NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (27 page)

Szulu grinned
at the memory and reached down for the length of nylon chord hanging from the
glove box. He’d make it loud all right. This one was right from the Ray Szulu
manual of insurance scams. The original idea had been tricky setting up, but he
knew it would work because he’d used it a couple of times already. And best of
all, nobody would be able to spot his handiwork. Fortunately, the mechanism was
easy to put together and had taken only seconds to rig up.

He slowed his
speed and checked the street either side. Palmer had said there could be
watchers out, so look for anyone deliberately not doing anything. Like hard men
in suits, he’d added.

Szulu shivered,
in spite of himself. He knew what they looked like and didn’t want to mess with
them. He was just passing one of the doorways he’d used doing a recce of the
place before. The building where the Russians had their base was along on the
right, set back off a corner. Behind the building was a maze of narrow cross-sections
filled with residential blocks and a few commercial properties. He’d taken a
stroll earlier to see what was happening, but apart from a couple of small
shops, some one-man-band businesses like printers and such, and a couple of
pubs, there wasn’t much activity and hardly any through-traffic. Best of all,
there were plenty of dark patches between the lights. Ideal.

He drifted past
the office block, ignoring it like Palmer had told him.

‘Men like
that,’ Palmer had explained, although Szulu didn’t think he needed to, ‘can
smell trouble. They’ve got senses most people don’t have. Like radar. They
develop it because of what they do.’

Not just them,
Szulu had wanted to tell him. I had that sense when I came out of the womb. It
was part of the Szulu family DNA.

He glanced at
his watch. Right on time. He pulled an about-turn and drove back, then turned
sharp left and left again into the street behind the office block. As he did
so, he lifted his foot off the accelerator and pumped it hard two or three times.
The engine responded with a cough and a rattle, followed by a stutter as the
fuel flow was interrupted, then did a kangaroo-hop as he repeated the process.
He waved an apology to a car coming the other way and allowed the van to drift
to a stop in the middle of the street. The engine stalled with a pop as he let
his foot off the clutch. Simultaneously, he reached down and tugged hard at the
length of nylon cord hanging from the glove box.

Under the
bonnet, the other end of the cord was joined to a simple lever mechanism, then
a flint and wheel from a cigarette lighter, and a cardboard Starbucks cup half
filled with lighter fuel. A tug of the cord, and the flint made a spark over
the fumes and splashes of petrol rising from the cup through the lid. He’d
fitted a neat little spring since the last time he’d used it, so he could try
again if it didn’t take first time.

He swore.
Nothing happened. He tugged again and began sweating. Damned if he was going to
go back to Palmer and tell him it hadn’t worked. He’d stick his head under the
bonnet and strike the bloody lighter himself before that happened.

There was a
whump from the front, followed by a thin plume of smoke curling out of the vent
and up the windscreen like a soft lizard. He could smell lighter fuel. He
counted to ten, then stamped on the accelerator. The engine flooded, as he knew
it would, and he tried to re-start it. The starter motor whined noisily, but
refused to catch.

Thicker smoke
began seeping from under the bonnet, and he saw a faint flicker of orange in a
gap in the bodywork. He checked his watch. Palmer must be counting, too,
waiting for the bang.

The smoke
became black and oily, snaking lazily out from all sides and lifting into the
air. It billowed across the narrow street, gusting in the faint breeze and
clinging to the sides of the buildings. Szulu could smell it now, hot and
choking, making his eyes water. A voice shouted nearby, and someone laughed.

He jumped out
of the van, leaving the door swinging open, and popped the bonnet. The heat
surged out fierce and instantaneous, followed by a blast of flame and a curl of
black smoke which seemed to reach for him like an angry monster. He dodged
sideways and tried to locate where his fire-starter was lodged. If he could get
the device out, all the better. There’d be nothing for any nosy accident
inspector to find, should they come looking. But one look told him that his
little plan had worked too well. The cup and lighter were gone, consumed by the
flames. If he got any closer, he’d be roast meat. Best if he bailed out and
left it to burn. With a quick check to see nobody else was close enough to try
any heroics, he turned and ran.

