by Craig, James
‘Where are you going?’ Rose yelled after him, struggling to get out of the vehicle.
‘It’s him. Hurry up!’
‘John . . . here!’
He half-turned, just in time to catch the small canister as it flew towards him. He looked at it nestling in his hand: it was about as tall as a Coke can, and half as wide. It could have been a small container of shaving foam, or maybe an asthma inhaler.
‘Pepper spray,’ Rose explained. ‘If he gives you any trouble, aim for the face.’
‘Nice one,’ he grinned, shooting off a little burst downwind. ‘Thanks.’
‘I brought it specially from London.’
‘Excellent!’ Another gold star for Heathrow airport security. ‘Not necessarily legal, but just the job.’ He began moving again.
‘What are you going to do?’ she called.
That, Carlyle thought, is a very stupid question. Lengthening his stride, he hit the grass beyond the tarmac and began running downhill towards the building.
THIRTY-TWO
By the time Carlyle reached the clinic, he was out of breath. A kitchen helper was standing by an open door, an unlit cigarette in her mouth. The woman nodded at Carlyle and began fiddling in her pocket for a box of matches. Nodding back, Carlyle slipped past and stepped inside, moving into a long corridor which, he guessed, led towards the back of the building. Ten yards down, on his left, was a set of doors leading to the swimming pool. Pushing them open, he found Falkirk standing in front of him, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a pair of loafers.
‘Inspector.’ Falkirk frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here for you.’ Stepping closer, Carlyle could see that his quarry’s pupils were hugely dilated, a clear indication of drug use, and he looked unsteady on his feet. There were dark rings round the eyes and his face was puffy. He looked exhausted. All in all, the man was hardly an advert for two weeks’ R&R in the Alps.
‘Me?’ Falkirk made a half-hearted attempt at a smile.
Carlyle’s smile was equally false. ‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ he said stiffly, patting his jacket pocket. After the cold outside, the heat of the spa made him feel suddenly drowsy. He stifled a yawn, the strong smell of chlorine reminding him of the days – more than thirty years before – when his dad had made him train with the Hammersmith Penguin Swimming Club at the Fulham Baths.
‘A warrant? I don’t think so,’ said Falkirk warily, not coming any closer.
Snapping from his reverie, Carlyle pulled the envelope out of his pocket and held it up for the Earl to see. ‘It’s all over, Gordon,’ he said. ‘Now we have to go back to London.’
‘No one calls me that.’ Falkirk took a couple of steps backwards. ‘And no one tells me what to do.’
Carlyle moved towards him. ‘We have to go now. We have a flight to catch.’
Falkirk grinned as he looked past Carlyle. ‘I don’t think so.’
Carlyle half-turned to see two security guards take up position on either side of him. Each man had a 9mm SIG-Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistol holstered at his side, standard Swiss Army issue.
‘Police,’ proclaimed Carlyle, holding up a hand.
‘Do they look like they give a toss?’ Falkirk snorted.
Not in the slightest, Carlyle thought, girding his loins for the trouble ahead.
As the first man reached for his gun, the inspector gave him three seconds of the pepper spray. Just like in the training video, the guy dropped his gun, fell to his knees and began clawing at his face. Carlyle then turned to his colleague, who backed away rapidly, tripping over a handily placed float and stumbling into the swimming pool. Ignoring Falkirk’s hysterical laughter, Carlyle waited for the guy’s head to pop back up to the surface, and gave him a spray too. With the security guards now engaged in synchronised screaming, Carlyle regarded the tube in his hand with barely concealed admiration. This is great stuff, he thought. I must remember to get some of my own once I get home. Stepping back, he gave the kneeling man a satisfying kick in the ribs that sent him tumbling into the water after his colleague. Carlyle booted the SIG-Sauer into the pool for good measure, and looked up.
Falkirk was gone.
It took the inspector a couple of seconds to spot the Earl, who was now sprinting across the lawn outside, heading for the nearest trees, which were maybe 300 metres further up the mountain. Carlyle shook his head. ‘Where the hell are you going?’ he said to himself, wondering if he had the stamina to catch the younger man.
