Hard Place (36 page)

Altin Vata was nothing like Boris Zandro. He looked ten years older, his cheeks much fatter, his eyebrows much wilder and gray. In a Tyrolean hat and dark olive-green overcoat, he looked like a retired and prosperous Austrian banker, though the name still sounded Albanian. Ratso could not see the eyes but he was prepared to bet he was wearing colored contacts. The stomach girth was the same—substantial but not obese. The shoes were more suitable for mountain walks than Zandro’s usual crocodile loafers. The hair that circled the foot of his perky little hat was also grayer than normal. But the dead giveaway was the ubiquitous black leather attaché case with brass trimmings. Below the handle were the embossed initials BKZ. The roll-along was barely larger than an oversized briefcase of the type used by many pilots. He was travelling light but to where? Air Traffic would have known, if he had thought to check.

Ratso watched Zandro’s eyes sweep the room. If he was inwardly nervous, it did not show. “I’m just checking that Mr Mountford is ready for you,” the woman said to her passenger as she held the phone to her ear. Ratso was ready to make his move but was baulked by the passengers who had gathered closer to the exit, between him and Zandro. The woman smiled at her passenger. “They’re ready, Mr. Vata. We can go across.” The woman released the roll-along while she removed the swipe card from her tunic pocket. Ratso moved rapidly to circle the chattering group. Damn them! Rogerson had been better positioned and was closer to Zandro as the swipe card worked and the glass door opened. The sound of the thunderous rain filled the room.

Things were not going as planned. Where were the uniforms to make the arrest? It was now down to him and Rogerson. There were no regular police officers based at this small airport unlike the major ones where they patrolled with their weapons ready. No time to blame yourself for this snafu. Play the ball where it lies, Ratso.

He rushed toward Zandro’s departing back. “Mr Boris Zandro. I’m Detective Inspector Holtom, Metropolitan Police and I’m arresting you for using a false passport.” On hearing this, Rogerson made his move. As Zandro spun round on hearing his name, Rogerson grabbed Zandro’s left arm, which held the attaché case. The startled look on Zandro’s face was one to savour, one Ratso hoped he would remember long after his days in the force were over. The eyes seemed to be twice their normal size; his tongue flicked out and as quickly back in as the muscles of the solid jawline drooped just slightly.

Just as Ratso was almost in reach, he heard Rogerson let out an anguished howl of pain. It came from deep in his stomach and sounded almost primeval, to the horror of the nearest group. At first Ratso thought Zandro had stabbed him but as Rogerson reeled backward, releasing his grip, the detective could see what had happened.

In Zandro’s right hand, he was holding what looked like a Mont Blanc pen, a symbol of wealth and status among pens. It was black, quite fat with the small white star on top of the cap. But Ratso knew instantly that Mont Blanc made no pens like this one. He guessed that a specialist in personal protection had created a fake that concealed a virulent pepper spray—ideal for passing undetected through airport security. The active ingredient of capsaicin had rendered Rogerson temporarily and painfully blind.

As Rogerson reeled back yelling, hands frantically rubbing his eyes, he was caught by one of the city types. Ratso faltered, uncertain what to do. Zandro must not reach the jet. As Ratso lunged forward, Zandro raised his arm to spray him but Ratso landed a fierce upward blow with the knuckleduster on Zandro’s wrist. Zandro yelped and lost his grip on the spray which fell to the floor, hissing like an asp. The spray missed Ratso instead catching Zandro’s escort full in the face. She too fell back screaming, leaving Ratso alone by the open door to the tarmac.

Ratso swung his right arm again and smashed it into the thickness of the overcoat below stomach level but other than a grunt, it had no effect. “Grab the bastard,” Ratso called out to anybody around him just as Zandro’s attaché case swung full tilt and caught him a mighty blow on his right cheek, the sharpness of the brass corner gouging out a chunk of flesh. Ratso rocked back, momentarily confused by the heavy impact and the blood already pouring down his face.

Zandro needed no prompting. Before anyone reacted to Ratso’s cry for help, he had rushed out, slamming the door shut behind him.

“The swipecard! Where’s the swipecard?” Ratso yelled as blood spattered to the floor. The woman’s hands were empty—she had clasped them over her eyes. He finally spotted it lying on the floor by her side. A quick swipe and he dashed into the downpour out on the apron, his head throbbing, the blood from his cheek dripping copiously onto his windcheater.

