The New Eastgate Swing (28 page)

Baker came out of the shadows, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker.

‘I'll pop over to Kirkgate. It'll only take a moment to jam the door.'

He watched the big man walk away with the rolling stride all policemen seemed to acquire. Markham settled back in the seat, smoking. Nothing to see. Thursday afternoon and Bridge Street was deserted. An occasional car passed. Sleet began to fall. He turned on the heater.

Before it had time to work, though, he switched off the engine. He didn't want to risk anyone seeing fumes from the exhaust. A figure was moving along the pavement, coming from Eastgate, pausing often to glance back.

He could make out the man's sandy hair. Markham slumped down in the seat, eyes just above the dashboard. A moment later Harker stood by the door in the wall. A quick look each way, a few deft movements, then he was inside.

Markham locked the car and walked along the pavement, one hand on the Walther, his eyes fixed on the door. He could wait for Baker – the man would be back soon. Or he could go into the tunnel after Harker.

The torch weighed heavy in his left hand as he gripped it. He reached out and tried the door handle. It gave easily and silently; it had been oiled.

Five minutes, he thought. That should be ample time for Baker to return.

But five minutes became ten and still no sign of the man. Sixty seconds more. He'd give it that long, watching the hand move across the watch face. Come on, Stephen. He felt like his brain was screaming the words. Where the bloody hell are you?

The hand swept past twelve. He took a deep breath and went through the door, pulling it to behind him.

Absolute darkness. For a few seconds he simply stood, until the blackness seemed to take on slightly different shades. Up above, every hundred yards, the pale glimpses of daylight through the grates and air shafts.

He could hear the faint scuffling of footsteps in the distance, but no beam from a torch. Markham took short, careful steps, making as little noise as possible. Harker would think he was safe down here. He wouldn't be listening for anything.

It seemed to take forever to reach the ladder down, although he knew it couldn't be more than twenty yards. He lowered himself, hardly daring to put weight on the metal rungs, using his arms to take the strain.

At the bottom he paused, breathing gently, then walked on as lightly as possible, alert for any noise. He tried to remember how far until the tunnel opened up into the dome. One hundred and fifty yards? Something like that. The only way to keep track of the distance was by counting his paces. He tried to work it out in his head. Each long pace was about a yard; that was what they'd taught him at school.

He knew he was close when he could hear the soft echo as the soles of his boots came down on the concrete. Markham crouched, extending his hand until he touched brick. He slid to the side, then round and into the dome.

Nothing. Just emptiness. His pulse was loud in his ears, beating fast. He tightened his grip on the pistol, checking again that the safety was off.

Where was Harker? Over by his camp? Or had he sensed something was wrong and vanished to try and escape through the door into Kirkgate? The only thing Markham could do was stand and listen, hoping for some clue.

A few seconds dissolved into a minute. He waited, as still as if he'd been on parade, ear cocked for the slightest thing. Then he heard a metallic click. Without even thinking, Markham fell to the floor just as a shot was fired, whining harmlessly down the tunnel to his left.

He'd seen the muzzle flash, aimed his pistol and fired once, then rolled over to his right, away from where he'd been. He heard his bullet strike brick, the echoes of the ricochet reverberating around the large room.

Harker's second shot was closer, where Markham had been when he fired. It hit the wall less than three feet away, raising chips of stone. One struck his cheek and he could feel the warm trickle of blood on his skin.

Harker was good. Markham gritted his teeth. He'd never been a great shot and he hadn't pulled a trigger in years.

Where the hell was Baker? He should have been back before this. He must have heard the shots.

Markham tried to think, to come up with a plan. If he stayed here, Harker was trapped. There was only one way out now. To reach it the man would have to kill him. And he planned to make that as hard as possible.

Seven rounds in the clip. Six left now. Each one needed to count. Once they were gone he'd be defenceless.

He wiped the sweat away from his forehead, eyes straight ahead, trying to make out something, anything in the distance. But there was only blankness. Darkness. Silence.

