by Berry, Tony
He leaned forward to sight the vehicle that had just turned the corner, headlights full on. Right on time. It must be them; no one else would be around at this time of night. He stepped back through the side gate and leaned across to press the switch on the roller door. It slid quietly up just in time for the solid black station wagon to glide in beneath. A familiar routine, smooth as ever. But, this time, things would be different.
Fokisi turned his back on the station wagon and slid a small canister from the sleeve pocket of his bulky black anorak. He shook it sharply a few times before pressing the nozzle and directing a fine spray of acrid smelling sealant at the roller door switch. He heard the click of the car door as it was slowly pushed open, took a quick look over his shoulder to check no one was looking and threw the canister high over the roller door’s upper frame. It landed with a tinny clatter somewhere out in the street.
‘What was that? Someone out there?’
The man who had emerged from the station wagon shuffled across close to Fokisi, a hiker’s solid walking stick tapping out each step as he bent forward. The heavy grey overcoat that enveloped his frail frame almost trailed along the ground as if long ago it might have been a good fit but the man had since shrivelled and shrunk. He peered up into the Tongan’s face, seeking an answer.
‘Nah, it’s nothing,’ growled Fokisi. ‘Probably kids kicking a can.’
The man grunted, not wholly satisfied. He waved his stick towards the street.
‘Better get that door back down. And quickly.’
Fokisi shrugged and held his hands out, palms up, in a pretence of helplessness.
‘Seems to be stuck. I’ll work on it.’
‘Make it quick,’ wheezed the man. ‘This place is supposed to be kept secure.’
He turned away and shuffled towards the rear of the building. As he neared the solid metal entrance door a sensor light suddenly lit up his progress. His fingers fumbled to select a combination of numbers on a key pad next to the door and began to push it slowly open, the effort almost too much for his scrawny body.
Fokisi ignored him and resumed his play-acting, looking busy but doing nothing. Too busy in fact. By the time he heard Duptha’s approach, it was too late. He felt the crippling blow to his rib cage and was already doubled over in pain when he saw the Sir Lankan swinging his gun down on to the back of his neck. He had no time to break his fall. The black curtain of unconsciousness enveloped him as his head crashed into the concrete.
Duptha hardly broke stride as he rushed forward. Both hands gripped his gun, levelling it at the elderly man frozen mid-movement, one hand still splayed against the half-open door. Duptha closed the gap between them, his body hard pressed against the man, tumbling them both through the gap, the door slamming into the wall. Duptha grasped the folds of the man’s coat gathered high around his neck, squeezing tight.
‘Got you at last.’
He gave an extra triumphant squeeze and felt the man wince.
‘Walk slowly and say nothing!’ he ordered. ‘You understand?’
The man nodded and stumbled forward. Together they began a slow shuffle along the narrow corridor. The half-timbered, half-glassed offices on their left were dark and abandoned for the day. Ahead, a light glowed beneath another door. They were wrapped in silence. The only sound was distant and outside; the throb and whirr of an engine or machine.
FORTY-FIVE
AS Bromo veered across the road towards the two white vans, the rear door of the nearest was flung open. Delia hurriedly emerged, the rangy figure of Steve Maloney close behind, slightly stooped but still head and shoulders taller. Delia raised her arms halfway, elbows bent, hands spread wide. She planted them firmly on Bromo’s chest.
‘Stop right there.’
He offered no resistance. Gave a half grin.
‘Good to see you too. And since you asked, I’m not feeling too bad apart from a shattered arm, shortage of breath, aching legs and an all-round lack of sleep.’
She let her arms drop to her side.
‘You can sort all that out later,’ she snapped. ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
He recoiled briefly from her words. Smarting. He stretched his neck, let his head roll back and gazed for a moment skywards, taking a deep breath and resisting the impulse to bite back. Now was not the time.
‘I was chasing that maniac Duptha while you and your lot sat there all cosy, peeping out from your tinted windows. He’s got to be stopped. And now.’