He was only
fifteen yards away when the van exploded. A gust of hot air touched the back of
his neck and something whizzed past his left ear and clanged off a Renault
parked at the kerb. Glass smashed as something went through a nearby window.

Szulu stumbled,
his legs going weak, and hit the ground, his knees burning on the tarmac. He
felt a momentary panic, enlivened by a sense of achievement. Was that
impressive  or what? He scrambled to his feet and turned to watch the van burn,
the flames stained blacker than the night air as oil joined the mix. He checked
the pavement again for pedestrians; Palmer didn’t want anyone hurt by this. But
there was nobody to warn away, the few onlookers still some fifty yards away at
the end of the street.

He stood for a
moment shaking his head, hoping to preserve the image of a distraught driver
with his livelihood going up in flames before him. He rubbed smoke from his
eyes, and grinned to himself. For the first time in his life, he didn’t care
what anyone thought. He’d done what he’d set out to do.

Up on the fourth
floor, in the windowless washroom, the sound of the explosion barely
registered, a dull crump above the noise of the extractor fan. Fedorov, always
acutely alert for unusual sounds, glanced towards the door.

Riley heard it,
too, and strained desperately against the tape holding her in place, hoping
against hope that it would weaken enough for her to get free. Her face was
already smarting painfully from the splash burns, and she was trying not to
imagine the results if Fedorov did what he had threatened, and what effect the
bleach would have on her skin, her hair. Her eyes.

She almost gave
in and screamed, but she knew Fedorov would be onto her before the first sound
was out.

‘What do you
want from me?’ she demanded, coughing and heaving against the smell. A distant
part of her brain was dredging up the constituent parts of bleach, recognised
from the kitchen at home, the useless details filed away in her subconscious:
Sodium Hydroxide and Sodium Hypochlorite. The words were almost harmless when
she thought about them; mere chemical words to warn the domestic masses. To be
washed off immediately and kept out of the reach of children. In case of
contact with eyes, seek medical help.

‘Who says I
want anything?’ Fedorov bent over and breathed in the fumes for a few seconds,
as if relishing the purity and headiness of a fine wine. He turned his head and
smiled, and she felt a cold chill run through her body. It was like coming
under the gaze of a killer shark. She began to shiver violently and gritted her
teeth, determined that this monster wasn’t going to have the pleasure of seeing
her grovel.

Then footsteps
approached and Fedorov straightened.

The door burst
open and slammed back against the wall. The noise echoed around the room,
followed by the sound of a wall tile hitting the floor under the impact of the
handle. A tall figure stood in the doorway.

For a split
second, Riley felt elation as she recognised Richard Varley. Then, behind him,
a vaguely familiar figure. This man had a vivid mark across his face. She
realised with a sinking feeling that he was the one she had hit with Palmer’s
baton.

Varley looked
stunned when he saw her. The colour drained from his face as he surveyed the
scene, and he stared at Fedorov as if he didn’t recognise the man.

He shouted
something, the words making no sense to Riley, although the tone was full of
anger. But the language reminded her that he was really a former Russian
soldier named Vasiliyev, and any fleeting thoughts she might have harboured
about him being here to help her turned to dust.

The outburst
continued in a torrent, harsh and uncompromising, his eyes blazing. The veins
stood out on his neck as he gesticulated at Riley and the sink filled with
water; the smell of bleach in the air and the empty bottle amid the fragments
of porcelain on the floor.

When he finally
stopped, Fedorov replied. It was in English and addressed to the second man.
‘Olek. That noise outside. See what it is.’

Olek nodded and
disappeared. In the following silence, they could all hear distant shouting and
a car alarm going off. There was no movement from Fedorov or Vasiliyev, who
stared at each other as if they were figures in a ghastly silent tableau.

Moments later,
Olek was back. He grinned nastily and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It
looks like a delivery van caught fire in the street. The driver’s running
around like a headless chicken. It’s nothing to worry about.’

