Red Crystal (63 page)

The beat of rock music suddenly bellowed from the ground-floor flat. As they passed the door Nick willed it to open, but it didn’t.

At the street door, she hissed, ‘Stop!’

She came up close behind him, holding the gun to his ribs. ‘Can we get out to the back from here?’

‘The back?’

‘The
yard
!’

‘No. It belongs to the guy in there.’ He indicated the door of the ground-floor flat.

She prodded him forward. ‘Okay. Open it slowly.’

He turned the latch and swung the door open. She made him halt in the doorway. He guessed she was looking up and down the street.

She wasn’t the only one. He searched desperately for signs of life. But it was quiet as the grave.

Even now Conway was probably packing up his desk and heading for Earl’s Court, blissfully unaware, imagining merely that Nick had flu and had gone appropriately strange in the head.

The thought filled him with quiet despair.

‘Move!’

They set off down the steps. He was about to turn left, towards the car, when she pulled him the other way. ‘I’ve got to collect something first!’

Nick felt a small flutter of hope. It was a delay. More time. And time was what he wanted.

Gabriele pushed him forward. She hated the delay. But she
had
to get the holdall. There was the spare ammunition. The wig. The make-up. The sunglasses. And the tote bag with her few remaining belongings. She’d feel naked without them.

At the corner she prodded him to the right then made him stop by the wall.

This was the hard bit. She hadn’t allowed for this – having to retrieve the holdall with
him
around. She looked up and down the side street. A car approached, slowed at the junction, turned left and drove off. Another car passed in the road they had just left then another. At last there was nothing. She pulled the jacket off the Kalashnikov and let it fall to the pavement.

She said, ‘Give me a leg-up.’

He looked surprised but obediently cupped his hand. She put a foot in it, careful to keep the rifle at his head, then said, ‘Push me up!’ She added harshly, ‘If you try to drop me, I’ll kill you! So don’t even think about it!’

Grunting with effort, he pushed her up. With her spare hand, she gripped the top of the wall. ‘Higher!’

He gave a last heave and she levered herself on to the top. She swung a leg over until she was sitting astride.

‘Now you!’

He took a deep breath then scrambled up until he too was on top of the wall.

‘Go down and find my bag. It’s in that corner.’ She pointed in the approximate direction.

He dropped down and searched for it. She watched him, thinking hard. He might even now be planning something. But if he imagined she was relaxing her guard for one moment he was making a big mistake. No chance. In fact she was feeling much better now: more alert, more in control. The shock of discovering they knew about the courier, that had been appalling. Like being hit in the face. It had taken a bit of getting over.

But she’d still get out all right. She knew she would. The pigs were stupid. One had to bear that in mind all the time. It was simply a question of keeping one’s nerve.

He was standing up. He had the holdall in his hand.

Another car passed along the adjacent road. She reached down and took the holdall. She gestured him to climb back on top of the wall. He pulled himself up and sat astride, facing her. She was about to tell him to drop down into the street again when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Someone was walking along the street towards them. An old man wearing a cap. Doubtless a nosy old man. He was even now looking up. He couldn’t fail to see them sitting up on the wall.

She could kill him, of course. But the
noise
.

The passer-by had almost reached them. He was slowing, inclining his head to peer up at them.

Gabriele wavered. She should do something …

Then it came to her. Jabbing the rifle into Nick’s ribs, she leaned forward and, putting an arm around his neck, drew his head towards her. He pulled back in alarm, but she kept the pressure on until she felt his cheek come up against hers.

She squinted down at the passer-by. He was gawking up at them. He muttered a vague ‘Blimey …’ then shouted, ‘There are safer places, yer know!’ Muttering to himself, he finally began to move off.

She gave it a moment. In the silence she was aware of Nick’s breathing, the touch of his flesh, warm against hers. The contact sent startling echoes reverberating through her mind: memories of friends, of feeling a warm sense of belonging; of good times in Italy; of the weeks when Giorgio and Max had been there to support her; of times when she hadn’t been so horribly alone.

