Dance With the Enemy (11 page)

Modena wasn’t sure whether he had been awake or asleep, but the sound of the door closing startled his mind into clarity. He’d been thinking – or dreaming – about his wife, Lizzie. Their twenty-year marriage had been on the rocks for some time, largely due to his continuing infidelities and over-commitment to his work. But given the time to reflect and the shocking circumstances of his imprisonment, it was hard not to feel sentimental, which in turn was filling him with regret as to how he’d treated the woman he loved.

He looked up at the figure that had come into the room. It took him a moment to think why this time something felt different. And then it clicked. This man wasn’t wearing a mask. Modena’s immediate reaction was one of panic at this unexpected turn. Surely it couldn’t be a good thing that they were now willing to show their faces? For a fleeting second, though, as the bearded man casually walked over to him, he wondered whether he might be one of the good guys, there to save him. But as the man’s face came fully into view in the dim light, Modena saw the menacing grin and knew that wasn’t to be the case.

But then something else struck him as well. Didn’t the man’s face look familiar? Where could Modena know him from?

The man kneeled down in front of Modena, who was once again tied and bound to the steel chair. His mouth had been taped over, restricting his breathing to his clogged and bloodied nose.

‘That was a good performance you put in there, Frank,’ the man said matter-of-factly in a snobbish English accent that surprised Modena.

The man reached out and ripped the tape off Modena’s mouth. He let out a long groan at the sharp pain that rushed through his sore skin.

‘Why?’ Modena said through heavy breaths.

‘Why what, my dear man?’

‘Why the sham? That video. It’s not what this is about. I already know that.’

‘Who says it’s not?’ the man said, getting to his feet and walking over to the wooden bench off to Modena’s right.

Modena watched nervously as the man unrolled what looked like a utility belt onto the table. There was something about this bearded man that worried him. He couldn’t have been more different in his appearance, in his manner, to the oaf who had beaten him countless times now. Who had made the demands of him. And yet this man’s demeanour, his voice, his presence were even more terrifying somehow.

‘You could say,’ the man said as he inspected the contents of the belt before rolling it back up, ‘that you being here has a dual purpose.’ He slowly walked back over to Modena, kneeling down once more. ‘Do you know who I am?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ Modena said, not entirely convincingly. He believed he knew the man’s face, but he just couldn’t think from where.

‘Frank, I’m not a vain man, but you’re disappointing me. I’m Youssef Selim. You know of me, right?’

Modena’s eyes went wide as the man’s appearance finally fell into place. Of course he knew all about Selim. Who didn’t? And at the sudden realisation of what Selim’s presence meant, Modena began to writhe in his seat, first shouting, then weeping.

‘Shhh, come on now, calm down,’ Selim said. ‘There’s no need to be like that.’

‘What do you want from me?’ Modena asked, his head bowed low, not wanting to look this man in the eyes.

‘By
you
, do you mean just me? Or all of us? I can tell you what
they
want from you. But I think you already know that. The information you have is very valuable to them. There’s a lot of money involved, and I’m sure a man like you can understand the lengths that people are prepared to go to for money.’

‘I can’t do it!’ Modena shouted, the desperation clear in his voice. ‘It’s impossible!’

‘Frank, Frank, come on now. You know that you can. And I
know that you will. But you didn’t let me finish. That’s what they want from you. And honestly, part of their gain will be for me too. I like money as much as any other man.’

Selim reached out and, using just his forefinger, lifted Modena’s head so that the two men were looking at one another again. Selim’s dark eyes seemed entirely black in the low light, only adding to his menace. Above the stench of sweat, urine and faeces in the room, Modena was struck by the strong, sweet smell of the man’s aftershave which seemed to clog up his nostrils with every pained breath.

‘But there’s something else that
I
want from you too. Something just for me.’

Selim stared into Modena’s eyes, as if trying to burrow into his thoughts. Then the sides of his mouth crept up into a wicked smile.

‘Frank, I want you to see you suffer.’

Modena was unable to control his emotions and he cried out, tears rolling down his face.

