Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

‘A couple of years back. Are you the Asian?’

  He pushes the Turk out of the way and circles me.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need the money.’ I bite my bottom lip. My heart is hammering.

  ‘Money from drugs?’ He sounds surprised.

  ‘I can get you more money, much more money, but I need help.’

  ‘Why would I help you?’

  ‘For $3.3 million.’

  His almond eyes smile at me.

  I babble, ‘It’s about the dagger. I saw the tattoo. I know who owns the original.’

  The Chinese man glances at the other two men. Then he regards me silently. He is circling me like I’m prey – a small mouse to his preying barn owl.

  ‘I have the original,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  I straighten my back and look him in the eye. ‘I’m an expert. It’s what I do.’

  ‘Maybe you want to steal my dagger.’ He leans closer to me, but I don’t flinch. ‘Do you?’

  The Turk steps toward me and the other man tenses, ready to spring. The atmosphere in the room is suffocating. It’s hard to breathe.

  I’m shaking when I say, ‘The original is in Switzerland. And I can prove it.’

  * * *

  ‘Get out!’ the Asian shouts suddenly at the two men. ‘GET OUT!’

  The Turk looks hurt and then confused, and he moves more slowly than the first man, not taking his eyes from me. He’s my enemy, and I know he will want revenge.

  After they are gone, the Asian opens the drawer of his desk and pulls out a revolver. ‘This is a 1935 Browning Hi-Power pistol. It’s an antique. You might like it.’

  He aims it at me.

  My body goes rigid. My mouth is dry. I lick my lips. ‘I’d prefer to see the dagger.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, but it isn’t an option. You were very stupid to come here.’

  He steps closer to me, and I remember Adam’s words:

  He shoots you in the face.

  ‘Look, I came here of my own free will, to work with you – I can get you the original dagger,’ I bluff.

  He smiles slowly. ‘I told you, I have the original.’

  ‘You don’t. I’m an art historian, a cultural expert,’ I lie. ‘Or why would I have come here?’

  ‘Why indeed? Maybe you’re foolish, or perhaps there’s something else that you’re after.’

  ‘Like what?’

  He grins. ‘We both know you’re not getting out of here alive. Badger should never have brought you, but he won’t make that mistake again.’

  ‘Don’t hurt him. It was my idea. I forced him.’

  ‘No one forces Badger. He’s made a stupid mistake. You see, he thinks I don’t know what goes on, but I have eyes everywhere. For example, I know you’ve made friends with that gang of kids who are filming. I know you want to make a documentary, and I also know you’ve been hanging out at Dixon House.’

  ‘Did Matt tell you that?’

  ‘Matt?’ He laughs. ‘Matt thinks he’s in charge, but I know everything. You see, Mikky dos Santos – I even know that you went to Morocco.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘You should be.’ He taps the pistol against my cheek. ‘It’s my job to know everything.’

  ‘Who are you protecting?’

  ‘Protecting?’

  ‘Yes, you’re not the boss of all this.’ I cast my arms wide. ‘This wasn’t your idea. You’ve been hired.’ I glare at him.

  ‘Like an assassin?’ He places the cold barrel of the gun against my cheek and moves it slowly down my neck. The steel is cold against my skin, and I shiver involuntarily.

  ‘You’re too intelligent. Let me see the dagger, and I’ll tell you if someone has tricked you.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you anything.’

  ‘Look, I’ll join this cult, I’ll get the tattoo, and I’ll swear allegiance to it, if I have to; I just want to get some money.’

  ‘By stealing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you were making a documentary.’

  ‘I am, but that was my way of getting information about the dagger.’

  ‘Ah, so what do you want from me?’

  ‘I came here from Spain. I’ve got nothing. I lied about making a documentary. I’m a thief.’

  ‘How can I believe you?’

  ‘I’ll show you. I can prove it. Can I get my phone out of my pocket?’

  He steps away and aims the gun at my chest. ‘Move very slowly.’

  I pull out my iPhone and google the theft of Vermeer’s The Concert – from over five years ago. I turn the screen for him to read the article and see my photograph. ‘I’ve changed a little, my hair is now blonde, but you can tell it’s me.’