Times when—

She pulled away angrily. The touch of him almost made her choke. She said with difficulty, ‘You make me sick! Now – get down!’

‘Gabriele.’ His voice was soft. ‘I
did
care.’

She hissed, ‘How
dare
you think it matters to me one way or the other. I don’t care a damn!’

He looked away.

A ghastly loathsome self-pity overwhelmed her and, with disgust, she heard her voice break. ‘Well, if you care so much,’ she managed bitterly, ‘
why the hell aren’t you getting off this wall and getting me out of here!
’

With satisfaction, she saw him draw back. Silently, he manoeuvred both legs over the wall and dropped to the pavement.

‘Move away from the wall.’ She wiped a hand angrily across her eyes, then, letting the holdall fall, followed it to the ground. She threw the jacket back over the Kalashnikov and picked up the holdall.

In the distance a siren sounded. She glared in horror at Nick. A flicker of excitement seemed to pass across his face. She thought:
He was hoping for this! He’s just been playing for time! The speech on the wall – just for time!
Jerking the rifle up to her hip, she trained it on him. ‘If that’s anything, you’re
dead
!’

‘It’s just the local police.’

Was he telling the truth?
God!

They waited tensely. Slowly the siren faded into the distance.

She breathed again. Throwing him the holdall, she gestured him forward. He moved cautiously. She prodded him roughly to make him go faster.

Retracing their steps, they turned the corner and passed in front of the house again. She looked around nervously.

Nothing. No cars.

Nothing.

She felt jumpy again.

His
fault. He had unnerved her. She wouldn’t let him do it again. There’d be no more talking.

The shadows seemed darker, longer. Up towards the end of the street she thought she saw black shapes.
Moving
.

Shit!

She’d just got the jitters. That was all.

Suddenly she realized why. It was so goddam
quiet
.

Nick drew in an involuntary breath. Hardly even a gasp. Yet for an awful moment he thought she’d heard it.

He waited in an agony of suspense.

But there was no sound from her. They walked on. It was all right.

He breathed again. Then took another look at the van parked some way up the street. Between two pools of lamplight. A darkish van. But it was so hard to see –
damn
it! He squirmed with frustration. It
looked
very like it but—

Suddenly he caught a glint.

The glint of metal. A whip aerial.

Yes!

His heart almost burst through his ribs.

A whip aerial. It
must
be.

Some of his exhilaration evaporated.

What
now
, for Christ’s sake? The training manual didn’t cover this. Desperately, he tried to think.

Suddenly she spoke and he jumped.

‘Where’s the car?’ she snapped.

The car. He looked. Not far. He recognized the shape of the Vauxhall Viva just ahead. They were almost there.
Too near
.

Gulping, he lied, ‘It must be further on. I can’t see it yet.’

‘Well, find it!’

‘I think I can see it, just up there.’ He indicated vaguely towards the end of the street.

His mind raced: now he was committed to a lie he had to find a way out of it. He looked for the next street lamp. It was about fifteen yards ahead.

Not far from the van.

As they approached the lamp, he could feel himself trembling.

‘Just over there.’ He pointed across the road to a Hillman Minx which he’d never seen before in his life. He thought: Dear God, let me be right about this. Otherwise when he failed to open the car she would realize that he had tried to trick her. And then he knew what she would do. She would kill him.

He stepped off the kerb between two parked cars and automatically looked for traffic.

Then it suddenly struck him – and then he
knew
.

There
was
no traffic. There had been none for some minutes.

It seemed to have stopped everywhere. Only the faintest hum rose into the night air high above the city. Somewhere nearby there was the muffled beat of music.

But the street itself was silent. Their own footsteps echoed large in the stillness.

Suddenly there was a sound. From up the street. Like metal against metal, the
clonk!
exaggerated in the silence.

He was jerked to a halt by his collar.

‘
What was that?
’ She was sounding frightened. There was a quaver in her voice.