Zandro was no longer built for speed and even though he had abandoned his roll-along, he was still only three-quarter way to the Gulfstream. Ignoring the pain, Ratso broke into a sprint, the lashing rain obscuring his vision. Ahead, Ratso saw Zandro signalling to a woman in a scarlet tunic on the aircraft’s steps.

Ratso wondered what Mountford would do—and the co-pilot, too. Zandro must think the pilot will take off. He knows nothing of the embargo by ATC. But under pressure, would Mountford refuse? Would he obey a scruff with a bleeding face and risk blowing his cover? Does Zandro have a gun on board? Would Mountford still refuse if threatened at gunpoint? And if he took off with me on board? He didn’t care to think that through too closely.

No time to worry about that, Ratso. Just get aboard, or you’ve lost everything.

A crash of thunder almost directly overhead filled the air as Ratso splashed the last few paces toward the shapely beauty of the Gulfstream. Zandro had reached the plane. Ratso could see he looked out of shape as he clasped the railing and then mounted the steps one at a time. Ratso heard him shout to the woman in the scarlet uniform, “Close the fucking door!” Ratso could see her just inside as Zandro stumbled in before turning right and out of sight.

The hostess looked startled on hearing Ratso’s shouts of “Police! Stop!” but must have pressed whatever switch set the steps in motion. As Ratso grasped the rail, they started to pivot upward, heading for their final position flush with the plane, sealing the passengers inside. From the third step, Ratso launched himself horizontally into the cabin. He crashed to the floor in the galley area, the main cabin’s plush leather seats and tables off to his right. In hurling himself aboard, he struck the hostess, who tottered backwards and crashed into a cupboard filled with what sounded like fine china. As he lay on the floor, struggling to orient himself, the door to the jet closed with a thud. He was trapped.

Ratso took in his surroundings. Neil Diamond’s Solitary Man was playing quietly, filling the cabin. The interior smelled of new carpets, expensive leather and spicy air freshener. Right beside him, close to his head, were black stockings and a pair of expensive black leather shoes with high stiletto heels.

As he rose to his knees, he saw Zandro’s hand fumbling under a table just a couple of meters away. Beyond the table were two thickly padded leather chairs in gunmetal gray. He could hear the crouching figure grunting with the effort, his breathing quite laboured from crossing the apron. Then came a crackle of sticky paper being ripped and Ratso knew it must have been holding some type of weapon to the table’s underside.

Zandro still had his back turned, so it was impossible to see what he was reaching for but there was no time to find out. Pushing back the svelte stewardess to the sound of more crashing crockery, Ratso launched himself straight onto Zandro’s back, pulling him from the table and wrapping his right arm around his neck in a throttling grip. The Tyrolean hat tumbled to the thick gray carpet.

Ratso needed help—the second Special Branch officer or Wensley Hughes’ team. “Open the door,” Ratso ordered the hostess, shooting her a sharp look over his shoulder. “I’m a police officer. Open the door now.” He strained to keep a grip on the cumbersome figure, who was twisting and lurching as he tried to get a weapon into play. “Just do it!” Ratso shouted again but he heard no sound of the door being opened. He wondered what was happening in the terminal or on the wet tarmac outside.

Then the plane shuddered as the Rolls-Royce engines whined into life. My God! Heaven help anyone too close to the jet now. You’re on your own, Ratso. You gotta win this struggle. Was Giles Mountford obeying orders from the hostess who had done nothing about the door? Was the pilot bluffing—protecting his cover as Ratso had always advised him?

As he fought to maintain his fierce lock, he realised that while pounding the tarmac he’d lost his knuckleduster. He was now reliant on the strength of his arms and fists alone. Just when I need it most, he thought, swaying from side to side in time with Zandro, who was fighting to free himself from the bear hug and grab whatever was under the table.

Ratso heard a movement behind him. The next second he felt a sickening crack to his left shoulder as the hostess brought a fire extinguisher down in a vicious blow. No doubt she had hoped to crack open his head but with the two men’s erratic movements, she had narrowly missed. Now the shiny silver cylinder tumbled to the floor close to his feet.

Ratso felt an immediate loss of power in his left arm. It fell away, momentarily useless. He tightened his grip on Zandro’s neck, his clenched knuckle pushing deep into it. Both Zandro’s hands were free to scrabble beneath the table if he could only get close enough. Shit! Will the hostess try to reach whatever’s under the table? She had only to squeeze past the two men, who were locked together like copulating dogs. She’s bound to try.

