It rounded the corner, heading back up the alleyway towards him, accelerating hard. He could see faces behind the rain-spattered windscreen. Four, perhaps five men inside the car. He raised the Para-Ordnance and fired at the screen.
His bullet punched a web of cracks in the glass. The Volvo kept coming, faster, aiming to run him down. He brought the pistol back to aim.
But the gun was empty. He’d only had time to load five rounds into the magazine. Those five rounds were gone. The slide was locked back and the ammunition was still in the Mercedes. Two hundred and forty-five rounds, enough to hold off a small army, and he couldn’t get to a single one of them.
The Volvo was gaining on him-he could see the grinning faces behind the cracked glass. Ben turned and ran. The engine roared behind him in the narrow alley, drowning out the echoing clap of his footsteps as he half-sprinted, half-staggered over the slippery, glistening cobbles.
He wasn’t going to make it. The car crash had knocked the energy out of him and he could feel his strength giving out. Then he saw another alleyway entrance to the left. It wound sharply downhill between old walls and uneven houses, its entrance blocked by three old iron bollards. You could barely squeeze a large motorcycle between them, let alone a car.
Ben raced between them and heard the Volvo slide to a halt behind him. He hurtled down the steep alley, the downward slope giving him more momentum. The Volvo’s doors opened. A shot cracked and a bullet sang off a wall.
Ben ran on. The alley curved round to the right, taking him out of sight of his pursuers. He could hear their running footsteps coming down the hill. He rounded the lip of a crumbled wall, and suddenly the alley opened up into a little square. There was an old fountain in the middle.
He leaned against it and paused for breath, stuffing the empty pistol in his belt. He looked around him. From the square, a whole network of tiny streets ran off in different directions. There were six ways he could go. He stole a glance over his shoulder and chose one at random. It was even steeper. He ran as fast and as lightly as he could, to mask the sound of his footsteps. There was nobody following him. They must have gone a different way, but he still had to hurry. They could split up, they knew the city better than him, and he was unarmed.
Ahead of him, the downhill alleyway opened up onto what looked like a bigger street. Thirty yards, twenty. As he approached the bottom, he looked over his shoulder to check if they were following. He couldn’t see-
Brakes screeched. He couldn’t stop in time. He ran straight out in front of the red Peugeot.
Chapter Forty-Five
The car knocked the wind out of him. He flew across the bonnet, cracked his head on the windscreen and tumbled to the ground.
The driver’s door burst open and a young woman got out with a look of horror on her face. She rushed over to where Ben was slowly picking himself off the ground. She spoke in a flurry of German, apologizing profusely.
Ben staggered to his feet and rested against the side of the car. His head was spinning badly. He tried to focus his vision up the alleyway. They would be here any second. ‘It’s OK,’ he muttered. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’re American?’ she said in English.
‘British.’ He tried to formulate his thoughts. ‘I was mugged back there.’
She looked confused.
‘Robbed,’ he explained.
She nodded. ‘Bastards. I’ll call the police,’ she said, taking out her phone. ‘You get in the car. Setzen sie hier. You must rest.’
‘Nein. No. Keine Polizei. There’s no need for the police. Just get me out of here, please. Quickly.’ He picked up his fallen haversack and slumped in the passenger seat. The alleyway was still empty, but his pursuers couldn’t be far away.
‘Then I have to take you to the Arzt— to the doctor. To the hospital. You’re hurt.’ She looked at his bleeding head with concern, biting her lip as she started the car and pulled away over the cobbles. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before. I—’
‘It’s not your fault,’ he repeated. ‘Look, I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be all right. I need to rest a bit somewhere. If you can drive me to a cheap hotel, that’ll be fine.’
She looked perplexed, then nodded hesitantly. ‘Whatever you want,’ she said. She drove out into the main street and filtered into the traffic. Ben struggled to twist round in his seat. There was no sign of anyone following. He hoped Kinski was OK.