He kept still, pretending to listen. Eventually he whispered, ‘Nothing. A cat perhaps.’

He could hear her panting, her breath coming in short uneven gasps. Then she thrust him forward again, into the road.

He eyed the Hillman Minx, gleaming innocently. And stepped out.

He crossed diagonally, keeping as close as he dared to the pool of light around the lamp-post.

Surely something would happen now.
Surely
.

She wasn’t too close. There was at least a foot between the two of them. She
must
make a good target.
Surely
.

They reached the centre of the road. He braced himself for the crack of a rifle shot.

Surely
…

The Minx was getting close. He couldn’t believe it.

He reached the car door.

Nothing happened.

Didn’t they realize!

Fumbling in his pocket, he reached for the keys.

She came up close behind him.

Christ
. Now it was too late.

He pulled the keys out and started sorting through them. His hand was shaking. The keys fell with a loud jangle on to the road.

‘
You stupid bastard!
’ She was spluttering with rage, all the arrogance back in her voice. ‘Pick them up!’

‘Sorry,’ he murmured.

Then he knew what he had to do.

As he bent down and grasped the keys, he braced himself, and thought fleetingly: Dear God, let me have it right!

In the split second before he moved he glanced sideways. Her attention was distracted; she was looking nervously up the street. He tried to judge the distance.

Her eyes were coming back to him.

Then he sprang, twisting round, uncoiling himself from the ground.

He caught the rifle barrel with the first swing of his arm. It jerked out of his vision. He saw the surprise leap into her face.

Then he raised his foot, pulling his knee high up to his chest, and gave an almighty kick in the general direction of her stomach. It went home: he heard her suck in a great rasping breath as his shoe went punching into her body. He fell back against the car. Gabriele shot backwards, wheeling one arm, trying desperately to regain her balance. She tottered for a moment then fell in the middle of the road.

But she was rolling over, pulling herself quickly up on to one knee.

She was coming up again.

Then he saw –
she still had the rifle in her right hand
.

Her eyes were blazing at him, vicious with shock and hatred. She was regaining her balance, bringing the barrel up.

He should have moved. He felt the car hard against his back.

It was too late.

She was pulling the rifle back against her hip.

He caught a glint of cold determination in her expression, and felt a moment of total disbelief.

Then it came.

A loud booming amplified voice that split the silence.

‘
Drop your weapon! You are surrounded! Do not attempt to fire!
’

Gabriele gave a violent start and dropped her weight forward as if poising herself to run. But then she hesitated, her eyes swivelling wildly, suddenly aware that she had nowhere to run to.

She was in the centre of the road. She hadn’t got a chance.

He could see that she knew it.

She remained frozen like an animal, her eyes on Nick, but filled with a huge unimaginable terror.

The voice echoed between the houses.

‘
Drop your gun! You are surrounded! Drop your weapon immediately! We are police officers! We have orders to fire!
’

There was a silence.

Nick urged, ‘Do it! Gabriella –
just do it!
’

She blinked at him questioningly, a look of bewilderment on her face. Then her expression sank into bitterness and despair.

‘Do it!’ he whispered. ‘Just drop the gun!’

She gave a small cry of anguish and shook her head. Very deliberately, she tightened her grip on the rifle.

He cried, ‘
Don’t!
’

But she was already dropping. Quickly, so quickly. Down into a crouch, hunched over the rifle. For a moment he thought she was going to aim at him, but she swung the rifle away. The air filled with noise, a staccato of loud cracks as she sprayed the street, ranging the rifle back and forth across the width of the road.

She made no attempt to run.

Then it happened. In the noise, he never heard the other shots. He just saw her. Hit by some powerful force.

The rifle jerked. The force plucked her upwards and back. For a moment she seemed to hover, twisting round in the air. Then she crumpled. Neatly. Going at the knees first, then sinking gracefully to the ground. Her head falling back on to the road. The mass of dark hair falling … Her face a pale oval, deathly white in the lamplight.