One Fell Swoop

by David Linzee

  “What are you asking of me?”

  “Just make sure that Mavalankar lives up to his word. The exchange will take place here, the statement for Don Radleigh. And everyone walks away in one piece.”

  The Sheikh unfolded his legs and stood up. He was surprisingly short. He looked at Peter and Renata directly for the first time. He said, “I will ring Anand.”

  Negotiations went on most of the night. Renata did not follow every twist and turn, because the sheikh talked to Mavalankar from his office, with the door closed. He then called in Reeve, who relayed the latest move to Peter and Renata. This much she understood: Mavalankar was outraged at the sheikh’s intervention. He was still complaining when the nine o’clock time of the original rendezvous passed. Eventually he conceded. But he seemed to be fighting just as long and hard against each proposal Reeve and the sheikh made. Reeve was equally patient and stubborn. Negotiating big deals with powerful people was what he did for a living, after all, and he was bright-eyed and intent. He seemed like a different person from the one she had met on the Strand in the afternoon.

  The servants came in at regular intervals to serve an elegant tea with silver and china. The Americans got their coffee. Trays of sandwiches arrived, too. Renata thought she was too nervous to eat, but she wasn’t. The cheddar, chutney and tomato proved delicious.

  At two in the morning, Reeve emerged from the office to inform them of new developments. “He’s agreed. The meeting will happen here. On the estate. Tomorrow morning. Mavalankar will be present.”

  Peter asked, “Did you push hard for that last one, Phil?”

  Reeve nodded. “Remember what we said before—Mavalankar arranges to be elsewhere when there’s wet work to be done. If he’s on hand, the proceedings are much more likely to remain civilized. Why? What are you worried about?”

  “You,” said Renata.

  “You still have that gun in your pocket, Phil. It occurs to us that the real reason you’re helping to set up this meeting is to get Mavalankar in your sights.”

  Reeve shook his head. “If I start shooting, they’ll start shooting.”

  “Right,” said Renata. “We could all end up dead.”

  “I saw the way you were looking at Mavalankar this afternoon,” said Peter. “Are you sure that when you see him again, you’ll be able to leave the gun in your pocket?”

  Reeve sat beside them on the sofa. “Okay. I’ll level with you. It’s not going to be easy for me to watch Mavalankar walk away with that statement in his pocket. You can help.” He looked over his shoulder, to make sure that the door to the sheikh’s office was closed, and leaned closer to them. “You said earlier that you planned on making trouble for Mavalankar. Please elaborate.”

  “We made a copy.”

  “A copy?” Reeve frowned. “That possibility didn't occur to Mavalankar. Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

  “The copy’s unimportant,” Renata said. “As soon as Don’s free, he will go to the police and make his statement all over again.”

  “Mavalankar thinks your brother is a broken man. That as soon as he’s free, he’ll crawl into the deepest hole he can find.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that right now Don is scared shitless,” said Renata. “I would be too, if I was in Mavalankar’s hands. Once he’s out of them, he’ll recover.”

  Reeve raised his eyebrows, furrowing his brow. “I’ve told you how your brother impressed me.”

  “He was a bloody fool to work for Mavalankar. But he’s paid for it. Now he’s as determined as you are to nail the bastard.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I have faith in my brother.” She smiled wanly. “Somebody has to.”

  “So let’s get him back,” said Reeve.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Both sides had agreed that full light would be desirable, so the rendezvous was set for an hour after sunrise. But this was England in November, and Renata emerged from the house into faint light. Leaden overcast covered the whole sky. The rain had stopped sometime in the night. The air was still and clammy.

  The four of them set off in the sheikh’s electric golf cart. He was driving it himself, the wheel practically rubbing up against his belly. He had changed to corduroy trousers and Barbour jacket. He was on the phone with Mavalankar, approaching the estate in his car and still trying to chisel some advantage. The sheikh told him negotiations were over. Reeve, in the front seat, kept looking over at him, and Renata could read his thoughts: if only the sheikh had learned to be this firm with Mavalankar a bit earlier, Reeve would still be chancellor of Adams University.

