by Cain, Tom
She walked back to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers until she found a heavy pair of kitchen scissors. Then she returned to the bedroom and used the scissors to cut right up the front of Petrova’s top, from hem to collar, so that it opened up, exposing her torso and bra beneath.
Novak kept cutting. She went across the shoulders and down each sleeve so that Petrova’s shoulders and arms were visible. Then she grabbed the top in both her hands and tugged until the whole thing slid out from under Petrova. Next she cut off her bra. Then she pulled down her trousers and knickers.
Only when Petrova was completely naked did Novak finally tie her ankles to the foot of the bed. She cast an appreciative eye over the helpless body spread out before her. There was one last touch. She needed a means of closing Petrova’s mouth, one that would leave most of her face still accessible, and in a man’s apartment – particularly an American’s – she knew just what that would be.
There was a cupboard in the hall filled with cleaning equipment, tools and general domestic hardware. Novak had opened it just a few minutes earlier while searching for Petrova. She returned there and, sure enough, soon found what she was looking for: a roll of duct tape. She took it into the kitchen, took a pair of cook’s scissors from a drawer and cut a strip about 15cm long. Then she went back to the bedroom and stuck it over Petrova’s limp, unconscious lips. And, as she did, Celina Novak pondered on exactly how she would send sweet, adorable, innocent little Alix Petrova silently screaming to her grave.
88
CARVER WAS STILL on his park bench. He had just wired more than sixty thousand pounds from the account of one of the Panamanian-registered shell companies he used to hide the very large amounts of money he had earned from killing bad men – and the much smaller amounts obtained by keeping good ones safe. He had made the deal that would secure his escape. But where was Novak? Why hadn’t she replied?
Celina Novak gave considerable thought to the tools she would need for the job she had in mind. She selected a knife: the very knife, in fact, with which Petrova had just so feebly attacked her. To that she added a pair of secateurs, found in the same cupboard as the duct tape. There were large ceramic flower pots arrayed on the terrace outside. Perhaps the American had liked to fill them with plants in the spring and summer and tend them himself. Perhaps he’d fancied that he had – what was the English saying? – green fingers. How apt.
Novak found the sharpening steel that the American had used to sharpen his precious knives. She turned on the gas hob to full flame and laid the steel on top of it. She was just wondering what to do next when she heard a groan from the hall. Grantham was waking up.
Novak walked back to him and kicked him in the head again, but that wasn’t exactly a long-term solution. So she got down on her haunches and took off Grantham’s shoes. Underneath were two sweaty, stretchy black woollen knee socks. Perfect.
Grimacing slightly at the smell, she took the socks off, too. Then she rolled one into a ball, pulled the end back over the ball to hold it in place, forced open Grantham’s mouth and shoved the sock in. Before Grantham could spit it out, Novak pulled the other sock across his face, and, stretching it to the utmost, knotted it tight round the back of his head. The tied sock pulled hard against Grantham’s mouth, shoving the rolled-up one deeper down into his throat, making him retch, and pulling his lips back in a grotesque parody of a smile.
She went back to the kitchen and turned the sharpening steel so that both sides would be heated equally. It was almost time to begin, but if she wanted her party to go with a swing, she needed a full complement of guests. Carver wouldn’t be far away, she was sure of it: no more than five minutes, ten at the most.
She called the men in the car outside.
‘Carver will be coming here soon,’ she said. ‘He will be in a hurry and therefore more likely to be careless. Remain alert and let me know the second you first see him.’
The only issue now was time. There was a lot to do, and only a few minutes in which to do it. She hurried to the cleaning cupboard, took the most powerfully caustic drain-cleaning fluid she could find, and brought it through to the bedroom. Then she went to get the rest of her tools, except for the sharpening steel. That would stay on the gas hob gathering heat until the very moment that it was needed.
Before she began she wrote a quick text: ‘Hello, Sam. I have your bitch. Just about to leave my mark on her. Gingerxxx’
Novak sent the message. Then she took the top off the drain cleaner and placed the plastic bottle right under Petrova’s nose so that she could not escape its powerful, ammoniac vapours. Immediately Petrova started coughing and gasping for breath, only to find that the duct tape across her mouth was making it impossible for her to do so. That jolted her into consciousness. Unfortunately it also put her in danger of suffocation, and Novak was obliged to loosen the tape for a few seconds until Petrova could calm her breathing again. Before she had recovered enough to scream for help, Novak stuck the tape back down again.
Then she smiled and said, ‘Hello, Alexandra. I’m so glad you’re awake. I think we’ll have so much more fun together if you know exactly what I’ve got planned . . .’
89
CARVER RAN. HE raced across the great open grassland at the heart of the park, heedless of any attention he might draw or stares that he provoked. It was too late for discretion or concealment now. He had only gone a couple of hundred yards before the drawback of wearing a wetsuit became apparent. It was hot and, by definition, completely air- and watertight. Less than a minute after he had set off he was already sweating like a pig.
His lungs and legs were betraying him, too. Carver kept himself fit, but only to the standards of the prosperous civilian he’d been for the past two years. He didn’t have the muscular endurance or heart-lung capacity that he’d once taken for granted. He told himself the pain was an illusion, a mirage generated by a frightened brain to prevent the body from over-exerting itself. And he kept running.
