by Mark Arundel
I sat down on the flat ground, facing the slope with my legs over the edge. ‘Snowy, sit down closely behind me with your legs forward and put your arms around my waist as if we were riding a motorbike.’ Snowy followed my instructions. ‘That’s it, quickly, lift your feet.’ I locked Snowy’s legs under my arms, pulled him tight against my back and then without a second thought I pushed off. The steep sloping journey was like a helter-skelter ride except in place of a smooth, slippery surface we had uneven bumps, stones, vegetation and litter. I did what I could with my feet to control our descent but even so by the end, we were a runaway two-man toboggan without the toboggan.
Shooting out from between the buildings, we hit the firm ground and tumbled. I jumped to a crouched position and scanned the area. Ignoring the scrapes and knocks to my arms and legs, I stayed low and helped Snowy. ‘Are you injured,’ I whispered. He pulled his hand away and I could see running blood from his hairline. It was dark against his white skin.
‘Something hit my head,’ he said softly.
‘It’s just a scratch,’ I said reassuringly. ‘It’s nothing to a man like you.’ Snowy grinned bravely and then returned his hand delicately to his wounded head.
We had to keep moving. I looked over my shoulder to check the track and then turned back again to view all the buildings. The front door was open and light from the bare windows above lit the narrow, steep passageway ahead. ‘We have to run down that passage.’ I pointed and Snowy looked. ‘We turn left at the bottom and then follow the track. The taxi is on the second bend.’
As I pulled Snowy to his feet, a clear shout in Portuguese came from below us on the track followed by raucous laughter. It was the three youths from earlier. The comedian of the group had obviously found something funny to say because this time, the other two had joined him and were grunting out hoots of laughter like the front row at a stand-up comedy show.
We had already held our stationary position far too long. I jerked Snowy by the arm and pulled him with me across the open ground towards the open passageway.
One of the youths shouted something and then further shouts followed. It had come from behind us. I kept running and hauled Snowy with me. We entered the passageway. Only then did I glance back. Silhouetted against the upstairs lights I saw three men exiting through the doorway of the three-storey building. The leader raised both hands and then I saw the muzzle flash and heard the distinctive staccato growl of an assault rifle as it spat out a line of bullets. The wall inside the passage exploded and chips of concrete and brick fell around us as if a gang of miniature masonry workers were pounding tiny pneumatic drills above our heads. Snowy let out a pained cry. ‘I feel dizzy,’ he said and then slumped down.
The three men were approaching cautiously. They were unable to see us hidden inside the shadowy blackness of the passageway. I pulled the pistol from my waistband and quickly targeted the front man carrying the assault rifle. It looked like Marsh. He was walking slowly towards me. I aimed for the centre of his chest and squeezed the trigger. The pistol failed to fire. It had not fed the bullet properly from the magazine to the chamber. The police officer’s pistol was dirty. He was too lazy to keep it clean and dirt in the chamber had stopped the round from seating properly.
Without a gun that fired, I was in trouble. I had to move. Lifting Snowy by the arm back to his feet I took a firecracker from my pocket and then with Snowy’s arm over my shoulders I dragged him hurriedly down the passage only stopping to light the firecracker and throw it back towards the opening. With the bangs going off behind, amplified between the tight walls, I heaved Snowy down the high steps and uneven sloping ground to the passage entrance. I glanced back up but the passageway appeared empty. Ahead, soft moonlight showed pale grey and lifted the track from its charcoal background.
Beyond the opening, I stopped out of sight in the shadow of a building and a lean-to shed. ‘Snowy, we’re nearly at the taxi,’ I whispered. ‘Can you walk on your own?’ I released him and unsteadily he remained upright.
‘Yes, I think I can,’ he murmured unconvincingly. I knew that the time we had left to reach the taxi was almost up.
