Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) (23 page)

              “Can it? I hope so.” She squeezed his hand tightly. “There’s no way I can stay, but I don’t want to lose you.”

              Nick swallowed and made a decision. “Then leave with me now, but not to stay here. We can get a train in an hour or so to the coast and be in Berlin before the end of the weekend.”

              Her eyes flicked across his. He could see the emotion brimming over in them as she squeezed at his hands again, that small bite of those luscious lips that he’d come to love betraying her indecision.

“You would do that for me? Give it all up to come to Berlin?”

              Nick nodded. Clara and Nick gazed at each other, lost in silence, oblivious to one of the Italians impatiently tapping at his watch. Nick stood and moved to the side of the table, not letting go of Clara’s hand.

“Clara, I don’t know what the future holds, but I want my future to hold you, no matter what. Come on, let’s go.”

              “Nick, I…” She stood and looked between Nick and Jurgen, confused. Jurgen’s face gave nothing away.

              “Look, if Jurgen is successful then your job is done, but you have not put yourself in any danger or compromised yourself. If he is not, then, well…” Nick shrugged.

              Clara stood, uncertain of what to do. Nick had one last ace, but he didn’t want to play it. The photos. He was tempted to hand them over, but he just felt he couldn’t do it, not unless he really had to. Not yet. He gazed at her face. She looked at him, her mouth formed a half smile and her countenance changed.

              “Go and meet Carruthers in Fitzroy Square as you arranged. Get the documents from him. I will go to the station and buy our tickets. Meet me at the train. You two can go back to your embassy once Jurgen has the documents.”

              “This is your plan? You show your true colours at last!” sneered the German man.

              “You had better think carefully about whether you want to make it back at all, Herr Platt. Come without those plans and it certainly won’t be worth your while.”

              “We’ll settle this in Berlin,” Jurgen said in an icy tone, standing and pushing past her. “You too, Herr Valentine.”

              “I look forward to it,” Nick replied. “You killed my best friend.”

              “And you mine.”

              “Berlin then.” He slipped an arm around Clara’s shoulder and steered her away from the man and out into the dense night fog. “Come on, let’s go to your place and get your things.”

              “Clara, are you sure about this?” Jurgen asked.

              “No, but I am sure that I love Nick. Get the list and meet us at the station.” She let the door swing shut behind her, leaving Jurgen staring at the empty space she’d just occupied.

              Outside they paused and held each other tight. Their mouths locked in a long, warm kiss then she snuggled into Nick’s side as they paced through the fog. He was scared – happy, but scared. Terror was gnawing at him, fear that something still might go wrong. The photos bounced against his chest as they walked and he wondered what he should do with them. They’d been stolen from a British Intelligence officer after all, but then the Germans were claiming that Carruthers shouldn’t have had them in the first place and was in fact helping the Russians anyway. Did they even know the truth?

              “What’s the matter, darling? You look miles away.” Clara asked.

              “Sorry, just nervous. Leaving here, it’s a big thing.”

              “You’re not having second thoughts?” She stopped and pulled him around to face her.

              “No, darling. Being with you is the most important thing.” He kissed her gently on her forehead then she tilted her head up and they kissed as they fell into a passionate embrace. They pulled apart, both smiling then walked hand-in-hand slowly through the dark-clouded streets to Clara’s flat. She fumbled in her bag for the keys as they stood in the fog outside the mansion block’s front door. They tripped up the stairs together. At her front door, they kissed again as she slid the key into the lock. Clara laughed and pulled away from Nick. Turning the key, she pushed open the front door. The shot rang out with a deafening boom around the confined hallway and Clara crumpled back into Nick’s arms with what sounded like a sigh, even before he registered the orange stab of flame that had shot from the darkness of her flat.

              “Clara!” he screamed.

Another shot and the wood splintered in the doorframe inches from his face. Nick dived behind the wall taking Clara with him, simultaneously fishing for his Mauser. Clara was gasping for breath, he could hear the air burbling in her throat, then she was choking, gurgling.

“No!”

