by Chris Ryan
‘We’re leaving,’ he said.
‘That guy… he’s still out there.’
‘He’s finished.’
Aimée nodded and stood up. Her eyes were warm and bright. Then they clouded grey and rested on a spot past his right shoulder. Gardner slowly turned around and saw the Yank. He was alive. His face looked like someone had worked on him with a mallet, purple blotches on his forehead, his nose bloody. But he was most definitely fucking alive.
Pounding down the street. Towards the shop.
The Yank was a few metres from the door when the shop’s windows rattled. Inside, daylight dimmed as a hefty metal shutter tumbled down over the front of the shop. Gardner glimpsed the Yank standing out in the street, the top half of his body cut off from view. There was a terrific clattering as the shutter sealed up the shop, like a million snare drums sounding at once. Light crept in between gaps in the metal. The only exit route was blocked.
‘We’re trapped,’ Aimée said.
Gardner had an idea. ‘Maybe not.’
Aimée asked what he meant. Gardner didn’t reply. He was heading down into the basement, beckoning the two women to follow him.
15
1210 hours.
The fluorescent lights guided them down the stairs. Gardner’s left hand trailed and Aimée held on to it. He couldn’t feel her fingers on the plastic, but he felt her breath, warm packets of it stroking his shoulder blade. Salvago was a couple of paces further behind. When he reached the bottom, Gardner’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom. They focused on the hatch in the ceiling at the far end of the basement.
‘We’ll use those overhead doors to get out to the street,’ he said.
‘But he’ll be waiting for us—’ said Aimée.
‘I’m going to take care of this guy.’
‘His arm—’
‘I’ve read about them,’ Gardner said. ‘They were designed to help people with wasting diseases, so they could control their limbs. Give them their quality of life back. Then the Pentagon got hold of the idea and decided to test them on wounded US soldiers. Used them as fucking guinea pigs.’
‘That’s how he was controlling the car?’ The question was from Salvago.
Gardner didn’t reply because the basement suddenly sank into a smothering darkness. Like a Hessian sack pulled over his head. Everything switched off: the fluorescent lights, the computers, the lamps on the work tables. Tiny hammers seemed to tap against the generator as it powered down. Gardner couldn’t see a metre ahead of him.
The blackness was silent and cold.
‘I can’t see you,’ Aimée said.
‘Keep a hold of my hand,’ Gardner said, then to Salvago, ‘Hold onto Aimée.’
Neither replied. Gardner pushed forward. His steps had to be cautious, had to be slow. He had no way of orientating himself. Walking in a straight line in the pitch-darkness was easier said than done. He heard an electrical whirring sound which lasted for several seconds. It ended with a deliberate, dull thud at his eight o’clock.
He saw something in the blackness. Nothing distinct. A soft patch of light lingered at ceiling height. What little there was of it came from the porn shop. One of the panels in the ceiling was lowering. Atop the panel was a lift, and as it touched the basement floor the Yank stepped quickly out of it and into the shadows.
Gardner froze.
‘What is it?’ Aimée whispered.
Gardner steered Aimée and Salvago in the direction where he imagined the cellar hatch in the ceiling to be. ‘Walk that way and don’t stop. When you hit the ladder, open the doors if you can and get the hell out of here.’
‘I’m not leaving you,’ Aimée said.
‘No one’s leaving anybody. I’ll see you outside. Now go.’
Aimée’s breathing grew fainter as she and Salvago made their way through the basement.
Listening to the Yank’s footsteps, Gardner braced himself.
The footsteps stopped.
Gardner cocked his ears and held his breath in his throat. He suddenly felt very vulnerable.
A gust of wind whooshed over Gardner’s face.
At the end of the gust was a fist.
The fist drove hard into his solar plexus. Gardner felt the knuckles connect with his flesh, each one digging in like the handle head of a screwdriver. His bowels spasmed. He couldn’t breathe. He still made an effort to fight back, slugged his right arm into the blackness in front of him even as he doubled up in agony. He punched cold air.
