by James Becker
‘So where should we go now?’ Angela asked.
‘We get out of Madrid, and Spain, as quickly as we can. The parchment is in that briefcase, along with the pistol and the killer’s mobile phone, and there’s nothing to keep us here. I won’t feel safe until we’re back in Britain. Possibly not even then.’
‘I should really tell George Stebbins what’s happened,’ Angela said. ‘He could be in danger as well.’
‘From what I saw of your Mr Stebbins, he seems to be quite good at taking care of himself, or at least at staying out of any kind of trouble or danger.’
‘I know, but I’d still feel better if I told him.’
Bronson nodded. ‘OK. While you make the call, I’ll pack our things so we can leave here as soon as possible.’
But as Angela reached into her handbag for her mobile, another phone — the one Bronson had taken from the assassin — began to ring.
66
For a couple of seconds they both just stared, then Bronson walked across the bedroom, unsnapped the catches on the briefcase and took out the phone. He pressed the button to answer it, and lifted the instrument to his ear.
‘Yes?’
‘You have something that does not belong to you, and I want it,’ a harsh male voice stated, the English fluent but heavily accented.
Bronson didn’t reply, just listened, waiting for whatever threat or demand the unidentified caller intended to make.
‘And I have something that you might not want, but which I am certain that the woman with you will want to have back.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Bronson replied.
‘The British Museum clearly did not trust Angela Lewis to complete the purchase of the relic by herself,’ the man continued. ‘That is why they sent George Stebbins out to Madrid to work with her. If she wants to see him alive and in one piece ever again, you need to do exactly what I tell you.’
‘Who is it?’ Angela demanded.
Bronson held up his hand to indicate that she should stay quiet, then replied.
‘And how do I know that he’s alive now?’
There was a brief pause and then Bronson heard George Stebbins’s unmistakable voice in his ear.
‘Bronson, Bronson. You’ve got to help me.’ He sounded completely terrified. ‘You’ve got to get me out of here. Do whatever they say. I’ll— No, please, no, don’t—’
The other man’s voice was audible in Bronson’s ear as he issued an order.
‘No, you’ve already broken that one. Break the one next to it.’
There was a sudden confusion of sound, but dominating it all was Stebbins’s voice. It rose in sheer panic and ended with a piercing scream, loud enough to make Bronson move the mobile away from his ear.
‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ the male voice said again. ‘If you’re not, we can repeat the treatment until you are, though I’m sure Mr Stebbins would rather we didn’t. I’ll call again in five minutes.’
The line went dead. If there had been the slightest doubt in Bronson’s mind before about the competence and ruthlessness of the people they were facing, the details provided by the anonymous caller completely dispelled it.
‘Who was it?’ Angela asked.
‘That,’ he said, ‘was trouble. I have no idea who it was, but he knew who we were. And somehow he and his cronies have managed to get hold of George Stebbins. The noise you probably heard was Stebbins being persuaded to convince us to hand over the relic.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ Angela murmured, her face turning pale.
Bronson nodded. ‘If we agree to do what that man wants—’
‘What does he want?’ Angela asked.
‘He’s ringing me back in a few minutes,’ Bronson replied. ‘But I assume he’ll want us to hand over the parchment. And once we’ve done that, he will almost certainly kill us both. George Stebbins, in my opinion, is as good as dead already.’
Angela nodded slowly.
‘But we can’t just walk away and leave Stebbins to their mercy. There must be something we can do. Can we call the police?’
Bronson nodded.
‘Of course we can. The problem is that we’ve got nothing we can tell them. We have no idea who these people are or where they are. All we know for certain is that somehow or other they grabbed George Stebbins, that they have a proven track record for ruthless murder, and they want the two-thousand-year-old parchment that’s sitting in that briefcase over there. I don’t really see what the police could do to help either us or Stebbins.’
‘But when this man rings you, he’ll have to tell you where to go, where to deliver the parchment, surely?’
‘Whatever else these people are,’ Robson replied, ‘they’re not stupid. My guess is that the rendezvous will be in a public place and they’ll want you to be there, not me. There’ll probably be a public call box or a telephone in a bar, something like that, and you’ll have to answer that to receive your next set of instructions.
‘Then they’ll keep you bouncing around the city until they’re certain that you haven’t got a couple of van loads of police in tow, and only then will they finally tell you where the exchange is due to be carried out. But it won’t be an exchange. It’ll be three gunshots to eliminate you, me and Stebbins, and they’ll walk away with the parchment.’
Angela looked torn, and shook her head slowly.
‘I know that. I know that you’re right, but I can’t just turn my back on this. I have to be certain that we at least tried to save George. My conscience won’t let me do anything else. And you’ve got that man’s gun now, so it’s not as if you’re completely unarmed, is it?’
‘The pistol will help, but I only have two magazines for it. There’s the full magazine I took out of the assassin’s pocket, and the one that is in the weapon, and I haven’t checked how many rounds are left in it. We know he fired twice at the café, so if it’s a fifteen-round magazine at best we might have thirteen bullets left in it.’