Delia stood her ground, showing little reaction to his outburst. She pointed across at the Global premises.
‘I didn’t want to scare off whoever just drove up in that wagon. Duptha’s going nowhere once he’s inside that building.’
She gave a nod, indicating the other van.
‘The lads had him all lined up but I told them to hold fire.’
Bromo felt a surge of anger and frustration. He twisted quickly away from her, avoiding her outstretched arm, poised to run. He spat out his words.
‘You’ve just made the biggest and luckiest decision of your life. And you don’t even know it. That man is a bomb waiting to explode. Shooting him could have blown this whole street sky high, you and all your flunkies with it. What the hell do you think is in that backpack? Didn’t all your night vision gizmos pick out the wires trailing from it? Did you think he suddenly looks so bulky because he’s been gorging on takeaways? He’s a bloody fanatic renegade. This is not what we agreed.’
He glimpsed Delia putting her phone to her ear as he strode away from her, breaking into the fastest run he could manage. From the corner of his eye he detected sudden movement from Maloney. Over to his right he saw a line of black-clad figures rush out of the other truck, anonymous and identical in their protective but threatening riot squad gear.
‘May the force be with you,’ he muttered as he somehow found reserves of energy to lengthen his stride; to quicken his pace. He felt them catching him up as he turned into the rear of the Global premises. Perhaps he should stop; let them take over, do whatever they had to do. At least they were all on the same side. But something was driving him on, compelling him forward. He had an obligation, a duty, a debt to repay. He owed it to Dayani. The adrenalin was pumping through him. His body was no longer his to control. His mind was away somewhere else, projecting images of faraway places, long-forgotten faces, snatches of conversation, words, looks, incidents, a jumble of memories he thought he had lost – hoped he had lost. He knew his body was hurting but he had no sensation of pain. Was this the runner’s high, the out-of-body experience he had heard others talk about? He stumbled, lurched forward, gasping for breath as he almost fell over Fokisi. The big Tongan was levering himself up off the ground, rubbing his head, looking dazed. Bromo came to sudden stop. He bent forward, hands gripping his sides.
‘Come on, man. Don’t sit there like that. Think of it as just another brawl in the lineout. We’ve got unfinished business.’
Fokisi looked at him, eyes glazed, not fully understanding. He ran a hand up over his forehead and over his scalp. Slowly he stood.
‘Yeah, okay, whatever.’
He rolled his shoulders, easing out the knots, feeling the bruises. His recovery was short-lived. The squad of riot police rushed into the yard, heading for the door where Duptha had taken the old man hostage. Delia and Maloney were close behind. One of the squaddies slammed Fokisi against the wall. The agonising pain began afresh.
‘Leave him!’ barked Delia. ‘He’s coming with us.’
Fokisi winced as Maloney gripped him by the elbow and thrust him forward. He saw Bromo two steps ahead. Beyond, the police paused while one of them worked to break open the key pad Fokisi had sealed tight. The door clicked open. They inched forward, crouched low, picking up pace as they saw the corridor ahead free of people or obstructions. At the far end, a light glowed beneath a shut door. Muted voices could be faintly heard from the room beyond. Again the distant sounds of engines coming closer and louder. N
o one moved. Delia had her phone pressed to her ear, head bent, a frown of concentration creasing her brow. She nodded, whispered the occasional ‘Yeah, yeah’, absorbing the information being fed to her.
Bromo fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his impatience at the delay clearly obvious. He rubbed his bruised arm, an unwanted distraction. Time was running out. There was no knowing what a hothead like Duptha might do; or how soon he would act. Bromo tried to fathom the motivation behind such actions; what had inspired the man to consider taking his own life along with possibly those of dozens of others. This was taking activism to extreme limits, way beyond anything Bromo had envisaged when Dayani had first contacted him. Nor was it what he and she had agreed. He felt conned, dragged back into a world he had left far behind and which even way back then was nothing like as mindlessly violent as what awaited them on the other side of that door. This was the realm of fundamentalism, al Qaeda suicide bombers and ultra-extremists where random death on a massive scale was seen as the only answer. He felt Maloney sidle up alongside, bending low to whisper in his ear.