  In the back, she was holding Peter’s hand. Her own was so sweaty she fancied they might be welded together. She whispered, “What is Mavalankar on about?”

  “The negotiations have assumed a life of their own. I don’t think he’s planning any tricks.”

  “Peter, how can you be so calm? Reeve I can understand. All those mornings of lacing up his boots, picking up his rifle, going out into Baghdad. But you’re a civilian.”

  “Old reporter’s trick you learn covering riots. You’re just there to observe. Makes you feel invulnerable.”

  “You men are so manly. I’m absolutely terrified.”

  “We men aren’t the ones who are going forward to meet Mavalankar. You are. But there’s every reason to hope it will go as planned.”

  They drove past a rose garden put to bed for the winter, bound stalks in semi-circular beds centering on a statue of Diana drawing her bow. The cart stopped and the sheikh led them up a small hill. The lawn fell away from them in a gentle slope, to a twenty-foot-tall column topped by a figure of Mercury in full stride.

  Reeve pointed at it. “That’s where you’ll meet,” he said to Renata and the sheikh.

  He raised his hand and swept it along the low rise that bounded their view. “Beyond that hill is the drive from the gates. Mavalankar and Don will leave the car there. When you see them on top of the hill, start walking. Don’t walk faster than they do. You want to meet under the statue, not on their side of it. You got that, Renata? Mavalankar will figure you’re eager to get this over with.”

  “He won’t be wrong.”

  “He’ll try to use that feeling to his advantage. Don’t let him. Mavalankar is allowed a driver and a bodyguard, but they have to stay in the car.”

  Renata nodded, remembering his previous briefing. “If I see them come over the hill, I shout. You and Peter will be down here with the cart, and—”

  “No.”

  “I thought that was the agreement.”

  “It was. But we chose the ground and we’re going to use it.”

  She glanced at the sheikh, but he was listening impassively. As Peter said, the negotiations had taken on a life of their own, and during those hours of verbal combat, the pliable sheikh had moved away from Mavalankar and toward Reeve.

  “Pete and I will be in the haha.”

  “The what?” Peter said.

  Reeve pointed, and only now did Renata see a trench with a retaining wall in it, curving away to their right.

  “A haha,” the sheikh said. “The name comes from the exclamation you make when you finally see it. They were very popular in the eighteenth century. Keeps the sheep from getting into the rose garden but doesn’t spoil the view, the way a fence would.”

  “It’s invisible from the other side,” Reeve said. “If Mavalankar does what he’s supposed to do, he’ll leave without ever knowing we were there. If he tries to fuck with us, we’ll have the advantage.”

  The sheikh’s phone played its ring tone, the first notes of the overture to Pirates of Penzance. He held it to his ear, listened, and reported to them. The car was at the gatehouse, with Mavalankar, his chauffeur, bodyguard, and Don. The sheikh relayed a meticulous description. It was indeed Don, and he showed no signs of ill treatment. The agreed-upon frisk established that, as also agreed, the chauffeur and bodyguard were armed, Mavalankar was not. The search of the car turned up no more weapons. All was go
ing according to plan.

  “Let them proceed,” ordered the sheikh. “Close the gates. Let no one else in.”

  “We’ll take our position, Pete,” Reeve said, and grinned at the sheikh and Renata. “Good luck. See you both at breakfast.”

  They started walking side by side but Peter soon fell behind. The ground under the dense grass was saturated and the tip of his cane was sinking into it with every step. Reeve looked back and noticed. He got behind Peter, to step on and obscure the almost invisible punctures. When they reached the steep bank of the haha, Reeve grasped his arm. They half-slid, half scrambled down into it. Their shoes sank into a mud puddle. Reeve peered over the stone retaining wall of the trench. “Perfect height for me. You’ll have to crouch down.”

  He reached into the pocket of his jacket, drew the pistol, and raised it to his mouth. Gripping the slide between his teeth, he pulled it back and released it, chambering a round. With his thumb, he flicked off the safety. “I was lucky to get hold of this. Beretta M9. Fine weapon. I’ve used it before.”

  “You mean, you’ve shot people with it in Iraq.”

  “Yes.”

