But the driver had now twigged. They were after his passenger.
‘’Ere. What’s going on?’ he shouted down. ‘I don’t want no trouble.’
It was no good. The horse-drawn cab could not outpace the car. It was closing fast, wreaking havoc. And Finch could see… the second police car. It, too, was screeching down Sloane Street, gaining.
The first police Ford was now close enough for Finch to see inside. It was just the driver – Jennings – with Coates beside him. Coates was waving his arm, indicating for the cab to slow, to pull in to the kerb.
Within seconds, it had revved hard and drawn alongside the cab on its offside, decelerating slightly to impart a message. Finch ducked down.
‘Pull over!’ demanded an enraged PC Jennings.
That bastard just tried to shoot me.
The confused cabbie, his horse spooked by the motor vehicle, thrown off its stride, shouted for the police car to move out of the way. He couldn’t comply otherwise.
Coates leaned over, hoping to be heard.
‘Finch, for God’s sake, just stop this nonsense!’
The police car screamed ahead again and went to cut across the cab, which had begun to slow down anyway. Jennings braked the car hard on a diagonal.
Oncoming carts and wagons swerved out of their way.
The slamming of the brakes made it aquaplane. A number 137 bus, with ‘Marble Arch’ on the front, travelling in the other direction, coming towards them, was forced into an evasive manoeuvre, its jittered horses wide-eyed with panic.
The bus threw Jennings’ concentration. On the wet surface, and with his eye off the ball, he lost control. The car spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees and – with a horrific crump of metal – slammed into a gas lamp, almost folding in two around it.
Amid a wild clatter of hooves, the cabbie hauled in the reins, stopped, and jumped down to help. The bus screeched to a halt, skewing sideways, blocking the road. There was steam hissing from the car’s radiator. Jennings was slumped over the steering wheel. He had blood pouring from a head wound. He waved his arm, limply, motioning that he was okay.
They were opposite a Lyons’ teahouse, where people had taken refuge. Suddenly there was a blur of folk rushing out… and from the bus, too. For a moment, Finch was of no consequence. He seized his moment, climbed down and ran.
Coates had staggered from the wreckage, Finch saw – and he felt relief at the sight. He was gesturing in vain for his men to follow Finch, who had now turned the corner past the Byzantine-style Cadogan Hall. The detective’s other arm hung limply.
The coppers from the second police car gave chase on foot. Again, he heard a chorus of police whistles.
BANG! Another gunshot.
Jesus, the police were supposed to be unarmed. But then these were Special Branch…
BANG! Another.
One of the stained glass windows on the Cadogan Hall became a rainbow shower of crystal.
‘Stop, police!’
Finch turned a corner and ducked into a doorway, an arched red-brick porch, tucking himself out of sight. For a brief moment, his aches and pains, especially in his knee, erupted in symphonic overload. He held his breath.
Four policemen thundered past, splashing through the wet. They had not seen him.
It was grey, soaking and miserable, and yet he was still aware of some kind of crowd forming, the British public never failing to materialise for an ‘occasion’.
He was just a few streets away from the Russian embassy. He recalled the conversation in the police car as it had got stuck in Parliament Square earlier… The ambassador would proceed along Eaton Square… the Palace… the Mall…
He dashed down to the main road. There was a large, empty flat-bed cart clipping along. He ran behind it for a few paces, then launched himself onto the back. The driver didn’t notice.
At Eaton Square, just a minute away, he hopped off. The driver saw him this time and yelled: ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!’
But Finch had now pushed into the bodies on the south side of the square, working his way along the railings, behind the folks who had gathered two, three deep back from the roadside. He would have to follow the ambassadorial motorcade, try and keep up. But it was going to be impossible to track it all the way to Whitehall. Maybe he could stop it.
Yes, that’s it! He must stop it!
Someone from the embassy, or from the government, had had their publicity people working overtime. Along the line of the route, bedraggled children were waving sodden Union Jacks and Russian tricolours. Though he heard, too, adult mutterings of ‘Bloody Russians’ and how the ‘bastards had got off lightly’. Behind the children lurked more drenched onlookers, drawn, as ever, towards pomp and spectacle, regardless of the politics behind it.
Think, Finch! Where…?
The next stretch, the route round Buckingham Palace and the Mall, was out in the open – easy for close access if a bomb or grenade were to be hurled at the car, though it would be an imprecise act, without guarantee of success and with no cover for an escape.
By contrast, the last leg of the journey, along Whitehall, had high buildings towering over the road – good sniping positions, better for a precision kill – but it would require considerable hubris on the part of any assassin, right in the very heart of the establishment, in the most secure quarter of the British Empire, a mere stone’s throw from Scotland Yard.
If he had to stop the ambassador, it would have to be…
Then, he froze.
Up ahead, he saw him… Smert.
He was looking upwards, high, to a building across the square.
Of course. It was perfect!
Finch followed the line of vision. He could barely see it, obscured by the black, wet branches. But there, in an attic window… a small lower pane was missing.
He heard the hubbub of excitement and watched Smert nod in communication as, right now – in this road closed to ordinary traffic – a great red Mercedes-Benz limousine bedecked with ambassadorial regalia was turning the corner.
