HARD KNOCKS: Charlie Fox book three

by Zoe Sharp

  Sean had his arms folded again, those long fingers resting lightly against his own skin. He and I had washed Elsa’s blood off our hands, literally if not metaphorically. She’d been whisked off to the nearest hospital with brisk efficiency. Although the paramedics who’d attended the scene hadn’t seemed unduly worried by the severity of the wound, it could just have been part of their act. As yet, there was no word of her condition.

  We’d searched the immediate area both for Jan and for Ivan Venko long after the light had gone and darkness had come down cold and hard. Just before eight o’clock, Gilby had called a halt and we’d stumbled back to the Manor for hot showers and hot food. We’d found nothing out there in any case. In reality, we hadn’t expected to.

  It transpired that the Major had been keeping Ivan in a small room, almost a cell, behind the back wall of the indoor range. He seemed to have had no qualms about the effect our barrage of gunshots must have had on the boy’s psychological well-being every time we’d fired in there. Gilby appeared to think that obeying the basic Geneva Convention rules of food, water and no actual physical cruelty had been luxury enough for the son of Gregor Venko.

  And now he was gone. I still couldn’t believe that Jan had done it. Not just that she seemed to have stolen Ivan away, but that she’d cold-bloodedly shot Elsa to provide enough of a distraction while she did it. I was convinced, as we all were, that it hadn’t been an accident.

  The worst of it was that I’d never suspected her for a moment. After all, she’d been with Elsa in the dormitory the night I’d had my run-in with Rebanks at the armoury. Or had she? Why wouldn’t Elsa have told me if she’d been out of the room as well? And then I remembered her exact words. “Both Charlie and Jan have been to the bathroom,”she’d said. Surely she couldn’t have failed to notice?

  Now, Gilby’s men were discussing the possibility, which we couldn’t ignore, that Jan had been working for Gregor from the start. But if so, why wait until now to snatch the boy?

  “Maybe she couldn’t find him before,” Figgis suggested, adding pointedly, “After all, sir, you only told us at lunchtime where you’d put him.”

  “Yes,” Gilby said sharply, “and soon after I do, he disappears. What am I supposed to make of that?”

  Figgis’s long face hardened, his limbs contracting as he made to rise from his chair. Sean moved across and put a placatory hand on his shoulder.

  “There is always the chance that she’d known for a while where Ivan was,” he said. “Ever since Charlie discovered Rebanks’s little sideline and was ambushed doing so. That could be why Jan set the alarm off,” he added to me, “to stop you finding him, which is what she must have assumed you were after.”

  “Wait a minute,” Todd snapped. He looked disgustedly from Sean, to Gilby, to me, and back again, as though someone was playing a joke on him, one that was not in the best taste. “You’re never telling me that she was the one who clouted Rebanks, but—”

  “I’m afraid so,” Gilby said. He paused and gave me his own assessing stare, as though he couldn’t quite believe it, either. “She’s a tough little bitch,” he said then. His tone was dispassionate, as though I was a dog he was thinking of breeding from. Only the slightest smile spilled over. “You have to give her that.”

  “I rather feel that a discussion of Charlie’s undoubted abilities is beside the point,” Sean said, managing to pass me half a smile of his own as he did so. “Finding out who Jan was working for is a bit more important right now.”

  “Why?” Gilby demanded bitterly. “It’s obvious Miss King was working for Gregor Venko. He agrees the exchange, then breaks his word.” He reached for the generous glass of brandy he’d poured as soon as we’d all adjourned to the study. I eyed the rate he was knocking it back with no small measure of alarm. “I should have known I couldn’t trust the man,” he muttered. “Scum of the earth.”

  “You’re overlooking another possibility, of course,” Sean said quietly. “That Jan could be working for the German security services.”

  Gilby’s head came up, surprise dusting across his face. “But we had an agreement!” he said. “They gave me their word.” He fell silent, seeming to realise the similarities of what he’d just said with his comments on Gregor.

  Sean saw his hesitation and went for it, moving in to the desk. “Major, I deal with security services around the world all the time and most of them would sell their own grandmothers if they thought it was to their advantage to do so. What makes you think this mob are going to stick to anything after the event? And anyway, what are you going to do about it if they don’t? You’re not even a German national.”

  “No, but Dieter is,” Gilby said immediately. “One with influence. If this cock-up does turn out to be down to the security services and anything happens to Heidi, Dieter will make waves from here to Bonn. Of that you can be quite certain.”

  Sean let his breath out hard and slammed his hands onto the desktop, making us all jump. It was a calculated display of temper rather than the real thing, just to get the Major’s attention. Sean leaned in to the other man’s face. “You’re talking about repercussions, Major,” he said tightly. “What we need now is a plan of action. You’re going to have to evacuate this place for a start. Get all the civilians out of here.”

  Gilby almost snorted. “What does that leave me with?”

  “Fewer hostages for a start,” Sean shot back.

  “But what do I tell the students?” Gilby’s voice was almost plaintive. His authority seemed to have dulled to grey, like an old shirt one time too many through a mixed wash.