  I watch him scan read, taking in the details while he occasionally glances at me. I have no intention of moving. He’d shoot me.

  ‘There’s more,’ I say, flicking through the Internet.

  I show him other articles; my involvement with a Book of Hours – an illuminated manuscript – and finally a valuable Torah that I returned to the Jewish Museum in Rhodes.

  ‘I stole these and gave them back, but I’m sick of it. I rescue these valuable pieces of artwork and get nothing for it in return. I’m poor. I have nothing. So, I figure, there’s nothing to stop me from doing it the other way around. I can steal the dagger for you, and we can split the money we make, or you can pay me money to steal it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘50-50 – halfway split.’

  ‘But why do you need me?’

  ‘Because after I’ve stolen it, selling it is the biggest problem. Not everyone pays the full market value if you sell it on the black market. Plus, I’ll bring you back a trophy – the original dagger is far more precious and valuable than you could imagine.’

  He turns his back on me and walks away to the far side of the desk. He lays the gun on the desk facing me, regards me thoughtfully, then he laughs. ‘You must be crazy.’

  ‘No, I’m serious.’ My breathing is more relaxed. I part my legs, ready to run, break the door down, cause mayhem, but to my surprise, he reaches under the desk, opens a deep drawer, and pulls out a grey canvas duffle bag. He lays it on the table, pulls the string at the top apart, and pulls out the dagger. He places it on the table between us and nods at me.

  ‘Take it!’

  I lean forward; I’m about to pick it up and he grabs my wrist.

  ‘Ouch!’

  He quickly lifts the dagger and traces the blade down the inside of my thumb. It’s as if my skin is made of soft silk. He draws a thin line of blood, and it drips onto the table.

  I glare at him.

  He releases my wrist and picks up the gun.

  Wiping my hand on my parka, I hold the dagger, twisting and turning it in my hand, looking for the inscription that I know is on the original. The nasta’liq script on the blade of the official titles, dates, and place of birth of Shah Jahan. This is their talisman; the weapon used for ceremonial and symbolic acceptance into this drugs gang.

  When I lift it closer to the light, I’m also looking for the honorific parasol, an ancient pan-Asian symbol of royalty and divinity that Jeffrey Bonnington described when we were in Basel.

  I point to the blade. ‘See this – these dates are wrong.’

  He leans toward me and knocks the dagger from my hand with the gun barrel. It falls to the floor, and he moves quickly to pick it up, but I bring my hands down as a fist and smack him in the middle of his back.

  He’s off-balance and he rolls to one side, dropping the gun. I aim to kick his face but he moves, and my boot connects with his shoulder, knocking him backwards.

  I tip the steel table on its side and, using it as a shield, I push it at him, wedging him against the wall. He’s barricaded behind the desk, so I pick up the dagger and whack him on the head with the end of the blade.

&
nbsp; He slumps against the floor.

  I shove the dagger into the duffle bag and sling it over my shoulder, walking quickly out of the room.

  In the larger room, the Turk watches me cautiously as I move quickly past the child workers, and I’m almost at the main steel door when a shot is fired.

  Someone shouts. Instinctively, I duck.

  I kick out at the hooded teenager on the door, and he doubles over, but as I push him away, someone grabs my hood. I quickly unzip my parka and turn in one motion, wriggling my arms free, and then I’m running. I’m hugging the duffle bag with the dagger inside to my chest, aware of heavy footsteps behind me.

  I hear gunshots, but I run.

  I’m waiting for Peter to show up, and the maze of streets confuse me. I pause to catch my breath and get my bearings. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of the familiar building. I run.

  I’m a fast runner, and I keep my head down, using the duffle bag as a baton, up and down, as if I’m in a relay, until I feel my pursuers falling behind.

  I pause, but I hear a squeal of tyres, then running feet. I run faster and harder, climbing over parked cars, dodging people on the pavement, weaving in and out of the slow traffic and running in front of a bus.

  I slow again to catch my breath, my heart pumping, and then a shot rings out. It pings the steel handrail of the staircase to the unfinished building block – the empty fourteen-storey building where Sandra and the Parks have been filming.

