‘Shit! Stop that, for Christ’s sake. I’m a British citizen. You can’t hold me here. Let me go!’
The security guard released her hand and stood to his full height. Sam reckoned he was 1.90 cm and weighed the same as an elephant seal. His clothes didn’t quite fit. They probably didn’t make them big enough. The buttons on his shirt were close to needing a license.
‘We’ve called the police. I’m holding you here until they arrive.’
Great.
‘How long’s that?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
Sam looked around the room: desk; no window; coat stand; two chairs - she was sitting on one. The desk had an old fashioned in-tray, a computer monitor, keyboard and mouse. And a stapler.
A stapler.
It wasn’t lined up with the side of the desk, which irked her.
‘They’re going to assassinate the Dalai Lama. There’s a sniper in the Kongresszentrum. I’ve been sent here to stop it. I was warning His Holiness when you stopped me. If he dies it will be on your head.’
He snorted.
‘I do as I am told. That is all. Orders.’
Sam didn’t think that would have held up well at Nuremberg.
‘I need the loo.’
The elephant seal stood firm.
‘The toilet. Toilette.’ She raised her voice.
Nothing from the elephant seal.
She closed her eyes.
And yelled.
‘HELP! HELP! HELP!’ She kept on yelling.
It took the big man five seconds to realise he had a problem on his hands. When Sam lifted up her roll neck and pulled a boob from her bra and started yelling, ‘RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!’, he was completely at sea.
He dithered. Turned to the door, and then turned back. And turned again.
Which was a mistake.
Sam grabbed the stapler and, holding it in a flat hand, smashed it on the back of the big man’s head.
It was about speed. Mass multiplied by velocity equals momentum. Small mass; quick velocity. Lots of momentum. It was going to hurt.
She thought she’d broken a bone in her hand, but didn’t have time to worry about it The man the size of an elephant seal probably thought he had a broken bone in his head and whilst his brain didn’t shut down, the pain was so bad he fell to his knees and brought his hands to the back of his head to protect himself from further attack.
He may be big, but he’s no soldier.
Sam seized the opportunity. She slipped round the elephant seal with the bleeding head, and shot out of the door into the corridor.
Where she ran into a woman.
A receptionist?
Sam realised she was still in a state of undress, did some work with her midriff to cover herself up, and said, ‘The man in there. He was trying to rape me. I’ve got away, but I think I hurt him. Sorry.’ And then she was off.
Sam made the atrium a second later. It looked like the final guests were entering the conference room. The elephant seal’s buddy was standing by the door, arms folded. The main door was a no-go.
Think.
What about the other door, the one that lead to the kitchen? On the opposite side of the room?
Or the Kongresszentrum?
The choice was made for her.
‘Halt!’ The shout came from behind. She looked. The elephant seal, one hand on the back of his head, was lumbering her way.
Three seconds later she was out in the cold.
Shit.
She’d left her coat and beanie in the pretend-rape room. Her phone was in her coat. She was out of touch with the world. With Frank. And Carla.
She was on her own.
Shit!
The hotel door was forced open. The elephant seal was still in pursuit.
Sam legged it. Hard right. Then right again, away from the Kongresszentrum, and then left. Past a bank. A backlit yellow sign telling everyone what make the bank was. A couple, walking casually in the snow. She must have looked like an idiot. Running. Near naked. Freezing temperatures and a skip load of snow.
Left. Down to a jog. Then a brisk walk. She was back out onto the main road now, the one that ran back towards the hotel. The Kongresszentrum was off to her right, slightly elevated. She thought as she walked. The snow would present a bit of a problem for the shooter. It wouldn’t affect the trajectory of the round, but acquiring the target would be like taking a shot at an old-fashioned TV picture which was suffering from interference. Maybe the Gods were keeping an eye on His Holiness?
She’d have to make sure.
Sam looked back to the hotel. The porter was still there, stamping his feet to aid circulation. Watching him made her shiver involuntarily. No sign of the elephant seal.
Go.
She jogged from shadow to shadow, trying her best to keep out of sight of both the entrance to the hotel and the seven marksman windows. It took her a couple of minutes to make it to the rear of the Kongresszentrum.
The back of the building was unsculptured. More vertical planks of wood. Fewer windows. A shed-like extension, with gates and bins. She jogged along the wall until she came to a door. It was grey metal. She knew straight away it would be impossible to open, but she tried it anyway, the metal handle cold enough to invite her skin to stay for a while.
She jogged along some more.
The large bin shed. She could scale one of the gates, but on inspection into its interior it looked like it was a covered space to keep the bins tidy and the elements out - nothing else. There didn’t appear to be any entrances to the main building inside the shed.
She jogged round the shed. The Kongresszentrum held few surprises. Another locked, ice-cold metal door.
Now the final side.
It was darker. There was no ambient light, and plenty of shade from a clump of close-to pine trees.
The side of the building was more wooden planks and ...
… an external fire escape? A zig-zag of grey metal steps surrounded by a wooden frame.