  Sean stood up straight, stepped back as though he’d lose his temper for real if he didn’t put some distance between the two of them. “Tell them there’s going to be an investigation over the shooting,” he said. “Tell them what you like. What does it matter?”

  “You could always tell them the truth,” I said.

  Gilby threw me an acid glance. “And what does that gain me, precisely?”

  I shrugged. “You’ve got a good bunch of people out there,” I said, undeterred. “They may not be quite up to the standard you’re used to,” I couldn’t resist a sideways look to the three instructors as I said it, “but they still have a lot of valuable experience between them. Tell them the truth and you never know, some of them might decide to stay.”

  I stood, unable to sit and do nothing any longer, and looked down at the Major. “Let’s face it,” I said, “at this stage you need all the help you can get.”

  Todd rose also, muscled his way into the Major’s line of sight. “What about Rebanks? He’s a useful man and he’s probably the best shot we’ve got.”

  I caught the flicker of the Major’s eyes in my direction, and knew he was remembering that day on the CQB range, but he didn’t point that out to the stocky phys instructor.

  “How can I rely on him when he was cheating me so flagrantly?” he said instead. He wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze as he admitted, “Besides, he might also have been involved with Teddy Blakemore’s death.”

  “There’s one way to find out,” Sean said, impatient now. “Ask him.”

  From the other side of the room I heard O’Neill swear under his breath. “You’re serious aren’t you?” he said. “What makes you think for a moment that he’ll tell you the truth.”

  The look Sean passed over the Irishman was cold and flat. “I don’t know,” he said. “Does he enjoy pain?”

  ***

  Gilby led the way down to the cellars. There was a doorway under the curving staircase that I’d always assumed was a store cupboard. It turned out that it dropped straight down a set of stone steps that were rough almost to the point of being crude in their construction. The architects of the Manor had not wasted their talents on finesse for an area they only ever expected the servants to see.

  Once we were down a level, the Major moved off confidently along a narrow corridor, snapping on unshielded light bulbs as he went. Most of the men had to duck to avoi
d sending them swinging, but I didn’t have that problem.

  Several generations of wiring additions were clipped to the bare walls and our feet crunched on years of dust and grit on the stone floor. It was a grim place, full of foreboding. I couldn’t resist the urge to keep checking behind me, making sure I could recognise the way out when the time came.

  Eventually the Major paused by a small heavy wooden door, secured by an iron bolt that was so decorated it was almost ornamental. He shot it back, pushed the door open, and stepped through.

  Inside the cellar, Rebanks was sitting on an unmade camp bed wedged up against the back wall. He half came to his feet when Gilby walked in, but when he saw the other three instructors, then Sean and me, he dropped back again. His eyes had panic in them, but he put on a good show of being unconcerned.

  He looked small and scruffy, unshaven so that he’d sprouted the beginnings of a ginger beard that didn’t suit his narrow face. There was a big livid bruise across his throat and when he spoke his voice was rusty with it.

  “Well well, Major, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he said, aiming for a light casual note and just failing to carry it off.

  Gilby stood and stared at him for a while, not trying to mask his distaste. “Venko’s coming,” he said, “but I’m sure you knew that already, seeing as you’ve been supplying him with the armaments to attack us.”

  Rebanks waved a tired hand in the Major’s direction, as though he’d heard all this before and was bored with it. “Yeah well,” he drawled, “at least his credit was good.”

  Gilby’s features locked down tight. He took a quick step forwards and backhanded Rebanks across the face, hard enough to send his former weapons’ handling instructor reeling.

  And all of a sudden the atmosphere in that cramped cell had changed. I found myself parachuted in on the side of the interrogators and I didn’t like the view from there.

  I moved in, put my hand on Gilby’s arm. “Valentine,” I murmured, deliberately using his first name, trying to humanise him. “This isn’t helping.”

  For a second Gilby looked at me with that film of madness covering his eyes, then it lifted. He blinked a couple of times, came back to himself, rolled the tension out of his neck.

  Rebanks checked out the inside of his mouth with his tongue and dabbed a couple of finger ends at his cheekbone. It had started to swell, but the blow hadn’t broken the skin. He was shaken, clearly, but still defiant.

  “Since when did you start taking orders from a girl?” he jeered.

  “Considering Charlie was the one who caught you in the act,” Sean told him, eyes narrowed, “I’d watch your tone if I were you.”

  Rebanks swung his gaze back to me and I read part hatred, part fear there. The desire to be in a room alone with me for a short period of time was both an urgent desire and a phobia, all rolled into one.

  “Why did you do it, mate?” Figgis broke in then, sounding saddened rather than angry.

  Rebanks leaned back, aware he had his chance of an audience, and looked round the gathered faces. It was only me he avoided eye contact with. “The money, of course,” he said. When nobody responded to that he laughed. “Come on, we were all of us sick to the back teeth of the pay cheques bouncing every month.” He threw a disparaging look in Gilby’s direction. “Whatever else the army trained you for, Major, it certainly wasn’t accountancy.”

