Witness X

by Mark Dawson

  Number Ten was already dead.

  Duffy stood and went over to check the dead Koreans. The one who’d tried to grab the printouts was Choi Sang-Hak, the motorcycle rider the day of the attack on Tamsin. Kang’s empty pistol was lying on the floor among the corpses, but Kang himself was gone, along with his remaining associate and their hostage.

  Duffy gave chase.

  Alone, the way it suited him.

  A solitary predator.

  Doing what he did best.

  21

  Duffy shouldered open the fire door through which his fleeing targets had escaped, and found himself in a passage with a staircase leading one way and fire doors leading another. There were bright red spots of fresh blood on the floor. Either Kang or his friend had taken a bullet in the skirmish. Nothing serious, judging by the lack of another corpse, but someone was dribbling enough spots for Duffy to track which way to go: through the fire doors and down another passage with open-plan offices on either side.

  Duffy had chased the blood trail about twenty metres when he heard a burst of automatic gunfire loudly filling the corridor farther ahead.

  He ran.

  And it was at the spot from which the gunfire had come that he found the body. It was Bell. He wasn’t dead, but he soon would be. His chest was ripped up with 9mm holes from Kang’s Uzi.

  Duffy knelt by him. He cradled Bell’s head in his hands. Bell coughed blood from a perforated lung. “You,” he wheezed, eyes rolling in confusion as his brain tried to compute what Duffy was doing there.

  “I was just passing by,” Duffy said. “I’m one of the good guys, Bell.”

  “He… he… shot me. I’m dying.”

  Bell was no doctor and neither was Duffy, but a medical degree was unnecessary: he was done for.

  “There’s nothing I can do for you,” Duffy said.

  “I deserve it. For what I’ve done. I had it coming.”

  Duffy nodded. “Yes, you do. But Kang has it coming more.”

  Bell wheezed. A red bubble swelled and popped between his lips. Pink foam dribbled down his chin and throat. His eyes began to roll as unconsciousness loomed up to take him.

  As Duffy rose to his feet, Bell suddenly reached up and grabbed his sleeve, with the last burst of energy his dying heart could muster. He croaked, “Look after her, Duffy.”

  Duffy said nothing.

  “It should have been you. You were… always the one she loved. None of this would have happened to her if I… if I hadn’t… taken her from you.”

  “She’ll be safe now,” Duffy said. “I’ll take care of her. I promise you that.”

  Bell nodded, weakly, fading fast. He burped blood. His voice was growing fainter and his breath was crackling. “Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her—”

  His head lolled forward and he was dead.

  Duffy moved on. He stalked through the building complex’s labyrinth of corridors, his senses on alert. The blood trail was diminishing, those bright red sploshes becoming fewer and farther between. He tracked it up a short flight of steps, then along a narrow passage. The wall to his right was all plate glass, through which he could see Rush Laboratories’ pretty gardens. To his left were offices and staff rooms, some doors open and some shut. Duffy paused to listen. Silence. Just the faint whisper of the breeze outside the glass. He could almost hear the patter of the amber leaves spiralling gently down from the trees to coat the lawns.

  The sporadic blood trail led onwards up the passage. A less cautious man than Duffy might have been content simply to follow it straight ahead, but he peered warily into every office he passed.

  Kang’s man was lying in wait for him behind the seventh door. If Duffy had walked by unaware, the Korean would have let him pass and then crept out and shot him in the back. As it happened, when Duffy gently opened the door, the guy lunged out from behind a tall filing cabinet, gun in one hand, knife in the other.

  Duffy knew the safest place to be in combat with a gunman was right in close, where he could hope to deflect or gain control of the weapon. But right up close was the worst place to be when the opponent also had a knife. Duffy knocked the pistol from the Korean’s hand before he could fire, but not before the Korean whipped up and down with the knife and planted the blade deep in Duffy’s right shoulder. Duffy grunted with pain and punched two shots point-blank into the guy’s chest.

