Counterpoint (45 page)

Carla did not like the early warning
tingle of her hair, as it lifted slightly on her scalp. Her
subconscious analysis of facts and signals was nearly always right.
She set her conscious mind working overtime. The man's eyes were
focused on them, in the mirror as he did his best to keep his back
to them. The odd raincoat, weighty object in the left pocket and
possible paralysed right-arm made her ponder, she found herself
moving away from Max, into the adjacent corner of the lift. The
man's eyes tracked her movement and frequently rechecked Max.

The man, Bob Barclay, cursed his run of
bad luck. Having gained entry to the Mr Markham's room, as hotel
manager, he shot both Markham and the bodyguard, before his
greeting smile left his face. He was in the room and closed the
door as the second body hit the floor. The papers he had come for
were in Markham's briefcase and a quick visual scan verified they
were complete. So confident both men were dead, he momentarily
suppressed the urge to look round at the bodies, until it was
almost too late. The bodyguard had managed to find his gun, aim at
the hazy image framed in a black mist, and fire a single round. Bob
Barclay was hit in the right forearm; the bullet nicked the muscle,
causing him to drop his gun. Grabbing it up again in his left hand,
he fired from a very low angle, through the bodyguards opened
mouth.

Blood, soaked Barclay's sleeve rapidly,
he had no time to bandage the wound or clean up, someone must have
heard the bodyguards un-silenced shot. As he picked up the papers
again and slipped them into his side pocket, he made for the
wardrobe. The old beige raincoat offered the best solution to hide
the blood-soaked sleeve. The waterproof material would hold back
the blood, and it could drain down into the pocket unnoticed.

To cover his tracks, at least
temporarily he switched on the timer to the small, but powerful
bomb he had brought with him. This would cover his escape by
causing panic and confusion among the hotel guests. Barclay loved
the drama and chaos he caused, it was his trademark. Hiding the
pain of the wound in his arm, from the two in the lift, and looking
normal, was not enough, they had seen him undisguised so they could
perhaps identify him later. He figured killing them in the
ground-floor lobby would be too public, the first floor was the
least likely to have anyone waiting for the lift so he could do
them there, step out and go by the stairs to the lobby before the
lift was called. He could slip away before the doors opened, and
the bodies discovered. The bomb in Markham’s room would go off soon
after, so no one would notice him. As the lift descended, he
watched the man and the girl. Allowing for paranoia, he felt sure
the girl was moving to a better position to jump him. Had they
stayed together, they would have made easier targets, but now they
were nearly 90 degrees apart.

His hand clasped the gun at the bottom
of his left-hand pocket. The lift stopped at the first floor and to
Barclay's dismay, three other people got in. Too much to deal with
now, he thought. As the doors drew together, he slipped through the
impossibly narrow opening like a Wraith, and was gone. The lift now
opened its doors to the lobby, and everyone got out and went on
their way.

As Max and Carla approached the
entrance of the hotel to leave, armed police swept in from all
around and demanded everyone stayed where they were. Carla was none
too happy, her anonymity was vital to her and her passport was a
forgery. Fingerprints would give her away and might lead back to
events in her past.

It became apparent that the police had
received a tip-off of some armed crime and had the place
surrounded. There was no way out. If only she could get back to
their suite.

Everyone was being herded together when
the bomb went off. The loud explosion shook the building right down
to the basement. Panic broke out amongst the guests, most were
elderly and exceedingly wealthy. The armed police were not prepared
for this, every man and woman on the team had been well briefed on
the repercussions of scaring or shooting these highly influential
but fragile people. Now the guests were screaming and milling
around like Wildebeest scenting lions.

Carla ran up to a senior officer
gasping and wheezing with the symptoms of a chronic asthma attack.
I must get my medication she gasped, she made off to the lift, and
the senior officer demanded that she stop, but she staggered
onwards.

