Split Code (36 page)

A moment later the lamps did all go off, except for two or three in the first floor. There was just enough light to see that the ambulance had gone from its hiding place. And the police cars and the militia, the wounded and the dead and the prisoners. And all the other five who had crossed the sea to celebrate fifty years of pore-clogging cosmetics on board the
Glycera.

I said, ‘Was it a good party? The
Glycera?’
and Hugo said, ‘Mind-bending, my darling. Think of the Street Offences Act, fitted with stabilizers.’

I thought I might sleep, and then a swing to one side reminded me that we had to go down the twenty-five famous hairpin bends cut in the mountain range here above Kotor. The headlights, scything round in the dark, lit the verge of the road and beyond that, the drop into nothing. I said, ‘How awake are you?’ to Johnson.

He didn’t answer.

Unusual. The light from the dashboard, reflected in both masking lenses, told nothing at all except that he was concentrating on the road. Which was sufficient answer. I supposed, in itself. He took the next bend rather fast.

I was glad Hugo was with us, and I was also sorry. There was a lot I wanted to ask. There was a lot, too, I wanted to rejoice about. With Hugo there, I couldn’t talk about my father. And I wanted to talk. I didn’t want to think about Benedict.

The next corner rolled me right over against Johnson’s arm. I got off as soon as I could, and heard from the graphic curses behind that Hugo had also been thrown off balance. He said, ‘Friend: we hold the slalom competitions in the winter. Do you mind? My molecules are easily disconnected.’

Johnson said, ‘Are all these bends the same width?’

‘No,’ said Hugo. At Johnson’s tone his own had changed altogether. ‘Some are wider than others. Why? Your steering? Or your brakes?’

‘Brakes,’ Johnson said. That was all, for, his wrists turning the wheel, he was guiding us hurtling round the next bend. The second, or third of the famous, the notorious twenty-five serpentine road-bends of Lovćen.

And I knew why the brakes weren’t working.
I guess he’ll just have to have a small accident.
Grandpa Eisenkopp had said. And after I had gone from the room, someone had been sent out to arrange just that.

The wind banged on the walls of the car and the tyres culled a long, tenor roar from the road and the headlights, dazzling on the tarmac, swung again and lit up segments of hillside, plucked out of the dark: a green bush, its black shadow spiked on a rockface; a boulder brilliant-cut like a diamond; a loop of grey- textured, sinuous back. In some parts of the hills there were jackals . . .

The car began to fetch round into the other arm of the loop, like
Dolly
coming round for her gybe. But on a precipitous road, with a cliff plunging straight into blackness below us. Then Hugo said, ‘Now. You have enough width now.’ And Johnson turned the wheel full lock, scientifically, in a racing skid that slid the car back on its wheels downwards and in reverse into the mountain, gaining space but losing momentum while the powerful engine roared and clawed to pull the dead weight of the slewed car into the other half of the flattened U bend that would set it climbing again, the way we had come. A U bend which couldn’t help but bring us to the edge of the road, where the wind thrust and fretted and whipped in the glare of the headlights.

I didn’t think then that Johnson knew himself whether or not he would make it. I could see the damp grain of his skin bright as crepe-de-chine under the mess of his hair and a vein suddenly underlined with the effort. Then Hugo leaned from the back and, putting his strong, long-fingered hands over Johnson’s, added his strength to pull the wheel round.

There was a moment when I felt the rear wheel falter and sink into the soft, crumbling edge of the precipice. There was a moment when the car was not fully round and the wind, suddenly gusting, caught the high structure and rocked it, first forwards and then back as if it had been a child’s wooden horse, or perhaps a cradle. Then, his hands still on the wheel, Hugo flung his body weight sideways and I leaned over, my shoulder pressed against Johnson’s and my weight on his side, to keep the fulcrum inwards, on the mountain side of the road.

Then the tyres gripped, and the engine note lost some of its shrillness and the car began to pull away from the side and to climb, uphill back to the castle and safety.

That was when Hugo, leaning still over the wheel, removed one hand and thrust it inside Johnson’s coat.

I saw Johnson’s hand come off the wheel, snatching. One of Hugo’s fists knocked it aside. The other freed itself from Johnson’s coat, dragging with it the long manila envelope containing the Malted Milk Folio.

