Poisonous Kiss (24 page)

     "No, we're going in," Ericsson decides.

     Arany pushes the door open. From the inside, the passage doesn't seem as narrow as it did from the outside. They stop when they're halfway through it and look down. All they see is windows, a small, well-tended inner courtyard and a nice stone bench next to a rosebush.

If only he could get rid of every meddlesome moron as easily as he shook off those two jerks. A surveillance team. Well, they can go keep their mothers under surveillance. In this operation what
he
says goes.

     Nunzio opens the door of the RV which is his headquarters at the scene and his good spirits disappear instantly. With fists clenched, he forces himself to smile.

     "Gentlemen …?"

     There are three men sitting around a small table in the RV. One of them is the Commissioner of Police, the second one is a psychologist working for the Police Department and the third one is a lousy politician of some sort. They discussing the operation that Nunzio is in charge of. The table is littered with Styrofoam cups, there's still some coffee in a pot. Next to the table is a huge telephone switchboard. The commissioner sits in shirtsleeves, the politician hasn't taken off his jacket yet, but his tie hangs askew. The psychologist wears a dark, turtleneck. He's a tall, thinnish guy with a habitual stoop. He's sporting a carefully trimmed full-beard, which, when seen from a distance, blends with his turtleneck. The stink of his cigarette assails Nunzio's nostrils.

     The commissioner glances at him.

     "Well, captain?"

     Nunzio hates this kind of inane question. He shrugs his shoulders.

     "We are prepared to break into the building any time, sir."

     "I'm sure you can break in, but what are the risks to the lives in there?" the politician interrupts. He's one of the advisors who has the governor's ear. Nunzio has seen him several times at political cocktail bashes and other special occasions. He's a nice guy, but why can't he give them all a break and buzz off?

     "An operation of this size always involves a certain amount of risk, sir." Nunzio tries to stifle his distaste. He turns away and pours a cup of tepid, weak coffee for himself. He hates discussing his plans. Especially with people who don't know the first thing about police work. How can he possibly answer such a question? There are too many unknowns. A raid like this is always unpredictable. They have to take chances and accept that there will be incalculable risks.

     The psychologist looks at him questioningly, but doesn't say a thing.

     "Wouldn't it be wiser to pretend we're giving in, let them have the money and the chopper, lull them into a false sense of security, and then do something quick and unexpected? You know what I mean—a trick move," the political adviser says.

     The captain glances at the commissioner to see if he feels like answering the question. He doesn't. Nunzio crumples his coffee-cup.

     "This isn't a Rambo movie, sir," he replies finally with an edge to his voice. "I don't know what tricks
you
had in mind, but I'd rather not have any kind of shooting in a chopper. If we attack them right now I can't guarantee the safety and survival of all the hostages. But I know none of them would survive if we turned the chopper into a shooting gallery."

     The commissioner squashes his cigarette. He looks out of the window. Everything is quiet outside, as if they were in a ghost town. The block in front of the bank is empty, the heavy gates of the building are closed, the area in front of the door is roped off.

     The political advisor won't give up. The smile stays on his face. He's an old hand at dealing with insults, so the strong jet of the captain's antagonism trickles off his back like a couple of raindrops.

     "And don't you have a capable man, captain, someone, who is well trained at unarmed combat and can also pilot a helicopter?"

     "Well, sir, I have several good men," Nunzio sighs. He pictures a pilot trying to jump out of the cockpit and assail two armed villains, without thinking about the hostages crowded between them …aw, c'mon!

     The blinking lights on the switchboard remind him of the fortunate police officers out there, working while he is forced to remain idle. Condemned to quarrelling with stupid, small-time detectives and answering stupid, meaningless questions. Meteorologists are radioing in the weather conditions. A team is getting the chopper and the money ready. Nunzio is on his third coffee now. He is sure to go crazy if he can't do
something.

