NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (28 page)

He stood up and
was about to step forward when something else caught his eye. A couple of empty
cement bags had been moved or had fallen, revealing an object which looked
startlingly out of place. He leaned down to study it.

Lying half
covered by the empty bags was a strip of leather with a buckle at one end. The
metal glinted freshly in the light, sharply at odds with the dusty
surroundings. The other end of the leather was torn, where the stitching had
been ripped open as if by great force.

He held the
strip up to the light… and felt something inside him go still. The leather was
burgundy in colour, and the buckle was gold.

The strap from
Helen’s briefcase.

A pipe gurgled
nearby, then died. A door slammed, distant and muffled. The high-pitched hum of
the lift mechanism sang for a moment, then stopped. The living, breathing
sounds of a building going on as usual.

Palmer took a
deep breath to steady himself, and wrapped the strap absent-mindedly, yet with
almost tender care, around his left hand.

Ten yards
ahead, a bulky structure stood in the passageway. It was the aluminium ducting,
part of the building’s heating mechanism. Palmer checked the tunnel behind him.
Nothing back there. Ahead, some way beyond the ducting, he could see the solid
outline of the door to the service stairs leading to the ground floor.

As he drew
level with the heating duct, he heard a faint rasp, followed by a whisper of
moving cloth.

And something
cold touched the side of his head.

********

A
man was standing alongside him. His presence had been swallowed by the pool of
shadow cast by the square ducting, the sound of his breathing hidden by the
noise of the heating system. He had simply waited for Palmer to draw level,
then reached out and placed the tip of the gun barrel against his head.

‘Not to move.’
The man spoke softly. His breath was hot and sweet against Palmer’s cheek. With
his other hand, he reached out and patted Palmer down, flicking at Palmer’s
jacket and trousers to test for weapons. Satisfied there were none, he used the
pressure of the gun against Palmer’s head to force him across the other side of
the tunnel, then spun him roughly until his back was to the wall.

Palmer allowed
himself to be steered, conscious of the gun and knowing that down here, it was
unlikely the sound of a shot would carry far. The man was also strong, and
clearly capable of handling any resistance. As he was forced back against the
wall, Palmer felt the network of pipes and cabling digging into him.

In the light of
the tunnel, the man was revealed as short and squat, with massive shoulders and
a bull neck. His suit seemed to be losing the battle to contain his torso, and
a tie knotted carelessly round his neck looked like a piece of string. His face
was bare of emotion, like a wood-carving. He wore a Bluetooth headset in his
left ear, the mouthpiece flat against his jaw like a character from a
science-fiction movie.

Pechov.

He stared at
Palmer and gestured with the gun barrel. ‘Put hands behind pipe.’ He pointed
downwards.

Palmer turned
his head. A four-inch pipe ran the length of the wall just below waist level.
It was held in place by metal brackets every six feet or so, leaving a small
gap between the pipe and the tunnel wall.

He did as he
was instructed. It was a tight fit. The pipe was uncomfortably hot against the
inside of his wrists, and he guessed it carried oil or water. He worked his
hands further down so his jacket sleeve acted as a barrier. This wasn’t good.
With his hands trapped like this, he was too vulnerable.

Even as the
thought occurred to him, Pechov suddenly dipped one shoulder and delivered a
short, brutal punch to Palmer’s mid-section with his free hand. Palmer felt as
if he’d been hit by a runaway truck. He gasped and sagged against the wall, all
the air driven from his lungs, his back rubbing painfully against the pipes and
cables.

‘What you want
here, huh?’ the Russian demanded. He prodded Palmer in the chest with the gun
barrel. Hard. ‘What you do here?’ Without warning, he threw another vicious
punch and more pain blossomed in Palmer’s belly. The man laughed. He obviously
enjoyed inflicting pain.

As Palmer
fought for breath, he saw Pechov reach up to touch his earpiece. He was going
to call someone.