Perfect.
She jogged to the steps. There was a sturdy gate, over two metres tall. It was locked. She looked around, straining to take in as much light as possible. There. At the first landing. There was a key in a yellow ‘break glass here’ contraption. It was out of reach.
Sam stepped back. Could she scale the gate?
Possibly.
There was an almost Sam-sized gap between the top of the gate and a horizontal metal truss. It would have to do.
She found a foothold on the upright bars and put her hands on top of the gate. Her fingers gave a squeal of discontent as the cold of the surface leeched the remaining heat from her hands.
Up.
She put her head to one side and squeezed it through the gap. Then her right arm, which reached down and held a vertical metal bar at stomach level. Then she wriggled her shoulders.
And pushed.
And wriggled.
And put her left arm through.
Her shoulders were through.
Her boobs would protest, but they would get over it.
And then …
‘Halt!’
She recognised the voice straight away. It was the elephant seal.
And now they were in a race.
Sam needed to be on the right side of the gate. And he needed to be on the wrong side.
She had no idea how long she had. So she assumed she had none.
It was painful. And exhausting. And humiliating.
She wriggled.
And pulled.
And pushed.
...
And lost.
The elephant seal may not have known how to win a street fight in a small room with a girl, but he knew how to extract a female who was stuck in a metal fence.
Brute force. Which he had lots of.
He pulled her to the floor by her legs. Sam collapsed like her puppet strings had been severed.
She was bruised all over. She knew she had scrapes down her front, and along her
shoulders. As the elephant seal pulled her from the grasps of the gate, she’d caught her chin on the top metal bar and she lost a chunk of flesh. There was a lots of blood, which made it look worse than it was, but it was still bloody sore.
And then the elephant seal lifted her from the ground, locked Sam’s left arm behind her, pushed it high … and it popped out of its socket.
The pain was instant and overwhelming. To which her brain said, ‘sod this’, and she passed out.
Forest Clearing, Davos, Switzerland
Sam woke and her senses kicked in immediately.
Cold. Ice. Snow on the ground - and still falling. There was little light. Trees. The sound of rushing water. A river. In spate. She could hear it, but couldn’t see it.
Fuck, that’s cold.
She lifted her cheek from the ground. The relief was worth the effort, although her shoulder screamed blue murder.
She was wet. She was in the same clothes she’d been wearing before the elephant seal had caught her. They clung to her as only damp fabric could. Her side resting on the ground was numb with cold. The rest of her hurt in spasms, like freezing fingers after a long snowball fight.
Her hands were bound behind her back with cable ties. As were her feet. Crude and extremely effective. She tried to move her legs. They protested. Against advice she raised her shoulders. An inch was possible.
Two?
Nope. Don’t like that.
Her head flopped back onto ground. Her dislocated shoulder stopped yelling at her, but her cheek took over.
Where am I?
A forest, by a river.
She listened.
A torrent of water. Nothing else.
She was in a clearing, on gravelly ground. A car park in the woods? She had no idea.
Why have they trussed me and left me in the woods?
It didn’t make sense.
A police cell made sense.
Force-fed alcohol and thrown deep in the forest, partially-dressed made sense.
Drunk British tourist gets lost in the woods and succumbs to the cold.
That would run for a day in The Daily Mirror.
Being kidnapped, cable-tied and dropped in a clearing in the trees to die from the cold presented far too many unanswered questions. It would be an international incident. The broadsheets would run with it for a week.
It didn’t make any sense.
The noise from the water filled her ears. She felt she was facing the wrong way and with her hearing overwhelmed she had lost a vital sense. She needed to stand up and get out of here. She had some reserves of energy. She’d make an attempt to hop to a road. Or a house. Something. Somebody.
Lay on your back. And then sit up.
She tried that.
Twice.
Both times her shoulder jabbed at her as if a javelin was sticking out of the socket.
Stars and dizziness.
And an incomprehensible tiredness.
Reserves of energy?
Who was she kidding?
One more time.
Push. Twist. Ouch, my hands.
No.
Her shoulder’s protests were deafening. She kept trying.
Got it.
She was there. On her back, her chin high, her head pushing into the ground, arching her back - finding room for her hands and arms.
Sit!
Sam was good at sit-ups. She’d do 50 after a run. Her feet held firm under an object, like a chest of drawers, and then ‘hands behind her head’, and sit. One, two, three … 48, 49, 50. The last ten were always a struggle, her stomach muscles sore, but she managed it.
All she had to do now was one … with her hands tied behind her back.
And her shoulder inconsolable.
She closed her eyes, as though that was going to help.
As though …
Come on.
Sit.
It was jerky and slow, and required two attempts, but she was up. Straight away her shoulder felt slightly better.
Good.
She opened her eyes and glanced around.
And immediately closed them again.
She’d heard fear can make a person wet themselves.
It was true.
Sam felt a trickle of warm urine soak through the crotch of her trousers. Whilst despair was already telling her not to bother, she pulled her pelvic floor muscles together and arrested the flow.