     A red light flashes. They all fall silent. Their eyes automatically focus on the fullbearded figure in the turtleneck. A call is coming through from the bank. The psychologist is aware of the importance of the moment and is resolved to enjoy it thoroughly. He lights a cigarette with deliberation, sits back in his chair and props his head against the windowsill. Through the rings of coarse tobacco smoke he contemplates the ceiling with dreamy eyes. This is the first time he opens his mouth and his voice is so warm and friendly that Nunzio feels nauseated.

     "I'm glad you called, Nick …what did you say? Right now?"

     The commissioner looks at the captain. Nunzio is already standing. He can't stomach the idea of people being executed one by one inside the bank. The thin hand well defined by the dark sleeve of the turtleneck waves impatiently, asking for silence. It looks exactly like the feeler of an insect.

     "All right, Nick, very well. I assure you, you'll be quite safe. No, Nick, I'm not speaking for myself only. Hang on!"

     He covers the receiver with his long, tapering fingers. It would be simpler to press the button on the switchboard, which would enable him to talk without being overheard, but he's the sort of guy who doesn't seem to be able to master a thing like that.

     The psychologist raises his eyes and slowly looks around. Nunzio notes with some satisfaction that the others are just as irritated with this attitude as he is. Who does this shrink think he is? And why does he enjoy being a nuisance?

     "They're planning to surrender," the psychologist mutters finally.

     "What?!"

     "They're willing to drop their demands and leave the building as soon as we guarantee that they will come to no harm."

     "I was kind of expecting something like this." The advisor has his answer ready.

     "They have my personal guarantee." The voice of the commissioner is enthusiastic and firm, as if the new development was all his doing.

     "Why haven't they asked for a reception committee and a welcome-party with all the trimmings?"

     But nobody listens to Nunzio's grumbling voice. No one is interested in the reason behind the changed attitude of the kidnappers. It's a piece of luck for Arany that later, at the trial, the counsel for the defense will go into elaborate details concerning this point. After a short but ardent tussle, the commissioner gets hold of the phone and guarantees the safety of the bank robbers. The adviser manages to grab the receiver before the commissioner can hang up, so he, too, can take full responsibility. They smile, contentedly. By now all is past history.

     Nunzio issues commands. He makes contact with his troops and all the patrolmen. He wants to make sure that none of those hotshots accidentally fires at the surrendering suspects.

     In a few minutes the phone rings again. The captain picks it up. He isn't as friendly as the others were, he doesn't even try to conceal the hostility in his voice.

     "OK boys, you won't come to any harm. You'll be just fine if you do what I tell you. You come out with your hands raised above your head. You come out one-by-one and make sure you move slowly. Take five steps forward then stop. Don't budge, don't turn around. Don't move at all. Got it?"

     He puts down the receiver and glances at the others. They rise from their seats almost ceremoniously and file out of the RV. They leave behind the debris of their joint effort, stale smoke, crumpled cups and wrinkled cushions.

     The clamor of the crowd outside has abated. The news has spread quickly, and the spectators, mouths agape, are waiting. If this was a circus, the cymbals would have clashed and the trapeze artist would be taking one last swing before the plunge.

     The inner door of the bank opens slowly. The first masked figure appears and proceeds towards the outer door. Now the door opens and the man steps outside. He walks slowly and cautiously, as if he were picking his way across a minefield. He takes five steps then stops. His partner has just reached the street door. The door is open. In the shaft of light filtering through, the man looks small and vulnerable—especially amidst the cordon of armed policemen. He starts forward and stops next to his partner. They don't look at each other. They are simply standing there, hands raised high above their heads. Their masks can't disguise their youth. A long, dark blond lock of hair escapes from under the mask of one of them.

