‘He’s here,’ he heard from the other walkie-talkie, the words much louder in the corridor. How would the gunman inside interpret that? The answer came as the door opened an inch, the gun barrel appeared, and Abbott acted at once, shoving the door open at the same time as he put the barrel of his weapon to the wood and pulled the trigger multiple times. There was a scream as the guy inside was hit and as Abbott shoved his way into the room, he saw him clutching at his wounded arm at the same time as he tried to level his gun. Abbott had been lucky, and he knew it. He wasn’t about to push it any further. He put two rounds in the guy and put him down. One for house-keeping to deal with, thought Abbott crazily, as he snatched up his laptop and retrieved his Glock from its bottom-of-the-wardrobe hiding place. Now he had two weapons.
‘Number three, number three,’ the walkie-talkie was saying. And Abbott couldn’t help himself. He took up the walkie-talkie and said into it, ‘Number three is dead.’
‘You fucker, Abbott,’ came the reply. ‘We’re coming for you.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ he said.
‘Go radio silence,’ came the command. Next, the line went dead. Going to the door of his hotel room, Abbott cycled through different frequencies. Nothing. But they would be coming. He tossed the walkie-talkie away and returned his attention to the phone.
‘Tess?’ he said. ‘Tess?’
***
She wheeled around. At the bottom of the street, the two men had also broken into a run. Probably couldn’t believe their luck that she had chosen such an idiotic path to take. Oh God, she was thinking. You idiot. You absolute idiot.
And then she reeled back again, and what she saw was that the guy running towards her from the Hatton Garden end was almost there, about to reach her. His eyes were wide, his teeth were bared. And he thought he had her. He thought he had his quarry.
But he didn’t. Because if Tess knew one thing, it was that if they managed to get her off the street then she belonged to them. And whatever the cost, she could not let that happen. She could not let them take her.
And so it was with a scream that she used the momentum of her turning body, bringing up her right hand at the same time – right hand complete with makeshift knuckle dusters that slashed across the face of her attacker just as he reached her.
It was a flailing, ill-timed shot, but luck was on her side, the key catching him below the eye and sending him yelling in pain, hands going to his face as he spun off, self-preservation keeping him away from a second blow.
For a second, she considered taking off, trusting in the fact that she could probably outrun him.
Except: heels.
So use them.
As the guy reeled, she stepped forward and dragged her foot down his shin, stamping down hard with her heel on his foot, so hard that she broke the shoe, but gratified to hear him shout out in pain in response. And now she took off, ripping her shoes off as she went and leaving them behind. She had always hated to see people in bare feet in the city. Couldn’t stand it. Just the thought of it turned her stomach. But all of a sudden it didn’t matter, she didn’t care. She just needed to reach the sanctuary of Hatton Garden. And she did, coming up to the junction with Hatton Garden and throwing a look behind her she saw her attacker pulling himself upright, his two accomplices reaching him at the same time, and she knew that she had pulled victory from the jaws of defeat, because now she was on Hatton Garden – busy, familiar, comforting Hatton Garden – and all she needed to do was find a policeman.
‘Tess,’ she heard from the phone she still held. ‘Tess?’
‘Alex, you’re there?’
‘Are you all right?’
She was better than all right. She was adrenalised, over-joyed, a feeling coursing through her like nothing she’d ever felt before, a feeling that despite everything she had to admit to quite liking, as though for the first time she understood the attraction for men like Abbott. Why they did what they did.
‘Yes, I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Lots of people around now. I’m in Hatton Garden. I’m going to try the police again. I’ll get back to you.’
***
At the other end, Abbott felt some small measure of relief all the while knowing that they weren’t out of the woods yet. Neither of them. Least of all him. He peeked out into the corridor and could see a figure through the frosted glass of the nearest fire door. He squeezed off a shot, the suppressor reducing the gunshot to a mere plop, making the hole that appeared in the glass into something approaching a magic trick. The guy on the other side fell.
