NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (30 page)

Palmer caught
her before she fell.

 ‘Pins and
needles,’ she muttered quickly, hating the catch in her voice. She flexed her wrists
to divert his attention. ‘If I ever meet Pechov again, he’s dead meat.’

‘Too late. Been
there, done it.’ Palmer’s eyes were carefully blank. He could almost have been
telling her he’d taken out the rubbish. ‘Who did this?’

‘Fedorov. He
probably pulls legs off spiders in his spare time.’

‘He’s on my
list, too. Can you walk? We need to get out of here.’

She nodded, but
the movement make her cry out again. Palmer put a gentle hand under her chin,
studying her face and neck with care. She hoped she didn’t look as scared as
she felt. Palmer always maintained that fear wasn’t so bad. Fear, he claimed,
can make you run faster.

‘You’ll be
fine,’ he said finally. ‘Hell - these people don’t know who they’re dealing
with, do they?’ His voice was calm, solid and reassuring, as always. Typical
Palmer at a time of crisis – trying to deflect her attention away from bad
news. Yet there was something in his voice, and she noticed he was standing
between her and the mirrors.

‘I don’t
believe you,’ she said softly. ‘But thank you.’ She felt some of the tension
ebb away, his calmness reassuring and contagious. God, it was good to know he
was here, and on her side. ‘I’m good. Really.’

‘You will be, I
promise.’ He stared into her eyes, willing her to take in every word, to cut
through whatever she was feeling. ‘I’ve seen stuff like this before. It’ll
heal, I guarantee.’ He glanced towards he door. ‘Now, shall we break out of the
asylum?’

‘Yes, please.
I’ve had it with this place.’

‘Good. Now
listen. You’re going down the emergency stairway. You’ll be in decent light all
the way, so don’t stop, don’t look back. When you reach the main lobby, head
straight for the front door. Go out and keep going. Szulu is out there waiting
for you. Got it?’

She nodded
dumbly, then reached out and took her shoe from his hand. She took the other
one off and held them both. She could run easier without them. ‘What will you
be doing?’

Palmer smiled
enigmatically. ‘I’ve got some clearing up to do.’ He took a gun out of his
pocket and inspected it. ‘It’s a cheap bit of Czech rubbish, but for what I’ve
got to do, it’ll be fine.’

‘Palmer-’ Riley
wanted him to leave it, to get him to come down the stairs with her away from
all this. To leave Fedorov and his thugs for someone else to deal with. She’d
never heard him talk this way before, and was frightened for him.

But he placed a
finger against her lips and gently shushed her, and she knew there was no
changing his mind. Since hearing about Helen, there never had been.

‘No arguments,
kid,’ he said firmly. ‘We don’t have time. Don’t worry – I’m not going to do
anything daft. Well, not too daft, anyway. How’s the cat?’

‘He’s fine.
Built like he is, why was I worried?’ She held onto his arm and flexed both
legs in turn, the numbness and tingling gradually receding. If she could blank
out the pain in her neck and face, she’d be fine. ‘Varley’s here. Vasiliyev.
And Fedorov has two other men at least.’

‘I know. Don’t
worry – I’ll chase them round the building until they get tired.’ He led her
over to the door and opened it a crack, listening. Then he glanced back. ‘You
ready to roll?’

She nodded.
Palmer opened the door and stepped outside. Silence. He motioned her forward,
leading her towards the emergency stairs. When they reached the door, he pushed
it open and pointed downwards, mouthing the word, ‘Go’.

Riley hesitated
for a second, then did as she was told. When she reached the bottom of the
first flight, she glanced back. The door was closing and Palmer had already
gone.

She turned and
continued on down. Her breathing sounded harsh and loud in the confined space,
and her head was pounding. The burns were a constant fire under the shifting
clothing, each movement of her arms and shoulders bringing a further bout of
torture. Too much noise, she thought, dully. Too much… bloody noise. They’d
hear her coming from Belgium at this rate. On the other hand, she told herself
fiercely, if anyone tried to stop her, they’d get a two-inch heel in the eye
for their troubles. If only she still had Palmer’s baton.