‘We’ve got vision inside there. Cameras we persuaded Fokisi to install.’ He flicked a finger in Delia’s direction. ‘She’s getting sit reps, updates. Should be able to move soon.’
Bromo nodded, understanding but still fractious at the delay.
‘Too right we’ll be moving if that bloody bomb goes off,’ he muttered.
Delia pushed past them, moving to the front of the anti-riot team, crouching down with their leader. Their conversation was brief. The leader stood up; the rest followed and crowded together.
‘Looks like they’re getting reading for a scrum,’ murmured Fokisi.
‘Yeah, and they’d better make sure they grab the ball first time,’ responded Bromo. He quivered, certain he was in the wrong place at the wrong time but rooted to the spot. There was no going back; impossible to run fast enough and far enough if things went pear-shaped.
Suddenly there was a deafening chorus of yells as the black-clad phalanx, weapons poised, slammed the door back on to its hinges and charged through into the room beyond. Delia and Maloney followed. Bromo and Fokisi stumbled through in their wake just in time to witness a tumultuous melee of bodies and a cacophony of shouted commands and screams more of surprise than pain that ended as suddenly as it began. The calm was almost unnerving. Duptha, Natalie Cordoza and Duptha’s elderly hostage were lined up on the other side of a long boardroom table piled high with cardboard boxes, jewellery trays and mounds of fluffy toy dogs. They had their backs to the room, arms and hands spread against the far wall. Two members of the riot squad stood either side of Duptha, gingerly fingering his backpack, tracing the wires trailing round his waist.
Bromo stood rigidly surveying the scene. He sensed one twitch could reignite everything. There were too many fingers still resting on triggers; too many nervy people waiting for one wrong move. He knew no one could relax until Duptha was disarmed.
The two policemen nodded agreement at each other. They ran their hands in unison gingerly down both sides of the backpack, probing gently before snipping the wires at its base and sliding it slowly off Duptha’s shoulders. They pulled his arms down behind him, spun him round and pushed him down heavily into a wooden office chair. A colleague carefully took hold of the backpack and carried it from the room.
‘Don’t move an inch,’ commanded one of Duptha’s guards.
His words acted like a cue for everyone to relax. There was a release of pent-up breath, an easing of tensed muscles. The police maintained their wariness, weapons still cocked and ready, but they shuffled their feet and rolled their shoulders. Fokisi resumed rubbing his head and massaging the back of his neck.
‘Now take care of those other two and get everyone outside,’ ordered Delia.
Bromo edged towards the table. He reached for one of the jewellery trays and pulled it nearer. He needed a closer look at its contents. Delia was at his side.
‘Is this what you expected?’
‘Pretty much. You’ll need to get an expert opinion but I think you find this is what caused today’s little ruckus plus death and mayhem all over the world. You’ve hit the big time, m’dear.’
Bromo felt a bump as one of Natalie Cordoza’s escorts pushed past on their way outside. He looked up. Behind them was the other captive, limping frail and bowed between two burly policemen. For a moment Bromo paused, stunned with disbelief. Suddenly he stepped forward, blocking the way. He reached out an arm, his hand going under the man’s chin, forcing his face up.
‘It is you,’ hissed Bromo.
He gripped the old man’s chin harder, feeling him wince.
‘You cunning, evil little bastard. No wonder I kept being beaten up. You’re the only one who was fully aware of what was going on. And, of course, it had to be someone who could tell real from fake.’
The cop on the left pushed down on Bromo’s arm.
‘Enough now, sir. Back off please.’
