Counterpoint

by John Day

  Max picked up the steel crowbar and carefully climbed a short way down the steel steps. He could hear the cracking sound of the wood fibres in the prop as it started to break under the massive weight of the concrete slab.

  With a swipe of the crowbar, the prop snapped and shot away down the warehouse as the massive slab shut over the hole.

  Max had jumped clear at the same time, so he avoided being struck by the falling slab.

  The air trapped under the falling slab acted as a slight cushion, allowing the slab to seat reasonably gently over the hole. The momentary rise in pressure made their ears pop.

  The sudden explosion of the gas, seconds later could be felt even through the 400 mm thick concrete slab, Max was so relieved to be safe in the chamber, neither fried or sliced.

  Take a deep breath,” Max said, “I’m going to pull you along the tunnel and out into the harbour.”

  She closed her eyes and went tense as the water pressed the thin bag tight against her body. At some stage near the end of the tunnel something snagged the plastic and all her air bubbled out. Then water seeped in. Because she was being pulled along on her back, the water ran up her nose, and she began to fight for breath. The plastic sealed tight to her face, intensely more suffocating than just water. He felt her struggle to control herself when the buoyancy of the bag vanished. Kicking his legs even harder he swam on, to the circle of light ahead. Carla tried everything she could think of to help him pull her along and resist the fight for air.

  Just as her senses were failing, she knew they were going up. She could feel the daylight, not see it, through the black plastic. Max ripped the plastic away from her face as they surfaced holding her head well clear of the water until her coughing and spluttering abated. As her priority to breathe was satisfied she explored the sensations of her body for symptoms of approaching death from the white mist. To her great relief there were none.

  They had surfaced between the ship’s hull and the stone wharf, out of sight. Until the Hazardous Material Team arrived, no one was coming close.

  Max eased her cocooned body to nearby stone steps leading from the water to the top of the wharf, and then they proceeded to strip the plastic and tape off themselves.

  “Stay here for a moment while I take a look around up top” he said.

  The warehouse was an inferno by the time he peeped over the wharf.

  “I think closing the concrete slab will slow down the FBI if they don’t know straight away how we got out.”

  ”Good thinking, ” she said, “and see if you can find my shoes, they floated off when you dragged me down the tunnel.”

  Max looked at her dumbfounded, fancy thinking of shoes at the time like this. Then he reflected, if they were to get away from here, she would need them. If they remained in the tunnel, it would show how they had escaped. Without another word he slipped beneath the water and swam back up the tunnel. In the dim light from the tunnel into the chamber, Max found her shoes bobbing about at the bottom of the hole under the floor slab. He put them in his waistband and swam back.

  “We had better get away from here,” she said, “while we have the chance. It will be hours before they find our bodies are missing inside. “

  They swam off together to a nearby wharf using the usual harbour driftwood and flotsam as cover.

  A small luxury launch pulled into the jetty near them and moored. Keeping out of sight in the water, they waited until the only occupant a man in his mid-Thirties completed locking up and lashing down the canvas cover to the deck.

  A good sign, they thought, he was, obviously, not likely to be back for a day or so. When he left the jetty the two cold and wet souls slid aboard under the canvas, and rested for several minutes, trying to decide what to do next.

  Although Max knew little about boats, he was certain that this class of craft would have a burglar alarm system linked to a tracker. A forced entry would set it off. The tracker could be anywhere on the boat, a bit like a mobile phone actually. He reasoned that to achieve the best range on the open sea, the device would be up the short mast. His guess turned out to be right, and he casually climbed up and wrenched it off. It was the transmitting part that concerned him not the power feed wire.

  A single kick broke open the cabin door. Max went inside to look around for anything useful.

  Using tinned food, they prepared a cold meal and drank the juice of the tinned fruit. Fresh water had been drained away.

  They took their clothes off, put them to dry and got cleaned up, then went to bed to rest until nightfall.

  Max thought it would be a good time to get both of them some clothes from their car and perhaps some more food.

