by Chris Ryan
Mary was waiting with a loaded tray. 'Down the corridor, through the hall and it's the first room you come to. Come back straight away because I'll need you to help prepare lunch.'
Amber hefted up the tray. It was heavy. The silver was old and everything was monogrammed – TH. Ter Haar. On the back of the swing door was a plan of the building. Amber glanced at it, trying to take in as much as possible. Mary's voice sounded behind her, irritated. 'Really, you can't miss it.' But Amber had seen enough. The ground floor was mainly open plan, but upstairs there were some bedrooms that might be worth investigating. She put her back to the swing door and went through.
It was as if she'd been teleported into a different house. She was in a modern hallway, big and white. White tiles covered the floor and a double doorway led to a sitting room. This was pale too: a deep carpet in a soft grey, cream sofas and a large glass coffee table; a brushed steel fireplace, pristine and sparkling and obviously never used, was on one wall; above it hung a Cézanne painting, the deep colours made more rich by the understated surroundings. It was a reproduction, of course – Amber had seen the real thing in a friend's collection in Boston. She stuck her tongue out at it, then reminded herself she was a submissive servant. The silly uniform and the relics of the colonial past were making her feel rebellious.
Another door at the far end of the room led to a study. She heard voices coming from it and moved quietly forwards to listen. Two cups – he must have someone in there. Bowman? Instead of putting the tray down on the glass table she balanced it on one arm like a waitress, knocked at the door and went in.
It was a dark, wood-panelled room. There were two men in there, on either side of a big oak desk. One of them, sitting on the side with the drawers, had a big fleshy face and meticulously neat hair. He looked at her with pale blue eyes that matched his shirt. Ter Haar, presumably. The man on the other side wasn't Bowman. He wore a lightweight suit and looked like he was visiting on business. Probably his financial manager – Amber recognized the logo of a private American bank on the papers spread across the desk.
Ter Haar waved at her, barely looking at her. 'We'll have it in the lounge,' he said curtly.
Amber backed out with the tray and the door swung shut behind her. Coming into the room from this angle she saw how long it was. Beyond the pale sofas was a dining area, with another fireplace and a long glass table. Well, it was clear Bowman wasn't there. She dumped the tray on the coffee table and went out into the hall. While Ter Haar was busy downstairs, she could have a look at the upper floor.
The staircase was grand, reminding Amber of Gone with the Wind, curling into a wide sweep at the bottom, but tiled like the hall. Ter Haar obviously liked clean, modern decor. She skipped up the stairs quietly, making her movements purposeful. If anyone saw her they would think she had been sent on an errand.
The landing was wide and square. Three white doors led off it on each side, all of them closed. She went for the first on the left. As a servant she didn't need to think of an excuse to be there – she just knocked and went in.
The room was a bedroom, and empty. There were no signs of occupation – no shaving items in the bathroom or clothes in the wardrobe. Amber noticed the fluffy white towels as she went past the bathroom for the second time and grabbed one, shaking out the neat folds. It was as big as a bed sheet. She bundled it up in her arms so that it made a big pile. Now she had a way to hide her face if she needed to.
The next bedroom was much grander. The bed was a big four-poster antique, like something from a film about Henry VIII, and the curtains by the floor-length windows were of expensive white linen. It must be Ter Haar's room. Not much chance of Bowman being in here, she chuckled. She also noticed it was very much a man's room – no feminine items in the wardrobe and no potions and lotions in the bathroom. So Ter Haar lived alone. That meant he had no family he had to keep his secrets from.
She made her way out again. One other bedroom, she found, was occupied, with a simple overnight kit in the bathroom – razor, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste – and just a basic change of clothes and a small rucksack in the bedroom. Someone who travelled light, she thought. Probably the armed man's room. Thinking that there might be more clues in the rucksack, she opened it up, smiling to herself. What was she expecting – balaclava and pistol?
But there was something in there.
Amber lifted it out. A dive computer. She quickly put it back, gathered up her towel and got out of the room, choosing one of the others that she knew was empty and going in. Now she could think.
Bowman wasn't in the house. So why was the armed man still here? Because he'd had other jobs to do? The assassination? Had he also planted the bomb in the tanker? The dive computer suggested he might have. Although he could borrow all the rest of the kit, when it came to monitoring details that could affect his own survival, he wanted equipment that he knew he could trust. Possible hit man; expert diver, saboteur. Vicious enough to shoot someone with a harpoon gun. He had a formidable background. And the dive computer showed he took care to look after himself.
A professional.
She brought out her phone and unwrapped it. 12.30. Time for a progress report. As the room had a bathroom with a lock on the door, she went in there, shutting the door and locking herself in before texting. 'BB not in house.' She pressed SEND.
What now? She could look around for outbuildings in case Bowman was being kept there, but that would surely not be as secure as the house. The bathroom window overlooked the terrace, with a view down to the sea. She could see no outbuildings – just the garage, which she'd already seen. Maybe her work here was done.