A head popped around the door and Nick fired. The man fell back and the corridor was silent. Gun smoke drifted in small blue clouds, screams and shouts issued from the other flats. Clara’s mouth moved, but no words came, only a terrible bubbling of blood.

              “Clara?” Nick looked down at her, cradling her loose body. She’d been hit in the chest. The blood was already soaking through her overcoat. She was shaking, her tear-filled eyes rolling in fear. Nick began to frantically grab at her clothes to get to the wound.

              “Nick, I…” she breathed, her eyes struggling to focus. She raised a hand and clutched at his jacket wildly before it dropped and she fell terribly still.

              “Clara?” he said gently. He shook her body, suddenly so light, resting in his arms, across his knees. “Clara?” his voice cracking this time. She was gone. He tipped his head back, screwed his eyes tight shut, his jaw tight. No. This couldn’t be happening. He opened his eyes and looked back at the crumpled body in his arms. She was gone and he was dead inside.

              He looked at those suddenly dulled, ice-blue eyes one last time before sweeping a hand across to close them. He laid a kiss on her forehead then, struggling upright with her dead weight, he carried her into the flat, stepping over the body in the doorway and laying her on her sofa.

              Aware of the building commotion from the block’s other residents outside, Nick quickly found a coat and laid it over Clara’s body. He lingered for a brief moment, giving her body one last look, then stepped through the doorway, burning with grief and rage.

              Ignoring the fearful glances of the huddled crowd on the staircase, he looked down at the dead man. One of Carruthers’ men. Nick recognised him. So Clara’s cover had been blown. It looked like Carruthers was closing the net. Nick wanted to be there when he did.

              As the wail of sirens grew, Nick shrugged his way past the cowering inhabitants of the block. One man tried to stop him but Nick just pushed him roughly away and stalked out into the thick fog of the night. He was heading for Fitzroy Square. He would have time to grieve later. Much later.

CHAPTER 23

Nick could tell he was on the cusp of too late when he got to the square. A car was screeching away in a blur of pale headlight lost in the fog and the smell of cordite mingled with the damp blanket that drenched the square. Somewhere in the murk muffled footsteps clattered away at running pace and someone moaned softly. He found one of the Italians first, face-down in the gravel surrounding the square, a dark pool of blood already seeping beneath him. Nick checked for a pulse, but he knew even before he did so that it was a waste of time. He looked around, trying to pierce the fog with his gaze, but it was hopeless. The mist drifted in uncertain banks across the open space so that even the surrounding houses bordering the square were lost. Ramona’s old love nest was only feet away. He shook his head and looked at his watch. The sun would be coming up soon, but for now the murk hung in perfect blackness almost untroubled by any streetlights. Visibility could be measured in just inches rather than feet.

              Nick carried on carefully across the square, his pistol drawn. He was making for the sound of the low moaning, realising that once again the damp cold was seeping through his suit, perforating the wool and settling on his skin like a chill embrace. He nearly tripped over the next body. Nick didn’t recognise the man, but his clothes looked to be of an English cut. He lay on his back, glassy eyes staring vacantly towards the obscured stars, a small ugly hole in the centre of his forehead. Just across from him lay the other, shorter Italian – a man who earlier had been drinking and dancing with ladies. His night had meant to end up with some fun, the warm embrace of another body and the pain and regret of a rotten hangover to follow. Instead he lay in a crimson puddle in the dark, a trickle of blood slipping from his wide-open mouth, a dark red stain upon his shirt. Like the others, quite dead.

              Nick strode grimly on, placing his shoes carefully to make the minimum of noise; he was still making for the moaning sound. It had almost stopped but Nick was cautious in his approach. It could be a trap. He moved forward and it sounded close. Nick stopped and listened. Frozen, feeling the cold air seep around him, he shivered involuntarily, straining every muscle for any sound, yet desperately scouring the dark blanket that surrounded him. Nothing. Nothing apart from that occasional low groan. Gingerly he stepped forward, slowly, one step at a time. He came to the railings, cold and dripping, enclosing the small central garden in the square. The noise was just to his left. He cautiously worked his way around until he could see a dim shape in the dense mist, slumped, sitting against the railings. Nick stopped and watched. The figure didn’t move save for the occasional roll of the head. Tensing Nick leapt forward suddenly so that he was on top of the fallen man, not giving him time to react. The head lolled slowly round towards Nick with a grimace. Jurgen looked up at him with dazed eyes, wincing in pain. Nick looked down at the man: though he held a pistol in his right hand, he made no attempt to lift it. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, testament to the damage of the bullet that had ripped through the shoulder leaving an ugly, blackened and raw red strip in his suit. He held his right hand across his belly, his shirt stained red. He’d been hit twice.