Sound would carry and reverberate. He felt around on the ground until he found what he needed. A piece of mortar about the size of his thumb. Standing, he drew his arm back, aiming towards the tunnel that led to Kirkgate.

For something small it made a lot of noise, bouncing off the brick and concrete. Enough to make Harker fire off two shots in quick succession. It didn't look as though he'd moved. The reverberations rolled around the dome like thunder.

It gave Markham the opportunity to move to the other side of the Bridge Street tunnel. He could confuse the man, at least. The gunfire still filled his ears. It was hard to believe that people outside couldn't hear it. But they were deep under Leeds, everything muffled and hidden.

He had to be careful. To make sure every decision was the right one.

His life depended on it.

And he daren't move too far. That would just give Harker a fighting chance of reaching the tunnel and escaping.

Christ, where was Baker?

His throat was coated with dust. There were decades of it gathered down here. He wiped his face for a second time.

Harker wasn't going to fall for the stone trick again. Markham needed something that would keep the man on edge. Something to wrong foot him. An advantage. It was the only way he might come out of this alive.

He rubbed his palm on his jacket, getting rid of the sweat. When the opportunity arrived he had to be ready.

Something caught his ear. One step, a sole coming down on the concrete, then another and another. Slow, insistent.
Jesus
. Harker was walking towards him. Daring him to shoot, to stop him. The man was gambling with his own life.

He didn't have a choice.

He raised the pistol, trying to aim it out towards the nothing, to gauge the direction of the sound among the echoes. Gentle pressure on the trigger. He remembered the instructor's voice. Squeeze it, slow and steady.

One shot and he was spinning away to his right, back into the tunnel.

No answering fire, just another footstep. Then another.

Think. Why wasn't Harker going the other way, towards Kirkgate? Only one answer: he knew there wasn't a way out for him there. While Markham was still outside he must have gone and checked.

He felt the panic rising inside, the fear making his body start to shake and shiver. That's what he's banking on, he told himself. That you'll be so scared you'll do something stupid.

Two more footsteps, the second just a fraction longer. Harker must have crossed the beck. Too close. Markham had five bullets left. And there was only one way to be certain he aimed in the right place.

He hefted the torch, finger over the switch. In his right hand the gun was ready. As soon as he flicked on the beam and saw Harker, he'd shoot. No hesitation. And then the light straight off again.

A small breath. He stood exactly the way the weapons instructor had taught him in military intelligence. Feet apart for balance, the wrist of his gun hand tucked against his belly.

One. Two. He heard another step but he didn't rush. Three. Four.

The light hit Harker, blinding him. The man couldn't help himself, he had to close his eyes . In the split second before he turned off the torch, Markham fired twice.

One bullet missed, a high whine as it careened into the far wall.

But the second one hit the target.

He heard the grunt of pain. Yet even as he was listening Markham was moving. Don't bloody stay there. The words had been drummed in. Don't give them the chance to aim at you.

A half-second pause that seemed to hang forever. Then something heavy and metallic fell and suddenly the feet were stumbling away, shuffling as they tried to escape. He waited, letting the echo ring around then moved softly forward.

Harker had been right in front of him. Fifteen feet, no further than that. Close enough to make out the features on his face. The mouth in a rictus grin. The glint on the metal in his hand.

His hand was trembling. He'd never shot anyone before. Harker was still alive, but where had he gone? He needed to risk the torch again.

The gun lay on the concrete. He bent and put it in his pocket. A small pool of blood glistened close by, a thick trail of it leading away. He'd done some real damage.

Markham let the light play over the blood. The dots of it leading over into the distance. Not towards Harker's pack. Not towards the tunnel to Kirkgate. They seemed to be going to the tunnel where the man had put Peel's body. Why? It was a dead end, only an unused trapdoor as a way out. With all the blood Harker looked to be losing he'd be in no state to force his way out there.

He began to walk, softly and gently, letting the torch guide him. Harker didn't have a gun; he was wounded and losing blood quickly. Markham could still hear the raw explosion of the gun blasting against his eardrums and the thick recoil in his belly.