     For an endless moment they stand looking steadily at the policemen. The atmosphere is tense enough. It's a matter of seconds and the policemen will make a rush at them, force them down on the ground, search them and march them into the steel-plated patrol van already waiting in the wings. The cameras will click, the reporters will chase the police cars in hope of sensational news …

     The sound of two shots. The two masked men stagger, then collapse. It isn't like in movies—they don't go down with a spectacular motion. They simply fall clumsily at full length with a thump. There is shocked silence for a few seconds, then all hell breaks loose. Watching the two motionless bodies Nunzio doesn't feel pity. He is on the verge of blowing his top. He'll get the bastard, who shot against his express command. He scans the housetops across the street, where the crack shots are stationed. Which one of them did it?

Arany suddenly freezes when he hears the shots. He could have sworn they were coming from just ahead. He glances at Ericsson, but the captain is already running, his clunky black shoes making an unholy clatter in the glass passageway. Arany runs after him, cursing under his breath. His glance sweeps around the passage and he looks out the window. The peaceful courtyard below them holds out the promise of a different world. Why are they up here getting ready for a fight? God almighty! Another fight, in a hallway. It reminds him of the staircase, even if this building is more elegant. Damn it, he's scared stiff of these closed spaces!

     He doesn't even realize when he draws his gun. He isn't doing it consciously, but by the time he's standing next to Ericsson it's already in his hand. They're at the far end of the passageway. The door opens before they can reach for the knob. Someone behind it is about to rush into the passage, but he stops short when he catches sight of them. Arany recognizes the light jacket, the denim trousers, the windblown, dark blond hair. It's the slick man! Victor Delacroix himself!

     "Freeze!" Ericsson bellows, but that is exactly what Delacroix won't do. He disappears behind the door once again, and when he pops back into sight he already has a gun in his hand. He levels it at Ericsson, because he is the one in front. He can't get Arany, but Arany can't shoot at him either, not while the captain's stocky figure blocks his way. They are so close to each other that he smells the captain's sweat and after-shave. Ericsson's hand gropes for something at his chest. It isn't clear if he wants to draw or he's about to have a heart attack. After forty years of service, forty years of chasing notorious gangsters and heavies, will his life end here at the hand of some conceited, slick-looking punk? Arany is paralyzed by the memory of that staircase. He recalls vividly the pictures of the struggle in the darkness, Carl's sprawled body on the stairs with one foot turned at an unnatural angle, the shock and pain in his face, the flies swarming over the pool of blood. He recalls the unexplained fits, the dizziness, the tension, the wish to kill, hit out, break bones …but in less than a second he chases away the memories. He isn't scared any more. He isn't nervous. He isn't even aware of his movements. His mind switches off, his body automatically takes over. He sweeps Ericsson aside roughly, with a push of his shoulder. While the older man tries to regain his balance Arany flings himself forward. He hears the sound of a shot—how could he not? It sounds more like an explosion in the narrow passage, still, it doesn't really register. His mind refuses to interpret the stimulus. He delays shooting until he's safely on the ground and plants his elbows firmly on the black rubber matting of the passage. The non-skid surface helps him regain his balance. Delacroix is covering him with his gun, his legs spread. He is supporting the wrist of his gun hand with his left hand. The black barrel is aimed straight at Arany's head, but it's too late. Arany feels the recoil and he knows that at this distance he couldn't have missed.

     Delacroix staggers, Arany rolls aside, bumps into the captain and pushes him roughly again. He shoots once more, he doesn't even take aim, then again, this time aiming carefully at the twisted figure.

     The sound of shooting reverberates in the passage. Then silence, silence at last. Delacroix is moaning. Arany knows he should lean forward to catch what he's saying. Is it his last wish or his confession about his part in this madness? Or maybe a final message to a girl, I love you—to his mother, I'm sorry—to the whole world, I couldn't care less …he knows he should kneel down and listen to Delacroix, but he just can't. He stands there, his face pale. He would like to block out the soft moaning, but it's stronger than him, and he hears it. He'll never get to completely forget it. He will keep hearing it in recurring nightmares all his life.