The Eyewitness (24 page)

He hit the concrete hard and heard, as much as felt, his left leg snap just below the knee. He pitched sideways and his head slammed into the ground. As he struggled to sit up he saw a shard of cracked bone sticking through the flesh.

Then he looked up. One of his attackers was leaning out of the third-floor window. Solomon crawled away from the rear of the building towards the lawn. The man pointed his gun and fired. A bullet kicked up a puff of dust in the concrete by his head. Solomon crawled faster, dragging his injured leg. Every movement sent spasms of red-hot pain through the limb, and he could feel blood pulsing from the wound under his knee. He heard a second loud pop from the upstairs window and his right arm jerked as a bullet smacked into his shoulder. The pain hit a second later, and Solomon screamed. He rolled over and started crawling again. That was when he saw the big man in the dark coat standing by the wall. He was aiming a gun at Solomon's face.

Leskov shouted up at the Ukrainian to get out of the flat and the man disappeared from the window. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“What are you doing?” asked a stern voice. A woman. Leskov looked round to see who it was.

“I've called the police,” shouted the woman. Leskov still couldn't see where she was.

The man on the patio groaned and tried to crawl towards a garden shed. He was only twenty feet from Leskov. The siren was getting louder. Heading his way. It was joined by a second, fainter but moving closer.

Leskov had to know how far away the woman was and if she was in a position to identify him. Further down the terrace there was a light on in a window, a figure silhouetted against it. He pointed the gun at it and the figure ducked.

Then Leskov heard the squeal of brakes followed, a second or two later, by car-doors opening and shouts. It had to be the police.

He turned to look at the man on the ground. He took a step forward, aiming his gun. The man had rolled up against the garden shed. Leskov fired. The man jerked and was still.

The footsteps were louder and Leskov knew that he had no time for a second shot. He turned and ran down the alley that led away from the terrace, unscrewing the silencer then shoving it and the gun into his pocket.

Oval shapes were spinning around a bright white light and shadowy figures were mumbling. Something was howling, a dog or a wolf, and the world was in the grip of an earthquake, shaking Solomon from side to side. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he knew it was bad. Now, though, he felt warm and comfortable, and let himself drift towards the white light.

“Stay with me!” A woman's voice, urgent and demanding. The voice of a woman who expected to be obeyed. Like a teacher or a soldier. Solomon tried to tell her to leave him alone, that he wanted to sleep, but he couldn't talk. There was something hard in his throat, but it didn't stop him breathing.

“Come on, stay with me!” The voice sounded more urgent this time but Solomon ignored it. He felt as if he was floating in a warm, wet cloud.

“Daddy?”

Solomon tried to smile but the hard object in his throat wouldn't let him.

“Daddy?”

He saw her then, four years old with long blonde hair.

“Daddy, what are you doing?” She reached out and stroked his forehead.

“Shall I kiss it better, Daddy?” she asked.

Solomon tried to nod but he couldn't move his head. He wanted to tell her that he missed her, that he loved her, and that he was sorry for what had happened, but his throat was hurting.

She slapped his face, hard. Solomon was confused. Why was she hitting him? Another slap, harder this time, then fingers gripped his face. Big fingers, not the fingers of a four-year-old child.

“Stay with me, damn it!” The woman was back. So was the howling wolf. Something pulled back his left eyelid and a masked face looked down at him, a face wearing thick, protective glasses. She was in her early thirties with black hair pulled back from her face.

“Can you hear me?” she shouted.

Solomon nodded. She let go of his face. The metal stretcher he was lying on lurched to the left.

“For God's sake,” said the woman, 'take it easy! Blood's pouring out of him."

There was a man behind her. He was also wearing a mask and glasses, and a yellow and green jacket.

Solomon was sliding back into unconsciousness, but the woman pulled up his eyelid again and shone a beam of light into his eye.

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

Solomon nodded again. The howling wolf was louder now. It was a siren wailing. He was in an ambulance. Images flashed through his mind. Throwing the champagne bottle at the man in McLaren's flat. The drainpipe coming away. The crack as his leg broke. The bullet slamming into his shoulder.