‘Unlucky for some,’ Angela said, with a weak attempt at humour.
‘Quite. So assuming the spare mag is full, that will give me twenty-eight rounds, but really only fifteen, because if it comes to a fire-fight there probably won’t be enough time to change magazines. The reality is that if we do end up having to face these people, I might be able to take down two or three of them, but if there are more than that, then I’m going to find myself hopelessly outgunned. The best thing we can do, Angela — and I know you’re not going to like it — is to just walk away. In fact, to drive away as fast as we can.’
As the phone rang shrilly, Bronson looked at Angela for a moment, both still undecided. Then she nodded, and he picked it up again.
‘Yes?’ he said.
It was as if the man at the other end had heard some of his conversation with Angela.
‘You don’t have to worry about what will happen to you afterwards,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know that certain people have died in unfortunate circumstances over the last few days, but there were very good reasons for those events, and we wish you and Miss Lewis no harm. All we want is for the item that is rightfully ours to be returned to us undamaged, and as quickly as possible. Once we have that in our possession, then the two of you and Mr Stebbins will be free to go.’
‘And you really expect me to believe that, do you?’ Bronson demanded. ‘There’s an expression in English: past performance is always the best indicator of future performance. Give me one good reason why you’d treat us any differently to the others you’ve killed.’
The man at the other end of the line chuckled softly.
‘I can’t, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.’
‘Like hell I will,’ Bronson snapped.
And he pressed the button to end the call.
‘What are you doing?’ Angela demanded. ‘You’re going to get George killed!’
‘I’ve been stupid,’ Bronson replied, ‘that’s what’s happening.’
67
‘Quick, help me pack.’
‘Chris, what’s going on?’
He paused for a moment, then zipped up one of the bags.
‘That phone call didn’t really make any sense, and I’ve only just realized why. That man wouldn’t have seriously expected us to trot along and meet him and his band of killers somewhere. He would know that we’d be far more likely to just run away, get as far from Madrid as we could.’
Angela looked puzzled as she pulled open a drawer, took out a pile of clothes and began packing the other bag.
‘So why was he calling at all? Just to gloat or something?’
‘No,’ Bronson said. ‘I think it was much simpler than that. I think he just wanted us to stay here, sitting in this hotel room, long enough for him to track us down, and if I’m right, that implies that he’s got more reach than even I expected.’
He pointed at the disassembled phone on the desk.
‘You can pinpoint the position of any mobile phone in the world as long as it’s switched on, and sometimes even if it’s switched off as long as the battery is still in place and there’s a tracking chip installed,’ he said, ‘but only if you have access to the service provider’s equipment. All you have to do is identify the cells that are in contact with the phone, and that lets you triangulate the location of the mobile. It’s more accurate in a city or other built-up area because there are more cells to cope with the volume of calls.’
‘So you think they’ve found out that we’re in this hotel?’
‘By now, they probably know more or less where we are,’ Bronson said. ‘The good thing is that we’re in a hotel, so even if they have identified the building, they’ll still need to find out which room we’re in, though that probably won’t take them very long. But we must move right now.’
‘But what about George?’ Angela asked.
‘Right now, I’m afraid he’s a very low priority. If we don’t get out of here in one piece, we’re not going to be able to help him or anybody else. Our first priority has got to be to lose ourselves somewhere in Madrid. If we can manage to do that, we might just be able to help him.’
But as Bronson picked up his bag and walked towards the door, somebody outside gave a brisk double knock.
‘Oh, God,’ Angela muttered. ‘They’ve found us.’
68
Bronson shook his head.
‘The ungodly don’t knock on doors: they kick them down.’
But he still put down his bag and took out the Beretta, holding the pistol out of sight behind his back before he stepped across to the door to open it.
‘I just wondered if you’d finished with the first-aid kit,’ the bar waiter asked, looking embarrassed when he saw Bronson’s serious expression. ‘Or if you decided you did need a doctor to look at your wife.’
‘Thanks,’ Bronson said, ‘but she’s fine.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ the young man muttered.
‘That’s fine, thank you for your concern, but we’re leaving soon,’ said Bronson, ‘and we’re in a bit of a rush.’ With that he thrust the first-aid kit towards the waiter, along with a twenty-Euro note, and closed the door again.
A couple of minutes later he and Angela stepped cautiously out of the room and into the corridor. She was carrying the leather-covered briefcase and her bag. In front of her, Bronson had his bag in his left hand, leaving his right hand free to use the silenced pistol which he’d tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but he was taking no chances.
The corridor was deserted in both directions, and they walked as far as the lift without seeing or hearing anyone. The descent to the garage floor seemed to take for ever, and at any moment Bronson was half expecting the lift to stop, the doors to slam open, and to be faced with any number of aggressors.
When the lift finally stopped, Bronson tensed, seeing dimly through the frosted glass what he’d been dreading: a vague bulky shape standing there and waiting for the lift to arrive.
