Down: Pinhole (46 page)

“I don’t want to go.” He sounded almost mournful.

“It don’t matter what you want. They will come back.”

“I don’t know where to go.”

“It’s a big country. I will give you cash I have. Please.”

She seemed shocked when he said. “Would you come with me?”

“You’re crazy.”

“You know I’m not crazy.”

“What you are then?”

“I’m desperate.”

Arabel stirred sugar into her coffee. Lots of sugar. Trevor stared at her ritual with an amused fascination and she noticed with a blush.

“Yes, it’s true, I like it sweet,” she said.

“You can stand your spoon up in it.”

It had taken a while but he had finally pinned her down for the promised coffee date. It was five o’clock on a Tuesday, her kids were with a neighbor, and Trevor had fought the M25 traffic to get to Croydon. MAAC was quiet, too quiet. The scientists and technicians had only so much maintenance and prep work to do. It was all Matthew Coppens could do to keep his people focused and on task. Enthusiasm and motivation were bridges too far. There were six days to go until the fourth and last MAAC restart and the informal betting pool had the odds of success at 100-1. Most people had begun organizing their files and packing their personal belongings in anticipation of being furloughed.

Arabel tasted her drink and decided it needed a bit more sugar. “I don’t know why you just won’t tell me,” she said, suddenly sober.

“Tell you what?”

“That Emily’s dead.”

“I can’t tell you that because it’s not true.”

“I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“I’m being straight with you.”

“But you still can’t tell me what happened or where she is.”

“I wish I could.” He picked up the menu. “What’s good here?”

“You won’t tell me the truth but I will. Nothing’s good here. Not even the coffee.”

Woodbourne’s agitation was palpable. All afternoon he smoked and paced and cursed, driving Benona to distraction. She tried to bake a cake for Polly but burned it. She had more luck with a sink full of hand washing and was wringing and hanging laundry in the bathroom when there was a heavy pounding at the door. This time she ran to Polly’s room, closed the door and sat down on the bed, holding the girl tight to her chest.

Woodbourne had his gun out.

A male voice called out, “Mrs. Siminski, this is the police. Open the door.”

Woodbourne swore under his breath.

“Open the door now. We are concerned about the welfare of your daughter. If you don’t comply we have the right to make forced entry.”

Woodbourne’s nostrils were flaring now. His eyes were wild. He raised the pistol and fired three times through the door at chest level.

Benona and Polly began to scream.

Woodbourne unlocked the door and swung it open. Two police officers were on the landing, bleeding. Woodbourne stood over them and delivered headshots. The woman from Welfare Services was frantically rushing down the stairs. He bounded after her, two steps at a time and caught up with her by the front door.

“Hey, you!” he shouted. “You fucked things up for me, you old cow.” The first bullet was fatal but he gave her two more to satisfy his rage. Then, snorting like an enraged bull, he ran back up the stairs into the flat.

Inside Polly’s bedroom, Benona was hysterical. She glanced up then looked away, burying her head in her daughter’s shoulder.

“Look at me!” Woodbourne demanded.

She refused.

“I said, look at me.”

He went to the bed and with his free hand he grabbed a fistful of her jumper and stood her up.

“Did you kill them?” she cried.

“Yes.”

“What you going to do with me?”

“What I’ve wanted to do since I came here.”

He put his left arm around her neck and pulled her in, kissing her hard on the lips.

He unhanded her. Stunned, she fell back on the bed and clutched Polly again.

“Goodbye,” he said.

Her chest was shuddering with waves of sobs. “You going?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

“Take the money from my purse.”

“No, keep it.” He pocketed the pistol and said, “I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being nice to me.”

“We were your prisoners.”

“You can still admit you were nice.”

“Okay, I was a little nice.”

“Tell me why?”

“You do bad things but you’re not all bad. Like me I suppose.”

“Remember what I told you. If you show up in my world I’ll take care of you there.”

Trevor apologized for answering his phone and he apologized again when he abruptly rose to leave.

“Is everything all right?” Arabel asked.