Both Johnson’s hands came off the wheel as he lunged for the papers. The car rocked and swayed and then, with a scraping of earth, began to slide backwards. Hugo’s door crashed open and jolted there, dragging its edge on the ground. And Hugo himself, already half out, leant over and gave us, by way of his last parting benison, a full turn of the wheel to jerk us round and straight over the cliff-edge.

There was nowhere for me to jump. I was on the precipice side. But there might be a chance for Johnson. I don’t remember even troubling to shout out. I just put both hands against him and shoved.

‘Don’t push,’ said Johnson reprovingly. ‘Keep your head. Drive with consideration. And when in doubt, apply the brakes.’

The car was stationary.

‘What?’ I said. Any other of a dozen interrogative pronouns would have done as well.

‘Hang on,’ said my friend Johnson amiably. ‘We
are
a bit close to the weather balloons.’ And revving up, he engaged his lowest gear and began gently to take the car up and into the centre of the road.

The headlights, beaming round, lit a dark figure and pale features staring at us. Hugo. Wondering as I was, if it was all an illusion; and the car was in reality jumping and somersaulting down the face of the cliff. Something glittered in one of his hands.

‘If I were you,’ Johnson said, ‘I should lie down. Donovan is supposed to be waiting for him, but he’s probably got a revolver.’ And as he spoke, there was a flash of flame in the dark and a bang, followed by a jolt from under the car.

‘Damn. I thought he’d do that,’ Johnson said. ‘Ah, well. This is where we take to the bushes.’ He bumped on one flat tyre to the side of the road and pulled on his brakes, which were working perfectly. Then he twisted round, delving at the same time into a pocket. A revolver emerged, and he tested it quickly and looked up. ‘Nimble Fingers Inc. I reckon he has five more bullets. Want to risk it?’

‘If you mean,’ I said, getting out, ‘do I want to avoid being a hostage yet again, then the answer is yes . . . You know, he’s got away. You haven’t a hope in hell of catching him.’

‘Nonsense,’ Johnson said. ‘I told you. Donovan’s tracking him. Also, he’s dead keen to get rid of me. Until you bellowed the tidings back there, he didn’t have any idea that I knew about the Folio also.’

Bellowed.
I treated it with the contempt it deserved.

On second thoughts I shall be more honest and say I hardly noticed it. A recollection had struck me, and for some reason I was consumed with mirth. I said, ‘Oh heck, I forgot. I’m hell of a sorry about
Dolly.’

He had gone. I stepped out sideways, searching. ‘And so you bloody well should be,’ said his voice conversationally, just ahead of me. ‘She would have done thirteen knots under bare poles in that weather. And there you were, skipping about, hoisting sails like a one-handed paperhanger. It put me right off my sleep.’

There was a crack and a whine. I said, ‘Shut up!’ and then was silent as another bullet went by. I changed my position and found I was beside Johnson again. In spite of everything I said,
‘What do you mean . . . ‘
and broke off as another bullet hit the rock in front of us.

A second gun spoke, ahead to the right, and was answered by the first one again. ‘Donovan. One to go,’ Johnson said.

I said, ‘What do you mean, it put you off your sleep?’ and heard him give a comfortable laugh.

He said, ‘We’ll really have to stop and get on with the job. But yes, when the
Glycera
dropped her pilot, she dropped me as well. Awfully sorry and all that. Really. But I was alongside, on the shore road, all the time you were sailing
Dolly.’

With that he disappeared. The slag. The klutz. Fending off rocks and a quantity of thrashing bushes I followed as best I could, and soon I had no breath to talk with anyway, which was probably the idea. At least, I noticed, he always kept within reach. As I had discerned, he wasn’t going to risk having to rescue me for a second time this evening.

Not, come to think of it, that he had rescued me the first time. Hugo himself had done that, by leaving the nursery clues which only a children’s nanny would be best primed to follow. Because, one had to think, he wanted me free and Gramps’s little lot exposed. Because, somehow, Hugo Panadek knew about the Croatian Liberation Army all along, and was quite willing that they should do all the dirty work and receive all the kicks while he walked off in the end with the Malted Milk Folio. Was it possible that he had even made sure that Gramps knew about the basement of the Castle of Kalk? Was it possible that even without the smallpox and the nuns’ visit - or was that a fabrication too? - the first two hiding-places Gramps had chosen would always have been put out of action, somehow, by Hugo?