‘Please,’ he begged as he watched Selim unroll the utility belt on the floor to reveal a set of gleaming metal tools.

‘Oh, don’t be starting with that,’ Selim said. ‘Surely you know that begging is demeaning. What will happen, will happen.’

Selim calmly caressed the top of each of the tools one at a time, as though they were precious jewels.

‘Pain is subjective, you know,’ he said. ‘Like any other emotion or sensation, some people are more alert to it than others. Some people can train themselves to ignore pain completely. Can you imagine that? Being able to live entirely without pain? But doesn’t that take away some of the life from you? If you feel pain, you know you are alive, and that is surely something to be thankful for. And completely blocking out pain is a very difficult thing to do, I imagine. I certainly can’t. Unfortunately, Frank, I don’t think you can either.’

‘No, please don’t do this!’ Modena shouted, terrified by Selim’s menace. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll try to help. Please!’

‘I know you will, Frank, I know you will. You’re a very honourable man. And I’m sure the others will be very pleased to hear that you’re finally willing to co-operate.’

Selim unfolded a flap on the belt, took out a thick nail, two inches long, and turned it over in his fingers. With his other
hand he pulled out a claw hammer, its head dented from previous use.

‘But your sudden decision to help us is not going to make a difference for you now.’

‘Please!’ Modena shouted as loudly as he could.

Selim ignored him. ‘This little trick is something I learnt a long time ago. You see, the key to torture is to deliver maximum pain for minimum damage. There’s no point in having your victim bleed out on you in just a few minutes. Where would the fun be in that?’

He chuckled to himself and held the nail up close to Modena’s face.

‘You take a nail like this, and you place it up against the fingertip.’

Modena’s wrists were already bound to the chair, but Selim pressed his left arm down onto Modena’s right forearm, pinning the arm and hand in place and allowing him to prise a finger open. He placed the tip of the nail at edge of the finger where the fingernail ended.

‘Then you take a hammer, like this, and …’

Selim swung the hammer in a short, sharp arc, putting seemingly little effort into it, allowing the weight of the tool to do the work.

‘… just give it a little tap to start.’

The hammer connected with the nail head, forcing the pointed tip into Modena’s finger, between the flesh and the fingernail. Modena began to scream out, louder. Pain shot through his finger, up his arm.

‘Once it’s in, you can give it a bit more welly.’

Selim swung the hammer back and forth another two times, using more force now to drive the nail further up into Modena’s finger. There was a sickly ripping noise as the fingernail rose off the flesh, and blood seeped out of all sides.

Modena writhed and coiled in the chair but he couldn’t move. He screamed, he cried, he shouted, he spluttered.

Selim stood up, inspecting his handiwork: the nail protruding from Modena’s forefinger and the small pool of blood forming underneath it.

‘Now tell me, Frank, have you ever felt pain like that?’

Selim paused before kneeling back down to the belt to retrieve another nail.

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? How much pain can be caused by a seemingly innocuous wound. I always like to start off like this. It’s a great opener.’

Selim lifted Modena’s head up again, and held his face close. Modena squinted his eyes shut, not wanting to look, wanting to take himself someplace else. To his home. To his wife. But he didn’t know how. All he could think about was the agony that he was now in. And about what more was to come.

‘And I know what you’re thinking, Frank,’ Selim said, almost in a whisper, a wide grin on his face. ‘You’re trying your best to find some way to ignore the pain, hoping it will go away, hoping your body will get used to it. Hoping that this is as bad as it will get.’

Selim placed his arm back across Modena, pinning him in place, and then positioned another nail.

‘But it’s not, Frank. I’m sorry to tell you but this is only the start. I’m not going to stop. It’s only going to get worse for you from here. So you’d better start praying.’

Modena was already screaming as Selim raised the hammer once more.

Logan carried on walking, past the hotel. He didn’t look back to check if the Slav was still there. He had to assume he was.

How had he not seen this guy before? Unless it was someone else who had been following him. Either way, he couldn’t believe he’d let his guard down and been caught out so easily.

