Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  The officer heard Wallace’s crashing progress and turned quickly, yelling at his comrade. Wallace leaped, forcing himself toward the rising gun. He swung wildly, his arm coming round quickly and heavily, driving the pistol into the officer’s temple. The man fell instantly, but Wallace had no time to marvel at what he’d done. Point-and-hope sprayed the area with bullets, and Wallace dived behind the thick trunk for cover. He could hear the gunfire getting closer, and peered round the shredded trunk to see the soldier picking his way across the forest, using trees for cover to avoid being shot by Kurik. The boy was running toward Wallace, but the soldier was moving faster, urged on by the thought that it was now two against one, and Wallace couldn’t rely on Kurik hitting this wild gunman. He inhaled and counted to three, praying he was right about the safety, then rolled out from behind the tree. He ignored the hot lead that sliced the air around him—better one accurate shot than hundreds of wild ones—and took aim. He squeezed the trigger and felt relief as the pistol recoiled and spat, first one, then two more bullets. Point-and-hope was hit in the leg and fell to one knee. Wallace was shocked when bullets burst through the man’s abdomen and looked beyond the bewildered soldier to see Kurik finishing what he’d started. Point-and-hope yelped and turned, firing his gun wildly as he died. Wallace watched aghast as the barrel of the gun tracked toward Kurik, who tried to move, but he was too slow and his body bucked with the force of the multiple impacts. A look of horror crossed Kurik’s face as he fell forward and hit the ground.

  Tuneful birdsong replaced the terrible thunder of death, and Wallace lay prone for what seemed like an age. When he finally got to his feet, his legs trembled as he forced himself over to the motionless teenager. He found himself choking on the lump that was building in his throat. He passed point-and-hope, his pockmarked corpse still bleeding on to the moist forest floor. When he reached Kurik, Wallace knelt down and pushed his hands under the boy’s body to turn him over. Kurik’s vacant eyes stared back at him, and he confirmed the worst by touching his fingers to the boy’s still neck. Dark blood stained Kurik’s tunic, oozing from half a dozen wounds. Wallace was almost overwhelmed by the wave of sadness that swept over him, the thought of so many wrongs that could never be undone, of all the lives cut short by violence. As he stared at the peaceful, unblinking face of death, he realized that part of him longed to trade places with the brave boy.

  He was startled by the sound of something moving nearby and turned to see the two horses tracking back through the forest. Wallace tried to suppress a rising sense of anger. He’d failed to protect this boy. His frustration grew worse when he saw that his pack and camera bag were no longer bound to the saddle. His cell and satellite phones were gone. He had no means of communication and was lost, deep in the mountains, hundreds of miles from the nearest city, with one of the men who’d tried to kill him lying a few yards away. There was little doubt in his mind that the officer would soon regain consciousness, and if he was to have any chance of delivering Kurik’s body and one of the killers to Vosuruk, Wallace knew that he’d have to act fast.

  13

  The London Record occupied three floors of a low-rise building tucked between Park Street and the Thames. Bailey gazed through the office window down at a crowd of tourists gathered around a guide who was doubtless explaining the historical significance of the Globe Theater, which stood almost directly opposite. Four floors up, Bailey was above the thatched roof and had a partial view of the upper tier of the circular structure. For all his years living in London, he had never been to a production and told himself to find time, and someone to go with. Watching the clusters of tourists as they shuffled along Bankside admiring London’s sights took his mind off the tightness in his chest.

  He’d spent Sunday at home, puzzling over the code in Sylvia Greene’s note, the block of numbers tormenting him with their silent refusal to reveal anything. He tried online code-crackers, puzzle solvers, and even a few specialist chatrooms for math students, but was told that without a key, or a way to break the block down into its component elements, he could spend years trying to crack it. His mind, confined to such a dry, logical, intense task, started to turn on itself, unleashing flushes of acrid panic. As his heart started to race and he became convinced of skipped beats, Bailey imagined himself dying alone in his small flat. Would anyone miss him? Today, perhaps a few would, but in ten years, he’d be nothing more than a faded memory, a ghost people would scarcely recollect. And in fifty more, they too would be gone, and there would be no trace of his ever having existed.