“We're on the way to hospital. I've given you something for the pain, but I need you to stay conscious. Do you understand?”

Solomon couldn't talk because of the plastic pipe in his airway and had to nod again. He wanted to ask the paramedic if he was going to die, but instead he concentrated on breathing. There was a bag of clear liquid hanging from a hook, which swung from side to side as the ambulance rushed, siren blaring, through the city streets. The siren started to fade and he closed his eyes again. The girl was back, stroking his forehead.

“Daddy?” she whispered, and Solomon smiled.

Goncharov tapped out Ivan Petrovic's number and glared at Leskov as he waited for the Bosnian to answer.

“It wasn't our fault he should have been asleep,” said Leskov. Goncharov cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

Petrovic answered and Goncharov explained what had happened.

“So, is he dead or not?” asked the Bosnian.

“He was shot twice and he fell from a third-floor window,” said Goncharov.

“You are not answering my question,” said Petrovic.

“The police intervened before we could be sure,” said Goncharov.

“An ambulance was called and the siren was on when it drove away.”

“I suppose there is no doubt that he was shot?” asked Petrovic, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

“Twice,” said Goncharov.

“One of my men shot him in the arm, another shot him in the side.”

Petrovic chuckled.

“Two men with guns, and they couldn't finish him off?”

“They're good men, generally,” said Goncharov.

“They were interrupted by the police. What do you want me do? We can finish him off at the hospital, or wait until he returns home.”

For a few seconds Petrovic said nothing. Then he chuckled again.

“Let it go. He won't come back to Sarajevo, not after this. The scars will be a permanent reminder of what's waiting for him.”

“You're sure?” asked Goncharov.

“Don't worry, Sergei. You'll get your money.”

Goncharov flushed. He hadn't been worried about payment for the shooting; he was more concerned that Petrovic thought he'd been less than professional.

“What about the girl?” asked Petrovic.

“The man went to see her, did he?”

“We used her as bait,” said Goncharov.

“That's how we got him. We followed him home.” He wanted the Bosnian to know that the hit had been well planned, even if it had been clumsily executed.

“If he's not dead, he'll tell the police about her.”

“I've already moved her,” said Goncharov.

“It would be better if she were out of the country,” said the Bosnian.

“I would lose money on her if she leaves now,” said Goncharov.

“I'll buy back her contract,” said Petrovic, 'providing you don't try to screw me."

“I paid you ten thousand.”

“I remember.”

“But there have been extra expenses.”

“I said I didn't want you to screw me, you thieving bastard. I'd already arranged the paperwork, and you just paid for her flight.”

“There have been expenses in London,” said Goncharov.

“Send her back to me -I can use her somewhere,” said Petrovic.

“Put her on the next plane and I'll give you a credit of twelve thousand dollars against the next batch.”

“Agreed,” said Goncharov.

“The girl, she talked to this man?”

“Briefly,” said Goncharov.

“Do you know what was said?”

He had asked the question casually, but Goncharov knew instinctively that he should choose his words carefully.

“He wasn't with her long,” he said.

“When it became clear that he didn't want sex she asked him to leave.”

“He was questioning her?”

“He said he wanted to talk. She asked him to leave. That's all I know.” There was a long silence, and for a moment Goncharov wondered if the connection had been lost.

“Hello?” he said.

“Send her back to Sarajevo. I'll see you next month.”

Goncharov put down his mobile phone on the desk. There were dozens of questions he had wanted to ask Petrovic. He wanted to know who the man was, and what the girl had seen in Kosovo. He wanted to know why she was running, and who from. But Goncharov knew that some questions were best left unanswered, especially when it came to a man like Ivan Petrovic.

Jack Solomon opened his eyes to a regular electronic beeping. There was something comforting about the monotonous sound, and as he struggled to focus he realised that it coincided with his heartbeat.

He turned his head to the left. There was a bank of monitors on a metal trolley next to his bed and a large card with a teddy bear on it holding a bunch of flowers and a balloon with "Get Well Soon' on it.