‘Hello, Sam Green.’
She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to look at the shadowy image that was sitting on a camping chair a couple of metres from her.
‘You are tenacious, aren’t you?’ There was a lightness, a playfulness to his voice. It was theatrical. Almost comedic.
She kept her eyes closed. A void filled where there used to be thought. Her ears tightened. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her breathing shallowed - and quickened.
‘Look, I have to congratulate you. Mmm?’ An adult talking to a child. Which wasn’t far from the truth. She was lost. He had found her. Like a disoriented kid in a supermarket now back in their parent’s grasp.
‘I know you were behind the Venezuelan fiasco. That was unfortunate. And then, popping up in Calabria? At the wedding, of all places? Well done you.’ Bordering on sarcasm. ‘And last night - in Zermatt? I was convinced you would try to find me - make some connection or other. Did you get burnt?’
She heard a crunch. She couldn’t see; her eyes still closed.
Shoes on gravel. He was on his feet. Two steps. A pause. He had his hand under her bloody chin. He lifted it and turned her face from side to side. It all hurt. Everything hurt.
‘Ahh. You did get a bit burnt, didn’t you? You should be more careful.’ That comic tone again.
He let go of her chin. There was more crunching of feet on gravel. He may have sat back down. Possibly not. She didn’t know. Someone was telling her not to care.
‘And now here, in Davos. My night with His Holiness. You almost spoiled it … in fact you have.’ His tone had changed. The lightness gone. Menace had replaced it. ‘Let’s be clear about this.’ He paused.
A footstep in my direction?
‘I should be finishing my …’
Smack!
The new venom in his voice was accompanied by a blow to her face. She felt metal. And heard the crack of bone. She toppled. And tasted blood.
‘... main …’ A kick to her stomach. It was lost in the overmatching of pain which already flooded her senses. The dial was set at ‘maximum’, there was no room for it to go any higher.
‘... course …’
He stamped on her ankle. Something may have broken. She didn’t know.
She didn’t care.
Sam sensed he was pacing. Frustrated. She didn’t think he had sat down again.
She didn’t think.
‘Look at me, Green.’
Nope.
‘Look. At. Me.’ Anger bordering on madness.
Nope.
Nothing would make her open her eyes. She couldn’t. It would be too awful. Any image would add form to the horror which was bad enough in the abstract.
He was close again now.
She felt it.
Her bladder relapsed. Much needed warmth spread between her legs.
She’d given in.
He was so close she could smell his breath. Still fresh. A touch of mint.
Jab.
Metal. In her face. On her cheek. She smelt it too.
And gun oil. And … spent cordite.
This is it.
This was it.
‘Bye-bye, Sam Green.’
BANG!
Black.
Kongresszentrum, Davos, Switzerland
Ergorov was settled on the platform. This time he had his rifle with him. The front bipod was ten centimetres back from the edge of the table. The stock was in his shoulder and his cheek was resting on his right hand which was curled around the top of the stock, his index finger extended into the pistol grip.
<
br /> He’d opened the window three minutes ago, twenty seconds after his target had stood up to make his after-dinner speech. He’d observed all of that from the back of the classroom, had walked briskly back to the toilet, opened the window and found his place.
Earlier he’d almost abandoned the mission. He had typed an ‘Abort’ message to send to his contact and was about to press ‘Send’ when the large man had appeared with the girl. He had her in an armlock and was pushing her in front of him, back towards the hotel. She seemed barely awake.
He’d watched the soap opera unfold over the past couple of hours, but was missing chunks of the plot.
It started with the girl and another shorter man outside the hotel; they’d both disappeared inside. Twenty minutes later she’d come out of the hotel in a fluster, and ran away from the entrance - left, into town. The large man had followed her out of the hotel, but hadn’t pursued her down the road. Instead, looking frustrated, he’d gone back inside.
He’d lost the girl at that point and thought nothing more of it. Until the large man in a suit had jogged over from the hotel to the front of the Kongresszentrum. He then disappeared from view around the left hand side of the building. That’s when Ergorov had set up to abort.
He had no idea what was happening. What was the large man doing at the Kongresszentrum? Was he trying to get in? It was all too close to home for comfort. Ergorov could leave by any door and was already working on which of those four would be the best option when the large man had appeared with the girl, round from his right. And they’d headed off to the hotel.
At that moment things had got really bizarre. A smart black Bentley had pulled up on the main road and the girl had been thrown in the back and the car had taken off. The large man had dusted himself off and gone back inside the hotel.
Was it a lovers’ tiff? Was she a hooker? Was this part of some bizarre sex ritual?
Whatever.
He’d thought about it for a second and then decided not to abort. Failing a customer was always an option for him. His reputation was bigger than one missed opportunity. But it was always a last resort.
The excursion with the large man and the girl was an hour and a half ago. Now he was back on task. Doing what he did best.
To be certain he didn’t lose the target he reckoned he had a maximum of five minutes to fire off the shot.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 43