He was two-thirds of the way across the grass when he received another text. It just said, ‘I am alone with her. Just imagine what I am doing. Gx’
He told himself that this had to be some kind of sick joke – a taunt to bring him on all the faster, to make him so mad with rage and fear that he would cease to act like a trained professional and blunder in like an amateur.
Carver kept running, darting in and out of people on the path. A couple of young guys, aged maybe seventeen or eighteen, were coming towards him in the opposite direction, kidding with each other, not paying much attention to what was around them. Carver tried to get around them, but then one of the guys moved into the space he was aiming for. They banged shoulders, and the impact sent the kid Carver had hit spinning into his friend. They shouted angrily after him and then one of them said to the other: ‘Do you know who that was?’
‘Yeah, your dad.’
‘Nah, seriously . . . look . . .’ He got out his phone and went on to Twitter, quickly finding #secondman where a dozen or more recent tweets had links to the latest police photofits.
‘’Kin’ ell, you’re right. That’s him . . . that’s the Second Man.’
‘Well, call the police, bro. Maybe there’s a reward, like thousands of pounds or something.’
‘Ah, that would be well mint.’
‘Well, get a picture of him, quick! Before he gets too far!’
When they called the hotline thirty seconds later, theirs was the first report of Carver’s mad dash across the park and up into St John’s Wood. But it would not be by any means the last.
Carver was shattered. His body was liquid inside its neoprene sweat box. His legs were screaming from the build-up of lactic acid, and his lungs were wheezing like broken bellows. But still he ran. And still the taunting messages from Novak continued.
‘She’s aching to see you – but where are you? Gx’
‘Having a great time – wish you were here!! Gx’
‘Would you love her – even if she
was VERY ugly?? Gx’
He’d run past the Lord’s cricket ground, down smart, leafy streets that seemed untouched by the anarchy, round the corner into Abbey Road. Then, finally, he forced himself to slow. He had to get his pulse-rate down, gather his wits and prepare himself for what he had to do next. Carver assumed that Novak, or someone working with her, was watching the approaches to Peck’s flat. He had to cover the ground towards it as unobtrusively as possible, but now he had a stroke of luck. A double-decker bus was making its way down the road in a line of slow-moving traffic. Carver jogged along next to it, using it as cover, past the white, two-storey studio. As the bus passed the red-brick block of flats that stood next to the building where Alix was being held he darted unseen up to the front door and reached into his bag. He got out a thin strip of clear plastic, cut from his empty water bottle while he’d been sitting on the park bench, and slipped it between the lock and the door jamb, carefully manipulating it until the bolt slid back and the lock clicked open. Carver dashed to the lift, waited for fifteen agonizing seconds till it arrived – telling himself that it would still be quicker and less draining than taking the stairs – then pushed his way in before the doors had fully opened and hammered the palm of his hand against the button for the top floor.
In Trent Peck’s bedroom, Novak had finally fetched the sharpening steel from the kitchen and was standing by the foot of the bed, looking at the splayed cruciform of Petrova’s writhing, defenceless, cruelly exposed body. Petrova was staring at the glowing red-hot metal with the wide, frantic eyes of a trapped animal, and the silver tape around her mouth was rippling with the desperate motions of the lips beneath. It took Novak a second to realize that these were not just the muffled screams or cries for help that she had become used to over the past few minutes. No, Petrova was trying to say something specific – something of huge importance that she desperately needed Novak to hear. And when Novak listened very closely to the garbled, strangulated utterances she thought she knew what it was. But she peeled back the tape, just a little, to make absolutely sure.
Yes! Novak was right. With the very last strength in her body, Petrova was begging for mercy. But it was not for herself. What she was saying was, ‘Not the baby . . . please, not the baby.’
Novak closed the tape again. She thought she had been enjoying herself up to now. But this . . . well, it took her pleasure on to a whole new level.
90
CARVER GOT OUT of the lift, ran up a short flight of stairs, crashed through a fire door and emerged on to a flat asphalt roof, surrounded by a low parapet. He dropped to a crouch and scuttled across it, keeping as low as possible. Then he raised his head just far enough above the parapet to be able to look across towards the building where Novak was holding Alix. The penthouse level was inset from the rest of the structure. From where Carver was perched there was a drop of about three metres to the terrace that ran right along the side of the penthouse. To his right, at the front of the building, were a set of French windows that led to the living room. Traversing to the left, Carver saw three windows: two bathrooms and a small bedroom, if he remembered the plans correctly. Then came the long blank wall of the master bedroom, whose windows faced towards the rear of the building.
Carver was on the same level as the roof directly opposite him and could clearly see the two glass lanterns that lit the heart of the apartment. Those lanterns were his target.
The phone pinged: another text. It read, ‘Bye-bye baby.’
What the hell did that mean? Was Alix already dead? Had he got there too late?
Then he got the answer. Another text: ‘Did you know she was pregnant?’
The shock hit Carver like a stab to the guts. Alix was having a baby . . . their baby . . . his baby.
