Romeo's Tune (1990) (24 page)

40

T
he pain in my right hand woke me. I was lying on the carpeted floor curled up in a ball. My muscles were cramped and my bladder was achingly full. I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. Sunday. Light came through the small, translucent transoms close to the ceiling. It was morning at last. I stood up and stretched hard. I relieved myself into the pot containing the sad rubber plant. It would soon be even sadder. I wondered if McBain had got the telex. Probably not. I thought about sending another, but didn’t bother. It was too much hassle, and who’d be there at this hour to read it?

I wished that I could be back at home, in bed with Jo and the Sunday papers and a bacon and egg sandwich. Jesus, but I missed her. I guessed my sandwich days were over. I was starving but the thought of food made me feel even worse. I went over to the door and hammered at it with the heel of my shoe. I didn’t really expect an answer and wasn’t disappointed.

The hands of my watch crawled around the face for another forty minutes, and I felt as if a tiny animal was crawling around my stomach chewing at my guts. At least I hadn’t been reduced to crawling around the floor. I was still upright. Just.

The silence inside the office block was deafening. I sat on the desk, amidst a pile of paper and tapped at the wall with my foot. That was that as far as I was concerned. Good try Nick, but no cigar. All my allies were dead and I was as good as.

The sudden, shattering sound of an explosion outside the door sent me tumbling to the floor. I peered out from under the desk and heard gunshots. Slivers of raw wood flew from the door around the lock. Then the door burst open. Standing in the doorway was McBain. His face was pale and drawn with dark circles etched around his eyes. He was bareheaded and his hair was lank and greasy. He wore his long black overcoat. In his right hand was clutched the .44 Magnum he’d loaned me, what seemed so long ago now. A small swirl of smoke curled up from the barrel. He was clinging on to the gun for dear life and sanity. The knuckles of his fingers shone blue-white through the skin.

‘Avon calling,’ he said through bloodless lips. I got up from under the desk and went towards him.

‘I’m always impressed by a firm that makes house calls ón a Sunday,’ I said.

We embraced like the macho men we were, or we held each other for comfort. I don’t know. McBain had tears in his eyes and stank of stale sweat and whisky. I could have kissed him anyway. Perhaps I did.

‘I got your telex,’ said McBain. ‘I can’t say I care much for your style, but you got the point across. What happened to Algy?’

‘We walked straight into a trap. One of the Yanks sold us out, then he shot Algy, but the big sod didn’t die easy. He got the fucker before he died. The man saved my life and I didn’t get a chance to thank him.’

‘And your other American friends?’

‘Dead too.’

‘Jesus.’

There was a pause.

‘I must say you’re a sight for sore eyes, McBain.’ I said. I stepped back and he opened his coat. He’d come loaded for bear. Strapped around his waist were two thick leather belts. One held a holster for the Magnum, the other a sheathed hunting knife. Under his arm was a fancy, customized holster for the gold Colt automatic. It was made of light, tan leather and covered with straps and buckles and heavy grade pop-fasteners. Tucked into the waistband of his trousers was another pistol. A .38 I guessed. It was that gun that I’d felt against my body. What was most impressive, however, was a bandolier strung around his chest that contained, tucked into the attached loops, half a dozen sticks of orange-coloured dynamite complete with fuses of various lengths.

‘Party favours,’ he said. ‘Can you use a gun?’

‘Left-handed,’ I replied.

‘How is your hand?’

‘Diva Junior gave me some hot licks on this one,’ I replied, holding up my right fist. ‘It hasn’t improved it any. I think he wants to be a pyromaniac when he grows up.’

‘Little shit,’ said McBain dismissively. ‘He’ll get his.’

‘Where’s my mate?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘The guard. You haven’t killed him have you?’

‘No, just put him to sleep for a bit.’

‘Tell me about it.’

We walked together through the reception area of the twentieth floor, where I discovered the man who’d been left in charge of me lying on the floor with blood from a gash just above his right ear dripping down to soak into the black carpet.

‘How did you get past the guy downstairs?’ I asked.

‘Easy, I came from up there.’ He pointed at the ceiling. I must have looked as puzzled as I felt. ‘Helicopter,’ he explained.

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Would I lie? I’ve had a flier’s licence for years. What else is there to do when you’re a millionaire pop star?’ He pulled a face as he said it.

‘Why didn’t I hear you arrive?’

‘Good sound-proofing,’ he said. ‘They made these places better fifteen or twenty years ago.’