              Nick bent over. “What happened?” he asked softly.

              Jurgen gave a painfully dry swallow, the dry smack of his mouth sickening to Nick’s senses. He was losing a lot of blood. “Carruthers. He jumped us. You were right. Two men with him. They got the others…” He trailed off as a paroxysm of pain wracked his body, causing him to gasp and then retch, followed by a dry-hacking cough that drained yet more of the colour from his cheeks as blood spilled from his mouth.

              “Carruthers got the bank details from you?” Nick asked.

              Jurgen shook his head, eyes closed. “No,” he breathed.

              “Give them to me. I have the list of Russian spies. I’ll pass the lot onto British intelligence.”

              Jurgen looked at him with wide eyes. “You had the list?” he rasped.

              Nick nodded and half pulled the papers out. Jurgen smiled painfully.

              “We all underestimated you.” He began coughing. “If you’d said, then–”

              “I know. But I still don’t know who’s telling the truth. I can’t hand over from a British Intelligence officer to an agent from another country, not willingly. The bank details?”

              Jurgen nodded. “I don’t have them.”

              “What?” Nick asked, confused. Surely Carruthers had set this up to eliminate the Germans and get everything that could incriminate him.

              “We all underestimated someone else, too.” Jurgen smiled through twisted lips. He lapsed into another bout of coughing. His complexion was almost grey now. Blood ran freely down his chin.

              “Who? What are you talking about?”

              “Lucia. Lucia. She was here. Carruthers jumped us. She jumped him. He got away, but she took the papers from me…”

              Nick looked around. “Which way did she go? Jurgen, please.”

              “That way,” he coughed, nodding with his head towards the Conway Street corner. “Nick. Please, get me to a hospital.” Jurgen looked at him with imploring eyes.

Nick stood. “Sorry, old chap.” Nick’s face filled with sad regret. “You’re done for anyway.”

              Jurgen nodded and winced again. “I understand.” He coughed again. “Shame, I was looking forward to Berlin…”

              “Me too.” Nick raised the pistol. “For Stephen.”

Jurgen looked into the barrel’s mouth, smiled and nodded. The gun barked once and the man fell back against the railings, quite still. Nick looked at the lifeless body for a second then turned and stalked away across the square as the first glimmer of light began to show in the east.

Nick paced his way across the square, peering through the swirling shrouds of fog. He was guessing that Lucia was not still hanging around, but where would she go? He stopped at the corner of the square and looked at the flat that had temporarily been home to Ramona and the Brigadier’s trysts. It sat silent in the darkness. Surely? Nick swiftly manipulated the locks to gain entry, but it sat as he had last left it. Empty, messy, cold. He pondered for a moment. Carruthers would go after Lucia, of that he was sure. Perhaps Carruthers might even use Nick to track her down. Either that or feed him to the wolves in the shape of the police hunt that would surely be already underway for him after the shootout in Clara’s flat. He’d killed a British security service officer, though it had been self-defence, Nick didn’t feel good about it and it gave him a more immediate problem. Unless he could convince Carruthers to clear it up for him and lay the blame at the feet of the ensuing carnage in Fitzroy Square then he was most likely to remain a wanted man. He doubted Carruthers would do anything to help him, even though Nick had certainly done a lot to help him, given a lot. He’d been beaten and shot at, his only friend was dead and his lover was dead. Carruthers wouldn’t give a hoot, though, Nick was sure of that. In fact, it might suit him to have Nick hauled in. Carruthers couldn’t be sure how much he knew. He made a snap decision. All this shooting had just happened; the police would be scouring the streets, sealing off crime scenes and taking witness statements. There was no way they would have identified him yet. He had to get home, pick up what he could and track down Lucia. He had the spy list; if he had the bank details he could drive a bargain. Then he had some funerals to attend.