Logan still didn’t know what his next move would be. The obvious route was to confront the man, but he didn’t want to do that out in the open. If the situation turned nasty out in public, with witnesses, there would be far too much explaining to do.

He reached the entrance to the car park and walked down the stairs to his level. When he got there, he made his way over to his rented car, doing a recce of the area as he went. There was no sign of the man or anyone else having followed him in, which surprised Logan.

Where
was
he?

Logan got into his car. For the next five minutes he sat patiently at the wheel. But nothing happened. He wondered whether he may have been wrong. Maybe the Slav hadn’t been following him. He certainly didn’t seem to be the man the receptionist had referred to.

Logan nearly jumped out of his seat when his phone began to ring. He was on edge, but at least he knew his reactions were good. He took the phone out of his pocket. It was Laura.

‘Hi, Laura.’

‘Hi, Carl. I have some news for you.’

‘On Blakemore?’

‘Yep. Can you talk?’

‘Go for it.’

‘Well, as you would expect, there are quite a few Richard Blakemores in England. Though not many who look like they’d be of interest.’

‘But there are some, right? That are of interest?’

‘You got that right. Richard Blakemore, forty-one years old. His wealthy parents died twenty years ago in a car crash, leaving him a fancy townhouse in London. Looks as though he started mixing with a crowd of rebellious yuppies and soon wound up on drugs charges. Supplying class As, to be exact. Charges were dropped, but six months later he upped sticks to France, where he bought a big farmhouse about a hundred or so miles south of Paris.’

‘Sounds like he could be our man, then. Anything since he’s come to France?’

‘Oh yeah, it gets better. For the past two years he’s been on the radar of the French police and Interpol, on suspicion that he’s peddling drugs from the Middle East and Africa into France. And peddling weapons back in the other direction. But so far they’ve never been able to get anything to stick on him.’

And there it was. The link to Vincent with his drug-dealing friends, certainly. To Djourou and Selim, possibly.

‘Has to be our man,’ Logan said. ‘What’s the address? Wait, just let me get a pen.’

Logan rummaged in the car for a pen and a scrap of paper. He opened up the glove box but all he could find was the car lease document. It would do.

As he looked up, his heart jumped when he saw the outline of a figure move behind a pillar. His hand was already on his gun when the figure emerged on the other side. But it wasn’t the Slav. Just a young woman on the way to her parked car. Logan breathed a sigh of relief.

‘You okay, Logan?’ Laura said.

Well, other than being a nervous wreck, yeah, I am
, Logan thought.

‘I’m fine, was just grabbing a pen. Give me the address.’

Laura gave him the address of the farm. It was in the French countryside, in the northern part of the Bourgogne region – an isolated position, miles from the nearest town.
Perfect for holding a hostage
, Logan thought.

‘I’m going to head there now,’ Logan said. ‘Can you call Mackie for me?’

‘Sure. Why?’

‘Tell him I’m being followed,’ Logan said. He really didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news again. ‘And ask him to get my stuff from the hotel. I don’t think it’s safe there for me.’

‘You’re being followed? Jesus, Carl, what’s going on? Are you okay?’

‘I don’t know who it is yet, but I’m fine. Just let Mackie know.’

Logan put the phone back into his pocket and turned the key in the ignition. He took his gun out of his trousers and placed it on his lap. Just in case anyone was waiting for him on the outside. He pulled out of the parking space and turned left towards the ramp that led to the road.

He was about twenty-five yards away from the entrance when a man appeared, walking down the ramp towards him. At first, he was relieved when he saw it wasn’t the Slav. But as Logan did a double-take, he realised that he’d seen the man before. Yesterday at the hospital. The big man with the brown leather jacket. The man who had killed Jean Vincent.

And Logan realised then that it was also the man the hotel receptionist had seen.

Logan’s car slowed almost to a stop as he eased off the accelerator. He wasn’t sure whether to keep on going or turn around.

A second later, the man pulled a handgun out of his jacket. Almost at the same time, the Slav appeared behind him. He was holding a gun too, both hands around the grip.