‘You’re unbelievable,’ I said. ‘But won’t anyone come looking?’ I glanced a little nervously at the lift entrance. I remembered how I’d felt when I looked out of the Range Rover from the bottom of the swimming-pool.

‘I doubt it. I’ve switched off the lifts and locked all the fire doors, and the exit doors on the ground floor.’

‘How?’

‘Easy. There’s an override central control in the penthouse. Don’t forget it was my money that helped build this place. I read the blueprints when it was under construction.’

‘And you remembered?’

‘Sure. I studied for a degree in architecture in ’64. I would have got it too if I hadn’t dropped out to play in the band.’

‘You never cease to amaze me, McBain,’ I said.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

We ran down to a corridor and through an unlocked door that led to a flight of steps leading upwards. We ran up three short flights and emerged on to the roof. Smack in the middle sat an olive-green helicopter with a perspex bubble in front. The rotors sagged down towards the Tarmac. McBain led me to the machine.

‘In you go.’

‘Is this thing safe?’ I asked. ‘It looks a bit frail to me.’

‘It’s in perfect shape,’ he replied. ‘A friend of mine’s been looking after it for the last few years. He keeps it at his flying school. In exchange for using it, he keeps it serviced.’

I gingerly climbed into the chopper and sat on a thinly-upholstered metal seat.

‘Put this on.’ McBain tossed me a flying helmet from behind the seats. A thin chin mike protruded from the jaw guard. I struggled into the helmet and McBain did the same with its twin lying on his seat. He plugged a lead from his helmet into a socket by the side of the seat and gestured for me to do the same. He touched a button on the top of the stick between his legs and speakers hissed into my ears from the helmet lining.

‘This is our communication,’ he explained. ‘Pilot to co-pilot, ship to ship and ship to ground. When you want to speak to me, press the button there.’ He guided my hand to a small switch located by the mike. ‘OK?’ I sat dumb. ‘Say something, for God’s sake Sharman.’

I pressed the tiny plastic nipple and said, ‘Hello, McBain.’

‘Hello, Sharman,’ Even the electronic distortion couldn’t disguise the dryness in his voice. He snapped a number of switches on the dashboard in front of us, then punched a red-coloured button on the floor between us and I felt rather than heard the engine fire, miss, then fire again. Slowly, the rotors began to turn, straightening as they spun, becoming faster until they became just a blur and the whole body of the helicopter began to vibrate.

‘We’ll go the pretty way,’ said McBain and eased the chopper gently up from its temporary pad. We rose about twenty feet to clear the walls that surrounded the roof then we drifted slowly to the left and out over the edge of the twenty-storey building. Then McBain dropped us down towards the Euston Road. It felt like being in the fastest express lift in the world as we fell towards the street below. I pushed the button on my helmet in panic.

‘Christ, McBain,’ I said in a voice that sounded nothing like my own. ‘Take it easy. What the fuck are you doing?’

‘I’ve always had trouble map reading,’ came the cool reply. ‘We’ll follow the roads.’ The rotors clawed at the air, and just before I felt we must smash into one of the cars going by on the street below us, the helicopter stopped its downward fall and swung westwards along the Marylebone Road just above the level of the street lamps, swinging crazily from side to side like a giant pendulum.

I was terrified. I clung on to my seat with one hand and punched the R/T with the other.

‘Can’t this thing go any higher?’ I begged.

‘Sure, but where we’re going we have to pass Heathrow. I’m supposed to get clearance from air-traffic control. We’re below radar down here and with a bit of luck we’ll get through without anyone being any the wiser.’

‘But some smart-alec with a phone in his car is bound to report us – or even someone looking out of their window,’ I added, because as we flew down Marylebone Road, I swear I looked up, yes I said up and saw a bloke in his front room, eating his breakfast cereal and reading the Sunday Times. Before I could point him out to McBain we burst into the sunshine and car-hopped the Westway. McBain spun the craft left and we crossed Shepherd’s Bush roundabout and followed the Goldhawk Road towards Chiswick Flyover. I could see people stopping and looking up at us as we passed overhead at ground-level zero. As we swooped across the flyover I noticed another chopper in the air far to my right. I touched McBain’s sleeve and pointed.

‘Police patrol,’ said his voice in my earphones. We seemed to pick up speed and followed the motorway towards the west, hopping up and down over the bridges as we went.

Suddenly an unfamiliar voice burst in a wave of static in my ears.