And yet . . . And yet Hugo hadn’t intended to come in the car with Johnson just now. I could hardly be mistaken about that. He had been quite content to let us go, knowing that Johnson carried the Folio in his jacket. Then at the last minute he had changed his mind. Why?

There was a burst of firing ahead and something else, as we rounded a corner. The gleam, through that long drive of trees, of a lit window, shining alone and isolated over water. We were back within reach of the castle. I said, ‘Oh Christ, if you let him get back in there you’ll never catch him.’

‘I rather think,’ Johnson said, standing up, ‘that we have let him get back in there. Donovan?’

A combined smell of mud and aftershave lotion signalled the appearance of my bodyguard, who said, ‘Hi, baby!’ and kissed me, with one arm round my shoulders.

‘Donovan?’ said Johnson repressively.

‘I’m afraid you’re right, sir,’ said Donovan cheerfully. ‘There’s another underground entrance over there. It’s open if you want to follow him in.’

‘I rather think not,’ Johnson said. ‘Is everyone inside?’

‘AH deployed, sir. He can’t get into the castle itself, or out through the other moat exit. As soon as he went in there, he was trapped in the basement. It’s just a case of starving him out. Or whatever.’

‘I rather fancy whatever,’ Johnson said thoughtfully.

I said flatly, ‘You knew this would happen? You just wanted the official police out of the way?’

‘Check,’ said Donovan. ‘You know we had Mr Johnson’s men all round the gulf? You see, there was this driver.’

‘I think we’ll save the saga,’ Johnson said. ‘Denny, you might go and make sure this side of the tunnel is quite secure. I’ll meet you at the moat entrance.’

Donovan left. I said, ‘What driver?’ We were walking up the road to the castle.

Johnson said, ‘The fellow who drove the wedding taxi, remember? Your nice Dr Dogíc from the Radoslav Clinic went over and spoke to him. To tell him, actually, not to stand by any more, for the baby wasn’t with you. I told you that wedding cars were the only traffic allowed there. It would have been a snip for a snatch.’

‘So?’ I said. Someone loomed up and spoke to Johnson in English and when he answered, faded again.

Johnson said, ‘So I had him followed, that’s all, and he led us here. It let us warn the police even before the kidnap note gave Donovan his excuse, and let me get my own men around. That, of course, was all part of the basic ground plot organized by the elder Mr Eisenkopp. We were on to him by that time, thanks to you and Beverley.’

‘Beverley?’
I said.

He stopped to look about. He came back. ‘Well, yes. While Grover was locking you both in the bathroom, Donovan took the chance to slip through and fiddle his way through Gramps’s door. The wheelchair was there, but Gramps wasn’t. Also we found the receiving end of the bug in Donovan’s plastic plant. Careless that; but of course Gramps had no idea who Donovan was. He merely wanted to get information about Benedict’s movements. But that in turn, helped by you again, led us to Hugo.’

‘I’ve been a great help all along,’ I said. I was feeling aggrieved.

‘You have.’ He settled down to walk beside me, hands in pockets. ‘To begin with, Donovan came across a bug in Gramps’s room. Which raised, as you might imagine, all kinds of questions. Then, when we began to check out the theory by feeding Gramps’s plant scraps of nonsense, we were alarmed and gratified to find not only Gramps, but Hugo acting on the false information. Then we checked Hugo’s phone calls. One of them was to Lűbeck, the home port of the
Glycera.
Somehow, of course, he had to shift the venue of the Warr Beckenstaff gala from Venice to Dubrovnik and he did. And then, there was your jumping bean.’

‘The Widdess toddler’s,’ I said. ‘I did wonder, if neither you nor Denny mentioned it, how Hugo knew it was the sort of thing I carried about in my pockets. I suppose it entertained Vladimir, and he included it in the tale when he reported the Eskimo story to Gramps ... You might have told me.’

‘I might. But you wouldn’t have let Hugo kiss you any more.’ Johnson said. ‘Anyway, the whole thing was pretty delicate. The militia have been very good, and haven’t asked any awkward questions. But this part of the operation, naturally, I wanted to keep in our own hands.’

‘Why does Hugo want the Folio?’ I said.

Johnson smiled in the dark. ‘Because, I rather fancy, he is on someone else’s list of Government agents. Or perhaps he is a gifted freelance. Wild as a fox. But, you know, bloody amusing.’