He put a twenty-pound note on the table. “Yeah, it’s just something urgent I need to attend to.”

“Is it about Emily?”

“No, something else. Can I see you again?”

“I’d like that. Won’t you wait for your change?”

He gave her a parting smile. “Leave the girl a nice tip and hold onto the rest for me till the next time I see you.”

When Trevor arrived at the Town Mead in Croydon, the local police were already there, clearing the students off the playing fields and dealing with furious coaches and parents who were demanding more of an explanation than a “security issue.” Trevor presented himself to the officers who were scanning the horizon.

In short order, a speck appeared coming from the east and as it came closer, the sound of rotors filled the evening air. The helicopter, an MI5 Gazelle, came in for a landing beside the football pitch. Trevor lowered his head and hopped in the open door for an immediate takeoff.

He belted himself and Ben Wellington passed him a headset.

“Do you have him?” Trevor asked.

“No, but we know where he is.”

“Where?”

“He’s heading north on the M1. He hijacked a car in Hackney and the driver made the report. He recognized Woodbourne from the news. We’ve got eyes on the car from the sky and local police are converging.”

“What’s the hostage telling you?”

“We’ve got a team at Mrs. Siminski’s flat where the triple shooting occurred. She’s absolutely confirmed it’s Woodbourne. He’s been holed up there keeping her and her daughter hostage.”

“How’d she manage to stay alive?”

“They seem to have developed a bizarre bond. He even kissed her on the way out the door, if you can believe it.”

The helicopter followed the path of the M25 east which Trevor found ironic since it was also the path of the MAAC tunnel. The pilot was in communication with another Security Service chopper on scene and he changed his heading toward the north to intersect with the M1. Ben was studying a map and hosting a conference call with ground and air units. In a lull he showed Trevor the map.

“We’re trying to avoid additional civilian casualties. If we take him on the motorway, we’re likely to have a volatile high-speed apprehension and a multi-vehicle pile-up. So what we’re thinking is we can block all northbound traffic, north of Junction 12 at Toddington …”

Trevor saw the plan and finished Ben’s sentence. “Which means he’ll likely turn off at Junction 12 where we can take him on the more sparsely traveled A5120 either here or here, depending which way he turns off the motorway.”

“Exactly.”

When they approached Junction 12 the effects of the blockade were already apparent with a growing tailback to the south. The other Security Services chopper was stationary over the junction and they circled around it, trying to spot the carjacked silver Volvo.

Through binoculars, Ben found it first and pointed it out to Trevor.

“There, about a quarter of a mile south of the junction,” he said.

Because of motorists exiting at the junction, the column of cars was moving along at a trickle. Trevor could see the blue lights of stationary Bedfordshire police vehicles on the verges of the A5120, east and west of the junction.

Finally the Volvo exited and headed east.

“Can you put down on the road?” Trevor asked the pilot.

The pilot was game to try.

“Ben, tell the local police to follow and box him in so he can’t reverse direction. If we put down here, just before the roundabout, near that wooded section, we’ve got him.”

Ben got back on the air to hastily coordinate the action and the pilot descended rapidly. The extra motorway traffic clogged the A road making the landing difficult. The chopper hovered at twenty feet until startled drivers slowed and allowed a gap to form and the pilot threaded the needle and put down on the asphalt.

“I don’t suppose you have a spare firearm?” Trevor asked.

“Actually, I was rather hoping you might have yours,” Ben said. “I’m unarmed.”

The Volvo was some eight car lengths away.

Woodbourne began cursing up a storm. He was locked in, bumper-to-bumper, with no way to turn around or maneuver on the verge. Ahead was a grounded helicopter, overhead was another, and in his rear and sideview mirrors, he saw armed police running toward his car on foot, evacuating stalled motorists along the way.

Trevor and Ben exited the helicopter and began shouting at drivers and passengers to flee.

Woodbourne saw them, opened his door, and began swearing and waving his gun sending drivers in nearby cars ducking down in panic.

Trevor and Ben were three car lengths away.