Fedorov nodded,
then turned to Vasiliyev. When he spoke, his anger was quieter, more
restrained, yet to Riley, even though he had reverted to Russian, so much more
obvious. And menacing. As he finished speaking, he made a brief gesture.

And Olek, still
in the background, produced a handgun and placed the tip of the barrel against
Vasiliyev’s head.

Riley sucked in
her breath and closed her eyes, waiting in dread for the inevitable. When she opened
them again several seconds later, she was alone.

*******

At
floor level, Palmer felt the dull thump of the explosion vibrate through the
building. A trickle of dust rained down, silvery brown in the bulkhead lights.
He winced. Whatever kind of device Szulu had used, he’d have made less noise
with a pack of Semtex.

He stayed where
he was. Give the men in and around the building time to react, to go to the
windows and check the surroundings. It would be natural to look outside first,
before assuming the noise had come from within. When they saw what was
happening out in the street, providing Szulu had made it look realistic enough,
they’d relax.

Earlier, after
checking the outside of the building, he’d settled down to wait while the area
had quietened down. The lights on the various floors had gone out one by one,
all except for the lobby area at ground level and the dim glow from the desk
lamp on number four. Still he had hung back, waiting. The move had proved to be
a wise one; not long afterwards, a police constable had arrived with a civilian
bearing a bunch of keys. They had left a few minutes later, the officer
carrying some files and a cardboard box. The last remaining possessions, he’d
surmised, of the late Mr Goricz. Hopefully, it was an indication that the
police wouldn’t be back for a while.

He watched as
the two taller security guards appeared in turn, checking the front entrance
and scanning the outside of the building. They moved about at random, keeping
to the shadows, and were plainly accustomed to the conditions. There was no
sign of the shorter man, Pechov.

Satisfied he
was unobserved, Palmer waited until the guards disappeared before moving over
to the louvred vent he had used before. He removed some of the slats, then
pushed in the mesh and dropped stealthily into the basement. The familiar smell
of cement dust and stale air rose to greet him. Replacing the outer slats, he
squatted down and listened, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows and the
dull glow of the passage lights.

He allowed five
minutes to go by, ignoring the first signs of cramp in his legs. All he could
hear above the hum and click of the heating system was the rumble of traffic
outside.

Once he was
satisfied it was safe to move, he stood up and flexed his legs, then walked
slowly along the passageway, stopping every few yards to listen. He moved past
the scaffolding and the cement bags, stepping over the spread of spilled
powder. He was no longer bothered about leaving traces; everything had advanced
too far for that. He reached the dark mass of the puddle he’d seen last time,
now more of a small pool, and stopped again.

He was about to
step past the pool when he noticed the curved edge of a footprint.

He eased
against the wall, straining to hear a hint of noise in the dark. His options
right now were limited. He could either go forward or back. He studied the
gloom along the passageway, searching for signs of movement. But it seemed to
stare right back, unfathomable. Unfriendly. Someone had been down here recently.
It might have been a maintenance worker, although that didn’t seem likely,
given the mess down here. And Goricz hadn’t struck him as the sort to go out of
his way to look for work. Maybe it was one of the security goons who’d come to
check out the place. More likely, perhaps, but why bother? Had he left some
sign when he’d come down here last time, alerting the men to his visit? 
Unlikely but not impossible. If they were already keyed up because of using the
building illegally, they would be on maximum alert against anything out of the
ordinary.

He squatted
down and checked the area beyond the pool. There were no other prints beyond
it, which meant that whoever had been here had been cautious enough to wipe
their shoes before moving on.

He was concerned
about Szulu’s diversion out in the street. The fallout wouldn’t last much
longer; beyond the initial excitement of a vehicle fire and the arrival of the
emergency services, there was little to hold people’s attention for more than a
few minutes. He could already hear the distant wail of a siren, but any
attention drawn to the outside of the building would soon diminish, and all
eyes and ears would turn back on the interior.