Outside, the air had darkened. Vicious-looking black clouds scudded across the sky and Carlyle could smell rain in the air. A fat droplet of water exploded on the gravel right in front of his feet, with the promise of much more to come. Head down, blood pumping, he took a deep breath and charged ahead – running straight into Rose, who had suddenly appeared in front of the clinic.
‘Falkirk!’ she gasped, as he bounced off her.
‘I know,’ said Carlyle, hopping from foot to foot, reluctant to stop moving as he eyed the fleeing figure in front of them. Belatedly, he realised that she was clutching her face. Pulling her hand away, he saw a nasty cut under her right eye, which was already half-closed. ‘Did he hit you?’
‘I tried to stop him.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. Can you catch him?’
‘Sure,’ Carlyle quipped, despite the fact that Falkirk now had a lead of about 150 metres as he headed for the treeline. He handed the pepper spray back to Rose. ‘Get inside. Make sure the security goons don’t do a runner. Give them another blast of the spray if necessary. And get someone to call the local police.’
Setting a steady pace, Carlyle tried to ignore the burning sensation in his chest. Not for the first time recently, he wished that he’d spent more time in the gym. The adrenaline rush gained from clobbering those two security guys was wearing off, and he began to feel a creeping heaviness in his legs. The fact that he wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion didn’t help either.
Not wishing to completely knacker himself before he caught up with his quarry, he let Falkirk stretch his lead slightly, confident that ultimately the man had nowhere to go. As far as the inspector could tell, the Earl had left the clinic with nothing that might help him evade capture for any length of time. Maybe he had a little cash in the pockets of his trousers but without a credit card, mobile phone or passport, he was well and truly fucked. That thought made Carlyle smile. Despite his own discomfort, he was perfectly happy to let the bastard continue spending his day running round a Swiss mountain in the cold and rain – with a bit of luck the blue-blooded bastard might even catch pneumonia.
As Falkirk disappeared among the trees, Carlyle slowed his pace even further. It took him another couple of minutes to reach the edge of the forest. Peering into the gloom, he could see that it was composed of a mix of pine and spruce trees, planted closely together in precise rows. Hesitating, he looked back the way he had come. Rose had disappeared inside the building. Surely, someone must have called the gendarmerie by now. Assuming that the cavalry would be coming from Villeneuve, situated just down the mountain by the side of the lake, or maybe from Montreux next door, the police should be able to reach the clinic in ten minutes or so. But when he listened for the sound of sirens, there was nothing.
Bloody cops, Carlyle thought. They are all the same the world over; always taking their own sweet time; never around when you need them.
He tried to imagine what Falkirk’s plan of action might be. To his right was a narrow, muddy path leading deeper into the forest. Carlyle could make out a number of footprints, although he had no idea whether any of them belonged to Falkirk. Careful not to lose his footing, he set off again.
Less than twenty yards into the trees, he could no longer see back to the open ground at the edge of the forest. Apart from the path he was following, the inspector had no sense of where he had come from: it was just trees, trees and more trees. They all looked the same to him. Surrounded by nature, he sudd
enly felt rather sorry for himself.
Any feelings of self-pity were cut short when a lump of wood was smashed across the back of his head. Carlyle staggered forward. A second blow sent him to his knees and he felt cold mud seeping through the fabric of his trousers. He stretched his hands out in front of him to halt his fall, but a third blow sent him down fully. The last thought to pop into his head, before the lights went out, was, Oh shit!
A boot in the ribs brought him back out of the blackness. As he came to, Carlyle realised that he had mud in his mouth, a piece of twig up his nose, and the mother of all headaches. Blinking, he waited for another kick. When it did not come he lay still, trying to clear his head. He listened as hard as he could, but still there were no sirens. A bird squawked overhead and he heard footsteps approaching from somewhere behind him.
‘On your feet!’ Falkirk grabbed him by the hair and, with a grunt, pulled him upright. Feeling a serrated blade against his neck, Carlyle found his feet. Looking down along the end of his nose, he recognised the familiar red handle of an outsize Swiss Army knife.