Bromo glared back at him, briefly resisting. He knew he was out of order but anger ruled right now. Flashbacks of all the threats, beatings and danger he, Liz, Dayani and the other Sri Lankans had endured in the past weeks came flooding back. And all because of this greedy manipulative little man who Liz had trusted and had told him also to trust. His fury overcame reason. He broke loose from the policeman’s grip and thrust his hand, now clenched with knuckles uppermost, hard into the man’s lower jaw. There was the crunch of bone on bone. The man slumped back, eyes closed, held up by his escorts as they lowered him slowly to the floor.
Bromo felt his arms being grabbed, Maloney on one side and Delia on the other. He winced as their fingers pressed into his wounds. The pain was sickening. It did little to sooth his rage.
‘Calm it! Stop right there,’ Delia ordered. She exchanged glances with Maloney.
‘You’re one step from being held and charged. Take that as a final warning.’
Bromo felt the spasms of anger subsiding. But not fully.
‘It’s that bloody bastard Jacowiscz who is running this whole murderous set-up,’ he yelled. ‘The only diamonds he deals in are laden with death.’
It was his final outburst. He felt his wrath receding. He was drained, deflated. Delia and Maloney loosened their grip as he pulled out a chair and sat, elbows on the table, his head in his hands. He felt crushed and spent; everything he once depended upon for survival had faded away. It had been leeched from him. There was a time when his antennae would have seen him for what he was right from the beginning, or at worst the old bullshit detector would have clocked on soon after their first meeting. He gave a rueful shake of his head. His masters had put him out to grass and that’s where he should stay. He raised his head and looked across the table to where Duptha was calmly sitting, bent slightly forward, arms folded inside his unzipped windcheater. Bromo gave him a half smile.
‘If you ever meet up with Dayani tell her I’d rather she didn’t ask for any more favours. The debt’s been paid. In full. Any more trips to Sigirya will be as a tourist.’
He pointed at Jacowiscz, still prone on the floor.
‘Count yourself lucky. At least one arm of this evil trade has been eliminated. There’s your man.’
It was the only trigger Duptha needed. In one rapid fluid movement he plunged his hand deeper into his jacket, drew out a small snub-nosed gun, fired one shot point blank into Jacowiscz’s skull and leapt into a sprint that took him out of the room and down the corridor before anyone else had moved.
‘After him!’ yelled Delia.
Bromo allowed himself a quiet chuckle and cast his eyes upward as the clatter of engine noise overhead increased.
‘Fat chance, Delia. He’ll be the one that got away.’
He began clapping his hands. He felt strange, mildly delirious. Clap, clap, clap. Oh, the relief of it all.
‘Run, Duptha, run,’ he shouted.
But Duptha was not there to hear his cheers and the euphoria soon passed. He
slumped back into his seat and lowered his head on to his hands once more. Delia gave an exasperated sigh and waited for her team to report back. She rested a calming hand on the back of Bromo’s neck, stroking it gently to and fro.
She made no response when Maloney entered the room, eyebrows raised at her action. Close behind him came Liz.
‘This lady was concerned about your friend there,’ he said.
‘I’m sure she was,’ replied Delia, still ignoring his barb. ‘And I’m also sure she’ll be pleased to see he’s all in one piece.’
She gave Liz one of those loaded smiles that only women can construct and interpret.
‘All he needs is lots of TLC and I’m sure you can manage that.’
She gave his neck one last pat.
‘He’s all yours.’
FORTY-SIX
LIZ stood in front of him, two bottles poised to pour. He extended his glass.
‘Laphroaig or Lagavulin?’ she asked.
‘Ah such riches, such a dilemma, how can a man be so spoilt for choice?’
She smiled.
‘Maybe just this once he deserves to be spoilt. Or maybe I’m just carrying out orders.’
‘Orders?’
‘Remember, I was told to take you away and render some TLC.’
He pursed his lips, contemplating her response. He fixed his eyes on hers.
‘So, this is nothing personal, merely obeying instructions?’
She didn’t even blink. But he thought he detected the glimmer of a smile. A teaser. A fresh sparkle in the eyes, perhaps. Or was it all wishful thinking on his part?