I pulled Snowy by the arm out of the shadow and onto the track. We headed towards the first bend. I tried to encourage him to move faster, but his pace stayed leisurely. I was just about to lift him across my shoulders again when the three youths appeared sprinting down the track. I knew they could only be seconds ahead of Marsh and his gunmen. Instantly, I sensed the change in them. Now their attitudes were aggressive and they approached me expecting violence. They had spoken to Marsh and then rushed ahead in search of glory. The biggest of the three was leading with the other two on either side.
‘Keep going,’ I said to Snowy. ‘Don’t stop until you’re inside the taxi. I’m right behind you.’ I released Snowy and he continued along the track. The three young men came at me fast. At any time, Marsh might appear with his assault rifle. Time was not something I had a lot of to spend on these three. Sacrificing my bare knuckles for immediate results, I stepped forward, dodging the swinging punch and planted a left, then right, hard on either side of his jawbone. My knuckles felt it, but the teenager dropped without seeing my fists or the dry, hard ground that smacked his face.
I sidestepped and danced in the turn, ducking below the left hook before repeating the double strike to the jawbone, left, then right, with identical consequences.
The third lad backed away, so I left him and ran.
Snowy had made it beyond the turn on the track and was out of sight. Behind me, I heard Marsh shout and then the unmistakable burst of chatter from his assault rifle. I ducked my head and continued to run. Hitting a moving target at night at a range of one hundred and fifty paces was a shot I may struggle to make myself. I glanced back and saw Marsh and his other men, of whom I now counted four, chase determinedly after me.
I came out of the turn in the track and ahead I saw with relief the parked taxi. Snowy had done well and only had a short distance left. We were going to make it. I could recognise the faces of Grace and Bruno through the glass watching us. Then Bruno opened the door for Snowy and helped him inside. Behind, I heard Marsh still shouting as he continued to chase me. His long legs were pumping hard with determination. I really thought I was going to make it. I was getting closer and closer to the taxi. Then The Lady put away her smile and my fortune vanished like a swindler’s promise.
I did not see or hear him until the very last moment. He came out of the blackness from a ledge above a drainage channel and leapt at me with the ferocity of Cerberus. Both his timing and speed were impeccable and had it not been for my reflex action of raising an arm in defence he may well have killed me outright. It was Rambo. His jaws clamped shut around my forearm and I remember thinking I could still feel his teeth through the wrap of t-shirts. The force of his weight and momentum knocked me down with such suddenness that I was unable to control the fall or manage the landing. I went down violently and my head struck the ground first. For several minutes, I am not sure exactly how many, it was the last thing I remembered. My head must have hit a rock or a large stone and caused me to lose consciousness.
When I came round I was on my knees at the side of the track and three men were holding me. Two each held an arm and the third stood with a foot on my ankles. Standing in front of me holding a big knife was Marsh. He seemed happy or as happy as his ugly face would allow. Sitting obediently beside him was Rambo. He too seemed happy. I should have hit Rambo harder when I had the chance.
I struggled against my captors, but my head wound had weakened me and their hold was strong. My vision was blurry and I could feel blood running past my ear and dripping from my chin. Remembering the taxi, I turned my head. I felt dizzy. Snowy had felt dizzy too I thought. The taxi was gone. Bruno had driven safely away. It gave me a good feeling.
Marsh approached me and I could see the intent clearly in his shining eyes. I had seen the same look in the eyes of other men and I knew what it meant.
As a young person the thought of my own death, despite my profession as a combat soldier and the fact I had taken lives myself, never concerned me. Perhaps like most I chose to ignore mortality or imagined I would pass away quietly in my own bed at the age of one hundred and one. If pushed, I would never have suggested my demise would occur in a Rio favela at the hands of a gang member, especially not while on “holiday”.
The steel blade felt cold against my hot skin. Marsh said something, but it was pointless to listen. I wondered whether he was going to cut off my head. The knife was big enough. Maybe he would just slit my throat or slice my jugular. I closed my eyes. His ugly face was making me dizzy again.