The drops of blood made dark, tiny pools spattered across the concrete. Markham kept following them, glancing ahead, looking for Harker. But he must have hidden in the shadows along the tunnel.

One step after another, always the soft crunch of mortar under the soles of his boots. He breathed shallowly, gripping the gun, aware and ready.

He stopped at the entrance to the tunnel. The torch picked out Harker. He was slumped next to Peel's body, his back against the wall, eyes open, staring back at Markham. There was still some fire in his face, some hatred.

‘I didn't think you'd fire.' Harker's voice was a tired croak. ‘All the records said you hated guns.'

So the Russians knew all about his past.

‘You were going to kill me. Just like Trevor Peel.'

Harker shrugged and gave a sad smile.

‘I've tried twice before. I thought maybe third time lucky.'

‘Perhaps you should have learned from the first two.'

‘I didn't have much choice, I like living. I have a wife who'll be glad to see me.'

‘It's a pity she won't, then,' he said. ‘You need to be in hospital.'

‘And then jail?' He shook his head. ‘They'll never let me go. They'll execute me.'

‘That's the price. You're not exactly an innocent.' Markham moved three steps closer and looked down at the man. His face was drawn, trying to hide the pain. ‘Can you move?'

‘I don't know. Maybe with help.'

Where was Baker? What had happened to him?

‘We'll get you to the hospital.'

‘Why?' Harker was suspicious.

‘Isn't it better than dying?'

‘A secret trial and a quiet hanging? That's not much of a bargain, Mr Markham. Or would you prefer Dan?'

His accent was good. No trace of Germany or Russia or wherever he was from. He even pronounced his words like a Yorkshireman.

‘Maybe they'll swap you for one of ours.'

Harker winced and moved the hand covering the wound in his side.

‘I'm not important enough. I'm a soldier. They trained me and sent me out to kill.'

‘We'll see. Come on, let's see if we can get you out of here.'

He moved closer, watching the man's eyes.

There was a sudden, sharp pain in his leg. For a moment he didn't understand what had happened. Then he couldn't stand, his leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground. The Walther jarred out of his grasp.

Harker was smiling. He had a knife in his hand, dripping with blood.

‘You ought to know better,' he said. ‘You're too trusting.'

Markham's hand scrambled for the pistol.

‘Don't,' Harker said. ‘I can kill you before you'll reach it.'

He could feel the blood flowing softly from the wound. At least it wasn't an artery. If he managed to get out of here he'd be fine. Where the hell was Baker?

‘You'd better hope I die soon so you can go,' Harker continued, no emotion in his voice. ‘Or maybe I'll kill you first. Who knows? Your fat friend, too, if he appears.'

‘What's the sense in that?' Markham swallowed. He felt dizzy, trying to force his thoughts into focus. Shock.

‘It rounds things off.'

‘Amanda Fox.' The name came into his head.

‘Of course,' Harker said with satisfaction. ‘She knows everything.'

‘Then why didn't you kill her when you kidnapped her?'

‘You don't understand, do you?' The man chuckled.

‘Understand what?'

‘She's my contact here. I never took her. She left with me. We just made it look that way.'

‘But …' He tried to make sense of it all, but he couldn't concentrate properly. ‘Why didn't she leave with her husband?'

‘Because someone had to tie up the loose ends. That was her job.' Harker sighed. ‘All we need now is your friend and everything will be complete.'

‘He's already here.'

Baker came out of the shadows at the far end of the tunnel. His face was set and hard. The knife blade shone in his hand.

Christ, Markham wondered. Where had he come from? How had he got down here?

The big man moved with surprising speed. With a short, graceful kick he sent Harker's blade flying off into the darkness.

‘The lad here might have some compassion. I don't.'

‘Then you win.' Harker sounded resigned. Markham pressed down on the vein above his wound, trying to staunch the thin flow of blood. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep. But he kept them open, watching what was going on in front of him as if he were at the pictures.