“Go with her,” the officer commanded to
a nearby constable. The young constable did his best to calm and
assist Carla, who was amazingly convincing in her act. He
practically carried the girl to her door and into the bedroom.
Dizzy with hyperventilation Carla clawed and staggered to her case,
opened it and pulled out a typical feminine looking soft bag. She
pointed to the bathroom, lurched into it, and slammed the door shut
behind her. Reassuring the police officer, she was OK now and
recovering, she carefully unrolled a Clingfilm strip and smoothed
it out. Carefully, she lifted from it, stick on fingerprints. They
matched those of the girl on the passport. She de-greased her
fingers with Cologne and applied the adhesive prints carefully, so
they fitted perfectly. Unless closely examined, they were
practically invisible. She left the bathroom almost free of her
breathing difficulty, and fit to return downstairs. She asked if
she would need a passport and he said it would save time if she
took it with her now. I must not get stressed, she exclaimed, it
could bring on a miscarriage. The young man looked shocked and
concerned. You don't look pregnant, he muttered. Well, I am she
replied rather snappily, in the early stages I know, but I could
still lose the baby.

They return to the lobby in silence.
The constable reported to the officer on her condition and added
she has a whole suite, not just a room. The Officer got the point
and mentally noted she was a rich bitch and must be handled with
care if he was going to keep his career. So far, the operation was
a total disaster; they had arrived on the scene too late. A serious
explosion had occurred, there were 15 casualties so far, and at
least two guests missing. The man or persons responsible had not
been caught yet, either.

Several medical personnel were carrying
the injured on stretchers down the main staircase, into the lobby.
The first body was a steward with a blood soaked right arm. Both
Max and Carla recognised him instantly as the man in the lift.
Carla let out a shriek and doubled over in agony. The officer and
constable both jumped to the same conclusion.

“The bloody girl is miscarrying!”

They rushed over to her and beckoned to
an incoming empty stretcher. Within seconds, they whisked her away
in the same ambulance as the injured man. Max was not allowed to
leave with her, they needed to check him out, and he could answer
any questions about her, as well.

Bob Barclay was not at all pleased to
see the girl. He was convinced she had some part in the unexpected
police raid and was on to him. But why hadn't they arrested him?
Perhaps she was after the papers, as well?

Earlier, when Barclay saw the police,
he hurriedly made his way back to Markham's room, or what was left
of it, he wiped his gun and disposed of it in the wreckage. The
raincoat and his jacket were thrown onto the flames, to be
destroyed. He pushed a thin, and charred piece of splintered wood,
through the holes in his blood-soaked shirt sleeve, for realism,
and he staggered back down the stairs towards the ascending police.
As they reached him, he pulled out the wood from the wound, to a
scream of pain, and held up the piece like a dagger, still dripping
blood. Then he collapsed in their arms.

Barclay was aware of the armed police
officer in the ambulance, with him and the girl. He was too weak to
overcome to guard, and he couldn't question the girl. Therefore, he
resolved to get his wound dressed and then escape. Carla planned to
have another sudden recovery, and slip away to follow the man.

Max was submitted to a thorough
grilling, and had his fingerprints taken. Checks soon showed he was
unlikely to be the suspect, and he was discharged, two hours later.
Carla was interviewed at the same time, in the hospital, and also
had her prints taken. Again, there was no problem, and she was free
to go.

The man's treatment was nearly complete
by this time, so it was only a matter of minutes before the police
came into the cubicle to interview him, so he had to get away very
soon. The police guard was no fool and gave Barclay no chance to
get away, so some creative thinking was necessary.

Barclay reached up to his right with
his left hand for a plastic cup of water on top of the trolley and
knocked it to the floor. Cursing and rolling to his right as though
trying to pick it up, he cried out in pain. The guard got up and
moved around the bed, bent down to pick it up, when Barclay grabbed
the stitch scissors and stabbed the guard through the back of his
neck. The guards slipped slowly and soundlessly to the floor.