‘Wait.’ Palmer
could barely get the word out. If he didn’t do something quickly, this moron
was either going to summon help or beat him to death. Probably both. At the
very least he was here to stop anyone intruding, and he clearly didn’t care how
he went about it, or how permanent his actions might be. Right now, Palmer
didn’t think his internal organs could take another punch.

Pechov leaned
in close, breathing sweet air into Palmer’s face. He followed it with a vicious
prod of the gun. ‘Yes?’

Palmer nodded
and coughed, then cleared his throat and spat wetly to one side. He allowed an
agonised groan to escape from his chest and shook his head as a dribble of
saliva ran down his chin. The man pulled a face and stepped back. Too far,
thought Palmer. He had to draw him back in.

‘I’ve got… got
something for Fedorov,’ he croaked in between breaths. ‘You have to… to see
it.’

At the mention
of his boss’s name, Pechov leaned close. ‘What is?’

Palmer wriggled
his left hand, and felt the briefcase strap uncoil and swing free. The buckle
glinted as it moved.

Pechov saw it
at once. ‘What?’ He reached down and grasped the strap, lifting up the free end
and staring at it, turning over the buckle to better study it in the poor
light. Then he smiled in recognition. ‘Of course. Pretty lady. Very pretty. But
not any more.’ He sniggered obscenely, his tongue pink and worm-like between
thick lips. He peered at Palmer from piggy eyes and dropped his end of the
strap with a gesture of contempt. ‘Your friend, perhaps?’ he said softly,
taunting, and made an obscene gesture with a stubby finger. ‘She good. Like
lady upstairs.’

Palmer felt a
cold rage begin to eat into him like acid. The pain, the discomfort, even the
presence of the gun, all slid away into the background as his focus centred on
the man before him. Anger, he had always been taught, was a weakness. Anger can
make you lose control. Anger can make you reckless. It can even get you killed.

But what Palmer
was feeling went far beyond the brief red mist of mindless violence in a pub
fight on a Saturday night, or the impulsive desire to hit back at a thoughtless
insult. This was more like running towards an enemy when all good sense told
you to stay back.

‘It’s a
bogoff,’ he grunted, and braced himself. Pechov was closer, but he had to get
him to come in just a little more.

Pechov frowned,
his mouth opening a fraction. ‘Not understand.’

‘A bogoff,’
Palmer repeated. It was no good, he was still out of range. He sagged weakly
against the wall and dropped his head, coughing, the reaction not entirely
feigned. He began to think something might be broken and wondered if he had
sufficient strength left to do this.

Pechov muttered
impatiently and moved a step closer, his gun hand dropping to one side.

Thank you, God,
Palmer prayed, and gripped the pipe in his right hand, ignoring the heat.
Pulling his left hand out from behind the pipe, he flicked the strap away into
the gloom. Pechov’s eyes followed instinctively, drawn by the movement. It was
all the opportunity Palmer was going to get.

Jamming his
hand back behind the pipe for maximum purchase, he surged upright and swung his
right leg out and up, using the full torque of his upper body to gain momentum.
The pain was intense, but he drove through it, gritting his teeth.

He would not
get another chance.

In the dim
light of the tunnel, and with his head turned away, Pechov missed the movement.
By the time he actually sensed something was happening, it was too late.
Palmer’s leg, straight as a board, whipped round in a vicious crescent kick,
bringing with it all the desperation, anger and hatred he could muster, all the
desire for answers and the shock of finally knowing where Helen had spent her
last few minutes.

And most
importantly, who had been here with her.

The edge of his
foot slammed into the side of the Russian’s head, mashing the brittle plastic
of the headset deep into his ear cavity. The pain must have been immense, for
Pechov squealed like a pig and fell sideways. Fragments of the earpiece went
flying through the air, and his gun hit the bare concrete and skittered away.
He planted a meaty hand on the ground, trying desperately to remain upright and
scrabbling to retrieve the weapon at the same time. His other hand went to his
ear and came away covered in blood.

‘Bogoff,’
explained Palmer with chilling calm, ‘means you buy one…’ He swung his foot
again, this time high in the air, and brought it down as hard as he could in an
axe kick, the sharp back edge of his heel aimed at a point a couple of inches
below the man’s unprotected neck. ‘… you get one free.’