‘Rather appropriate, don’t you think?’ Falkirk remarked grimly. His pupils seemed as big as pennies. For the first time, it occurred to Carlyle that he might have a real problem on his hands.
‘You are about to be done in by the finest technology that the Swiss have to offer,’ Falkirk continued. He pulled the knife from Carlyle’s neck and waved it airily above his head. ‘It was either that or drowning you in chocolate.’
‘There are worse ways to go, I suppose.’ The inspector gingerly felt the back of his head. Even more gingerly, he gave it a gentle shake. The pain bounced around his brain for a few seconds, then resumed its residency in the base of his skull. He tried to step away casually from his drugged-up captor, but Falkirk skipped forward, pressing the knife firmly against his windpipe.
‘This is getting out of hand,’ Carlyle coughed.
‘You should have left me alone,’ Falkirk snarled.
‘What are you on?’ Carlyle asked, injecting as much reasonableness into his voice as he could manage. ‘Crystal meth? Speed? Cocaine?’
‘Poppers,’ Falkirk replied casually.
Poppers, okay. Carlyle struggled to sift through what he knew about poppers – amyl nitrite, used to enhance sexual pleasure. As far as he could recall, they weren’t supposed to make you violent. ‘Look,’ he said quietly, taking each word slowly in case he had called it wrong and Falkirk tried to chop out his Adam’s apple, ‘we have to go back. This needs to get sorted out. It will get sorted out, but we have to go to London to do that.’
‘No!’ A look of panic flashed through Falkirk’s eyes as he flicked the blade away from Carlyle’s chin and thrust it twice into the inspector’s stomach, sawing at his ribcage.
‘Fuck!’ Carlyle staggered back, holding his gut.
He looked down, expecting to see his own entrails spilling through his fingers. Almost disappointingly, there wasn’t that much to see – and only a little blood. The pain, however, was intense.
Am I dying? he wondered.
How fucking banal.
Is this really it?
THIRTY-THREE
Tripping over an exposed root, Carlyle fell backwards. Looking up, he focused on a patch of grey sky between two trees. I need to see blue sky, he thought, spitting out a lump of phlegm. I need to see blue sky again before I die.
Falkirk fell on top of him before the inspector could move. With one hand on Carlyle’s neck, he brandished the knife in front of the policeman’s face. ‘You should have done what you were told and left well alone,’ he hissed. ‘Because now you will die.’
Feeling all the energy drain from his body, Carlyle closed his eyes and waited. Still there was no sign of sirens coming to his aid.
What he did hear was the click of the safety-catch on a semi-automatic being released.
‘Get up!’
Carlyle opened his eyes to see Ihor Chepoyak pulling Falkirk up by the collar of his T-shirt. Dressed in full combat gear, complete with green and black face-paint, Ihor had the barrel of a Fort-12 CURZ pistol gently caressing the Earl’s temple.
‘Throw away the knife.’
Doing what he was told, Falkirk threw the Swiss Army knife into a muddy puddle about three feet away. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, a nervous quaver betraying any attempt to sound indignant.
‘I’m here to kill you,’ Ihor said, almost apologetically.
‘Why?’ Falkirk asked, his bottom lip visibly trembling now.
‘Why? Why?’ Ihor made a face. ‘This is not like one of those movies where you have to explain everything just to give the victim time to escape. What does it matter anyway? Your life has less than a minute left to run. Less than ten seconds, in fact.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing.’ Ihor pulled the trigger, and the crack of the 9mm Kurz round sent the birds flying from the surrounding trees. Slowly, Falkirk keeled over into the undergrowth, a surprised look on his face.
Ihor turned to Carlyle. ‘Not at all like the movies, huh?’
‘No.’ Thinking of Shen and Merrett, Carlyle remembered rule number one – always humour the man with the gun. ‘When it comes to the cinema, I’ve always been a fan of more violence and less dialogue myself,’ he said.
‘Me also,’ said Ihor.
Now at last he could hear the fucking sirens. This had been a truly outstanding effort by the Swiss police.