No sooner had he seen it than he was suddenly, violently wrestled to ground, his face crunching into the slabs of the pavement.
‘Dr Ingo Finch… I hereby place you under arrest…’
* * *
Mordecai turned from the Brute and trained his scope on the western end of the street. In the absence of traffic, the Mercedes-Benz was travelling faster than anticipated. The question of the road closure still bothered him. There should have been nothing left to chance.
And now there was some kind of disturbance, a kerfuffle. The police, several officers, were amongst the crowd, pulling someone to the ground.
Concentrate!
The limousine glided along. The rain had eased off slightly, but it still affected the atmospherics… it could distort the flight of a bullet. Mordecai poised his barrel, ready to shoot slightly ahead.
Up front sat the chauffeur. In the rear, behind a divider, but still with an open top, sat two men, one younger, dark-haired, probably an aide, and then, on the left-hand side, in plain sight, the glum, grey-haired ambassador with his bushy moustache, the same face he had studied in a hundred photographs.
How ridiculously, criminally exposed.
But… an umbrella!
Mordecai got the crosshairs on the man’s temple, but his view was then blocked. He moved slightly ahead, along the line of the bridge of the nose, aiming to shoot when he came fully into profile. He eased his breathing. Slowly, gently, he squeezed the trigger. But, again, the accursed umbrella…
* * *
Finch was hauled to his feet. There were four police around him. Limping up behind, clearly struggling, clutching his injured arm, was Coates.
‘Finch. This is idiocy!’
‘Is it?’ said Finch.
With one wild swing, his fist flew through the air and connected with the jaw of the constable restraining him. Free again, with a frantic flailing of his arms, he beat a path through the onl
ookers, right out into the street, waving urgently at the limousine now bearing down on him.
The vehicle slowed, swerved, but continued past.
There was an audible gasp of shock as it did so and Finch thrust a foot onto the running board on the car’s left side…
BANG! The echo of a shot.
…flinging himself right across the ambassador.
Chapter Forty-One
As Mordecai increased the pressure in his trigger finger, the car suddenly lurched, swinging off its course. There was a man…
It was too late.
He snatched up the second bullet, rammed it into the breech and slid the bolt forward.
Be calm, control your breathing.
He squeezed again.
BANG!
But the limousine suddenly stopped dead… There were police… Through his scope, he saw the second shot hole the engine cowling. Frantic, the police waved the car on, urging the driver to accelerate out of the area. It screeched off, tyres skewing in the wet.
And now heads were turning… Up…
Mordecai calculated the odds. Time was not on his side. He scooped up the shell casings and threw them into the Gladstone bag. He took the chair off the billiards table and grabbed his jacket, instinctively patting the fat envelope. But there was no time to drag the table back over to the wall. To him it made no difference anyway. There was a window knocked out. That was evidence enough. And any detective worth his salt would be able to detect gunpowder residue. The issue was surely not of where the shots had come from but of who had pulled the trigger.
He hurried down the stairs, almost tripping as he burst onto the first-floor landing. He flew down past the dead, white-sheeted rooms and the pile of post on the doormat.
As instructed, and as he had practised, he undid the back door and relocked it on the way out. Once down the steps into the garage, he dropped the rifle into the drain, heard it splash, then scraped the heavy iron lid back over, kicking dirt to cover the scuff marks.
Outside, the alley was empty, but he could sense the hubbub of confusion wafting back from the main road, the bafflement palpable. He heard shouts, police whistles.
He turned left out of the alley onto Belgrave Place and then continued straight for two hundred yards without looking around, pulling his collar up against the rain, which was still teeming down. There were a few pedestrians but he didn’t make eye contact, just proceeded with purpose – the workman with his tool bag.
He studiously didn’t look back. One telltale glance could spell the end. But he could hear no footsteps in pursuit, just that ambient murmur. He imagined people recounting what they had just seen, the facts distorting as the story swept along the pavement. And now the shouts, the whistles… they were fading.
It was starting to get dark, too. Some houses had their lights on – the chandeliers of the wealthy. Whoever was in charge of the embassy’s security had been a poor strategist. An assassin should not be able to slip into the blackness. Clearly the rich man… maybe Weathers… had planned this whole thing with the help of those inside.
Up ahead was Belgrave Square. He felt the rain ease off again.
Control your breathing. You have walked this route a dozen times.
He continued as rehearsed. Only now, the motor van was there, waiting on the south-west corner, engine running, just as it was supposed to be. It was high and upright, ‘Fidelio’s Piano & Tuning’ emblazoned in gold lettering on the black gloss paintwork.
The back doors opened and the woman – the ‘housekeeper’ he had met – was beckoning animatedly, urging him to run. This was not right. They must have new intelligence about the situation on the ground, for it had not been included in the plan. Not rushing – or rather, not panicking – had been stressed most emphatically.
The vehicle was already starting to pull away when Mordecai threw the bag on board and jumped in, the doors pulled closed behind him.