  A paralysing flash of agony lanced through his body. He dropped his pistol and staggered backwards into the corridor with the knife still sticking out of his shoulder. The Korean was badly hurt, but he came on again, roaring like a bull, clawed hands going for Duffy’s throat. Duffy sidestepped the charge and tripped the Korean, sending him sprawling headlong into the plate-glass window. The Korean wasn’t a huge man, but he was thick and heavy for his height. His momentum carried him partway through the glass, shattering the pane into jagged shards that showered down all around him.

  Duffy’s right arm was numb. Most likely nerve damage. He used his left hand to grasp the knife hilt, tugged to pull the blade out and almost fainted at the flash of agony. He gritted his teeth and yanked hard, and the blade came free. The Korean was on the floor, half in and half out of the broken window frame. Daggers of glass lay all around him, and a thousand tiny shards had punctured his flesh. He had been shot twice and his face had been lacerated to ribbons, yet he was still trying to get up and fight.

  Duffy backstepped through the door and picked up his fallen Glock with his left hand. He looked up and saw the great triangle of glass still suspended from the window frame above the Korean, as large and heavy and sharp as a guillotine blade.

  Duffy raised the Glock and fired at the window. The glass broke free and dropped downwards. It sheared the Korean’s body almost in two. The man died without a sound.

  Now all those hours of range practice at left-handed shooting were making sense at last. Blood was saturating Duffy’s right sleeve and leaving a thicker trail than the one he was following, but now he knew for certain that it was Kang’s.

  Just you and me, he thought.

  22

  Kang’s trail was getting harder to follow, partly because it had almost completely dried up and partly because Duffy’s senses were impaired by the pain in his whole right side. His heart was beating very fast and he felt woozy. The knife had gone deep. He had to keep blinking the sweat out of his eyes. Telling himself to keep going when all his body wanted to do was stop and rest.

  Keep going, you pathetic piece of shit. Fight till you drop, or don’t fight at all.

  Duffy felt the cold air on his face and saw the open sliding glass door up ahead, leading outside to the gardens. There was a blood spot on the ground before the exit. Another one on the door’s bottom sill track. A partial red handprint on the window next to it, like lipstick on the rim of a wine glass after a party.

  This party wasn’t over yet.

  Duffy lurched through the open door and out onto a patio area. The breeze was cool on his clammy skin. To his left was the ornamental lily pond surrounded by a low wall and featuring a tinkling little fountain at its centre; to his right were oak benches for the Rush Laboratory staffers to enjoy during the warmer seasons. Neat little shrubs growing out of stone pots lined the edge of the immaculate lawn. Birds were chirping in the trees. Duffy had seen Chinese Buddhist temples that were less serene.

  He looked down at the ground. He could see no blood except for his own, dripping from his dangling right hand and spotting the paving stones at his feet like big, fat red raindrops.

  Duffy saw the blur of motion in the corner of his eye, but couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way.

  Kang launched himself at him. He moved with blinding speed and unbelievable power for his size. Duffy stumbled from the first punch to the side of his head, parried a second, blocked a third, got in a punch, took one to the ribs and another to the jaw. Kang threw a roundhouse kick that would have taken Duffy’s head off if it had landed. Duffy ducked it and struck back with a blow that w
ould have hammered into Kang’s spleen if the Korean hadn’t twisted out of its path with amazing agility.

  For a few seconds they broke apart, circling one another warily, eyes locked, watching for where the next attack was coming from.

  “You’re a dead man,” Duffy gasped.

  Kang’s face bore all the expression of a slate tile. He did not rise to Duffy’s bait and, instead, the Korean feinted right, lashed out left and caught Duffy on his injured shoulder with a blow that made him stagger. Kang took his advantage and hit him again on the same spot.