  When Max returned an hour later, they chatted about all that had happened.

  “You know Teal is going to be well pissed with you Max,” Carla said sniggering, “he may think it was you who switched the account numbers in the Cayman Islands,” he retorted, “we made about $100 million there I reckon.” Giggling, they curled up together falling into a deep refreshing sleep. The next morning, very early, they awoke and made plans to fly to Italy to see Amy and then England, to see James.

  Chapter - Amy meets James.

  The stillness all around them, at 4am in the morning, when Max, Carla and Amy arrived at James’s house, made Max forlorn. Jet lag and the realisation they could be here under different and heart-breaking circumstances made him sad.

  They knocked; James was expecting them and within a few moments, opened the door. The house was warm and the delicious smell of recent cooking hung faintly in the air.

  Both Max and Carla had tears in their eyes when James released them from his welcome hug.

  “This is Amy, Carla’s twin sister,” said Max as he gently moved Amy towards him. Amy blushed when she saw James; she was instantly taken, by his warm and easy manner.

  “So you have recovered from the experience with the gunman?”

  “Oh! That business” said James, “yes! That was a bit scary. The man was shot by the armed response team just in the nick of time. The man wanted Project Oracle, so I assumed it was all about industrial espionage or something like that.”

  They all chatted for a while, and James and Amy clearly wanted to get to know one another much better.

  Carla could see how things were progressing and was glad Amy had a new focus since her distressing experience in Egypt because of the death of Geoff Collins.

  “James, Amy, would you both mind if Max and I popped up to London tomorrow for a few days, I have some personal business to attend to.”

  James and Amy looked at each other and beamed, they thought it was a good idea, so they all made their plans.

  Chapter - I spy.

  “Are you ready Carla?” said Max impatiently.

  “Yes! Yes! Just checking I have everything” she snapped back and swept past him, on the way to their hotel room door.

  “Well, come on then!” She added standing in the open doorway. Max grinned at her mock anger, he loved it when she got feisty. They often bickered when life had become routine, just to inject excitement back in and lift their spirits. It was always light-hearted and with humour.

  Carla had a meeting with a solicitor that morning to discuss the claim of title to her late father's property and assets. It was at the preliminary stage where the details were being considered, and a strategy was being planned, before contacting Philippe’s own solicitor. It was clear already that without a body, death was hard to establish.

  When in London, they preferred the top-floor suite of the Ritz. The sumptuous surroundings were extremely expensive, but as they could easily afford it, what the hell!

  The hotel lift had arrived, and the doors slid open. Still absorbed in cheerful banter, they entered it. It was quite empty. Max jabbed the G Button.

  “Always going for the G Spot aren't you,” she chuckled in the quiet privacy of the descending the lift. Max grabbed at her playfully, and she dodged him. The descent stopped, after composing thems
elves, the doors slid open, and a good-looking man of about 35 stepped in. His manner was quiet and confident as he moved easily towards the Control Panel. Although he had a warm and relaxed expression on his face, and his movements were smooth and athletic, Carla casually observed his rapid eye movement as he scanned the interior of the lift and assessed its occupants. Without appearing to look at the control panel the man selected the first floor. His eyes watched them in the mirrors, lining the lift, as the doors closed. Apart from being tense, the man kept his right hand in the pocket of his beige raincoat. The left pocket was pulled out of shape by something heavy in it. Apart from the somewhat shabby and badly fitting raincoat, the man was impeccable and expensively dressed. Why wear a raincoat anyway, he was indoors, and although a cool day outside, there was no prospect of rain? Very odd!

  Carla did not like the early warning tingle of her hair, as it lifted slightly on her scalp. Her subconscious analysis of facts and signals was nearly always right. She set her conscious mind working overtime. The man's eyes were focused on them, in the mirror as he did his best to keep his back to them. The odd raincoat, weighty object in the left pocket and possible paralysed right-arm made her ponder, she found herself moving away from Max, into the adjacent corner of the lift. The man's eyes tracked her movement and frequently rechecked Max.