It was gloomy inside, just a small window above the driver’s cab. There were two men in there, men in dark suits. They were young, possibly ex-servicemen, Mordecai thought, probably part of the mission’s detail. But he did not like it.
There should no unknown factors. Familiarity – control – was essential.
The pair sat on the slatted bench seats which ran the length of the van, facing each other… unsmiling, no eye contact. He couldn’t see the driver. Mordecai sat next to one man, the woman next to the other.
‘You did your duty?’ asked the woman sternly – a statement more than a question.
‘I did,’ said Mordecai, ‘but there is incident. Police… Someone in crowd…’
She said nothing.
‘And that idiot… the giant… He stand there… Give game away—’
‘The bag. You have everything inside?’ she cut across. ‘You cleared up?’
He nodded. She took it off him.
‘And the weapon has been disposed of?’
‘Yes.’
She threw a glance to the two men.
And then Mordecai knew.
No!
He grabbed for the door handle but he was pulled down onto the boards. He struggled but the men knew what they were doing – men trained in physical combat like himself. They held him fast, arms and legs immobilised.
The woman slid out a surgical knife, curved, with a keen blade. She cut hard and deep into Mordecai’s neck, whipping it across the jugular. The beast to the slaughter. The blood spurted viciously and continued to do so, well beyond the last drowning gurgle.
She reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope. She wiped it on his trouser leg…
* * *
Annie stood still in the rain. The small silver automatic pistol was pointed straight at her midriff. She had her boots in her right hand. One swing and she could probably connect. But she was caught in that paralysing limbo between fright and flight. Plus, a sudden move, even if she were successful… Even if she could dash the remaining few yards to the gate… the odds were not in her favour. The weapon was low calibre but, at this range, a single shot would prove fatal.
She looked at her miserable, snivelling, conniving captor with the pathetic trickle of hair dye now beading down his forehead.
The longer he lingered, the more momentum swung her way. He did not look at ease with a gun. If she took one swipe… knocked it out of his hand…
But now he was gesturing… turning…
He put a finger to his lips, indicating silence.
He pointed to the gate. And showed her… He had the key.
He grabbed her by the arm and led her on. He rammed the key in the lock and the gate clanged open.
‘God speed,’ he said.
And with that she was free.
‘But who are…?’
‘Just go… Go!’ he urged.
Annie smiled.
‘Thank you.’
‘Please!’ he flapped his arm… motioning her away.
There were people scurrying past under umbrellas. She was in her stockinged feet. There was a silver-haired couple. The woman looked at her askance, then turned back to her husband. Annie heard them say something about a shooting… the Russian ambassador… This building… This was where he lived… And the police…
The police. She must find the police.
She spun round, ready to run. She had no idea where she was, but sensed she must go towards the source of the trouble… from where people were now streaming. Unless the lavender man could steer her?
She threw a glance back. She saw the look of panic.
And then…
He stood there, impassive, the great powerful, lumbering hulk. There was not a shred of emotion, no expression. But he had grabbed her arm, hard. His hand was so huge it completely enveloped her bicep. He would only have to drag her the few feet back inside… back into the sanctuary of the embassy.
BANG! A shot.
The silver-haired woman screamed.
If the lavender man had hit him,
the beast showed no sign. He flicked at his side, as if swiping away a gnat. But it was enough to cause a momentary distraction.
In a blur the lavender man had flown at him, an ineffectual charge, but sufficient, along with the gunshot, to cause him to loosen his grip.
‘Go… GO!’ she heard him cry.
And she ran.
Smert fixed Vax with black, close-set eyes that spoke of curiosity – possibly, for one fleeting moment, pity.
There was an audible gasp. Onlookers stopped dead. Vax struggled, but it was a battle that could not be won. Smert locked Vax’s head in the crook of his elbow.
More screams.
With an effortless twist and a crunch, the body flopped to the pavement.
Stooping casually, Smert grabbed Vax’s collar and dragged his body back through the gate and himself into immunity.
Annie ran… towards the crowd… towards the police whistles.
She ran and ran and ran…
Chapter Forty-Two
Finch drifted in and out of consciousness. One minute he was on the South African veld, being shot at by Boer marksmen, the next minute he was an inconvenient lump, to be manoeuvred by irritable nurses.
He was loosely aware of light and dark, night and day, but had no measure of time… nor of space. He was with Annie, as real as it could possibly be, watching her sleep in the hotel room on the road out of Stellenbosch, the rays of the morning sun streaming in…
But there was, too, a menace, a sense of an enormous, malevolent presence… one that sent cold fear through him, that choked his breathing and made his heart pound. There was water, rising fast. He was chained to a rock as it climbed, higher and higher.
Finch found himself shouting. The act of it stirred him, brought him nearer to waking, nearer to the surface. He heard a voice… soothing… a female voice.
Annie?
And once more he slipped away.
He was thirsty. He vaguely remembered sipping water. He also heard talk of morphine. He was locked in his dream – cognisant, but unable to grope his way to the exit.
There was a different voice now… male… It came and went periodically – someone asking, and stressing the utmost importance of a request to be notified the minute he – Dr Finch – woke up.
The Cold North Sea Page 33