She drove in silence, looking uncomfortable and distressed, then shook her head. ‘Listen, my flat is just half a kilometre from here. I have some stuff I can put on that graze, and you can rest there. Please, it’s the least I can do.’
Ben’s head was throbbing. Maybe it wasn’t a bad suggestion. Staggering into a hotel with a bleeding head was a little too public. ‘All right.’
‘I’m Ingrid,’ she said. ‘Ingrid Becker.’
‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Jesus, my head.’
Ingrid’s phone rang. ‘Ja? Hello Leonie. Yes…I can’t talk now, I’m with a friend…maybe see you later, OK? Tchüss.’ She switched off the phone. ‘Sorry about that,’ she smiled. ‘My cousin. Here we are.’ She flipped on her indicator and turned the Peugeot into a basement car park.
Ingrid helped Ben into the lift and pressed the button for the second floor. He slumped against the lift wall and watched her. She was in her mid-twenties or so. Her hair was short and dark with a few reddish highlights. She was dressed in jeans and combat boots, an Afghan coat over a check shirt, but for all that she still managed to look strikingly attractive.
The lift opened and she carefully took his arm to walk him to her door. ‘You OK?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Ingrid’s flat was small but comfortable. She directed him to a two-seater sofa in the main room. It was warm in there, and he took off his leather jacket and laid it on the arm of the sofa. He sat down and reclined into the sofa as she hurried to the bathroom to fetch cotton wool and disinfectant. ‘This will sting a little,’ she said. She leaned over him and dabbed his head with a ball of moist cotton.
‘Ouch.’
‘Sorry I feel so terrible about this. Can I get you something to drink?’
Ben took out his flask. ‘You have some as well,’ he said. ‘I think you need it more than me.’
Ingrid fetched two tumblers and sat with him on the sofa. He emptied what was left of his Scotch into them. He looked at her face. She had a nice smile and soft, dark eyes. He could see sadness in them, too. ‘Cheers.’
‘Prost’
They clinked and drank. ‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘You like Schnapps? I have a bottle.’
‘I’d love some.’ His head was spinning a little less now, and he was beginning to feel more composed. Concussion wasn’t going to be a problem-but fatigue was. It was coming over him in waves.
‘Do you want a painkiller?’
‘I’d rather have the Schnapps,’ he said wearily, and she laughed. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK, Ben. I was worried I’d killed you or something.’
Ben drained the Scotch and she uncapped the Schnapps. She poured some of the clear liquor into the glass and he sipped it. It tasted about twice the strength of the whisky. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not that easy to kill.’
‘Smoke?’ She pulled a crumpled pack of untipped Gauloises out of her pocket. Ben took one and reached for his Zippo. Her long fingers clenched his hand as he lit hers first. He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.
‘You’re a rare breed,’ she said, watching him, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
‘In what way?’
She jiggled the cigarette and pointed at the glass of Schnapps in his hand. ‘I don’t know any men who smoke proper cigarettes and drink proper drink any more.’ She smiled. ‘They’re all so concerned about their health. Wimps.’
‘My Irish grandmother smoked over a million cigarettes in her life,’ he said.
‘A million!’
‘Si
xty a day, from the age of fifteen to the day she died. You do the maths.’
‘Mein Gott. What did she die of?’
‘She got drunk on her ninety-fifth birthday, fell downstairs, broke her neck.’ Ben smiled at the memory of the old lady. ‘She died happy and never felt a thing.’
‘That’s it, I’m going to start drinking and smoking more,’ Ingrid said. She laid a warm hand on his knee. It stayed there for an instant longer than normal. ‘Hey, you like music?’ She jumped up and went over to a hi-fi on a sideboard.
‘You haven’t got any Bartók, have you?’
She laughed. ‘No way. Music to chew your fingernails to. Far too intense for me.’
‘I like intense.’
‘You’re an interesting one,’ she said. ‘I like jazz. What about some jazz?’
‘How about Don Cherry or Ornette Coleman?’
‘You do go for intense,’ she said. She ran her finger along the rack and plucked out a CD. ‘I’ve got Bitches Brew. Miles.’
