Nightmare City (19 page)

He had recently returned from making the final arrangements
for Sam’s body to be on the same flight as himself to London next
day. From Heathrow he would connect it with New York.

He was not looking forward to the journey, knowing she would
be lying stiff, cold and desecrated in the hold below. He shivered
at the thought.

Pangs of hunger growled in his stomach.

He had a quick shower, changed and walked from the sea view
annexe where his room was situated through the rain across the
metal footbridge which spanned high above the main road into
Funchal, and up to the main part of the hotel, the Quinta. He went
into Joe’s bar, had the dish of the day - which happened to
be
espada
- and
half a bottle of Atlantis Rose.

An hour later, after the meal, he moved the few metres across
to the bar and settled down for a couple of beers whilst reflecting
on the events of the day.

Just what the fuck was Scott Hamilton up to? And more to the
point, who was he? Why did Sam write his name down? Did he have
something to do with her death? Or was he, Donaldson, just
clutching at straws?

It frustrated him that he might well be able to find out about
Hamilton, but might not ever be in a position to answer any of the
other questions. Even so, there was no way he would ever - EVER -
accept that her death was misadventure or accident. He was
convinced she had been murdered, but how the hell could he prove
it?

Lost in thought, he did not notice the approach of the woman.
She appeared from nowhere, and touched his shoulder gently.
Donaldson twisted his head upwards.

It was the receptionist from the Jacaranda.

She was wearing a trenchcoat, but no headgear, and was soaking
wet, her black hair plastered to her head and face. Her mascara had
run from her eyes, making her look like she’d been crying. Maybe
she had.

‘
Francesca,’ Donaldson said in surprise, remembering her name.
He got to his feet.

‘
Mr Donaldson,’ she said with a quaver in her
voice.

‘
You’re soaked to the skin.’

‘
It’s OK, doesn’t matter.’ She unfastened her belt, the
buttons of her coat and flapped it a couple of times to shake the
excess rain off the gabardine material. Underneath she was wearing
jeans and a T-shirt. ‘May I sit down?’

‘
Sure, sure, help yourself.’

She sat.

‘
Drink? Coffee - wine - whatever?’

She shook her head. Donaldson eased himself back into his
chair, eyeing her uncertainly, trying to judge what was about to
happen.

She was obviously on edge; her body language screamed it. Her
hands twitched nervously, could not keep still. She brushed wet
strands of hair back away from her face with shaking fingers. She
seemed hardly able to bring her eyes up to meet
Donaldson’s.

‘
So, Francesca, what brings you here?’

‘
I want you to understand I enjoy my work,’ she said quickly
after a few moments’ consideration. ‘I’m quite well paid and I’m
lucky because I have no real qualifications. In did not work at the
Jacaranda, I would probably be a waitress.’

Donaldson nodded. He decided not to say anything, let her fill
in all the blanks, though he wasn’t sure what this all
meant.

‘
I don’t want to lose my job. I support my mother. My father
died two years ago. . .’ She shrugged, suddenly unable to continue.
She glanced quickly towards the door and her mouth opened slightly
as she appeared to see something. Donaldson peered round to look.
No one was there. She was seeing ghosts.

‘
You are from the FBI?’ she asked meekly.

‘
Yep.’

‘
That lady - Samantha - she too?’

‘
Yep.’

Her eyes looked deeply into his for a couple of seconds, then
tore away. She appeared to stifle a sob.

‘
Look, Francesca,’ Donaldson said, hoping he was going to hit
the right note. ‘I think you’ve come to see me for a reason. Does
it concern Samantha?’

‘
Yes.’ It was a hoarse whisper.

‘
So, what is it?’ he probed softly. His eyes found hers once
more. ‘You can trust me,’ he added, thinking, Famous last
words.

‘
Can I?’ Her eyes dropped again and stared at her hands which
she was wringing tightly together, like drying them underneath a
warm-air machine.

Donaldson reached across. He laid one of his hands over hers.
They felt clammy and wet. ‘Yeah, you can.’

Slowly Francesca took control of herself and raised her face.
Quietly she gasped, ‘I think she was murdered.’

Donaldson’s insides did a double-back somersault, but his
exterior, he hoped, remained a vision of placidity.

‘
We can’t talk here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to my room. You can
dry yourself off and we can talk privately. I’ll get some coffee
sent up. Come on.’

He stood up and offered a hand, wiggling his fingers in a
gesture of encouragement. She hesitated a moment before taking it
and rising slowly from her seat.

The rain had not abated. If anything it was heavier than
before, backed by an ever-increasing wind which had started to
howl. Donaldson turned up his collar and hunched into his jacket.
Francesca buttoned up her long coat and tied the belt into a loose
knot.

With a hand laid on her back, Donaldson guided her through the
gardens of the Quinta, out of the walled grounds and onto the steep
cobbled road which led down to the gate which opened onto the
footbridge.

When they actually stepped onto the bridge, Donaldson was
slightly ahead of her, now leading the way. The rain and wind were
particularly bad here, exposed to the elements. Below, the main
road was busy with traffic. The combination of wind, rain and
traffic noise deadened all senses, making hearing and seeing
difficult.

Which was Donaldson’s single pathetic excuse for not being
switched on properly at a time when he should have been turned on
and tuned in. Her nervousness should have rubbed off onto him. The
furtive glances towards the door. The NVCs. They should have given
the game away.

Instead, his chin was tucked down into his chest, his mind
tumbling with the possibilities of what she was about to reveal to
him. And he almost ran headlong into the man who was standing at
the opposite end of the bridge, next to the elevator which
descended into the hotel annexe.