  The man, Bob Barclay, cursed his run of bad luck. Having gained entry to the Mr Markham's room, as hotel manager, he shot both Markham and the bodyguard, before his greeting smile left his face. He was in the room and closed the door as the second body hit the floor. The papers he had come for were in Markham's briefcase and a quick visual scan verified they were complete. So confident both men were dead, he momentarily suppressed the urge to look round at the bodies, until it was almost too late. The bodyguard had managed to find his gun, aim at the hazy image framed in a black mist, and fire a single round. Bob Barclay was hit in the right forearm; the bullet nicked the muscle, causing him to drop his gun. Grabbing it up again in his left hand, he fired from a very low angle, through the bodyguards opened mouth.

  Blood, soaked Barclay's sleeve rapidly, he had no time to bandage the wound or clean up, someone must have heard the bodyguards un-silenced shot. As he picked up the papers again and slipped them into his side pocket, he made for the wardrobe. The old beige raincoat offered the best solution to hide the blood-soaked sleeve. The waterproof material would hold back the blood, and it could drain down into the pocket unnoticed.

  To cover his tracks, at least temporarily he switched on the timer to the small, but powerful bomb he had brought with him. This would cover his escape by causing panic and confusion among the hotel guests. Barclay loved the drama and chaos he caused, it was his trademark. Hiding the pain of the wound in his arm, from the two in the lift, and looking normal, was not enough, they had seen him undisguised so they could perhaps identify him later. He figured killing them in the ground-floor lobby would be too public, the first floor was the least likely to have anyone waiting for the lift so he could do them there, step out and go by the stairs to the lobby before the lift was called. He could slip away before the doors opened, and the bodies discovered. The bomb in Markham’s room would go off soon after, so no one would notice him. As the lift descended, he watched the man and the girl. Allowing for paranoia, he felt sure the girl was moving to a better position to jump him. Had they stayed together, they would have made easier targets, but now they were nearly 90 degrees apart.

  His hand clasped the gun at the bottom of his left-hand pocket. The lift stopped at the first floor and to Barclay's dismay, three other people got in. Too much to deal with now, he thought. As the doors drew together, he slipped through the impossibly narrow opening like a Wraith, and was gone. The lift now opened its doors to the lobby, and everyone got out and went on their way.

  As Max and Carla approached the entrance of the hotel to leave, armed police swept in from all around and demanded everyone stayed where they were. Carla was none too happy, her anonymity was vital to her and her passport was a forgery. Fingerprints would give her away and might lead back to events in her past.

  It became apparent that the police had received a tip-off of some armed crime and had the place surrounded. There was no way out. If only she could get back to their suite.

  Everyone was being herded together when the bomb went off. The loud explosion shook the building right down to the basement. Panic broke out amongst the guests, most were elderly and exceedingly wealthy. The armed police were not prepared for this, every man and woman on the team had been well briefed on the repercussions of scaring or shooting these highly influential but fragile people. Now the guests were screaming and milling around like Wildebeest scenting lions.

  Carla ran up to a senior officer gasping and wheezing with the symptoms of a chronic asthma attack. I must get my medication she gasped, she made off to the lift, and the senior officer demanded that she stop, but she staggered onwards.

  “Go with her,” the officer commanded to a nearby constable. The young constable did his best to calm and assist Carla, who was amazingly convincing in her act. He practically carried the girl to her door and into the bedroom. Dizzy with hyperventilation Carla clawed and staggered to her case, opened it and pulled out a typical feminine looking soft bag. She pointed to the bathroom, lurched into it, and slammed the door shut behind her. Reassuring the police officer, she was OK now and recovering, she carefully unrolled a Clingfilm strip and smoothed it out. Carefully, she lifted from it, stick on fingerprints. They matched those of the girl on the passport. She de-greased her fingers with Cologne and applied the adhesive prints carefully, so they fitted perfectly. Unless closely examined, they were practically invisible. She left the bathroom almost free of her breathing difficulty, and fit to return downstairs. She asked if she would need a passport and he said it would save time if she took it with her now. I must not get stressed, she exclaimed, it could bring on a miscarriage. The young man looked shocked and concerned. You don't look pregnant, he muttered. Well, I am she replied rather snappily, in the early stages I know, but I could still lose the baby.