She picked up her rumpled towel and came out of the bathroom. The bedroom door handle was turning. Someone was coming in. Amber thought like lightning. She could have relied on her disguise, holding up the towel and ducking by, but she heard an accent that sent shivers up her spine like sparks. It was slightly Germanic – Ter Haar.
'Wait a minute, I'll go somewhere quiet.'
He was having a phone conversation he didn't want anyone else to hear.
She flattened herself on the soft carpet and rolled under the bed.
The door opened and a figure walked in. Amber could see pale linen trousers and Gucci shoes. She would probably have found herself polishing them if she'd hung around for much longer. The mattress dipped above her as he sat down.
'Fire away.'
Amber held her breath. Ter Haar remained quiet, listening to the other caller. The silence seemed so long. Was that all he was going to do? Just listen?
Then he spoke. 'It's twenty-five million dollars each.' A pause. 'Yes, straight to your personal bank account. But you've got to get Bowman to sign that document or the deal's off.' Another pause. 'And then make sure he can never interfere with us again. I think he'd better go over the side.'
Amber froze. That was crystal clear: they had Bowman, they wanted him to sign something and then they would kill him. Sweat began to run off her forehead. If a man could coolly talk about another man's death like that, she'd better make sure she wasn't caught.
Ter Haar rang off. He got up. The dip in the mattress rose.
Amber tried to flatten herself as much as possible into the carpet, the towel in front of her face. What if he turned back and saw her? Her ears followed his every footstep.
He went to the door and was gone.
Still under the bed, Amber wriggled her phone out. Her thumbs worked like lightning. TH planning to kill BB. I'm on way out. B careful. She pressed SEND, then wrapped the phone back up and put it away; it was definitely time to get out.
She wriggled out from under the bed and opened the door. Out on the landing nothing had changed – there was quiet, with just the gentle background sound of plates being stacked in the kitchen downstairs. The finance man must have stayed in the study while Ter Haar slipped away to take his phone call. Yet to Amber it now looked different. This was the house of a man who was ready to order somebody's death. She hoi
cked up her towel so that it concealed her face and started to walk down the stairs.
'You. Stop.'
Amber froze. It was Ter Haar. Had he seen her come out of the bedroom? If he had, he would know that she could have heard him on the phone.
His footsteps sounded harsh on the tiled floor as he came down behind her. Amber turned round, looking up into his big, fleshy face.
'What were you doing in that room?' The accent sounded chilling and surgical; the pale eyes looked at her coldly.
Amber's mind raced. Should she say something? Should she remain silent? Better to look scared stiff. Then he might think she didn't speak English.
He grabbed her arm and shook it hard. He was shouting now. 'I won't ask you again – what were you doing?'
Amber couldn't answer. The moment he heard her speak he'd never believe she was a simple West Indian servant.
Ter Haar shook her again, frustrated. Panic flared in Amber's stomach. He was going to push her down the stairs. A scenario flashed through her mind – terrible tragedy, the new maid fell down and broke her neck. There must have been about twenty-five steps; if you threw someone down them you could hurt them badly. She got ready to curl up to minimize the damage. Instead Ter Haar kicked her on the leg to get her moving and forced her to march down the stairs.
'John?' he called.
The hit man came out of the lounge and looked up at Ter Haar and Amber. His craggy face showed no surprise. The rifle swung gently from his shoulder.
Ter Haar was looking down on Amber. He saw the bundle in her top pocket and snatched it out. The black pants fell away to reveal her mobile phone. He held it up to show the hit man. 'I caught her thieving.' His voice was incredulous.
Amber shivered. He knew it wasn't his phone.
'What do you want me to do?' said the hit man. 'You could call the police.' His accent was English and regional, but she couldn't place it. It wasn't like Hex's or Alex's.
Ter Haar shoved Amber forward. 'No, I think you should teach her a lesson.'
She stumbled down the last few stairs in front of him, sweat spreading across her back like a cold hand. If they looked at her phone closely, they'd find the message she'd just sent to the others. Why, oh why, hadn't she deleted it? At the foot of the stairs the hit man took her arm and Ter Haar let go, as though she was a baton in a relay race.
Ter Haar turned her phone on and the screen came up with the picture of the pink fluffy toy Hex had sent to her. She'd kept it as her start-up picture for the week. Ter Haar saw it and immediately lost interest. He dropped the phone on the floor where it clattered and bounced, the LCD screen cracking and the glowing pink blob vanishing. Broken. Now it wouldn't tell any tales.
That told Amber a number of things. Ter Haar wasn't used to this game – doing things where people might be spying on you. Someone professional would have checked the phone thoroughly, not discarded it. That made things a bit better for her. But it also told her he wasn't going to keep pretending she was just a simple thief. Here, Ter Haar and his hired muscle were a law unto themselves.
And that didn't look good at all.