  Bailey had tried to shake off such bleak thoughts and by evening, he’d medicated himself with rum and co-codamol. His anxiety blunted, his mind liberated and free from fear, he had resolved to ask for help breaking the code and devised a way to maintain Connor Greene’s confidence. He’d transcribed the first three lines of the twelve-line block of code and emailed them to Derek Lowe, a guy he knew on the Met’s computer crime taskforce. If Lowe could decipher the code, he’d only have part of the message, but he would be able to give Bailey the key to figure out the rest. Stewed in rum and mild opiates, Bailey had passed out on his tatty old couch and slept until four in the morning; when he’d woken, he was hungover with what felt like a tight band pulling around his chest. He’d been to the hospital with false alarms three times in as many months, and recognized the symptoms of an impending panic attack, so he’d forced himself into his rarely used sports kit and gone for an early morning run.

  The band had loosened for the duration of his run, but had returned as he’d driven south of the river to the London Record. He had been referred to Francis Albright, who had, until Saturday, been the paper’s deputy editor. Trapped in the first meeting of what was sure to be a relentless day, Francis had instructed his assistant Abbie to show Bailey into his office. From what Bailey could see, Francis was not editor material. His desk was covered with untidy piles of paper that spilled into each other, and the large office was strewn with folders, clothes, magazines, and half-drunk cups of coffee.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” The voice sounded like honey-coated gravel and startled Bailey, who’d been mesmerized by the tourists below.

  He turned to see an overweight man who was probably in his early sixties stride across the room and toss a folder full of papers on the desk.

  “Francis Albright,” the man said, offering Bailey a hand. “Melissa Rathlin is going to join us.”

  Bailey looked toward the door and saw a tall, slim brunette in jeans and a sheer floral blouse, her long hair tied in a ponytail. She was holding on to the door frame, yelling at someone across the open-plan office that lay beyond Albright’s room.

  “Don’t fuck me around, Ollie, just do it!”

  “Melissa is one of our news reporters,” Albright explained.

  “Sorry about the language,” she said, crossing the room and extending her hand. “I’m Melissa Rathlin.”

  “Patrick Bailey,” Bailey replied, shaking her hand.

  “Take a seat,” Albright offered, indicating a chair that was covered with books. “Just toss that stuff.”

  Bailey carefully lifted the stack of books and found space for them on the cluttered floor. The chaotic man in front of him was now in charge of one of London’s leading newspapers. A mass of curly blond hair sprouted from Albright’s head, and the face beneath it looked as though it had seen many hard years. Ruddy cheeks protruded from a landscape of crags and folds that made Bailey think of a pug. His gray polyester trousers were a couple of inches too short and revealed a pair of battered and scuffed shoes.

  “You can imagine we’re all devastated by what’s happened,” Albright said. “Sylvia was an amazing woman. She was much loved.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Melissa interjected. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  Bailey saw her face grow heavy with emotion, the brash, vulgar journalist momentarily lost to sadness.

  “What can we do for you, Detective Inspector?” Albr
ight asked.

  “I’m investigating the circumstances of Mrs. Greene’s death—” Bailey began.

  “Really?” Melissa interrupted. “I thought the case was being handled by a Detective Murrall.”

  Bailey was surprised to be challenged.

  “The Sunday Record broke the news yesterday,” Melissa explained. “It’s our job to know what’s going on.”

  “I’ve been asked to consult,” Bailey revealed.

  “Because it was a hanging?” Melissa asked. “Because you broke the Pendulum case?”

  “Now I know what a grilling feels like,” Bailey observed.

  “You have no idea,” Melissa countered, and Bailey found himself warming to her.

  “How was Mrs. Greene recently?” he asked. “Did you have any reason to think she was troubled? Depressed?”