Then I heard a shout. It was a loud, deep shout in a clear Portuguese voice. I think it was the word “stop”. I hoped it was the word “stop”. I felt Marsh hesitate and then he removed the knife from my neck. I opened my eyes. Reflected in the light from the surrounding buildings and the pale grey moonlight above, I saw a very large man dressed in white walking down the track towards us. A number of other men followed him. None of them was dressed in white. Their clothes were all dark colours.
He came right up to me and his huge bulk moved Marsh aside. He stared at me in silence. His large nose was beaked and his eyes were small and round like marbles. Nobody spoke. After many seconds, he said something to one of the men he had brought with him. The man hurried to me and then carried out a search that included looking in every pocket. He threw the pistol and the spare cartridge onto the ground and then he handed over my wallet. The big man produced a torch from his jacket pocket, opened the wallet and using the torchlight examined the contents. Then still using the torchlight he displayed my fake Interpol identification for everyone to see. He then spoke to Marsh and then to everyone else present during which he took from his pocket a glove. It was a glove used by boxers during training and sparring bouts. He pulled on the glove and then turned back to me and approached closer. I wished I had had one of those gloves. Despite my head injury hurting badly, I could still feel the pain in my knuckles. He spoke to the men holding me and roughly, they pulled me to my feet. The big man raised his gloved fist and with true venom and speed landed a right hook on my jawbone that returned me to the dark, painless oblivion of unconsciousness. I saw the punch coming, of course, but all I could think of was that it was better than having Marsh cut off my head.
15
THURSDAY, 20:44—21:09
The first thing I became aware of was the sand in my mouth. The second thing was the pain.
I opened my eyes. A blur of black and white made me close them again. I moved my head and the jagged shards of rusty iron that someone must have been pushing through my brain made me stop.
Realising I had neuron function of my limbs I lifted one hand and examined my head. The tender lump I found above my right ear felt like a cricket ball.
Following the areas of most pain in sequence, my fingers left my head and moved to my jaw. The swelling along my jowl was sore to touch, so I stopped. The big man’s punching glove must have had built-in knuckle-dusters. Holding my fingers on my chin, I opened my mouth and slowly moved my jawbone from side to side. It seemed to work all right, so the only damage was probably bruising.
I ran my hand along my forearm and over the ripped armband. Despite the t-shirts and packing tape, Rambo had still managed to inflict enough damage to make it feel like I had recently had a very close attachment to a vice.
The knuckles of both hands had that tenderness that only comes from punching jawbones.
The grazes and knocks to my legs barely registered on the pain scale in comparison to the other injuries, so I ignored them.
I opened my eyes again. This time, instead of just black and white, my blurred vision registered grey. It was an improvement. Slowly, I lifted my head and using both hands pushed my body into a sitting position. Close by, I heard the sound of heavy rollers slapping the shoreline and realised I was sitting on a sandy beach. I wiped the sand from my mouth with the back of my hand and then took a few deep breaths.
Using my forefinger and thumb, I massaged my eyelids in an attempt to rub away the blurred vision. It seemed to work. Although not fully restored, my sight had begun to clear and I could now make out the black rocks and ocean beyond. The beach stretched far away marked alongside by a thick ribbon of bright lights.
I remained seated but now felt strong enough to turn my head. After viewing my location as well as I could it became apparent to me that the favela men had dumped me on the nearest end of Ipanema beach. I assumed on the instructions of the big man, dressed in white, with the boxer’s right hook. It was kind of them to drive me back particularly as I had missed my taxi ride.
My brain function appeared to be returning, but I decided it was sensible to remain seated. The next thing I did was check my pockets. Remarkably, I still had my wallet with all the cash and Interpol identification, the K106 and the other items I had taken with me except the pistol.