  They return to the lobby in silence. The constable reported to the officer on her condition and added she has a whole suite, not just a room. The Officer got the point and mentally noted she was a rich bitch and must be handled with care if he was going to keep his career. So far, the operation was a total disaster; they had arrived on the scene too late. A serious explosion had occurred, there were 15 casualties so far, and at least two guests missing. The man or persons responsible had not been caught yet, either.

  Several medical personnel were carrying the injured on stretchers down the main staircase, into the lobby. The first body was a steward with a blood soaked right arm. Both Max and Carla recognised him instantly as the man in the lift. Carla let out a shriek and doubled over in agony. The officer and constable both jumped to the same conclusion.

  “The bloody girl is miscarrying!”

  They rushed over to her and beckoned to an incoming empty stretcher. Within seconds, they whisked her away in the same ambulance as the injured man. Max was not allowed to leave with her, they needed to check him out, and he could answer any questions about her, as well.

  Bob Barclay was not at all pleased to see the girl. He was convinced she had some part in the unexpected police raid and was on to him. But why hadn't they arrested him? Perhaps she was after the papers, as well?

  Earlier, when Barclay saw the police, he hurriedly made his way back to Markham's room, or what was left of it, he wiped his gun and disposed of it in the wreckage. The raincoat and his jacket were thrown onto the flames, to be destroyed. He pushed a thin, and charred piece of splintered wood, through the holes in his blood-soaked shirt sleeve, for realism, and he staggered back down the stairs towards the ascending police. As they reached him, he pulled out the wood from the wound, to a scream of pain, and held up the piece like a dagger, still dripping blood. Then he collapsed in their arms.

  Barcla
y was aware of the armed police officer in the ambulance, with him and the girl. He was too weak to overcome to guard, and he couldn't question the girl. Therefore, he resolved to get his wound dressed and then escape. Carla planned to have another sudden recovery, and slip away to follow the man.

  Max was submitted to a thorough grilling, and had his fingerprints taken. Checks soon showed he was unlikely to be the suspect, and he was discharged, two hours later. Carla was interviewed at the same time, in the hospital, and also had her prints taken. Again, there was no problem, and she was free to go.

  The man's treatment was nearly complete by this time, so it was only a matter of minutes before the police came into the cubicle to interview him, so he had to get away very soon. The police guard was no fool and gave Barclay no chance to get away, so some creative thinking was necessary.

  Barclay reached up to his right with his left hand for a plastic cup of water on top of the trolley and knocked it to the floor. Cursing and rolling to his right as though trying to pick it up, he cried out in pain. The guard got up and moved around the bed, bent down to pick it up, when Barclay grabbed the stitch scissors and stabbed the guard through the back of his neck. The guards slipped slowly and soundlessly to the floor.

  Peeking out from the cubicle curtains, Barclay could see everyone was extremely busy, so he walked casually after a man heading for the toilet. They both entered together, but only Barclay came out. Wearing the man's shirt and leather jacket, Barclay left the hospital. Carla had just reached A & E when Barclay came out of the toilet. One glimpse was all she needed to spot him and away she went, following him like a pro.

  So she did not lose him, she needed Max's help. If Barclay used a bus, she could not get on the same one or he would certainly see her. If he used a taxi, though unlikely if he was the pro she thought he was, she might not get one to follow on. Max answered the call, got a taxi, and met her. The taxi-driver was immensely intrigued when Max told him to stop for a minute then move on a bit, stop again and so on. Max told him to do as he was told; he was with the Revenue and was following a person suspected of tax fraud.