Peeking out from the cubicle curtains,
Barclay could see everyone was extremely busy, so he walked
casually after a man heading for the toilet. They both entered
together, but only Barclay came out. Wearing the man's shirt and
leather jacket, Barclay left the hospital. Carla had just reached A
& E when Barclay came out of the toilet. One glimpse was all
she needed to spot him and away she went, following him like a
pro.

So she did not lose him, she needed
Max's help. If Barclay used a bus, she could not get on the same
one or he would certainly see her. If he used a taxi, though
unlikely if he was the pro she thought he was, she might not get
one to follow on. Max answered the call, got a taxi, and met her.
The taxi-driver was immensely intrigued when Max told him to stop
for a minute then move on a bit, stop again and so on. Max told him
to do as he was told; he was with the Revenue and was following a
person suspected of tax fraud.

“If I lose this suspect,” Max added “I
will investigate you personally.” The man flushed and went silent
as he tensed for the next command.

Barclay did a small loop at a
pedestrian subway to check if he was being followed. Carla was well
up to his game, especially as the man was not well from his wound.
Believing he was on his own, he caught a bus. Carla got in the taxi
and then followed well behind, to Kensington. When he got off the
bus, he did a loop around the area and disappeared into a small
block of expensive flats.

“Well, what we do now?” asked Carla. “I
don't think we want to get drawn into this any further so just tell
the police anonymously so they can pick the man up.”

“Yes! That makes good sense, but it was
good fun while it lasted!” Max smiled to himself as he looked at
her. Her whole being was changed with the excitement of the
adventure. Sex will be hot and hard tonight he thought, it always
was when she was hyper like this.

While Max kept watch, Carla made a call
from a nearby phone box to the police. She spoke directly to the
officer she met in the lobby and minutes later, armed police
surrounded the building. Max and Carla were driven back to a street
near the Ritz. When they lost sight of the taxi, they walked on to
the hotel.

The affair was on television and in the
papers. The story reported the apparent murder of Markham, his
bodyguard and the explosion. It praised the police for their
remarkable response and their determination to track down the
perpetrators of this awful crime.

“Well what you know, the man has
slipped through their fingers again!” exclaimed Max.

“Doesn't surprise me at all,” smirked
Carla, “we should have finished the job we started, I say.”

Max looked away, he knew she wanted to
pick up the affair again, but he thought it was best to forget
it.

Max decided to report to Sam Leighton,
and told him all that had happened. Much to Max's surprise, Sam was
keen to brief them both, on the background of the affair, and asked
them to help him track down the mystery man. Carla agreed at once
and was so fired up with enthusiasm, Max had to go along with her.
That afternoon, a man called Nelson Sabatini called at their suite,
a tall, well-built man of 32, born somewhere in Italy. He wore a
smart, dark grey suit, white shirt, and red silk tie. Even his
highly polished lightweight shoes looked fresh out of the box.

After a few pleasantries and
introductions, everyone got down to business. Nelson had with him a
laptop computer, after plugging into the mains and connecting the
broadband connection to the internet, he began to run through the
situation.

“The papers taken from Markham, could
expose the organisation as well as releasing into the public
domain, an important scientific breakthrough, that in the wrong
hands, could prove more dangerous than atomic fission. The papers
must be recovered at all costs, or even destroyed if necessary,
along with any copies, or knowledge of their contents.”

“In other words,” said Max, “kill
anyone who has read and understood them.”

“Yes! “Replied Nelson, “that too.”

“The problem is, no one knows where the
papers are, or who this mystery man is, who killed Markham,”
continued Nelson. “You two are the only people who know what he
looks like. We are hoping you can identify him from security
photographs taken of passengers flying or sailing from England. We
also have copies of information, taken from police records, of the
murder and bombing. To save time, we have concentrated on persons
who have just bought tickets, for urgent flights. To travel by ship
is most unlikely, in view of the need for this man to deliver the
papers quickly.”

The screen proceeded to display a
shortlist of photos of possible suspects. One face stood out as
being the man they had seen in the lift. Moving footage also showed
he had a problem using his right hand.