She spun past
the next landing, sobbing against the fire in her skin, and kicked open the
door. Too hard; the restraint was broken and it bounced against the wall,
reverberating through the building like a twenty-one gun salute. Damn. Too late
to worry now. She had to get out of here or Palmer would think she was a real
wuss.

Down to the
next floor. Bits of grit on the stairs, digging into her bare feet. She caught
her ankle against a sharp edge, and felt the skin break. She ignored it. No
time for pain. The alternative was far worse. Still no sounds of pursuit, but
she had the ground floor to negotiate, which was the most dangerous part of the
building. It would be like running across a bare, well-lit landscape.

She charged
down the final flight of steps, through the fire door and saw the door to the
basement facing her.

And a body
lying bundled into the corner.

She couldn’t
see the man’s face, but she guessed by the cheap suit that it was one of
Fedorov’s thugs.

She hesitated,
momentarily forgetting Palmer’s instructions. The words NO ENTRY stood out in
big lettering on the basement door, a tempting invitation. Then his words
clicked in again. Good advice, she thought; too many people in films went right
up to the roof or down to the cellar, and promptly met disaster.

She turned and
ran towards the main doors. And skidded to a stop.

A tall figure
was standing with his back to her. He turned.

It was
Vasiliyev.

********

Riley’s
felt a stab of despair. Was this as far as she went? She had almost made it!
Life really wasn’t fair.

Vasiliyev
looked indomitable, balanced evenly on the balls of his feet, like a fighter
waiting for an opponent to attack. But there was a subtle difference. He seemed
thinner, less sleek, somehow, and his clothes, once so elegant, had lost their
sheen. Or was it simply the man wearing them, she thought, his bearing now
diminished in her eyes?

‘I didn’t want
any of this, Riley,’ he said softly. Now, for the first time, Riley thought she
could detect the faintest trace of another accent in his voice. Or maybe
knowing his origins, and who he was - what he was – had begun to play tricks
with her imagination.

‘You didn’t do
much to stop it,’ she pointed out accusingly. Her breathing was laboured and
she coughed as she stooped to put her shoes on. She winced as the pain in her
feet and ankle blossomed to join the other hurts. It probably didn’t matter
anymore whether she wore the shoes or not, but she was damned if she was going
to stand here barefoot. As for using them as a weapon, it was a non-starter;
this man was built like a tree. ‘What do you do now – finish me off and then
vanish back to your mafiya pals?’ Her voice dripped with contempt, and she
wondered how she could have been taken in by him. Then she realised that maybe
she hadn’t; that deep down, there had always been something about him that had
held her back. ‘Is this the end of the game - Vasiliyev? Or is that also a
false name?’

A flicker of
something touched his eyes. It might have been regret, she thought. Or
surprise. Could men like him ever experience much in the way of emotion?

‘It’s Radko.’
He brushed a weary hand across his face. ‘Radko Vasiliyev. None of this was
supposed to happen, Riley. I thought I had it all under control. It was… ’ He
shrugged and gave the faintest of smiles. ‘Meeting you, I guess I forgot for a
while just who I was dealing with. I doubt they’ll let me make that mistake
again.’ He sounded genuinely sorry.

A door banged
overhead, the noise echoing down the stairs. It was followed by the sound of
heavy footsteps. The newcomer was shouting something unintelligible. Riley
guessed it must be Russian.

She looked
towards the main doors, then at Vasiliyev. She wanted to suggest something –
anything – that might offer a way out. To tell him to run, perhaps, to say he
could give himself up or simply disappear into the night. But something
wouldn’t let her. If he was going to do anything, he had to decide for himself.

The footsteps
came closer. Another voice called from higher up. Whoever the runner was, it
wasn’t Frank Palmer. He’d have moved a lot more quietly.

Then Vasiliyev
shook his head, and a look of something approaching pain touched his face, as
if he had reached an impossibly difficult decision.

He stood aside
and gestured at the open door.

‘Go,’ he said
quietly. ‘Go quickly. Whatever you do, don’t look back. Run for the lights –
anywhere bright. The man coming after you won’t stop at holding you. Go!’ He
waved her away with a fierce gesture of his arm, the snap in his voice jerking
her into motion.