Anticipating back-up from behind, Abbott ran towards the door, shoved it open and found the guy rolling in pain on the other side, Abbott’s round having wounded his shoulder. Abbott kicked his gun away and kept going, through the next fire door and to the steps, and next to the steps the lift. They would be expecting him to take the steps. Looking down the stairwell, he saw shadows, decided against, and sprinted past the door, past the lifts and to an emergency fire door at the other end.
This one, he could see, opened out to a set of steps that came down the outside of the building. He knew about it, of course. But then again, he’d been staying in the hotel; he had made it his business to know where all the exits were. His attackers? Not so much. They would have conducted a quick CTR of the place before launching their attack, if that.
Or, at least, that’s what he had to hope. He had to hope that this particular exit wasn’t covered. Hope number two: that the door wasn’t alarmed.
Both hands on the bar, steeling himself against what might happen next, he pushed.
There was no alarm. The next thing, he was on the steps outside, clattering down to ground level and trying to work out his next move. His handset was ringing. He raised it to his ear as he descended.
‘Tess?’
‘Alex. It’s OK. I’ve got a squad car on its way. They’ll be here any second.’
‘Remember,’ he told her, ‘only . . .’
‘Uniforms,’ she finished for him. ‘Got it.’
‘OK, I’m going to ring off and speak to Cuckoo.’
‘Cuckoo?’
‘Never mind. Just go with the copper. Everything’s going to be sorted out. You’re going to be OK.’
‘Thank you, Alex – and Alex?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I next see you . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘When I next see you, hopefully I’ll get the chance to thank you properly.’
‘Sure,’ he said. And despite everything – despite the situation, despite his need to remain cool and perhaps even more importantly sound cool, his heart sang. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’
***
She had reached the Tube station now. She heard sirens and wondered if they were for her. Hoped they were.
She looked around. There was no sign of her pursuers. Perhaps they’d decided to give up for the moment. To regroup and try again later.
‘Later’ being the operative word, of course, because of course they’d try again. Whatever can of worms she’d opened, she had a feeling that it wasn’t easily closed.
And then she saw it, a badge. Behind it a man in plain-clothes, and she recoiled, thinking purely of the one instruction she’d been given. Only surrender to a uniform. But this guy was significantly older than the men who had been following her. From his suit onwards, he looked a little more careworn.
Even so, she backed up, head swinging this way and that and just a little panic creeping back.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I need to see a uniformed officer.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he smiled, holding up his hands and staying in place. ‘You hear that?’ he pointed. ‘That siren? That’s for us. That’s the uniforms arriving literally any second now. How about you stay there, and I’ll stay here, several paces away, and we just wait? Would that be OK?’
The police car had appeared now, was climbing up the road towards them. She relaxed a little. She looked at the plain-clothes guy. ‘Tha
nk you,’ she said, with true gratitude.
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Oakley,’ he said. His smile widened. ‘That’s quite all right.’
***
Abbott jumped the last few steps of the fire escape, reached the ground and took a look around.
Not a soul to be seen. He jogged forward fifty yards or so, so that he was able to see around the hotel building. Visible was a border hedge, after that the car park. In the car park two Range Rovers. Enemy Range Rovers.
He moved around and then heard the voice. ‘Hold it there, Abbott.’
Appearing from the door of the hotel was one of the goons. He held the receptionist. Had a gun to her head. ‘Drop your gun and put the laptop on the ground,’ he said. ‘Do it now, Abbott, or I’ll put a bullet in her.’
The receptionist was staring at him, petrified, the skin on her face taut with tense muscle. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, almost whispering the words, mouthing them.
‘Are you serious?’ said Abbott. ‘I mean, this is the woman who sold me out, yeah? I’m supposed to give a damn about her?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. Louder this time. Tears ran down her cheeks.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ sneered the guy. ‘You think you’re one of the good guys, Abbott. I know you do. Now put the gun down. Lay the laptop on the ground and step away.’