  On the hill, Renata and the sheikh waited. She was longing to ask him if he thought Mavalankar would keep his word. But that would be pointless. They stood silent until the sheikh gave an explosive sneeze. She jumped and said, “Bless you. Or … sorry, if you don’t say that in Islam.”

  The sheikh was pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve. He dabbed his moustache carefully and smiled at her. “Let us hope He reserves His blessings for the next few minutes.”

  Atop the far hill, two figures appeared. She recognized Don’s gait at once. He was hanging his head so that he appeared no taller than Mavalankar. She and the sheikh started walking. She remembered that at this point she was to take out the buff envelope containing Don’s statement. She did, holding it in her right hand. When Don raised his head and recognized her, he froze for an instant, then bounded forward. Mavalankar grabbed his elbow and pulled him back.

  As they descended the gentle slope, the ground became soggier. Mavalankar’s pace slowed. He had to hold Don back again. Renata longed to break into a run, to get to Don as soon as she could. But she remembered Reeve’s advice and slowed her own step, matching the sheikh’s. Both of them were facing front, careful not to glance toward the haha.

  When they were twenty paces apart, Don locked his gaze with hers. Funny how eloquent were the eyes of someone you knew well. Her brother’s spoke of his regret and resolve.

  She glanced at Mavalankar. His eyes told her nothing. He was wearing a long, fawn-colored mackintosh and green Wellington boots. He looked warm, dry, and comfortable.

  They reached the base of the Mercury column and stopped. No one spoke. Renata held out the envelope and Mavalankar took it. Don started forward. Mavalankar caught his arm again.

  “Not yet, I want to see what I’m getting.” He slid the manuscript out of the envelope. “This is what you wrote? Your first page was your boarding pass?”

  Don shut his eyes with disgust at the mildly amused voice. He hated to look at Mavalankar, to talk to him, and Mavalankar knew it. “Yes.”

  “How many pages did you write in all?”

  “No idea.”

  “It’s thirteen pages,” said Renata. “They’re all there.”

  Mavalankar paged through to the end, and held the last page up to the light. Then he read slowly, looking up often to savor the wretchedness on Don’s face. “ ‘I think I can pull this off. But I’ll admit it doesn’t come as naturally to me as fleeing while Hannah was bleeding her life away. If we don’t meet again, I’m sorry for the trouble I caused.’ Then your signature. And that is the end of what you wrote?”

  “Yes.”

  Smiling, Mavalankar put the statement back in the envelope, folded it, and shoved into an inner pocket of his mackintosh. He looked at Renata. “Did you photocopy it?”

  Renata’s heart sank. There was nothing to do but lie and hope to be believed. “No.”

  “But how do I know that?”

  The sheikh said, “You should have raised that point earlier. It’s too late now.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m not satisfied I’ve got the only copy.”

  He firmly grasped Don’s arm again. His other hand dropped into his coat pocket, then re-emerged. Renata had the feeling he had a phone in his pocket and had just sent a signal.

  “What did you just do?” demanded the sheikh.

  “Nothing. You’re coming with me, my friend. We’ll hold onto the both of them until we verify we have all the copies. Then we’ll let them go.”

  “No, you won’t,” said the sheikh. “You’ll kill them. And you’re dragging me into your crime. Just the way you did before.”

  Renata looked up. A man was coming over the top of the hill. It was Flathead, wearing the same soft tweed cap he’d worn when he chased her along the canal. He was carrying some sort of short rifle. He bore down on them with the upright posture and rapid stride she remembered.

  In the trench Peter said, “It must be the fucking bodyguard. He’s got some kind of machine gun.”

  “Heckler & Koch MP, I think. Fires ten rounds a second. Step in front of me.”

  Peter obeyed and Reeve’s forearm settled securely on the small ledge where Peter’s collarbone met his shoulder muscle. “This is a long shot with a pistol. Hold your breath.”

  “Chancellor, remember what we said. Don’t shoot Mavalankar. He’s too close to Renata.”

  “I went to West Point, son. You don’t have to tell me to shoot the guy with the gun. Now shut up and don’t breathe till I tell you.”

  The man kept on coming. Peter held as still as he ever had in his life. It seemed that Reeve was never going to fire.