At the last moment Donaldson saw him and pulled up
sharp.

‘
Desculpe:
Donaldson said,
pronouncing it ‘dishkoolper’, meaning excuse me.

The man stood his ground, barring the way to the elevator
doors. He was a big bloke, unshaven, tough-looking, wearing heavy
jeans and a reefer jacket, both hands in the pockets, thumbs
snagged on the edges.

‘
Excuse me,’ Donaldson said again, hoping he had read the
situation wrong, because the man and his code of dress did not
really shout hotel guest.

The man shook his head.

Fuck, a set-up,
were the next words
which leapt through the American’s mind.
She
s
led
me out here and I came like a fool and now I’m gonna get what Sam
got. Goddam dickbrain!

Then he heard her say, ‘Behind.’

He looked, expecting her to be holding a gun or something, but
no. Even in the rain, he could see her face was a mask of complete
terror, as beyond her, walking slowly towards them across the
narrow bridge, was another guy. Of similar proportion to the other
- big and brutal-looking. Donaldson’s legs gave him a twinge of
fear.

He had not been set up.

One of the drawbacks of working on foreign soil was that his
authority to carry a firearm was withdrawn. He understood why, but
it was one of those little things he had been unable to grow
accustomed to. The instinct to reach for a gun was still there and
his fingers literally twitched. In the past this lack of a weapon
had been a problem of life and death magnitude. He was pretty sure
he was about to discover that once again.

He and Francesca, who was now visibly cowering, were trapped.
Hemmed in, one man either side of them. There was no escape across
a bridge not wide enough for three people to stand abreast and a
forty-foot drop either side, splat onto the road.

Because it was expected of him as an FBI employee, Donaldson
kept himself fit and agile by means of regular workouts and daily
runs. Before moving to the London office that had been a necessity;
working in the field always carried the possibility of ending up in
conflict situations where fitness could be a life-saver.

Since taking up the less strenuous appointment at the Legat,
fitness had become more of a habit of pride than a operational
necessity. He never truly believed he would find himself in such a
position again – facing potential attackers. Nowadays he dealt with
liaison, processing information, intelligence gathering, speaking
to people on the phone - basically sitting on his ass in a smart
office, pushing a pen and letting other people get into hairy
situations.

But now he was glad that fitness was a part of his day-to-day
life. He knew he was going to need the reserves it had given
him.

FBI recruits are taught, wherever possible in conflict
situations, to use their brains and mouths first; if that fails,
switch to defensive tactics.

The last resort was deadly force.

Donaldson guessed he was about to skip the first two and go
straight to the third option.

He squared up to the man by the elevator, who must have known
exactly what he was thinking.

The man moved fast. He pulled his hands out of his pockets
and, with his right, swung something in a wide arc towards
Donaldson’s head.

He saw it coming, ducked low, put his left arm up to protect
himself and took the full force on the forearm of what turned out
to be a double motorcycle chain, welded together for extra weight
and power. It wrapped itself around his arm like a python, cutting
into the skin despite the protection of his jacket sleeve. He
screamed in pain and staggered into the railings. The man drew back
the chain with a flourish, as if he was demonstrating a bull-whip,
and moved in. His big left fist rocketed into Donaldson’s throat,
driving him back harder against the railings, from where he slumped
to the hard metal surface.

Donaldson was vaguely aware of a scream from Francesca and the
sound of a scuffle behind him and a rasping male voice,
shouting.

Donaldson’s attacker launched a big kick towards his exposed
groin. He grabbed the foot just centimetres before it connected
with his balls and clung desperately onto it whilst the man tried
to shake him free, and pounded him repeatedly in the side with the
chain. Fleetingly, Donaldson saw the traffic passing below, under
the bridge. It was a long way down.

Donaldson bit into the big man’s leg, right on the calf muscle
at the back of the shin. He sunk his teeth in as hard and nastily
as he could, trying to bite through the oil-tasting denim, knowing
he couldn’t, but trying anyway.

Bites work well in fights.

The man let out an agonised roar. With a superhuman effort he
yanked his leg out of Donaldson’s grip and teetered backwards,
holding the bitten area.

Donaldson was up onto all fours, shaking his head. His toes
sought grip on the slippery wet metal surface and he tried to
launch himself at the man. He didn’t connect as hard and accurately
as he would have liked, but when his left shoulder rammed into the
man’s lower belly, it forced all the wind out of him with a rushing
groan. He pushed him off-balance. The man toppled over and landed
on his back with Donaldson about to dive onto him.

Still with the chain in his hand, he swung it wildly at
Donaldson, who ducked properly this time, feeling the whoosh of air
as it sailed past his head. The man whipped it back in the opposite
direction so quickly that this time he caught the side of
Donaldson’s face, knocking him from his position of advantage,
sending him sprawling against the railings again.

Donaldson was on his feet first, recovering well, despite
feeling that his jaw had been broken by the impact of the chain
across it. He hit the man hard, determined to finish it. Twice in
the face, Donaldson’s fists bunched hard like iron blocks,
right-handed, two blows to the side of the jaw. The impact of each
jarred his knuckles, but it did the job. The big man, who was only
halfway up to his feet, dissolved like a jelly.

Donaldson spun round, concerned for Francesca.

He was too late. The second man had her pinned up against the
railings, a hand clamped around her throat, trying to push her
over. She struggled, twisting, fighting and clawing like a cat, but
the man was too strong. With one last great shove, she went over
the railings; her legs came up, she screamed, then was gone into
the void.

‘
Nooo!’
howled Donaldson, racing
towards the second assailant, who simply turned and ran across the
bridge into the rain and the darkness of night.