Move! He had to move, right now.
He scrambled left till he was opposite the blank wall, then vaulted over the parapet and landed with his knees bent on the roof next door. He sprang forward taking three long strides and then jumped up the wall of the penthouse, grabbing the top and pulling himself up on to its roof.
Novak had to have heard that. Now she knew he was coming. He sprinted across to the far side, above the other, smaller flat, expecting at any moment to hear the sound of gunshots being aimed up through the ceiling at him.
None came. Novak was smart. She was holding her fire, not wasting rounds on shots that had a minuscule chance of a hit. Carver took his pack off his back, removed the Ultimate Fear and lit the fuse. It flared up in a dazzling geyser of white-hot sparks. He crept much more carefully across to the rear lantern – the one above the hall – and put the blazing cardboard cylinder down on the roof next to it.
By now it had been burning for twelve seconds.
Carver took the axe from the pack, holding it with the blunt end down. That took another four seconds. He counted to three, then smashed the axe down using all his strength. As the glass shattered, he could see two male bodies lying on the floor below him. One of them belonged to Jack Grantham, and Carver was pleased to see that it was twitching. The other lay quite still with its head like an island in a lake of blood. Novak was coming out of the door of the master bedroom. Her eyes were raised towards him, but she was looking from a brightly lit room towards the dismal grey murk of a November afternoon.
Carver slung the open, half-empty pack over one shoulder, picked up the firework and held it away from his body, over the hole in the lantern.
Novak saw that all right. She brought her gun up towards the blazing light and fired just as Carver let go and ran like hell towards the side of the building.
Twenty-three seconds after it had first been lit, exactly on schedule, the Ultimate Fear produced an explosion of scorching glare and brutal noise that made everything that had come before look like a child’s sparkler. The bang was so loud that it literally shook the building: Carver could feel the vibrations through the soles of his shoes as he ran, jumped back down on to the terrace and turned towards the French windows.
Carver needed to punch a hole big enough for him to get through. It required five hits with the axe this time: one in each corner to weaken the integrity of the glass, and the fifth smack bang in the middle to complete the job.
The window gave way with a smashing of fragments on to the living room’s parquet floor. Carver charged through the shattered glass and raced towards the hall through the thick, acrid smoke created by the detonation of the Ultimate Fear. The effects of the blast would be significant – there was a good chance that Novak’s sight and hearing would both be seriously impaired – but that would only be very short-term, and she was a tough, experienced operator. Carver had to get to her before she regained full possession of her senses, and every second counted.
They practically collided in the middle of the floor as he dashed over from the window and Novak stumbled in from the hall, her stride still unsteady and her eyes screwed up as she struggled to regain her vision and peer through the billowing grey fumes. She still had the gun, though, and she fired blind: three quick, wild shots that went nowhere near him. Then she stood there waving the gun helplessly, not knowing where to point it next. She was helpless, Carver realized. She had no way of defending herself.
Good.
He stepped right up to Novak and swung the axe with all his strength into the centre of her chest, between her breasts, right below the throat. It smashed through her sternum, and she didn’t even have the power to scream. Amazingly, though, she was still alive. She staggered forward a couple of paces, with her hands feebly grasping the handle of the axe, trying to pull it from her body, and Carver had to step back to stop her crashing into him.
So he reached into his bag, pulled out the nail gun and started firing. He put a dozen nails into her throat and head in under four seconds, keeping firing even as she fell to the ground. He had the gun set to maximum power, so many of the nails went straight through, punching their way like bullets out of the back of her neck and skull before embedding themselves in the walls an
d floor.
Now Celina Novak was categorically dead.
In the flat below, an Italian woman called Maria Donatelli was racked by indecision. Signor Peck was normally a very good, quiet neighbour. He liked to have a lot of lady friends over, but he was a man, so what else was one to expect? But this afternoon there had been strange sounds: scurrying feet, thuds on the floor and then a blast, like a bomb, so powerful it had made her whole apartment shake. Then more thumping on the floor that sounded almost like people fighting.
She felt she should call the police, but she did not want to get Signor Peck into any kind of trouble. On the other hand, what if his apartment had been raided by burglars, or worse, terrorists? He was an American. He could easily be a target. But then, if she called, she might put herself in danger, too.
What should she do?
Maria Donatelli wavered this way and that. But in the end, she decided to behave like a good citizen and she dialled 999.
Carver laid the nail gun on the floor, picked up Novak’s Ruger and made his way through the flat, looking for Alix in the spare bedroom and its bathroom, even though he was certain she would not be there. He desperately wanted to discover her, and yet at the same time he dreaded what he would find so much that he was almost trying to delay the moment as long as he could.
Carver was in the hall now, right by the two bodies. The dead one had to be the owner, Peck. Grantham was lying next to him. He had been right by the firework when it went off and was looking around him with the wide, sightless eyes of the blind, trying to call out through the gag around his mouth.
From the moment he had seen Novak in that construction site, Carver had known that Grantham had been behind the riot. Who else could have tipped the police off to his presence in the MI6 flat? Who else knew enough about Celina Novak to choose her for the job of tidying up the loose ends?