  A white van appears. I expect to see Peter but the Asian steps out and, holding the pistol, he fires again.

  I run up the stairs and into the empty, half-lit building.

  The plastic is flapping, the scaffolding creaks, and I run, knowing the Asian is fast behind me.

  ‘Mikky,’ he calls out. ‘There’s no escape – I’m going to kill you!’

  * * *

  I’m running for my life. The staircase is steep and dark. I smack the button for the light, leaping in the air, narrowly missing a curled-up body in the doorway. It groans and moves.

  The stench is oppressive.

  My breath is in raspy gasps. My knees are growing weak.

  Another floor, higher and higher, up the tower block.

  A gunshot echoes over my head and instinctively I duck. I’ve lost count of the number of floors – maybe twenty, more?

  Breathlessly, I turn another corner, and up more stairs, conscious of my assailant’s steps behind me, looming closer.

  There’s a glint of light at the end of the passageway, and I’m halfway along the corridor when another shot rings out, pinging off the metalwork.

  I throw myself at the emergency exit, pushing the bar, careful not to drop the prize wedged under my arm.

  The door flies open. I blink. Suddenly, I’m in natural light, but it’s dusk. The December sun is fading, and the bitter wind bites at my ears and nose.

  Gasping lungfuls of air, panting heavily, I glance across the rooftops, getting my bearings: London. More specifically, Islington, and in the distance, Regent’s Canal.

  Another gunshot ricochets off the steel railing. I duck and run for cover behind a giant pipe, probably heating ducts. The man following me slows his pace and approaches cautiously. He knows I’m trapped.

  I peer over the edge. We’re twenty-five storeys high.

  I have vertigo.

  My head swims.

  My mouth is dry.

  I raise my right leg and swing it over the wall, dangling it into the empty void and hugging the bag to my chest.

  ‘There’s no way out.’

  His Asian accent is strong, and his voice is loud across the open space between us, drifting in the breeze. ‘Give it to me!’

  I’m not armed. I wish I was. I swallow hard, staring down at the drop below; my head swims, and my hands begin to shake. I’ll never survive.

  My pursuer, small and wiry, takes a step closer; his dark almond eyes are devoid of emotion.

  ‘Put the bag on the ground, or I will kill you.’ He points the Smith & Wesson, a powerful handgun, designed to stop any game animal, at my chest.

  I hesitate.

  He takes a step closer.

  ‘It’s not worth it.’ He grins. ‘I will kill you.’

  I’m astride the low wall, probably over seventy metres above the ground. My assailant is six metres away, not close enough for me to charge at him or to throw the bag at him. There’s no way out. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  He’s a professional.

  I swing my leg back over the wall, face him, and lower the bag to the ground, conscious of the vast open space behind me.

  ‘Open it!’ he demands, waving the gun at me.

  I bend down and unzip the bag, and show him the dagger that still has traces of my blood on its blade.

  He smiles.

  I shout, ‘We can come to some sort of agreement! Make a deal. Work together. I’m on your side.’

  I raise my arms wide, stretched out like I’m Jesus on the cross, wearing only my hoodie. My coat was torn from me, and I lost my phone. I know Peter won’t be able to follow me.

  I call out, ‘I can pay you—’

  ‘You’re a liar, Mikky. You tried to fool me once, but you won’t do it again. I’m the Asian. No one messes with me – and gets away with it.’

  ‘I didn’t, I—’

  I turn to my right, distracted by the noise of a helicopter, its motor humming, whining and growing closer.

  ‘You hear me? I’m the Asian,’ he shouts. ‘They’re not going to save you, Mikky. No one can!’

  That’s when he fires his gun, and the shot hits my chest. Air explodes from my lungs. The powerful force of the bullet lifts me backwards and up into the air. I fall back over the concrete ledge, and I’m suddenly spiralling head first, from the twenty-fifth floor, toward my fate and certain death below.

  * * *

  I’m falling.

  The building is a blur as I fall, spiralling, turning, screaming.

  It ends quickly with a massive thud.

  Whoosh!

  Smack!

  Then there’s only blackness.