‘Miles is good,’ he said. They sat for a while and listened to the music, drinking their Schnapps and talking. She asked him what he was doing in Vienna, and he told her he was a freelance journalist. It made him think of Oliver.
His eyes were burning with fatigue, and his head nodded a couple of times. He’d been hoping the frenetic Miles Davis fusion jazz might help to keep him awake, but it wasn’t working.
‘You look exhausted,’ Ingrid said, looking concerned. ‘Perhaps you should sleep a while.’
‘Perhaps,’ he muttered.
‘Lie down here on the sofa,’ she said with a smile.
He was too tired to refuse. She turned off the music, laid cushions under his head and fetched a blanket from her bedroom to cover him. He drifted off.
He awoke as though it were seconds later. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, watching him with a tender expression. He propped himself up on his elbow, blinking. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘Just over an hour. I’m hungry,’ she said, getting up. ‘How about you?’
He stretched, got to his feet and followed her to the kitchen. It was small and clean. ‘I shouldn’t stay here too much longer,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘No, really, no trouble. I’m glad of some company. And anyway, I’m using you.’
‘Using me?’
She giggled. ‘To practise my English.’
‘I’ve been sleeping most of the time. And your English is fine.’
‘You like Wurst?’ She opened the fridge. ‘And I’ve got some cold roast chicken.’
She took out two plates and served him some pieces of chicken with sliced sausage and some bread and salad. They sat on two high stools at the kitchen worktop and she poured him a glass of mineral water. As he ate he could feel his strength beginning to return. ‘I never asked you what you do,’ he said.
She made a sour face. ‘I work for a big company, as a personal assistant.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘No, I despise it,’ she said emphatically. ‘I wish I could leave.’
‘Sounds pretty bad. What do they make you do?’
‘You have no idea,’ she replied. Her smile was gone.
‘Maybe you should think about changing jobs.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ she said. Their eyes met for a second. She liked him. She could barely remember when she’d last spent time with a man she actually liked. She looked away.
‘I’m sorry you have problems,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Everyone has problems.’ She paused. ‘Here, why don’t we have another Schnapps?’
‘Why not?’ he replied.
She smiled at him, slipped off her stool and went to fetch the bottle from the other room. She came back a moment later with a glass for each of them.
‘One for the road, then,’ he said, taking his glass from her.
She watched the glass travel to his lips. He sipped a couple of sips. Bitch’s Brew, she thought to herself.
Ben looked at his watch. He had things to do and his headache had eased. ‘I should be getting on,’ he said. ‘It was good to meet you, Ingrid. Take care, won’t you?’
‘Good to meet you too, Ben.’ She hated herself. She felt like screaming.
‘Leave that job if it makes you so unhappy,’ he advised. ‘Find something you love.’
‘I wish I could.’
‘Don’t worry so much, Ingrid. You’re one of the good guys, remember.’ He touched her arm affectionately.
She pulled it away, avoiding his eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, seeing her look.
‘It’s not the way you think.’
‘What do you mean?’
Why hadn’t she listened to her better judgement and let him go? He wasn’t like the others. She wanted to take back the last few seconds and tell him to run, run like hell.
But it had gone too far for that. He’d had six drops of the drug, and in a few more seconds it was going to kick in. It was tasteless and odourless and he had no idea what was happening. He smiled, but his eyes were beginning to glaze.
She knew what they were going to do to him. She’d signed his death warrant.
He slipped down from his stool. The strange feeling was spreading fast through him, and he barely had time to register it or fight it. His knee wobbled under his weight. His leg seemed to shoot out in front of him and he felt himself going down as if in slow motion. He hit the floor and watched numbly as his glass shattered beside him.
His vision began to cloud. He looked up at her standing over him. She was talking on the phone. When she spoke into it her voice sounded deep and booming and far away.
‘You can come and get him now,’ Eve said, looking down at him. He was losing consciousness. His head slumped on the floor.