  Duffy retreated a few more paces, blinded by pain. He felt something hard and unyielding butt up against the backs of his legs. By the time he realised it was the edge of the low wall surrounding the lily pond, it was too late to stop himself. He sprawled backwards over the edge of the wall so that his spine was arched painfully against the concrete and his upper body was overhanging the water.

  Kang was instantly on top of him, those hideous teeth gnashing just inches from Duffy’s face as the Korean tried to force his head down under the surface of the pond. Duffy head-butted him and felt the crunch of Kang’s nose breaking. Blood speckled Duffy’s face, but the Korean held on. Duffy saw the vicious elbow strike coming for his throat and managed to twist out of the way just in time. Kang let out a howl as his elbow pounded into the concrete wall. Then Duffy kicked upwards with his thighs and stomach muscles, catapulting Kang’s weight right over him. Kang’s body turned a somersault and he flipped into the water with a splash. But he wouldn’t give up the grip he had on Duffy’s collar, and dragged Duffy into the pond with him.

  They went down together, bubbles exploding from their mouths as they grappled and gouged and kicked and punched. Duffy landed a savage blow to Kang’s face and managed to free himself from his opponent’s grip. With an almighty effort, Duffy burst up to the surface, sucking air. Kang came up after him, but Duffy was on top and now the advantage was his.

  He punched downwards with his good hand. He felt his knuckles split against Kang’s jagged teeth. Kang gurgled red water and fell back. Duffy spread his left palm over Kang’s face and pressed him under the surface.

  Kang thrashed and struggled.

  Duffy held him down.

  Kang’s jaws snapped like a piranha’s, trying to bite off Duffy’s fingers.

  Duffy held him down.

  Pink bubbles streamed out of Kang’s mouth. His eyes bugged up at Duffy from under the water.

  Duffy held him down.

  Kang’s struggles weakened. Then weakened some more.

  Just as Duffy thought he couldn’t hold him a moment longer, Kang went limp and stopped moving. No more bubbles came from his mouth. His staring eyes lost their focus. He began to sink. Duffy let him go.

  “That’s for Tamsin.”

  It was over.

  Gasping, streaming water, slime and leaves clinging to his hair and clothes, Duffy heaved himself out of the pond. He sat on the edge of the wall until he’d got his breath back.

  Then he went looking for a phone.

  HAMPSTEAD

  23

  For the first time in hours, she stirred. She was out of danger now and no longer attached to the drip. The nurses had removed some of the dressings from her face so that the wounds could breathe and the long healing process could begin. There would be terrible shocks in store when the rest of the bandages were finally removed and Tamsin saw her altered self for the first time.

  Duffy would be there for her, through all of the reconstructive surgeries and the agony and the readjusting to her new reality. That was what he had promised Tony Bell as he lay dying. He had promised the same to Tamsin during the brief moments she’d been awake earlier that morning. He had been sitting by her bedside for most of the night and ever since, clutching her right hand in his left, quietly waiting and watching over her. His other arm was in a sling. He had some healing of his own to do, but his own troubles mattered little to him.

  Tamsin slowly rolled her head on the pillow to look at him with her unbandaged eye. The other might never regain its sight, though it was too early to be certain, and the three surgeons Duffy had spoken to varied in their optimism. Duffy respected the doctors and valued the nurses for all the care they were giving Tamsin, day and night. But let them try to make him budge from her bedside.

  She gave his hand a weak squeeze. Her eye filled with tears. She still knew nothing about the previous day’s events at Rush Laboratories. One thing at a time, Duffy thought. She’d find out soon enough. Then there would be more tears, more pain, and more questions that he could never really answer.

  “You’re still here,” she murmured. It was difficult for her to talk.

  “Told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You’ve got better things to do than stay with me.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “Where am I?”

  “The Royal Free. The doctors want you to rest.”

  She tried to smile, wincing as the muscles in her face pulled against skin that was burned and sore. He hushed her and watched her face as she slid back to sleep.