The wind swirled around him. Then it seemed to settle at his back and drop-kicked his lower spine. Gardner dropped to his hands and knees. He felt a string of spit dangling from his lower lip.
He’s fucking found me. Even though it’s pitch-black.
Gardner was powerless to stop the onslaught. The blows kept on coming, a three-sixty melee attack that left his senses scattered like marbles on the floor. He tried to push himself to his feet and felt the hard surface of a rubber sole stamp on him. The underside of a tactical boot crushed his right fingers. The joints cracked and grated. The pain went through the fucking roof. He was dragged this way and that, until he had no idea which way was up or down.
The lights flickered on. The overhead panels cast shadows on the sheet-metal walls. Gardner squinted. The guy was standing over him.
They were next to the tablet presser.
The Yank appeared to turn it on just by looking at it. A hundred moving parts clanked and whirred inside the machine. Gardner saw the punch come to life. It began to stamp up and down on the die plate, up and down, up and down. The Yank gripped Gardner’s right arm, his good one, and thrust it towards the die hole. Gardner struggled but his body had taken a fuck of a beating and he had nothing left to give.
His fingertips were under the punch. He imagined it piercing holes in his hand like it was a fucking power drill. Could feel the punch driving through his flesh and bone.
He tensed.
The machine stopped suddenly. Then it started again suddenly. The grip around Gardner’s fist weakened. He was able to shake his arm free. The Yank’s arm was level with Gardner’s face. He shaped to block, but knew that if the arm was anywhere near as powerful as he reckoned, no amount of blocking would save his arse. His face would be reduced to pulp.
The guy’s fist drove forward. And down instead of straight. Eight inches from Gardner’s face, the hand curled sharply inward and smacked clean into the Yank’s own knee. He gasped.
Gardner rolled onto his side and sprang to his feet. He saw Salvago sitting at a computer, typing furiously. Aimée was next to her. Aimée ran towards Gardner. She shouted to Salvago to hurry up.
The building was going haywire. The lights flicked on and off like the basement was having an epileptic fit. The double doors at the top of the stairs opened and slammed. The lift jerked two-thirds of the way up to the ceiling, then crashed back to the floor. Everything seemed beyond Kruger’s control. His arm punched the wall, leaving a giant fucking crater in a metal panel. Kruger himself looked unconscious, as if the arm was the only part of him alive.
‘Let’s get the fuck out of here,’ said Gardner.
The three of them ran towards the ladder. They could see the heavy double doors flapping open and shut, seemingly of their own accord. First to the top of the ladder, Gardner applied maximum force to the doors, pushing them apart. Aimée squeezed past him and hauled herself out into the street.
Salvago was still on the first rung. She raised her hand for a gimme. Gardner stretched down as far as he could with his good hand.
‘Come on, you can make it,’ he said.
She clasped his hand with both of hers.
Gardner clocked Kruger charging up behind her.
‘Get up!’ he yelled.
He was having one fuck of a job holding the heavy doors open with his left arm.
Salvago was halfway up the ladder when Kruger grabbed at her. He tore her from Gardner’s grip, spun her round and hit her full in the face.
The punch
was hard and true. Like a torpedo.
There wasn’t much of a head left.
With a last huge shove Gardner pushed the doors back far enough to be able to climb out through the opening. He let them slam behind him. The last thing he saw was the Yank furiously staring up from the bottom of the ladder.
Aimée was waiting for Gardner. They had emerged onto a backstreet. Pubs with dark windows. Tatty apartment blocks with darker ones. A North African family of six – mum, dad, four kids in traditional garb except for the teenage daughter – across the narrow street eyeballing him. Gardner held Aimée’s hand and walked up the street fast, eyes forward.
‘What did Salvago do back there?’ he asked.
‘She figured the man had to be controlling the car and the lights with a type of neural interface.’
‘Which is why the Avalanche was unmanned.’
‘He has to have control over the network using his arm. But networks work two ways. You control them but they leave you exposed to attack from the outside.’
Gardner said, ‘You got a phone on you?’
Aimée shook her head.