‘Mate, you have got me all wrong,’ said Abbott, and he put a round into the receptionist. Although maybe the goon was right because he put the round through her shoulder and into the guy behind, the guy shouting in pain and surprise as he peeled off and to the ground, holding onto his wounded upper arm in agony.
Abbott wondered briefly whether he had been captured on CCTV and then decided that it didn’t really matter. Things had gone beyond that; they had overtaken the usual social and legal boundaries, and he had a feeling that everything here would be wiped from existence, the receptionist either killed or paid off, same for any witnesses. He had the feeling that his enemies were people who could, if they wished, control the world.
The receptionist was alive. Injured but not fatally. She groaned and then, thankfully, lost consciousness. Now, thought Abbott, it was time to leave.
And then he felt the gun behind his ear. A voice that he recognised. ‘Looks like I’m doing you another favour, pal.’
‘McGregor.’
‘The one and the same.’
‘You really are Lady Norton’s star pupil at the moment, aren’t you?’
‘How about you drop your weapons and get in the motor?’ said McGregor.
‘How about I don’t?’
They both heard it at the same time. The sound of sirens in the distance, getting closer. Abbott grimaced. It was the last thing he needed. ‘We don’t have much time, Abbott,’ insisted McGregor. ‘Listen, pal, I can’t afford to leave you alive. Come with me, get in the car, we’ll get you away from here. We’ll get you paid. Turn the clocks back. Come to an arrangement. Or you die here in the car park. It’s up to you.’
Abbott’s fingers relaxed. His sidearm dropped to the ground. It wasn’t surrendering, he told himself. It was living to fight another day. ‘And the other one,’ insisted McGregor. ‘Lift it out carefully, finger and thumb, drop it to the ground.’
With the sirens getting louder, Abbott did as he was told. He still had his knife in his boot.
‘I’ll be having that knife, too,’ said McGregor, as if reading his thoughts, and Abbott felt the Gerber leave his boot.
From the hotel came two gunmen, men that Abbott hadn’t previously seen. One of them came to Abbott, looked at him with hate-filled eyes and dragged his arms behind him in order to zip-tie him.
‘Thanks, pal,’ McGregor told his associate. He leaned forward, speaking to Abbott. ‘Time to take a trip, Abbott.’
A moment later, he was in the back of the Range Rover with the hate-filled zip-tie guy at his side. Another had appeared from the hotel and Abbott recognised him as Morris from Doyle’s set-up. That was interesting, Morris turning out to be a second Norton mole. Morris gestured for Abbott’s laptop before clambering into the second Range Rover with the other guy. They were leaving three men behind. Soon, the clear-up would begin.
Meanwhile, McGregor took his place in the passenger seat. Beside him sat a figure that Abbott recognised. ‘Hello, Mr Kilgore,’ said Abbott.
‘Hello, Mr Abbott,’ said Kilgore, ‘look what I found.’ He held up the Jiffy bag then tore it open. From it he took the CD. ‘Well, well, well . . . Looks like we arrived just in time. This, presumably, is the compromising material that Doyle used to boast of having. We often wondered if he was bluffing, but it turns out not.’
He turned slightly to regard Abbott in the back seat. Those hooded eyes taking him in as though assessing prey. ‘And you, supposedly our employee – a man about to be in receipt of a great deal of money from Lady Norton – were about to let it go into the wild.’
‘Watch it,’ said Abbott. ‘Watch it and see what kind of woman you’re working for.’
‘What kind of woman we’re all working for,’ corrected Kilgore. ‘A woman who pays handsomely, as you well know. So tell me, Mr Abbott, who were you planning on sending this to, and why?’ asked Kilgore.
‘Look, why would I want to endanger my fee, eh? It was just a bit of insurance. You think I’d want to blow the gaff?’
Once again Kilgore turned in his seat to regard Abbott. ‘Well, this is the thing. We know very little about you. One thing we do know, for example, is that you turned up in Derby wanting to deal with some red in the ledger regarding your brother. Perhaps what I might take from that is that you are a man of principle. Perhaps the money is of no interest to you.’