  Duffy realised that he was hungry and left the room, hurrying to the canteen, where he picked up a pack of sandwiches and a cup of coffee. He was making his way back again when he saw that a man in a suit was waiting outside the door to Tamsin’s room.

  The man turned as Duffy approached. It was Control.

  “Hello, sir,” he said.

  Control displayed one if his thin, watery smiles. “Number Twelve,” he said. “How is she?”

  “Not good.”

  “Does she know…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Not really,” Duffy said. “They’ve kept her sedated.”

  “That will be difficult.”

  Duffy looked through the window and gave a shallow nod. “A lot of things are going to be difficult.”

  “Quite,” Control agreed.

  Duffy had already been debriefed by Tanner in the aftermath of the events at the laboratory. Duffy had explained what had happened and what the Koreans had been doing when he and Number Ten had disturbed them. For his part, Tanner confirmed that a clean-up team had gone into the building and had already erased all signs of his and Ten’s involvement in the afternoon’s events. The laboratory would be put on lockdown until a satisfactory cover story had been constructed to explain what had happened there. Duffy didn’t doubt that the story would centre around Bell’s treachery; there was no point in salvaging his reputation, and, in this instance, the truth was the most credible explanation for what had happened. The only thing that needed to be obscured was the fact that two headhunters from a classified intelligence hit squad had been responsible for the carnage.

  “I have some news for you, old sport,” Control said. “Good news, actually.”

  “I could certainly do with some.”

  “I think you’ll appreciate this. Your legal problems are going to go away.”

  Duffy turned to him. “Really?”

  “Mr Mahfouz was found dead in his bed this morning. The coroner’s report will suggest that a heart attack was the cause of death—he was overweight, after all. It won’t look unusual.”

  “But?”

  “But I took matters into my own hands. I’ve been as frustrated as you at how slowly our friends down by the river have dealt with this. It’s intolerable that someone like you—someone who has given valuable service to his country—should be treated like a common criminal. It’s worse than intolerable—it’s a disgrace.” Control looked at his reflection in the mirror and straightened his collar. “I thought it required attention. Number Two paid him a visit last night. She said she was a journalist who wanted to cover his story. The details after that are unimportant save to say that he won’t be in a position to cause you any more inconvenience.”

  Duffy didn’t know what to say. Control had sent Number Two? The details of each member of the Group were deliberately kept confidential, but Duffy had worked with
Two before. She was female, blonde and good-looking; she also had an icy professionalism that had put him on edge.

  “Thank you, sir,” Duffy said.

  Control waved away his gratitude. “There’s no need for that. It does me no good to have one of my best agents on the shelf. I need you back in the game.”

  “Whatever you need, sir.”

  Control put a hand on Duffy’s shoulder. “There is something,” he said. “I’m putting together a small group of trusted agents. A group within a group, if you like. I’d like you to be the first member.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll be honest—being a member of my little gathering will require some ethical flexibility. You’ll have to give up a lot—even more than you’ve had to sacrifice to join the Group. But the work will serve the national interest—that’s all I’m prepared to say at the moment.”

  “I understand.”

  “There will be other benefits, too. Financial benefits. I know that you aren’t blessed with deep pockets, Duffy. And Mrs Bell won’t have anything once the government has confiscated her husband’s estate. She could leave her recovery to the NHS, but I would have thought it would be preferable to pay for the best. There’s a professor I know—Number Five needed a skin graft after his accident last year. The government paid for the treatment. I think I could see to it that the professor would treat Tamsin, too.”

  Duffy knew that he was being offered a deal and that Control would demand a price from him in return for his help. Control was inscrutable. Duffy knew that the man had worked inside the intelligence community for years, and knew that his longevity was thanks to his cunning and a happiness to play in the grey spaces between the black and white. But Control had demonstrated his loyalty to him; he had cleared his way back to the Group, and now he was offering to make Tamsin’s life easier than it otherwise would be. Duffy didn’t trust him—Duffy didn’t really trust anyone—but he had always been loyal, and he always paid his dues.