‘Unmarked helicopter, identify yourself. You are in restricted airspace.’ The hiss of the dead airwaves was loud in my ears. I looked over at McBain. He ignored me, but I could see him grinning behind his microphone. ‘I repeat, unmarked helicopter, identify yourself. This is the police. I must ask you for your identification mark and destination. Please acknowledge and identify. You are requested to put down in a safe place and await police presence.’ No reply. ‘Unmarked helicopter, unless you comply, we will be forced to bring you down.’

We passed the Post House Hotel beside Heathrow, skimming an articulated truck heading for Wales. Finally McBain spoke.

‘Hello MP. Hello MP. Keep clear. We are carrying arms and ammunition, plus explosives of a possibly volatile nature. Keep your distance and no one will be hurt. I repeat, keep your distance.’

‘Unmarked helicopter, please identify.’

‘Bollocks,’ said McBain and ripped the wires attached to his headset from their socket. He pulled off his helmet and tossed it behind him. I did the same. The racket inside the plexiglass bubble was tremendous.

The police helicopter trailed us down to the Maidenhead exit of the M4, and we swung off towards the town.

We buzzed the BR station and kept heading for the Divas’ farm. I could imagine the radio waves were humming about us to the Maidenhead police and sure enough, as I peered down at the ground I saw two police cars with blue lights flashing, speeding along the highway to the north side of town and following us along the road to Marlow. I leant close to McBain and screamed into his ear about the law. He made an O with his thumb and forefinger to show that he understood and began to zigzag across the river and back across the fields and houses to confuse our pursuers. The police chopper was still in sight paralleling our flight pattern and as the Divas’ property boundary slipped under the body of our helicopter, McBain pushed the machine to full speed and left it behind.

We swooped around the farmhouse, banking sharply as we went. I saw the six-wheeler still lying in the swimming-pool. Parked in the drive, backed up to the front door, was a black Lincoln limousine. Terry and one of the guys who’d hauled me out of the pool the previous evening, the talkative one, were loading suitcases into the boot and a third man was sitting behind the wheel. I could see his pale face peering through the windscreen up at us and I recognised him as my silent pal. It was old home week.

Terry pulled a hand gun from under his arm and took a snap shot at us. McBain hauled the chopper back and hovered about six hundred yards from the house, well out of pistol range. He leaned over and shouted in my ear.

‘Take the controls for me and hold us steady.’

‘What?’ I screamed back.

‘Take them, and keep the throttle steady.’

I leaned over awkwardly and McBain surrendered the controls to me. I held the bucking bars in my hands, almost sobbing with pain from the burns, and felt the power of the engine fighting gravity through them. McBain leaned back over his seat and pulled a long, blue-metal rifle from behind it.

‘Winchester Bull Gun,’ he screamed with glee. He fumbled in one of the pockets of his voluminous coat and pulled out a long, nickel-plated bullet. He worked the bolt of the rifle and inserted the bullet into the breech. ‘Magnesium,’ he yelled. ‘Explosive tip.’ My throat was too dry to speak, I knew what one of those little beauties could do. ‘Just watch,’ McBain mouthed as he pointed the rifle through the open side of the chopper and took aim. ‘Keep this fucker steady.’ I held onto the control sticks with all my strength. McBain exhaled, concentrated and fired at the Lincoln. He hit the car right by the petrol filler and it split completely in two as the explosive missile ruptured the fuel tank. The rear of the car flew back and bounced off the front wall of the farmhouse, leaving a burning trail of fuel across the porch and ended up pinning the talkative one under the wreckage. The front end of the car was hurled twenty feet into the air and landed nose-down on the lawn. The driver was tossed like a dry leaf across the drive in a ball of flame and lay kicking his legs in agony on the wet grass.

McBain rested the rifle across his knees and gestured that he would take control of the helicopter again. He calmly took a long, skinny cigar from another pocket of his coat and lit it with a battered Zippo lighter.

Terry took off across the grounds towards a grove of trees. McBain tilted the helicopter forward and we sped in pursuit. McBain reached under his coat again and produced a single stick of dynamite with a short fuse attached. We hovered over the running man and McBain touched the fuse to the burning coal of the cigar between his lips. The fuse caught with a splutter and he leant over the side of the chopper, hesitated for a moment, then dropped the gelignite and jerked the ‘copter sharply upwards. I felt the explosion push us up even faster and stones and earth rattled on the bottom of the craft. The helicopter tilted sharply and looking down I saw through a pall of smoke that there was now a wide crater in the middle of the Divas’ beautifully manicured lawn. Of Terry there was no sign except for one black shoe lying on the pathway that bisected the grass.