  The Major’s face darkened again, but this time he didn’t make any moves towards him.

  Rebanks eyed him for a moment, as if waiting to be sure before he continued. “I have contacts who can supply just about whatever you could wish for in the armaments line. That’s my job,” he said, almost boastful now. “And when you have those kinds of contacts, people get to know about it. I was approached by a buyer who wanted PM-98s. He offered good money to supply them, modified with heavier springs, and I took it, that’s all. I’d have been a fool not to. I didn’t ask any questions.”

  “What about when Venko’s lot jumped us in the forest?” Figgis demanded.

  “They might not have been the same guns,” Rebanks protested. “I mean, why the hell would a guy with Gregor Venko’s connections need to come to a comparatively small-time player like me for weapons. It didn’t make sense.”

  “The heavier springs would make the weapons handle hollowpoint ammo with less chance of misfeeds,” Sean pointed out quiely. “Did that not ring any bells?”

  Rebanks shrugged, in itself an admission.

  “Blakemore knew they were Venko’s men, as soon as they jumped us,” I said, recalling his vicious words to the driver of the Peugeot. “Is that why you ran him off the road? Because he was getting too close to finding out about your little deals?”

  Rebanks looked at me blankly for a second, then laughed. Really laughed, letting his head go back carelessly against the stonework behind him. He rubbed at it, rueful. “Wow,” he said at last. “I would have put you down as closer to being a redhead than a blonde, Charlie. But coming out with crap like that, are you sure you don’t dye your hair?”

  He sat forwards then, let his eyes drift slyly across Gilby’s men. “Oh I can tell you who killed old Blakemore and I can tell you why,” he said. “But what’s it worth to you to know?”

  Gilby let out an annoyed breath, little more than a hissing puff down his nostrils. “Don’t you know the penalties for gunrunning, Mr Rebanks?” he rapped.

  “No,” Rebanks said, shaking his head, insolent. “But tell me, Major, are they worse than the ones for armed kidnapping?”

  He let that one drift for a moment. In the confines of that dirty cell I could hear each man breathing.

  “All right, Mr Rebanks,” Gilby said through his teeth. “What do you want?”

  Rebanks never got to state his terms. I barely caught the flash of movement out of the corner of my eye as someone made a dash for the doorway. There was a scuffle behind me. By the time I’d turned, O’Neill was on the floor, thrashing about with Sean’s knee firmly planted in the middle of his back.

  Sean looked up and nodded briefly to Figgis. “Nice moves,” he said.

  Figgis gave him a faint smile as he uncoiled that long body back into its normal inoffensive mode. Todd was fast enough himself, but he was left just gaping at the pair of them.

  Gilby watched O’Neill’s struggles impassively, then turned back to Rebanks. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we won’t be needing your help in this matter after all, Mr Rebanks.” He tried to keep the smugness out of his tone, but couldn’t quite manage it. To Sean he said, “Get him up.”

  Sean stood, yanking the Irishman to his feet, seeming totally unconcerned by the other man’s weight and exertions. At one point O’Neill managed to get an arm loose and took a savage swing at Sean’s head.

  Sean ducked out of the way almost negligently, hooked both O’Neill’s arms up behind him and locked him tight. He applied just enough pressure on the joints so that O’Neill had to rise up on his toes to try and lessen it. Sean kept him there, teetering.

  Gilby frowned at his man. “Why?” he said. “What the hell had Blakemore done to you?”

  O’Neill just glared at him, the scar twisting his face into a sneer.

  I stepped forwards. “I think I can help you here,” I said. I took the Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and folded out its largest blade. For a second as I approached, O’Neill’s eyes bulged and he renewed his struggles, nearly popping a shoulder out in the process.

  “Don’t be an arsehole, O’Neill,” I said mildly, and cut his military style green jumper in two straight up the centre. I put the knife away and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it wide open. He was one of those men with a distinct hollow at his breastbone. The skin covering it was pale and he was visibly sweating.

  Below his ribs on the left-hand side – the same side where Elsa had been shot, I noticed – was a large square of white dressing, held in place with strips of surgical tape. I looked straight into O’Neill’s eyes as I reached for it, saw the dismay there
as it came away from his ribcage with a faint rip.

  Underneath was nothing. No wound, no blood. Just unmarred, smooth, clear skin.

  I glanced down at the dressing. It was clean.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s not a team player,” I murmured, then turned and dumped the wad of dressing into Gilby’s hand. He was staring backwards and forwards from me to O’Neill.

  “But he was wounded,” he said, confusion making his voice blank. “I saw him—”

  “He faked it,” I said. “It wasn’t hard. He has to fake something very similar on every course during the night shoot. Blakemore knew that he’d panicked under fire and bottled out, and he was threatening to tell. That’s how you were compromised, Major. That’s how Kirk was shot.” As I said this last part I met Sean’s gaze. That’s it, I thought. Now the job really is over. But where do we go from here?