She knelt down beside him and stroked his hair. ‘I’m so very sorry, Liebchen.’
Four minutes later, the men came for him. They burst into Eve’s flat, picked him up off the floor and carried him out to the waiting van.
Chapter Forty-Six
Consciousness returned to Ben in staggered layers. First he was dimly aware of the vibration pulsing through his skull where his head was resting against the hard metal of the wheel arch. His vision was blurry and he felt sick. Suddenly he was aware of being terribly, terribly cold. His body was racked with shivering and his teeth were chattering.
He was sprawled across the floor of a rattling truck. The tin walls around him resonated loudly with the engine and transmission whine. He groaned and shifted, trying to get to his feet. His head was still spinning.
Memories came back to him in fragments. He remembered Ingrid’s flat. Being hit by the car. Before that, the running chase through the streets. Kinski injured.
He remembered now. He’d been drugged.
He grabbed hold of one of the reinforcing braces inside the metal shell and dragged himself upright. The truck was lurching and bouncing and it was hard to stand. There were no windows. He looked at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock. He must have been on the road for over an hour and a half. Where were they taking him?
The rattling, juddering journey lasted another quarter of an hour, the truck slowing as the road got rougher. He staggered across from one wall to the other as it swerved violently into a turning, then stopped. He heard the sound of doors slamming, and at least three different men’s voices, all speaking in rapid, harsh German. He felt the vehicle reverse, and its engine sound was suddenly echoey and reverberating as though the truck was inside a big metal space.
The doors opened and he was dazzled by the lights. Powerful hands gripped him by the arms and hauled him out of the van. He dropped to his hands and knees on cold concrete and looked around him, blinking. Around him were seven, eight, nine men, all armed with either pistols or Heckler & Koch machine carbines. They all had the look of ex-military, serious faces, eyes cold and calm.
The prefabricated building looked
like an old air-base hangar, stretching out on all sides like a vast aluminium cathedral. The concrete floor was painted green. The only furnishings were a tubular chair and a metal table. A fire blazed in a glass-fronted stove with a long steel flue that rose to the ceiling.
Standing in the middle of the huge open space, warming his hands over the stove, was a tall man in black. Sandy hair, cropped short.
Ben narrowed his eyes against the bright lights. He knew this man. Who the hell was he?
One of the men with guns got too close and Ben saw a crazy chance. He lashed out with the rigid edge of his hand, fingers curled. The man let out a choking squawk as his throat was crushed, and fell squirming to the floor clutching his neck. The stubby black H&K was spinning in mid-air when Ben snatched it. It was cocked. He flipped off the safety. He was faster than these men, and he could bring them all down before they got him.
Maybe.
The gun clattered from his hands and he fell to the floor along with it, his whole body quaking in a spasm. Curly plastic wires connected the dart in his flesh to the taser gun that one of the guards was holding-the one Ben hadn’t seen, the one who had come out from behind the truck. The strong electric current flowed through him, controlling his muscles, rendering him completely helpless.
‘That’s enough,’ the tall man in black said.
The pulsing shock stopped. Ben gasped for air, lying flat on the concrete. One of the guards had his canvas haversack. The guard walked over to the tall man and handed the bag to him. The man emptied the bag out on a steel table, spilling out Ben’s roll of spare clothes, his first-aid kit, the Para-Ordnance .45.
But the man was more interested in the box-file. He flipped open the lid and thumbed through Oliver’s notes, nodding to himself. This was the stuff. His instructions were clear.
He bunched the notes up in a big fist, opened the stove door and slammed the papers inside. Ben’s head sank to the floor as he watched his friend’s notes burst into yellow flame, curl and blacken. This time, they burned away to nothing. Tatters of ash fluttered up the stove-pipe.
Now the man picked up the rolled-up Mozart letter. He jerked away the ribbon and tossed it over his shoulder. He unfurled the old paper and ran his eyes up and down it cursorily, a look of derision on his face.
The Mozart Conspiracy Page 22