  The pistol going off so close to his ear was deafening. Peter flinched, but it didn’t matter, the bullet was away. The running man pitched forward, rolled, rose to his knees. The gun was still in his hand. Reeve fired again and blew his brains out the back of his head in a long, dark-red plume. He collapsed.

  “Now you can breathe.”

  The instant Reeve’s arm lifted from his shoulder, Peter jumped to the retaining wall and tried to scramble up it. To no avail. His bad leg collapsed and he fell back into the mud at the bottom of the trench. Reeve was trying to get up the earthen bank, but his feet slipped in the mud and he went down on his hand, then toppled onto his side. Instead of trying to rise, he rolled onto his belly, dug in his toecaps, knees and elbow, and began to crawl up the bank. It was the only way, Peter realized, and it was going to be too slow. Renata was on her own.

  Mavalankar saw his man go down. He swung round to give the sheikh a shocked and disbelieving look. That he had tried to double-cross the sheikh did not make it any more credible to him that the sheikh would double-cross him. Then he dropped Don’s arm, turned, and ran.

  Renata went after him. She called out, “Don! Get the gun and follow me!” But she did not look back to see if he was doing it.

  Mavalankar’s run was the awkward waddle of a heavy man, the tails of his mackintosh flying around him. But his boot soles gave him traction on the wet ground and he was moving deceptively fast. Renata was not gaining. As they went up the rise, the footing got drier and her longer stride began to tell. She closed the gap and jumped on his back.

  They tumbled head over heels. As she got to her knees and raised her head Mavalankar’s hand flew at her and drove his thumb into her eye. The pain made her scream. She lurched backward. He came at her, head-butting her. She fell back, tasting blood. When she opened her eyes, Mavalankar was half a dozen strides away. She could no longer see his legs. He was over the crest of the hill and would soon disappear from view. She scrambled to her feet and went after him.

  Once over the hill, she saw the driveway and the car, a Land Rover. Mavalankar was running toward it, halfway down the hill. It was steep, and she had to throw her weight back to keep her footing. The driver was climbing out of his seat, sta
ring at his boss open-mouthed.

  “Shoot her!” Mavalankar yelled at him.

  The man’s hand came out of his jacket with a gun in it. He crouched to brace his elbows on the bonnet. Renata thought of putting Mavalankar between herself and the gunman but he was too far below. Then she thought of throwing herself to the ground. Maybe the gunman would miss. Or wouldn’t even fire if she stopped chasing his boss.

  But thinking didn’t seem to matter. She was not going to let Mavalankar escape. She was getting closer to him. And to the gunman.

  A flurry of pops.

  She lurched to a stop. Realized she was not hit. A few steps away, Mavalankar had also stopped and was looking over his shoulder. Don was standing atop the hill with the machine gun in his hands. He fired another burst, aiming at the car. The driver ducked. The burst had no other visible effect. Don fired again. Another flock of bullets flew harmlessly away.

  Mavalankar turned and ran on. Renata ran after him. The driver braced his elbows and aimed at her.

  Another flurry of pops, and the windscreen and windows of the car exploded. Its doors were riddled with holes rimmed in bare steel. Hunched over, using the car as cover, the gunman wriggled into the driver’s seat. Keeping his head down, he started the engine.

  “No!” Mavalankar roared.

  The gunman put the car in gear and drove away slowly, his punctured rear tire flopping on its wheel rim.

  Renata straightened up and took a deep breath. She realized that her eye hurt like hell. Covering it, she approached Mavalankar. But his gaze was on Don, walking slowly toward him, the machine gun leveled at his stomach.

  “I am unarmed,” Mavalankar said. “I won’t resist.”

  Don let the gun muzzle drop. “What a shame. Just when I’d got the hang of this thing.”

  Epilogue

  Gretel accused Hansel of eating all the strawberries, and he riposted that she had eaten as many as he. The children bickered on, to the accompaniment of Engelbert Humperdinck’s rippling, teasing music. Hansel wore a short blond wig and lederhosen, and galumphed around the stage in boyish fashion, but the figure was recognizably womanly, and the full, mellow voice was that of a mezzo-soprano.