“Mr. Solomon?”

It was a woman's voice. Solomon turned back. A black nurse was smiling down at him, a stethoscope slung around her neck. He tried to speak but his mouth was so dry that his tongue was stuck to the floor of his mouth. He grunted.

“That's okay, Mr. Solomon, don't try to talk. I can't give you any water but you've got a drip there so don't worry.”

Solomon grunted again. He wanted to know if he was going to die.

“You're in intensive care but you're going to be all right,” she said, as if reading his mind.

“You just have to relax and let us take care of you. Do you understand?”

Solomon nodded.

“That's good,” she said.

“Get some rest.”

He closed his eyes.

The immigration officer barely glanced at Nicole's passport. It was Croatian. The name wasn't hers, neither was the date of birth, but it was her photograph. Nicole was more nervous at the airport in Sarajevo than she had been at Heathrow. At the London airport she'd had a minder, whom Petrovic had laughingly called her jockey. He was a student from south London who had been paid a thousand dollars to fly with her, posing as her boyfriend. On the way back to Sarajevo she was alone. Two of Goncharov's men had taken her to the airport. She'd kept asking them what was wrong and why she was being thrown out of the country, but they had steadfastly refused to answer her questions.

“Why?” she'd asked tearfully, after they'd checked her in and walked her to the departure area.

“Why are you doing this to me? What did I do wrong?”

There had been another man waiting for her at Vienna airport, and he, too, had refused to speak to her. He'd just stayed close by her until her connecting flight was due to depart then watched until she'd walked to the plane.

Nicole had cried all the way from Vienna to Sarajevo. The stewardesses had asked if she was sick, but she'd covered her face with a handkerchief. She had no idea what had gone wrong. She knew what the rules were: Anna had explained them the day she'd started working for the agency. No talking to clients about the agency, no leaving the flat without telephoning the agency first, no social ising with anyone who wasn't with the agency, no contact with clients outside work, never to give out her phone number, never to answer the door unless she was expecting a client. There were rules about handling the money, rules about hygiene and cleanliness, rules about what she should do in bed. There were rules for everything and, so far as Nicole was aware, she hadn't broken any of them.

It had to have been the man from Bosnia, she'd realised at some point during the flight to Sarajevo. The man called Jack. Maybe he'd complained to the agency. Or maybe they'd discovered he wanted to talk to her about what had happened in Kosovo. If she was being sent home because of him, it wasn't fair because she hadn't answered any questions. She'd refused to speak to him, point-blank.

She'd only stopped crying when the wheels of the plane had screeched on the runway and the plane had taxied to the terminal building. She knew that someone would be waiting for her. She just didn't know who it would be.

The immigration officer gave her back the passport. She slipped it into her bag and walked through to the baggage-reclaim area. She had no suitcase to collect. The two men in London hadn't allowed her to take anything with her. Everything she owned was still in the St. John's Wood flat.

She walked through the Nothing To Declare channel and into the arrivals area. She kept her head down and her bag clutched to her chest as she walked quickly to the exit.

“Not so fast, little sister,” said a guttural voice to her left.

Nicole stumbled and the man reached out to steady her.

Another appeared at her right shoulder.

“We're here to drive you,” he said.

Both men were tall and thin, wearing leather bomber jackets and blue jeans. She could tell from their accents that they were Bosnian Serbs. She kept her head down so that they wouldn't see how scared she was.

“Don't be frightened, little sister,” said the first man, patting her on the shoulder.

“I didn't do anything wrong,” she said.

“You've nothing to worry about,” said the man.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

The man grinned cruelly.

“Arizona,” he said.

Nicole's heart sank. She knew what awaited her in Arizona. The tears started again, but the two men ignored her anguish and guided her towards the exit.

Solomon knew before they opened their mouths that they were police. Two men, one in his late twenties in a dark blue pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt and a red tie, the other in his mid-thirties in a blue blazer and black trousers. Both wore shoes chosen for comfort rather than style.