  “No,” Albright replied. “Sylvia was a workaholic, she lived for this job. She was always intense, but these last few weeks I got the feeling she was working on something, something big. She was alive with it.”

  “Any idea what it was?”

  “No. I couldn’t even say there was anything for sure, it was just a feeling. She always had a glint in her eye when she was chasing down a story and the last few weeks her eyes were shining very brightly.”

  “Do you think you could give me the names of any people who might have reason to want to hurt Mrs. Greene?”

  “It’s a long list,” Albright responded with a wistful shake of his head. “We piss people off. It’s what we do. Sylvia never knew when to stop. She made a lot of enemies over the years. Powerful ones.”

  “I’d appreciate anything you can give me,” Bailey persisted.

  “Mel?” Albright suggested.

  Melissa pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’ve got a lot on. I’m leaving for Geneva.”

  “I’ll give you my email,” Bailey tried. “You can send it over when you get a chance.”

  Melissa shot him a beleaguered look. “OK.” She sounded reluctant.

  Bailey handed her his card. “And if there’s anything you can think of, anything that’s happened in the last few weeks, or if you find out what she was working on, just give me a call. We’ll need access to Mrs. Greene’s computer.”

  “Not going to happen,” Albright responded quickly. “Not without a court order. There’s a world of sensitive information on it, sources, high-level contacts. No way.”

  Bailey shrugged. “Don’t make this difficult. We both know I’ll get that court order.”

  “Maybe. But how’s it going to look to our sources if we don’t put up a fight?”

  “OK, we’ll do it the hard way.” Bailey stood up and moved toward the door. “I’ll expect that list.”

  As he left the room, he felt his heart start pounding and sensed the familiar dread panic rising within him. He fought the urge to run and kept a measured pace, telling himself that there was no escaping the true source of his fears.

  14

  The Piuma Road tracing the contours of the mountain was like a thirsty gray snake reaching for the vast expanse of water that lay beyond the golden beach, Alice thought. She had lived in the Monte Nido compound within sight of that beach for as long as she could remember, but had never felt the sand beneath her feet. Nicholas believed that indulging one’s desires cultivated decadence, which made a soul vulnerable to evil.

  “Alice?” Nicholas called out from the main house.

  She lowered her eyes. If he caught her looking at the ocean, he would get angry, and having only just been released from three days in the punishment block, she had no desire to return. She focused on her small fingers, which held a trowel that she was using to turn over the soil in the citrus bed.

  “Have you learned your lesson?” Nicholas asked as he approached.

  “Yes, Father,” Alice replied without looking up. Even his shadow terrified her, and she felt her mouth go dry and her stomach churn. She imagined his eyes peering into her heart, judging her for every bad thought they found there.

  “Good,” Nicholas said. “You’re not like other children. Your mother and I knew that from the day you were born. The world out there is polluted. You will help cleanse it.”

  “Master!” a voice called from the doorway of the devotion hall, a wide, low hut that lay at the edge of the plateau. Alice looked round and saw that it was Beau, one of Nicholas’s mistresses. “The congregation is ready for you.”

  “The Almighty loves you, Alice,” Nicholas said as he turned.

  Alice watched her father cross the patchy lawn, his white kaftan bleaching out in the bright California sunlight to reveal his lean, sinewy body. Her heart didn’t slow until he’d entered the devotion hall and she knew that she was no longer in danger of being caught by his capricious eyes.

  “Ow!” Suddenly, pain shot up her right arm. She looked down to see that she’d cut her palm on a shard of twisted metal which had been buried in the soft soil. Her father had often preached about the power of nature, and as Alice watched the blood flow she was struck by an idea. She moved beneath the nearest orange tree and held her right hand over one of its roots so that her blood dripped on to the exposed rough bark and ran into the soil beneath it.

  “Mother Earth,” she whispered, “I sacrifice my essence to you. I pray to you to keep my brethren safe.” She looked round to check that no one was nearby. “And might I one day, please, go to the beach?”