Abbott shook his head. ‘Well, imagine how much good I can do with all that money. I mean, that’s a lot of principles I can work out, yes? A lot of charities I could donate to. Plenty of folk I could help out of the gutter. Is that what you mean?’
Kilgore turned back. ‘No, I don’t think it’s what I mean. Where were you planning to send it? Address in Bedfordshire, according to the courier.’
Abbott reflected on how lucky it was that the Norton men had made their play before he’d had a chance to brief the courier. Chain of events was that the receptionist, having been paid off by the Nortons and told to report back if Abbott did anything unusual, gave them a call when he ordered the courier. Sure enough, they’d turned up mob-handed but showed their hand too early.
‘My own address,’ said Abbott. ‘I was going to post it to myself as a form of insurance.’
He saw Kilgore’s eyes in the mirror. Saw that he didn’t believe him. And yet somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Abbott had the distinct feeling that things were moving forward whether he liked it or not.
McGregor’s phone rang. ‘Aye?’ he said, and then, ‘Thank you.’ He ended the call and said to Kilgore, ‘Abbott made a copy of the movie but according to Morris he hasn’t sent it anywhere. Not from that laptop anyway.’
Kilgore turned again. ‘Did you?’
‘Would I tell you if I had?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Look,’ sighed Abbott, ‘I did the job on Doyle. I found this CD. I realised it was a useful thing to have so I decided to mail it to myself for insurance. Now, let’s talk about that money for doing the Doyle job. I’ve provided McGregor with a list of—’
‘That money has already been transferred,’ retorted Kilgore impatiently. ‘Your men have been paid.’
Abbott had a moment or so of experiencing a deep sense of satisfaction, thinking of his guys getting their reward.
‘OK, well, I guess that makes us even.’
‘Apart from the fact that you still have a game to compete in.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m deadly serious. Never been more serious. This –’ he bran-dished the CD, ‘this and whatever your motives surrounding it, changes nothing. You will still compete for Lady Norton; you will still win, and you will still be paid
what you are owed. As for whatever loyalties you may have, they are for you to know and us to guess at. The simple fact of the matter is that Lady Norton needs a proxy and the more I know of you in action, the more convinced I am that you are the right man for the job.’
Abbott’s mind was racing. Was it time to revert to plan A? Compete in the game willingly and try to take them down then? But no. He was being set up. There was no way he was playing their game, literally, metaphorically, any other -ly.
‘I’m sorry, mate, you’re nuts if you think that I’m going to go out and kill for you.’
‘Oh, you are,’ said Kilgore, sighing pleasantly. ‘The reason is that two weeks ago we cloned your phone. Turns out that one of your contacts is the same woman we noted was conducting her own research on us.’
So that was it. They had put two and two together to make four.
That was what had brought them to . . .
Tess.
Kilgore had opened a laptop, angling the screen. ‘Can you see this?’ he asked Abbott.
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Kilgore, and he punched a button.
The image that appeared was Tess. Just Tess. She had a piece of tape across her mouth. Her hands – which were up, almost in front of her face – were zip-tied, just as Abbott’s were.
And Abbott knew three things. First, it was all on him that she was in this predicament. Second, he was going to get her out of it. Third, he would have to play their game. He would have to play their game and win.
‘What happens now?’ said Abbott.
‘You take a nap,’ said Kilgore.
Abbott was aware of a movement from the man sitting beside him and turned his head just in time to see the hypodermic needle but too late to do anything about it – nothing but fall into unconsciousness as the needle went into his neck and the sedative did its work.
And when he woke up, he was in Poland.
CHAPTER 48
He knew it was Poland from the language on the signs, but as for whereabouts, he had no idea. Not the nice bit. Not Krakow or Warsaw. What he saw mainly was motorway with barren fields on either side, scenes that seemed eerily familiar from his time at Kemptown.
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