‘Then our next job is to find a payphone and put calls into those media pals of yours,’ Gardner said.
‘I hope you’ve got lots of change. When this breaks, it’s going to be a hell of a story.’
16
London, UK. 1510 hours.
St James’s Park in the autumn was preferable to the summer months, Leo Land reflected as he drew up on a bench and crossed his legs. Summer meant tourists, all manner of unpleasant types with their curry smells and loud voices and cameras clicking. He sat with his hands in his lap and watched the ducks bobbing along the lead-coloured lake, listened to the songbirds chirping in the shrubbery. Up from the lake was a children’s playground. Autumn sun flicked sparks off the metal swing bars and slide. A dozen or so children, newly liberated from school, ran around in circles and screamed notes of excitement that even the songbirds were at a loss to match. Parents looked on, their faces etched with caution. Caution about paedophiles, the fear uppermost in the minds of every parent in the country these days, Land thought. One young girl hung back from the throng and tugged pleadingly at her mother’s leg.
Land realized his hands were shaking. He was used to the shakes. Had them for years. To begin with they’d come and gone. There was no rhyme or reason to them. But for the past two weeks he’d suffered from them every single day. He extended his left hand, palm down. He tried to still his hand. It didn’t work.
Stress, Land told himself. He looked at the children and felt a pang of relief. It did not last for long.
Another man was approaching the bench, a few sad streaks of white hair brushed across his liver-spotted pate. He wore a classic navy-blue single-breasted suit that had Savile Row written all over it. White shirt, conservative-blue tie. As he sat down Land noticed tufts of hair in the man’s ears. He had never studied the man’s profile side-on before.
The man unfolded his copy of the Evening Standard, browsed through the news section and harrumphed. Then he too looked at the children. Seemed a bit preoccupied with them.
‘Leo,’ he said.
‘Milton,’ Leo answered.
Sir Milton Pierce, the Foreign Secretary, went to speak. But somewhere between his throat and his mouth he changed his mind, and there was only a short intake of breath. Then he lowered his head, his brow furrowed, and Land felt the onus was on him to talk first.
‘Someone is mounting a smear campaign against me,’ he said.
Again Pierce said nothing.
‘They’re preparing to spread lies about me, Pierce. Outright, blatant and scandalous lies.’
Pierce said nothing.
‘They have friends in the media. They’ll print these lies and bury me.’
‘Do they have “evidence” to support these rumours?’ Pierce asked.
Land shifted uncomfortably on the bench. ‘You know how it is. Technology these days means people create whatever truth they damn well please.’
‘Indeed.’ Pierce shook his head. Land suddenly felt sick. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Leo. My hands are fully tied trying to keep our European chums onside. The bomb’s ruffled a few feathers.’
Bastard, Land thought. ‘This isn’t my problem exclusively,’ he said.
Pierce shrugged with his lower lip.
Land stood up from the bench. Pierce continued to stare at the children.
‘I’m not the only person they will spread rumours about,’ Land said.
Cracks appeared at the corners of Pierce’s eyes.
Land said, ‘These people have access to all sorts of nonsense.’ He smiled. ‘All unsubstantiated, of course.’
‘What do you need?’ Pierce said through gritted teeth.
Land sat down again and leaned towards Pierce. ‘A Europe-wide alert on these individuals. A man and a woman. Domestic forces on high alert too. I know that’s not technically your ground, but you have the Home Secretary’s ear.’
Pierce said nothing more. Spent two minutes looking at the playground, sharing the silence with Land. Then he stood up and left the bench. No goodbye or even a look. Land didn’t care if they never spoke again.
He checked his watch. Three-thirty. In less than eighteen hours the Middle East would be thrown into conflict once more.
17
Rotterdam. 1757 hours.
They spent forty minutes working their way through the streets before reaching Rotterdam Centraal. There Gardner took to patrolling the station’s platforms and exits, looking out for anything suspicious, while Aimée spent the last of their euros in the public phone box. On his third circuit Gardner grabbed a Mars Duo and a Diet Coke from a vendor. The soft drink and the chocolate woke him up a little.