‘Time for me to go,’ Ihor declared. He saw Carlyle eyeing the Fort-12 nervously. ‘Don’t worry,’ he grinned, ‘I’m not going to pop you. Olga gave me strictest instructions that you were not to be hurt.’
Feebly trying to massage away his headache, Carlyle rubbed the back of his neck. Not hurt was stretching it a bit, but at least he was still alive. ‘Olga?’
The sirens grew louder.
‘She likes you,’ Ihor smirked. ‘It is your good fortune that you are already married!’
The sirens suddenly stopped and were soon replaced by shouting and a general commotion somewhere in the middle distance. Presumably the gendarmes would be here within a few minutes.
Ihor helped Carlyle to his feet. ‘You didn’t see me.’
Carlyle looked down at Falkirk sprawled on the ground with a bullet in his brain, and liked what he saw. He shook his head.
Ihor tapped the handle of the pistol. ‘Also, this is the same weapon as the one used in London, so no ballistics comparisons.’
Carlyle thought about Merrett and Shen. What about justice for them? Surely he owed them better than this shabby deal?
Seeing how the inspector’s mind was now working, Ihor gripped the pistol tightly. ‘I gave you Falkirk,’ he said slowly. ‘He was the main man. Either we are even, or there is a problem . . .’
Carlyle stared at the gun. Under the circumstances, ‘even’ sounded good. He nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘Good!’ Ihor stuck the pistol in the waistband of his combat trousers and extended a hand.
Carlyle shook it. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Ihor shrugged. ‘You were lucky. If you want my advice, maybe being a policeman is not right for you.’ He spat in the direction of Falkirk’s corpse. ‘Not if a guy like that can get the better of you. You should really think about doing something else.’
Carlyle laughed weakly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
The shouting was louder now. Carlyle reckoned that they must be almost into the forest, perhaps less than a 100 metres away.
‘I’d better get going,’ Ihor said. He turned and began jogging away, heading along the trail. In less than ten seconds, he was out of sight. Wearily taking a seat on a fallen tree, the inspector waited for his rescuers to arrive.
THIRTY-FOUR
No question, if you had to go to jail, Switzerland was a good place to do so. The Service de Police holding cell on Rue du Lac 118 was cool, quiet and spotlessly clean. Sitting on a tiled bench, his back resting against the wall, Carlyle rather liked
it. His wounds were far less serious than Carlyle had originally feared and a generous supply of painkillers left him feeling quite mellow as he dined on takeaway pizza. The coffee left a little to be desired but, happy to be alive, he didn’t feel the need to be too picky.
After a couple of hours, he was brought to an interview room and ushered inside. Cleaner and airier than the interview rooms at Charing Cross, it still retained the air of disappointment and despair that infused police stations the world over.
‘Any chance of another cup of coffee?’ Carlyle asked, as he sat down at the empty desk.
‘Someone will be here to interview you soon, Mr Carlyle,’ said the young officer who had delivered him here, his English angular and precise.
‘It’s Inspector Carlyle,’ Carlyle mumbled. He forced a smile on to his weary face. ‘Look, son,’ he said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, ‘I’m a police officer, too.’
The policeman looked at him blankly. ‘You are here,’ he said stiffly, ‘under suspicion of committing a crime.’
‘I know, but—’
‘In Switzerland, no one is above the law, Mr Carlyle,’ he said earnestly, ‘not even police officers.’ Turning, he left the room without another word.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
He must have dozed off. Slowly coming to, he focused on the small paper cup that had been placed on the table in front of him. Grabbing it, he downed the espresso in two gulps and sat back, waiting for the caffeine to do its job. ‘Thank you.’
The man in front of him nodded. Not in uniform, Carlyle guessed he must be in his late thirties. He had short, salt-andpepper hair and a day’s stubble, which suggested to Carlyle that this little incident had interrupted the man’s day off. That would help explain his pissed-off expression.
Dropping a thin folder on the desk, the new arrival sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘I am Jonas Chauzy,’ he said quietly, in accentless English, ‘First Deputy Chief at Fedpol.’