A single tactical mistake now and he was dead. Neither pilot seemed eager to intervene as the jet engines continued to warm up, ready to taxi away. Ratso dismissed any hope that Mountford would break cover now. The best hope was he would not taxi the plane in defiance of ATC orders.

The extinguisher lay close to Ratso’s left foot. That bitch could reach it. If she does, I won’t be so lucky twice. With just one arm, he knew he could not keep hold of the bucking and heaving Albanian for much longer. It was time for a change of strategy. Instead of forcing Zandro’s head downward with his full weight on the Albanian’s back, he suddenly jerked his arm up, heaving Zandro’s head back as far as he could. Then, when he could raise it no farther, he slammed it back down and smashed the Albanian’s nose into the table top.

A howl of pain split the cabin and Ratso gleefully imagined the blood pouring down Zandro’s face and his eyes flooding with tears. But still the brute wriggled and twisted, grappling to get his hands under the table. From the corner of his eye, Ratso saw the stewardess lean down beside him, seeking the extinguisher.

No way, no way. With his foot, he manoeuvred the cylinder out of her reach and then jerked Zandro’s head upward again but this time instead of crashing it back down he heaved himself and his prisoner sideways, slamming Zandro’s head into the fuselage to his right. The force stunned the Albanian enough to momentarily stop his heaving. Taking a huge gamble, Ratso released Zandro’s neck and dived to the carpeted aisle, just in time to seize the extinguisher before the stewardess got it. He knew he had just a second or two before Zandro would gather his wits sufficiently to get hold of his weapon.

As he rose from the floor, he glimpsed both a large knife and a pistol under the table, the knife clinging precariously by thick brown tape, tantalisingly close to Zandro’s hand. With a surge of power, Ratso rose to his full height and swung the extinguisher. It smashed into Zandro’s temple with all the power of a cricketer’s hook shot. Zandro’s snarl died in his throat as he crashed onto the table, legs crumpling uselessly. A moment later his whole body slithered to the floor, blocking the aisle.

The hostess was now terrified for her own safety, no doubt mesmerised by the blood that covered the detective from ear to ear. “Out of my way, bitch,” he commanded as he gave her an almighty shove, sending her reeling back toward the galley. She scrambled in the drawers and came up clutching a fork but before she could even attempt to use it, a short-arm jab to her midriff sent her tumbling to the floor. He wrenched the fork from her hand, stamped his foot into her stomach and banged loudly on the closed cockpit door.

Mountford must have looked through the spy hole and seen him looking badly injured. There was some hesitation as he debated what to do, or perhaps he was discussing it with his co-pilot. But after a short delay, the door opened and the languid figure of Giles Mountford appeared in his navy blue uniform and crisp white shirt with blue tie.

For a second, Ratso peered into the cockpit brimming with high-tech screens and dials, the sharpness of the colors starkly clear in the overall darkness. “Detective Inspector Holtom, Metropolitan Police.” He flashed his card. “Switch off the engines. Then get the plane’s door open at once.” He barked out the orders for the benefit of both the co-pilot and the hostess, though he doubted she was in much shape to notice what was happening around her. Taking no chances and for good measure, he winded her again.

As Mountford squeezed past to open the door and release the steps, Ratso returned to the motionless figure of Zandro. From under the table he freed a Bowie knife with a six-inch blade and a loaded Glock. He checked the safety catch and trousered the gun but kept the nasty Bowie in his good hand in case of trouble. Seconds later, the whine of the engines died and a blast of cold air confirmed that the door was now open. Ratso welcomed the sound of the hail bouncing off the fuselage and all across the apron.

Still, there was nobody close to the plane but clustered by the terminal he saw a group of uniformed officers being briefed. Another posse of armed officers wearing the distinctive blue-and-white-checked baseball caps ran out to the tarmac to surround the plane, weapons at the ready and heads bowed against the fierce storm. He summoned the uniforms from the top of the steps with a shout and a wave, though with his bloodied face and fearsome knife he wondered what impression he was giving. Two officers bounded up the steps and crammed into the tiny galley area. “You okay, Ratso? Pity about the teeth.” It was Inspector Harry Dunbar, an old mate from his early days in the force.