He pushed Angela behind him, at the same time slipping the silenced Beretta pistol out of his waistband and holding it slightly behind his right leg, out of sight but ready for immediate use.
With a faint mechanical rumbling sound, the lift doors slid sideways.
The man standing there looked about fifty years old, wearing a somewhat crumpled and badly cut suit, and with a small suitcase in one hand and a newish briefcase in the other. As the lift doors opened, he took a step forward, then stopped when he saw that there were two people inside it, and moved backwards with a muttered apology in Spanish, glancing from Bronson to Angela.
He didn’t look threatening, but Bronson took no chances, keeping the pistol hidden but ready to fire, as he and Angela stepped out of the lift and onto the concrete floor of the garage. For a few moments, they just stood there, waiting and alert, as the man stepped into the lift and the door closed.
They both breathed heavy sighs of relief as the lift moved up and out of sight.
* * *
They bundled everything into the car as quickly as possible, then Bronson drove around the garage towards the curved exit ramp. The electrically operated door was controlled by a panel beside the ramp. Bronson stopped beside it, dropped his window and pushed the button.
As the door slowly began to rise, creaking lazily, Bronson caught the faintest sign of movement in his rear-view mirror. A figure was emerging from the staircase door beside the lift. He immediately recognized the man from a moment ago. He also immediately realized that his assumption about the man being harmless had been entirely wrong. The stranger was raising a black object at arm’s length, and pointing it directly at the car.
69
He had barely a second to react.
‘Get down!’ he shouted.
At the same moment, he lifted the clutch and powered the car up the exit ramp towards the garage door, which was still opening, agonizingly slowly.
He heard a sharp crack from behind, the unmistakable sound of a pistol shot, and the car rocked with a sudden impact. The window directly behind Bronson shattered, glittering fragments of safety glass flying everywhere inside the car, and the window beside Angela exploded outwards as the bullet passed through that as well.
Angela screamed in terror at the sudden noise and the shock of the flying glass. The car was gathering speed as it progressed up the ramp towards the door, the front tyres smoking and howling as they scrabbled for grip under full acceleration in first gear, Bronson keeping the accelerator flat to the floor. The vehicle was weaving slightly from side to side as well, but all he cared about was covering the ground as quickly as possible.
Another shot rang out, the bullet missing the car, slamming into the right-hand wall of the ramp behind them and ricocheting away somewhere. Bronson guessed they had already moved partly out of sight. For the gunman to get a clear shot at them, he would have to run across the garage from the lift and stairwell to the foot of the ramp itself, and fire up it. That was the only advantage they had, but he guessed that the man would already be moving into position. Within seconds, he would be able to pepper the back of the car with bullets.
The opening door of the garage loomed ever closer, the bottom of the metal frame moving up vertically in front of the car. It didn’t look to Bronson as if there was enough clearance for him to drive underneath it, and he daren’t hit it, in case it stopped the vehicle dead.
At the very last moment, as the nose of the car powered under the slowly opening door, Bronson shifted his right foot from the accelerator to the brake and pushed hard. The nose of the car dipped as the pads hit the discs, the deceleration fierce. Hitting the brakes compressed the suspension, effectively lowering the overall height of the vehicle for that brief split secon
d.
Bronson and Angela were thrown forward against the restraint of the seat belts. There was a grating sound from the car’s roof as the rear section scraped underneath the bottom of the door. Bronson felt the tug as the impact slowed them still further, but then they were under and clear. Again he mashed his foot onto the accelerator, and the car leapt up the last few yards of the garage ramp and out of the building into the brilliant sunshine of the Madrid late afternoon.
Bronson sensed rather than heard another gunshot as the man behind them finally reached the bend in the ramp and fired at them once more. He had no idea where the bullet went, but he was certain it didn’t hit the car. Even an expert will find it difficult to hit a target, especially a moving target, at a distance of much more than about twenty-five yards.
The moment the vehicle cleared the ramp, Bronson swung the wheel hard to the right, tugged on the handbrake to slide the rear of the car sideways, tyres squealing on the tarmac, then continued to accelerate.
Beside him, Angela eased herself upright, her hands clutching at the dashboard and the passenger door, and peered around her, eyes wide with shock.
‘It was that man, wasn’t it?’ she demanded. ‘From the lift?’
Bronson nodded.
‘It was. Now we can see what we’re up against. No discussion, no negotiation.
‘Thank God we got away.’
The road was quiet, and within a few seconds they were travelling at well over seventy kilometres an hour, getting as far away from the hotel as they could.
Every second or two Bronson’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirrors. And then he saw what he’d hoped not to. A white saloon car, rapidly catching up with them. The gunman in the hotel must have had a backup man.
‘Shit! We’re not out of the woods yet,’ Bronson said. ‘They’re following us. It’s that white saloon car. We need to lose them, and quickly. But I don’t know these streets. You’ve got to get us out of this one.’