There was a
sickening crunch as tissue and bone gave way, the vicious downward force on
such a concentrated point too great even for Pechov’s bunched muscles.

The killer
grunted and lay still.

********

Ray
Szulu huddled down in a doorway across from Pantile House. This time he was
positioned near the rear of the building, where he could get a better view of
the entrance and the car park. He was wondering what to do next.

After running
down the street in the wake of the van blowing up, he’d found himself in the
rare position of actually slowing down and then returning to a scene of a
wrongdoing. This was entirely new to Szulu from another perspective: he was
actually feeling the instinct to not run away, but to stay and help Riley and
Palmer.

He hugged
himself in indecision, eyes darting backwards and forwards, waiting to see if
he was being watched or if the police had arrived. So far he hadn’t seen any
blue lights, but he could hear a siren getting closer and knew that if it was a
fire appliance, a patrol car wouldn’t be far behind.

He ignored the
burning van, still spewing its cargo of black smoke, and concentrated on the
building. Palmer was in there somewhere. And Riley Gavin, if she was still
alive. He knew a thing or two about people being lifted; he’d seen the way men
like Ragga Pearl, a south London gang leader and general nutcase psychopath
dealt with those who displeased them. Taking a hostage was usually only a
preliminary to something far worse, and served as a terrifying warning to
anyone else not to fall out of line.

Instinct told
him these Russians were no different. If they’d taken Riley, it certainly
wasn’t just so they could have a nice chat over a glass of vodka and send her
home again.

Palmer scooped up
Pechov’s gun and took a moment to regain his breath. His heart was pounding and
the pain from his ribs was intense. There was no time to stop now, but emerging
from the basement panting like a marathon runner would be sure to draw
attention, and he needed all the edge he could get. Before moving on, he felt
Pechov’s neck for a pulse. There was nothing.

He checked the
weapon in his hand. It was compact and light, with a four-inch barrel, but no
discernible markings. It was small calibre, probably .22, he guessed from
somewhere in Eastern Europe. A close-proximity weapon; a killer’s gun. He
wondered if it was the one used to shoot the cat. If so, it nailed Pechov as
the shooter. He remembered how Mr Grobowski had described him to Riley, as a
buhaj
- a bull.

The door and
the lift shaft at the end of the tunnel beckoned. The lift would be a quick way
up and out, but risky because it opened on to the ground floor close by the
front desk. It would also be noisy, instantly alerting everyone in the building
to the presence of an intruder. But it was either that or the stairs – and
either one could be a trap waiting to be sprung.

As he passed
another pile of maintenance junk, he spotted a short length of steel piping. He
picked it up. It was heavy and felt good in his hand. He might have a gun, but
something blunt was quieter. He tucked the gun in his jacket pocket and headed
towards the steps to the ground floor. After that, it was the main stairway or
nothing.

He eased open
the access door and edged out. He was at the rear of the lobby, opposite the
emergency stairs. He stepped over and listened. The stairway was narrow and
dark. Inviting. Maybe too inviting.

He backed up
and risked a look towards the reception area. From here, he could just see the
edge of the desk and a couple of chairs, and beyond that, a stretch of glass
overlooking the rear car park. There was nobody in sight, but he thought he
heard footsteps out by the door. At that moment, a figure strolled along the
walkway outside. He ducked back. One of the security guards.

He waited for
the man to disappear. It was tempting to wait for him to come back inside and
use the threat of the gun to find out where Riley was being held. At the very
least it would take another obstacle out of his way. But there was always the
risk that the guard might be missed if he was supposed to report in regularly.

He decided to
leave the man down here and do the one thing they probably weren’t counting on:
make a frontal approach up the main stairs. It was risky, but well lit and
open, which gave him a better than even chance of sensing a threat before he
walked into it.

He made it to
the first landing and paused. His ears were pounding so loudly, he doubted he
would hear anything. But he knew this was nerves. The moment anything moved,
his training and instincts would take over.