Riley ran past
him and out into the night. Behind her, she heard the fire door smack back on
its hinges as somebody burst out from the emergency stairway.

Vasiliyev waited
calmly for Riley’s pursuer. After hearing his given name on Riley’s lips, he
thought he was experiencing something like an identity crisis. The Varley
persona had lasted longer than most he had used, and had meant more than merely
a temporary name; it had, against his expectations, brought something of a
revised outlook… and, thinking of Riley, even a new optimism, impossible though
that now seemed.

He breathed
deeply and forced himself to relax. It was too late for regrets. But it was
good to be free of the pretence at last. The Varley existence had been a job,
that was all. An act. But it was now over; it was foolish to pretend otherwise.

He had always
known, ever since first meeting Fedorov and recognising him for what he was,
that a day like this would come eventually. For men in their line of work, a
cosy retirement and a villa in the sun did not figure high on the list of happy
endings. Like moths to a flame, he thought wryly. After what had happened in
the last couple of days, he knew that even if Fedorov didn’t get away, orders
would have already gone out to other associates, in Europe and further afield.
Vasiliyev had made too many mistakes, and the loss of the Batnev bid, which he
guessed was now inevitable, was the result.

For Fedorov,
there would be no return to Russia with his future intact, no guaranteed place
in his homeland. It would be his greatest humiliation. And somebody would have
to pay.

He stood in
front of the entrance and listened to Riley’s footsteps fading across the
parking area. He held the image of her face in his mind for a moment, and
silently wished her well.

Olek appeared,
breathing heavily.

Vasiliyev
stayed where he was, blocking the doorway.

‘Out of my
way!’ Olek grunted, and charged, his shoulder bunched like a rugby player. At
over six feet tall and 250 pounds, with a history of military service and years
in the gangs, Olek was a formidable person to take on. He was also utterly
loyal to Fedorov, like a pit-bull to its master.

Vasiliyev was
taller, with a longer reach, although not so heavy. But he was quicker on his
feet. He swayed to one side just as the man’s shoulder was about to make
contact. Reaching out, he grasped at his opponent’s jacket with a powerful hand
and tugged viciously. As he did so, he spun on his feet, presenting his hip and
using Olek’s momentum against him.

It was too late
for the other man to stop himself. He flipped off his feet and through the air,
landing half on his back with a loud cry of dismay. The impact made a pot plant
tremble over by the window. But Olek was strong and resilient, schooled in a
hard arena of combat. He sprang to his feet and turned, eyes burning with pain
and aggression. He stepped in fast and threw a wicked punch at Vasiliyev’s
head. But it was a feint; with frightening speed, he followed it with a
spinning back kick, catching Vasiliyev full in the ribs.

Vasiliyev tried
to curve his body away in a desperate attempt to lessen the damage, but it
wasn’t enough. The impact spread through his torso in a fierce wave and
something cracked close to his heart.

He struggled to
breathe, stunned by the power of the kick. All he could think of was to stop
the man from getting through the door and going after Riley. As he edged around
his opponent, his vision fading, he glanced towards the open door to see if
Riley had disappeared into the dark. It was only for a split second.

But it was a
fatal mistake.

Olek lunged in
with frightening speed, his arm rigid. This time, he wasn’t using his hands or
feet. A glint of metal reflected off the overhead lights. He was holding a
short commando dagger.

Vasiliyev,
caught by surprise and paralysed by the increasing pain in his chest, felt a
hollow drag of despair, and waited with knowing acceptance.

This was a
fight he could not win.

Riley kicked off
both shoes and sprinted across the car park. She swerved round the barrier,
spilling tears of frustration and anger, and stumbled across the pavement. She
ignored the pain in her feet, imagining the breath of a pursuer on her neck
every step of the way and certain that Vasiliyev would have stepped aside to
let his colleague do his job.

Then a tall
shape rose up out of the darkness and wrapped strong arms around her, lifting
her clean off her feet.

Riley screamed
and struggled with rage, frustration and pain, and they both fell over in a
tangle of arms and legs. Without thinking, she lashed upwards with her knee and
felt the satisfying squish of full contact with something soft.