With the last of the euros gone, they were out of cash and in need of a way home. Land would have blocked the credit card, and Aimée didn’t have a penny on her. Gardner ran through options for getting hold of some quick cash.
Aimée hung up the phone and returned.
‘It’s ready,’ she said. ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Parliament Square. Everyone’s going to be there.’
Gardner wasn’t listening. He was staring past Aimée at a giant TV screen next to the live timetable. A photofit of a man and then one of a woman filled the screen. The woman’s face was like a blown-up version of Aimée’s. There was no sound from the TV, but the breaking news along the bottom of the screen read, in English: ‘MURDERS IN ROTTERDAM: MAN AND WOMAN WANTED FOR QUESTIONING BY INTERPOL.’
‘Joe?’
Aimée noticed the screen. She put a hand to her gaping mouth.
‘Land,’ Gardner said. He grabbed Aimée and they took a less busy side exit out of the station, emerging into a narrow street.
‘They’re going to arrest us,’ Aimée said.
‘No they’re not. We’re still going to make it to London.’
‘But how? The news said the police are looking for us. We can’t take a plane or a ferry. Maybe we can drive?’
Gardner shook his head. ‘Land’s a cunning fucker. He’ll have thought of that. The minute we give our details to the rental company, he’ll know about it.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
‘Snakehead,’ said Gardner.
‘Sorry?’
‘Smuggling people to England’s big business here. The Chinese and the Africans are all at it. We find a snakehead, pay them and hitch a ride back home.’
‘And where do you find… snakeheads?’
‘They’ll have friends and family working on the inside of the port, giving them the heads up.’
‘So we just turn up and say, Hi, can you get us to London?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘And what if they report us to the police?’
‘These are human traffickers. They don’t speak to the cops.’
They took a roundabout route to the port, sticking to backstreets. The port was a bewildering network of pie
rs, red and yellow and green shipping containers stacked like giant metal bricks. Ships of all shapes and sizes chugged in and out of each pier. Cargo ships, tankers, fishing trawlers, barges and lighter vessels jostled for space. It took Gardner forty-five minutes to find the right person.
A group of five Chinese workers were huddling from the wind in a semicircle, smoking roll-ups and wearing sombre faces. Gardner approached the guy he took to be the ringleader. He was taller than the others and a little older and podgier. He was hostile at first. Gardner explained his predicament. The guy listened impassively, brushing greasy black hair away from his face. When Gardner was done, the guy turned away and conferred with the others.
‘My brother say he see you on TV,’ the guy said, making a throat-slitting gesture. It was difficult to understand whether he disapproved.
‘Then you know I’m not bullshitting,’ Gardner replied.
‘Pay first, then ride later.’
‘I lost my credit card. I’ll sort you out when we get there,’ Gardner said.
The guy snorted. ‘Very funny. You funny man. You fucking pay now, or you no go.’
That’s us screwed, Gardner thought.
Then Aimée stepped forward. She was holding a plastic baggie filled with pills. In fact the baggie was stuffed. Gardner reckoned there must have been 1000 pills in the bag, street value £6000. The Chinese guy eyed the bag hungrily.
‘This enough?’
He nodded and snatched the bag in the same instant. Gardner looked on, stunned.
‘Come back here nine o’clock,’ the guy said. The others leaned in for a closer look at the bag’s contents. He waved their prying faces away.
‘You don’t understand,’ Gardner said. ‘We need somewhere to hide out. Otherwise we’ll never survive that long.’
The guy finished his roll-up and blew smoke into the air. ‘Come with me.’
They followed him into a warehouse. It was big and cold and mostly empty, though a few containers were scattered about the place. The smell of industrial chemicals soured the air. The guy led Gardner and Aimée to an empty container; the doors were shut, a crowbar shoved through the handles. He removed the crowbar and pulled the doors open, the scrape of metal against concrete echoing through the cavernous warehouse. Dull light penetrated the container and Gardner counted nine pairs of desperate eyes attached to nine grubby, pale faces.