16
PUNISHMENT
Ter Haar walked off towards the lounge, leaving Amber alone with the hit man. She doubted that his name was really John, but she knew that he was very, very dangerous.
The hit man moved her easily out onto the terrace at the front of the house. He did it as though manhandling people by force was the most natural thing in the world. Down below were the strangely coloured pools of the old salt pans.
Paulo and Li were still in position up in the woods. Would they be able to see? What would they do? And what did the hit man plan to do with her?
She walked slowly, awkwardly, to give her time to think of a plan. The hit man pushed her roughly. Amber still had the towel and held it up to her face, whimpering into it so that she looked completely cowed.
'Be quiet,' he said. He reached to take the towel away, Amber pulled back and he yanked it again. Amber seized her chance. She flipped around in a judo twist, using the man's momentum to throw him off balance, but he twisted out of it, grabbing Amber by the scruff of her neck and dragging her to the nearest pond. Her feet became tangled in the towel and her neck burned as his nails dug into her flesh. As they hit the gravel, her knees crunched. The water loomed up, mottled fuchsia and red like a sky at sunset. As if in slow motion she could see the reflection of her own dark, frightened face and wide eyes with the powerful figure behind. She smelled the stagnant water and saw the slimy algae fronds waving like rotten spinach.
Then her face was in the water.
She squeezed her mouth and eyelids together. The brine seared her nose like acid and she prayed she could keep it out of her eyes. The hit man pulled her head up and she gasped in air. It tasted sweet. But not for long. Amber's head was forced down again, her mouth still open. Her lower lip, tongue and teeth shovelled up a heap of grit, slimy things tickled the roof of her mouth and the brine fired the back of her throat and made her gag. As her throat opened she sucked in more. It tasted disgusting, like putrid vegetables. Her eyes – she had to keep them shut.
He pulled her out and turned her head so that he could see her desperate face. Her eyes flew open and she spat, hard. Briny, slimy, gritty water blasted the hit man full in the face. He roared, his hands scrabbling at his eyes. Like an eel, Amber wriggled free.
She didn't look back; she just ran.
Li and Paulo had seen it all. Ter Haar's burly guard was on his feet, spluttering and rubbing his eyes. Amber's long legs pumped as she raced into the sugarcane plantation. She was coughing, but the bottom half of her body just carried on running regardless. Li had already texted Alex and Hex when they saw Amber being brought outside. Now she texted them again: Amber on the run. B careful tracing. Pursuer has gun.
The burly man lifted his gun and fired after Amber. Li and Paulo jumped at the sound.
Then he gave chase.
Paulo grabbed Li. 'We'd better find more cover. We don't know if he'll end up coming over here.' He started squirming along the ground on his front, like a lizard climbing a wall, and Li followed. They batted aside the slender stalks of sugar cane with their arms, like swimmers doing breaststroke, while wildlife scooted away from them – lizards, rabbits with white tails, bug-eyed frogs, non-poisonous whipsnakes as long as Li's arm. The two friends kept down as flat as possible.
Behind them they heard more shots. They stopped, both holding their breath. Was there a scream? They couldn't see out of the plantation now – which probably meant they couldn't be seen either.
Li let out her breath. 'They're not coming this way. Should we go back? Set up a diversion?'
Paulo shook his head. 'We don't know where they've gone. We'd better get back to Hex and see where her tracer is.'
Li pulled out her compass and took a reading. 'Well, that way's north . . .'
Paulo picked up a stick from the dusty earth and drew a quick sketch. 'This is the house, which faced south-west. This is the road . . .'
Li consulted the compass again, then pointed to a spot on the map. 'We need to go this way.' She took out her phone and texted again: L+P safe. Coming 2 U.
Paulo said quietly, 'He must have been trying to drown her in the salt pan so that she'd have salt in her lungs. Then they could throw her in the sea.'
Li's voice fell to a whisper. 'I don't like leaving her.'
Paulo's brown eyes were intense. 'If he's still shooting, that means she's still running.'
Amber's lungs were bursting, her legs burning. Her mouth felt scoured and raw. With her arms she beat aside the whippy stalks of cane, crashing them aside as though hacking them down. The hit man was behind her, running hard, the crash of his pursuit filling her ears and fuelling her with adrenaline. A shot whistled past her ear. If she stopped he would have a captive target. A deer crashed into her, but she kept her legs going, determined not to fall. The deer pummelled her with its tiny hooves. Still she ran. While she ra
n he couldn't stop to take aim – all he could do was shoot wildly. She must not stop. Must not.
Amber was fit but running at top speed was exhausting her. Yet still the man kept up. He was like a machine.
Where could she go? What could she do? Where would it end? He had a gun. It could just come down to who was the fitter. Although he was stronger, Amber had age on her side; she must be a good twenty years younger. She'd have to exhaust him.
Her breath was deafening in her ears, her blood roaring like a hurricane, but she could still hear the breathing of her pursuer and the sound of his footfalls. That was more frightening than any hurricane.