              Nick hurried through the rapidly lightening streets as dawn broke over the city. It wasn’t far to his apartment and he wanted to be in and out of there as quickly as possible. He had a small hotel in mind, up in Camden. He had plenty of cash. It was a place that didn’t ask questions, nor answer any either. Tripping up the stairs, he slipped his front key into the lock, but the door swung open of its own accord. Nick swore under his breath and leapt back from the doorway, reaching for his gun. Had they got here already? Nothing. No shots, no shouts, not a sound. He carefully edged his was to the corner of the door and peered around. The corridor was in darkness but the light was on in the lounge. He stepped in softly, clicking the front door shut behind him and slipping the latch, then he crept stealthily down the corridor to the lounge. He stepped through, gun raised, tense and ready to react. He lowered the gun slowly.

Lucia smiled weakly at him from the sofa where she lay, half propped up on the Chesterfield. Her golden colour had drained away, leaving her skin with a greyish pallor, and for the first time since he had met her, those amber eyes didn’t shine. They seemed darker, glassy. Despite her shivering, she opened the coat she was still wearing and let it fall open. Despite the glittering sequinned red of her dress, Nick could see the matching stain spread over her abdomen, the sticky dark liquid covering her left hand where she kept it pressed to her side. He sat on the arm of the sofa.

              “No,” he moaned softly. “Not another one, not today. Not you.” He leaned forward and gently felt for the pulse in her neck. Her skin was cool, the warmth gone, the pulse weak, erratic. She tipped her head back, the smile still faint on her pale lips as she blinked at him.

              “Lucia, let me get you to hospital,” Nick sobbed.

              She shook her head. “Too many questions.” She coughed. “You know, I’ve never been hurt before.” A solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

              He knelt beside her. “Why did you come here?”

She smiled weakly. “To make sure you were alright. I guess you are.” She nodded at the coffee table. “The accounts. More use to you now.” She tried to smile but winced.

              “Shh! Stay quiet, stay still.”

She nodded almost imperceptibly and closed her eyes. “You’re bad luck, you know that?” she murmured.

              “I know.”

She fell quiet for a few minutes. Nick listened to her breathing grow shallower. Her eyes were shut, her eyelids fluttering. He couldn’t bear to look. Suddenly her eyes flew open.

              “Did you find Clara?” she mumbled.

              “Yes. Yes, I found her.”

Nick looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Nick said numbly. “Can I get you anything?”

              She gave a weak smile. “I’d give anything for a drink Nick. Please.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Please Nick, a Scotch, a brandy, something.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“Alright. Give me a minute.”

Nick paced to the kitchen and tore open a cupboard, scrabbling for a glass. He grabbed a bottle of whisky from the counter and poured it, his shaking hand spilling it everywhere.  “Just coming.” He shouted.

There was no reply. Cursing he strode back the living room, the Scotch spilling over his hand.

The sofa was empty, the front door yawned open, a smear of blood on its edge. Time seemed to freeze for an instant then the crash of the shattering glass Nick had dropped broke the spell and he was running, running down the stairs, out into the dull grey dawn of the street.

He spent the next half an hour frantically tearing through the nearby roads and alleys, checking every basement, every nook and cranny before he admitted it to himself. She was gone.

              Climbing back up the stairs to his apartment took Nick every ounce of effort he had. He was spent.

Back inside Nick sat on the sofa for what seemed an age, the tears streaming down his face, his body racked with sobs. Eventually, he pulled himself upright and trudged to the kitchen where he took a large swig of Scotch straight from the bottle, savouring the burning fire in his throat as it slid down, savouring the emotional numbness even more.

              It took him half a bottle and five minutes to pack a bag with clothes, money and various fake documents that he pulled from hiding places around the flat. As he left, he picked up the blood smeared accounts documents from the table. He left the front door open and trudged out into the morning light.