Using the K106 I checked the time. It was a little before twenty-one hundred hours, which meant I had been unconscious for more than a half an hour. While looking at the phone I saw the screen indicate an incoming call. I still had the K106 set to “silent” mode. Not recognising the number, I answered the call anyway.
‘You’re a difficult man to find.’ I knew the male voice. It was familiar, but the name escaped me. I wondered whether I needed a brain scan. ‘You just vanished. Everyone I asked told me you were on holiday, but nobody knew where or how to get in touch with you. I even called in a favour at VX In the end, I had to call Charlotte and ask her, which was not what I wanted to have to do.’ Finally, I remembered who it was and his name then came easily. It was Stephen “Billy” Bradshaw. Perhaps I really did need that brain scan.
‘Why do you have an urgent need to speak with me?’ I asked, thinking it was a sensible question albeit delivered a little slower than normal.
‘Are you all right? Your speech sounds funny. You sound dazed or concussed.’
‘I banged my head, that’s all. I’ll be all right.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It may do, yes,’ he said in a curious voice. I had started to dislike this phone call. It was doing little in the way of helping with my recuperation. In fact, I was beginning to feel worse again. ‘Are you still there?’ Bradshaw asked. ‘You haven’t passed out have you?’
‘I’m still here,’ I said.
‘Good. Now, before I tell you the reason for my call I promised Charlotte that if I did get hold of you I would pass on a message.’ Bradshaw broke off to make a chuckling sound as if he found what he was saying amusing.
‘What’s the message?’ I asked.
‘Well, that’s what’s funny. You see, when I spoke with her to ask for your number she sounded quite upset. She gave me the number straight away without any questions and made me promise that if you answered I was to insist you call her immediately.’ Once again, Bradshaw stopped to make his odd chuckling sound. He sounded much happier than when I last spoke to him.
‘Why was she upset?’ I asked.
‘...because she’s convinced that someone has killed you. Apparently, she’s been calling this number non-stop for the past half an hour without an answer. Are you dead?’ Bradshaw asked and then chuckled loudly at his own joke question.
‘I can neither confirm nor deny my current physical status,’ I replied. Bradshaw’s chuckle turned into hoarse laughter. He smoked too much.
‘Anyway,’ he said once the hilarity had passed. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to or what’s going on, but you better call her. She really did sound genuinely upset.’ The function of my brain was repairing because I wondered whether Snowy was still alive. I had not considered that when I had thought of Snowy a few moments before. Grace had now had him again in her control for the best part of an hour. I considered whether it was enough time for her to have had someone kill him and concluded it was.
‘Have I heard of the “what” network?’ Bradshaw said sounding honestly puzzled.
‘...Sisyphus,’ I repeated and then spelt it out, ‘S-i-s-y-p-h-u-s.’
‘No, I haven’t. What is it?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Well, if it’s important to you and it has anything to do with London then Charlotte will know about it,’ Bradshaw said.
‘What makes you so sure Charlotte would know about it?’ I asked.
‘Well, you know, because of her position.’
‘What position?’ I said.
‘Don’t you know? Don’t you ever talk to her or hasn’t she ever told you?’
‘Told me what?’
‘You do know the history, don’t you?’ he asked sounding surprised.
‘What history?’ I said.
‘...the history between Charlotte and Meriwether. Look, let me bring you up to date. The Circus has promoted C. three times in the past twelve months. The last time was very recently.’
‘Why do you call it the Circus?’
‘It’s a pet name, you know, it comes from those spy novels. Many people call it the Circus. Anyway, following her most recent promotion C. now sits at the top table with the grown-ups. She’s a divisional head. She’s at the very top. Some are now convinced that she’ll become the youngest ever chief. That one day, and one day not so many years from now, she’ll run the whole shooting match.’
‘She told me she had left,’ I said. ‘She said that although she kept in touch she now worked with Meriwether as consultants or something.’ Bradshaw laughed.
‘She’s a spymaster,’ he said. ‘Her entire life is a lie. Nothing about her is ever as it appears.’