  * * *

  ‘Mikky?’

  ‘Mikky?’

  ‘Be gentle with her.’

  ‘Slowly.’

  ‘Is she hurt?’

  ‘Is she alive?’

  I open my eyes.

  Peter is bent over me.

  ‘Mikky? Can you speak? Say something.’

  I groan.

  ‘Is she dead?’ Adam asks.

  They have climbed onto the stunt jump airbag – a large mattress also used for fire rescue.

  ‘She’s alive.’ Peter kneels at my side.

  ‘That was awesome,’ Adam says with a grin. ‘I wish I’d filmed it.’

  ‘Be quiet, Adam.’ Peter pushes him away. ‘Can you sit up, Mikky?’

  I lean against Peter’s chest, and a man I don’t know passes me a bottle of water. I take it gratefully and sip it slowly, looking around, getting my bearings, still reeling from the shock.

  ‘Twenty-five floors.’ Adam laughs. ‘Wicked! They wouldn’t let me do it. They said trained stuntmen only.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Adam.’ Peter is clearly annoyed. ‘That wasn’t the plan, Mikky. You were supposed to find somewhere safe until I found you.’

  ‘This is awesome.’ Adam grins. ‘So cool, the airbag has two chambers: the bottom chamber maintains stability for a realistic landing, and the top one is soft. It means the jumper will never hit the ground, since the bottom chamber is there to absorb the drop.’

  I ignore Adam. ‘They were chasing me,’ I say, my voice weak; I cough, still winded by my experience. ‘The Asian was chasing me.’

  Peter unzips my hoodie. ‘He shot you in the chest.’

  Adam says, ‘We were in the helicopter. It was awesome. We saw the Asian raise his gun and fire. You fell backwards, freefalling, and wow—’

  ‘That’s enough, Adam! Mikky, let me look.’

  ‘Is she alr
ight,’ says a stranger, who is peering over Peter’s shoulder.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I ask, allowing Peter to examine the hole in my hoodie and pull at my clothes.

  ‘This is Bill,’ Peter replies, examining the hole in my protective vest, ‘the helicopter pilot.’

  ‘You were fortunate, Mikky, but we need to get you to a hospital.’

  * * *

  While I’m in A&E at Guy’s Hospital, a police officer waits outside my room, and within twenty minutes, Chief Inspector Mulhoon arrives, looking tired and weary in a crumpled suit.

  ‘The doctor tells me you were lucky. The vest protected you. It stopped the bullet, but you are bruised from your fall.’

  ‘You look worse than me,’ I say to him.

  ‘Impossible!’ he replies, sitting on the chair beside me. ‘It’s a busy time of year, with the elections, and now this silly stunt of yours is all over the news. We’ve got to sort out damage limitation with the press.’ He sighs, and then continues, ‘I told Joachin that I didn’t want anything like this to happen. I didn’t want you involved. I couldn’t afford for you to—’

  ‘Oh stop it!’ I say angrily. ‘Just tell us what’s happened. Did you catch the Asian?’

  Mulhoon shakes his head.

  ‘No, but we have managed to break up that drugs ring. After Peter contacted us, we stormed the warehouse; we’ve made over ten arrests, and we’ve got social services involved to look after the children.’

  ‘Did you find the camera I was wearing?’ I ask. ‘It was attached to the parka.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it of some help to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can say thank you,’ I add grumpily. ‘At last, you have a picture of the Asian, and the dagger, and the Turk. Did you get him?’

  ‘No.’ The chief inspector looks pensive. ‘He’s disappeared, too.’

  ‘What took you so long?’ I complain.

  ‘You didn’t tell us you were pulling this dangerous stunt. My officers are deployed all over London. I can’t just summon officers from the NCA; these police operations take time to set up—’

  ‘The NCA?’ I ask.

  ‘The National Crime Agency. There wasn’t time. We have to plan this type of operation.’

  ‘You mean the election is more important?’

  ‘No. No, it isn’t, Mikky, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  Mulhoon says grudgingly, ‘Look, we are grateful for your help, but the press has information. They know someone fell off the top of the building and survived, and that it wasn’t for a film.’