  Feeling tremendous guilt at her selfish request, Alice stood and hurried inside the main house to wash the blood from her hands and erase any trace of her treacherous sacrifice.

  Ash retched as she woke. She hadn’t dreamed of Nicholas for years, but the passage of time had done nothing to blunt the sharp nausea he evoked. Her mother had been alive then—it was before . . . Ash’s eyes adjusted to the low light and she noticed the silhouette of a man seated in the armchair opposite her bed. Nausea swirled, until she realized fear had corrupted her senses. It couldn’t be her father, could it?

  “I owe you one,” Parker said as he stood and approached the bed, his face illuminated by sunlight that prodded its way between the slatted blinds. His voice was rough and low.

  Ash saw a thick bandage coiled around Parker’s neck and suddenly remembered the stake-out, the raid, and her narrow escape.

  “How long . . .” she began, but the sound of her hoarse voice shocked her into silence. She put her fingers to her neck and felt a fabric bandage.

  “Almost two days,” Parker told her. “They stitched you up and knocked you out. Apparently movement would’ve aggravated the wound.” He looked pointedly at Ash, who had sat up unsteadily while he spoke, her feet dangling close to the floor.

  “I wouldn’t be awake if they still didn’t want me to move,” she croaked, looking down at her painted red toenails, the bright color garish against her unusually pale skin and the bleached white of her hospital gown.

  She eased herself upright and tottered toward a closet that occupied the corner behind the armchair.

  “I don’t think you should be doing this,” Parker said, moving out of her way. He hurried over to the bed and pressed the call button.

  Ash ignored him and opened the closet to find it empty. “Where are my . . .” she began, but then she caught her reflection in a mirror that hung on the inside of the closet door. Her skin was so pale that it almost matched the white bandage choker. She felt the back of her neck and found a vertical length of tape securing the bandage. She ripped it away and unwound the bandage, quickly at first, but slowing as she neared the bottom layer.

  “You can’t do that,” Parker cautioned her. “You’ll open your stitches.”

  Ash carried on until she reached the final layer, which involved removing the bandage and the gauze that was in direct contact with the wound. She ignored the pain as she pulled. She had to see what Haig had done to her. The gauze clung to clotted blood, which came away as Ash ripped it clear. Tears welled in her eyes before she’d properly registered the thick black
line around her neck, which was crisscrossed by stitches.

  “Mine isn’t as bad, but it’s not far off,” Parker told her, and Ash hated him for it. “The doctors say with time and surgery, people will hardly be able to notice it.”

  She couldn’t tell whether Parker was just trying to make her feel better, or whether he truly believed that the deep wound that circumscribed her neck would one day miraculously vanish.

  “What have you done?” a nurse cried, entering the room and rushing over. “You can’t remove your dressing for at least three days. Come along.”

  She ushered Ash back to the bed and pushed her into a seated position before rifling through a chest of drawers that stood beneath the window.

  “You’re going to be OK,” Parker assured Ash. “That’s the important thing.”

  “What about Reeves and Miller?” she asked as the nurse approached the bed with an armful of medical supplies.

  “They’re both fine. Haig didn’t activate their devices. You saved their lives. Price, too.”

  Ash’s heart soared at Parker’s words. “Price? I thought he was . . .”

  “No,” Parker smiled. “I mean, he’s messed up. But he’s going to make it.”

  “What do we know about Haig? What’s—” Ash began.

  “You can’t talk,” the nurse told her. “Not while I’m fixing this.” The large woman held a strip of gauze to Ash’s neck and started winding the bandage.

  “Get me Reeves,” Ash instructed Parker, ignoring the dirty looks the nurse threw at her.

  “I don’t think . . .” Parker tried.

  “When can I get out of here?” Ash asked the increasingly frustrated nurse.

  “If it were up to me, honey, you’d be leaving right now. I’ll have the doctor come by. You can ask her,” the nurse replied, her tone softening. “Now, can I please fix your bandage?”