“Brandon!” Trevor shouted. “Brandon Woodbourne. My name’s Trevor, mate. We want to help you.”

At the same time a police officer shouted, “Armed police. Put your weapon down.”

Trevor told Ben, “For Christ’s sake, we’ve got to take him alive. We don’t know if the exchange will work with a body, do we?”

Ben yelled at the approaching officers, “This is the Security Services. Hold your positions. Do not shoot!”

Woodbourne turned toward the police and fired, shattering a windscreen and scattering the officers to the ground.

Trevor sprinted forward and was two car lengths away when Woodbourne turned in his direction again. He pulled up, holding his hands up.

“I’m unarmed, Brandon,” he said. “I know who you are, mate. I know where you’re from. I know you must be scared as shit. Things aren’t the same as when you were here last, are they? Bit confusing, I’d venture to say. We’ve got a team of people waiting to help you. Just put the gun down, all right?”

Woodbourne snatched a look behind him. The police were creeping closer. There was a woman in the car behind him. It would have been easy enough to take another hostage but instead he sighed heavily, put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

Trevor started running and was on Woodbourne in seconds. The larger man flayed at him with his fists, growling like a wild beast but Trevor wrestled him to the ground and tenaciously held him until the police converged and fought him into hand and ankle cuffs.

“All right?” Ben asked.

Trevor grinned, hands on knees and panting. “Never better.”

“I thought I’d let you have the glory for yourself.”

Trevor laughed then approached the prisoner when he was yanked to his feet. “Thanks for cooperating, Mr. Woodbourne,” Trevor said.

Woodbourne spit at him but Trevor saw it coming and sidestepped the wad. “I wasn’t fucking cooperating you fucking bastard,” Woodbourne said, pulling at his restraints.

“Just a small attempt at humor, mate,” Trevor said. “Tell you what, how’d you like to take a nice little ride in that helicopter over there to a nice little padded cell?”

John heard the booms of cannon peppered with pops of musket fire. He didn’t know who had attacked first but the French and Germans were certainly well engaged. It was midday and the fog had all but cleared. As soon as he rode to higher ground he expected to be able to see the battle. Garibaldi’s troops would pierce the German flank from the west of Drancy and John would lead his squad of men into the German camp at Sevran. Garibaldi had taken six La Hitte cannon and dozens of his own smaller pieces to challenge the Germans, leaving the rest of his munitions to the west to deal with the English, if and when they returned.

Near Drancy, Garibaldi halted the column and motioned for John to ride to his side. The time had come for the two groups to split.

“Farewell, my friend,” Garibaldi said. “I pray you will find your lady and I fervently hope both of you may return to the Earth to live out your days in peace and love.”

“Thank you, Giuseppe. It’s been an honor to know you. Stay safe out there.”

And that was it. Both of them were soldiers at heart and soldiers like them kept their emotions dry and checked.

John rode off with Antonio, Simon, Caravaggio, and his squad of fifty men, all of them pushing their horses to their limits. Halfway to Sevran, the higher ground materialized and to the south the squad briefly stopped to ogle the distant clash at Drancy.

“I can’t tell who’s winning,” John told Antonio.

“May both their herds be thinned,” Antonio said.

“Look over there,” Simon said. “Our army is in position, waiting to finish off the Germans. Then they’ll turn toward Paris and feed Maximilien to his guillotine.”

“Italia and Francia united,” Caravaggio said proudly, “under one leader, our Garibaldi. And it is only the beginning I think.”

“Come on,” John said. “There’s no time for speeches.”

Fifteen minutes later they were snaking uphill to the top of the wooded hill overlooking the German camp. When they got to the summit they dismounted, tied their horses, then crept to the flat observation point where the trees were sparse.

He saw it immediately. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The camp was still there, unchanged from his previous reconnoiter but there was something else, something that hit John like a hard punch to the gut.

Surrounding the camp to the north and the east, less than a mile from their hilltop position, was a vast army, larger than the combined French and German ones.

“Who the hell are they?” John asked.

Antonio pulled out his spyglass and let out a low whistle. “This is a problem, for sure.”