain face: though Coilin lacked his niece’s expertise, even he could tell that the man was a foreigner, eastern European from his accent, but it was the name he asked for that stopped Coilin in his tracks: Karla Pietersen.
Coilin had ensured that the two of them had been entered by their current assumed identities, and to his knowledge there was no-one else in the world who had an interest in Karla Pietersen other than the previous owners of the Wallenstein diamond. For their part in its theft, neither Karla nor Hayden had been forgotten—nor forgiven.
The receptionist was frowning and shaking her head when Coilin reached across and tapped the man on his shoulder. He was fitter than he looked under the unassuming clothes, probably ex-military. His type usually were. The man turned and looked at him with suspicious, hazel eyes.
“I think I can help you,” Coilin said. “You’re looking for Ms Pietersen?” He beamed broadly, his face assuming a slightly slack, idiotic expression.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I’ve been following her and her partner for some time, trying to track them down,” Coilin replied, shrugging apologetically. “I don’t suppose… I don’t suppose there’d be a reward for information leading to them, would there?”
The foreigner’s sharp eyes narrowed and he looked around suspiciously. “There might be,” he admitted grudgingly.
“Well, perhaps we could talk about that somewhere more private. There’s a room just off the corridor where we could come to some arrangement.”
The man stared at him silently for a moment before nodding curtly. Coilin led the way and then gestured towards a nearby door. As the former soldier began to open it, Coilin flicked the latch on his case as quietly as he could and reached inside.
“We must have the wrong room,” the man began to say and began to turn. His heart leaping inside with a mixture of adrenaline and fear—he’d only have one chance to do this—Coilin struck the man as hard as he could with his shillelagh. The blow was a lucky one and the man slumped into the janitor’s cupboard, Coilin entering behind him and pushing the door shut. Hunting around quickly, Coilin found some tape and cables. For a moment he paused, looking down at the assassin with concern.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Please don’t let me have killed you.”
Satisfying himself that the man was still breathing, Coilin began to bind his hands and feet before strapping gaffer tape across his mouth. “If we had more time,” he said quietly, “there are plenty of questions I’d like to ask you. As it is, I’d be grateful if you didn’t make too much of a disturbance for the next half hour or so.” Reaching into the man’s jacket, Coilin grunted as he removed a snub-nosed handgun. Patting down arms and legs, he found a couple more knives and some other items that he placed inside his case alongside the shillelagh.
Leaving the assassin in the room, Coilin knew now that time was even more important than ever. He just hoped that Karla was ready with the plan they’d hatched earlier that morning.
He needn’t have worried. When he came to her room, he found a blonde-haired nurse and doctor talking seriously. The nurse was more curvaceous than his niece, with thick makeup that made her look older. Only the bright green eyes gave her away.
“Who’s this?” he asked, nodding towards the doctor, a middle-aged man with a beard and glasses and a burly figure that indicated he’d probably once played some sport like rugby.
“Doctor Girard,” Karla replied, smoothing her skirt and glancing towards the doctor as he looked nervously at Coilin.
“Can we trust him?”
She nodded. “Doctor Girard—Sasha—has a few… local difficulties that can be sorted out very quickly with the money that Toby’s sent to us.”
The doctor looked embarrassed by this and refused to catch either Karla’s or Coilin’s eye.
“We could get away, you know, without any difficulty, just the two of us.”
“Don’t!” Karla’s eyes flashed with pure anger as she glared at her uncle. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it!”
Coilin grumbled, ashamed of himself as it happened. Not willing to pursue any unpleasantness, Karla asked briskly: “Did you get what I asked for?”
Coilin tapped his case. “I’m not sure how effective it’ll be though.”
She frowned at this. “We could take a bit more time, just to be sure, I suppose.”
Her uncle shook his head. “I just met a would-be assassin downstairs.” That caused Doctor Girard to look up in shocked surprise and he began to start up out of his chair but Karla placed a hand on his shoulder. Docile, he looked up at her and Coilin as they continued to speak.
“How the hell did that happen?” she asked.
Coilin shrugged. “You haven’t said anything to the police have you?” she scoffed at this, as well as his suggestion that Hayden might have talked. “All I can think of is that someone at the police station’s passed on some information. The guy looked like a freelance, possibly Serbian. No doubt he was a chancer, but it doesn’t mean there won’t be others.”
Karla nodded, absorbing this information calmly. “Well, we better get on with it.” Coilin observed that her makeup hid any signs of bruising.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Are you really up for this?”
“I have to be, Uncle,” she replied brusquely. Then her tone softened and for a second her eyes glistened slightly. Reaching out, she touched the lapel of Coilin’s jacket. “Thank you. I’m just worried about Hayden, that’s all. We have to get him out of here.” With that, she beckoned to the doctor who stood up and the three of them left the room.
Fortunately for Karla, some local chauvinism meant that she had not been left with a police presence outside her room, but the gendarmerie had
decided they would like to question Hayden much more closely when he was able to respond, and so a single guard sat, looking bored, before the door that led to Hayden’s room. His eyes travelled up Karla’s figure before glancing at her two companions. Doctor Girard explained to them that they needed to see the patient to check how he was progressing.
Hayden was sitting up in the bed, looking miserable. His face was bandaged as was his chest, still magnificent for all that it was bruised and battered. He frowned when he saw Coilin enter the room and only half-glanced at the doctor and nurse. “Go away,” he said to them then returned his attention to Coilin. “I need to see Karla.”
“And she needs to see you!” Karla replied, slipping her blonde wig from her head. As a smile shone on Hayden’s face, he suppressed another wince when she kissed him, both of them locked in an embrace that for him must have been incredibly painful—but which also, Coilin noted, brought him more pleasure than anything else in the world.
“What’s going on?” Hayden began to ask. “How have they been treating you?”
Karla lifted a hand. “We need to get you out of here, quickly. Can you walk?”
Hayden frowned at this and looked from Karla to her uncle and back again. “What’s this about?” he asked, his voice level.
“Uncle found someone sniffing around after us.”
“Ex-military, asking after Karla Pietersen,” Coilin explained. Hayden nodded seriously before looking up sharply.
“Where is he?”
“I left him tied up downstairs. My shillelagh came in useful after all. I don’t think he’s going to try and draw attention to himself, but there’s always the chance someone could find him very soon.”
“Which is why we have to go,” Karla said, gently drawing back the sheets. Hayden was completely naked beneath them and she smiled slyly as she looked down at him. “Why, I think I could get very used to you as a convalescent, Mister Carter,” she purred. “So defenceless!”
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