Whoever they were, these guys weren’t here to talk.

Without a second thought, Logan pushed his foot onto the accelerator and the tyres screeched as the car lurched forward toward the two men. It was the best option. Other than two stairwells, the ramp was the only way out, so he had to give it a shot. If he was fast, and lucky, he may get past them without either getting off any good shots.

As the Slav raised his gun, Logan was sure that he saw him give an evil smile. He opened fire, taking out Logan’s windscreen in one shot. Logan reflexively took his right hand off the wheel to hold his arm up to his face. Shattered glass filled the air around him. He kept his foot on the accelerator and ducked his head down to protect himself. But it meant he could no longer see where he was going.

A succession of shots rang out. The car jolted as a tyre exploded. And Logan could do nothing as the car veered away to the left and smashed into a stationary vehicle.

He shot forward at the impact, the airbag deploying and smacking him in the face with the force of a heavyweight boxer. The seatbelt caught, propelling him back into his seat. For a second or two he saw stars. But although the car was badly damaged, Logan was more or less unscathed.

Logan wrestled with the airbag, punching and pushing it away from him. As he scrambled to get out of the car, he saw the two attackers were about ten yards away, on the other side of his car, still close to the exit ramp. He finally managed to open the door and dropped to the ground with his Beretta in hand.

More shots were fired as he hunched on the ground, his fuzzy head still recovering from the crash. But he knew that, within seconds, the attackers would be upon him if he didn’t move. The stairwell that Logan had used to enter the car park was directly adjacent to the exit ramp. But there was another set of stairs at the far end of the car park, about forty yards away.

Crouching low, Logan began to move in that direction, moving between the parked cars. The whole place was completely deserted except for Logan and the two men. There was no sign of the woman Logan had seen earlier, and the sound of gunfire was probably keeping any other people away.

He heard another shot ring out and flinched as the bullet narrowly missed him, embedding in the body of a nearby car. He didn’t risk looking behind to see where the attackers were. Using only instinct, he moved quickly to the other end of the car park, keeping low to try to stay covered. He heard voices as the two attackers gave each other orders. But they were too quiet for Logan to tell what they were saying – Logan assumed they were positioning themselves for their next attack.

Logan reached the far end of the car park and stopped behind a large Mercedes. All that stood between him and the stairwell was about six yards of open space. If he was quick, he could make it without getting shot. But if these guys were any good, they must have known that was where he was heading. And if they were ready, it would be an easy shot for them to take.

He sneaked a glance around the rear bumper of the Mercedes, looking out, back towards the exit ramp. He made out the figure of the leather jacket man about ten yards away, out in the open. The man was looking in Logan’s direction, his gun held out in front of him at chest height. Logan pulled his head back in, expecting a shot.

But it didn’t come. The man didn’t fire. Even though he must have seen Logan.

What is he waiting for?
Logan thought.
And the second man. Where is he?

Logan’s heart drummed in his chest as adrenaline surged through his body. There was no sign yet of the trembling that he’d experienced earlier. Not now. He was too focused. But he was running out of options.

He got down onto his belly to look underneath the Mercedes.
He hoped to be able to see the feet of the Slav. But there was no sign of him anywhere.

And then the sound came. The gentlest rustle. Directly behind Logan.

Logan rolled, lying flat on his back, his gun pointed in the direction where the noise had come from. But he was aiming at thin air. And he was now staring down the barrel of the Slav’s pistol. He was standing less than three yards away, with the same broad smile as when he’d first spotted Logan in the car.

They’d cornered him. And they knew it.

‘Johnny. Come over here. I have him,’ the Slav said. He spoke slowly with a thick Eastern European accent. Logan guessed he had been right about his facial features.

‘Good work, Lorik,’ Johnny said, coming into view.

This guy was English.
Are these Blakemore’s men?
Logan wondered.

‘Well, hello there, John Burrows,’ Johnny said. ‘Going somewhere, are we?’

‘Was just doing some sightseeing,’ Logan replied, trying to appear unfazed.

‘Funny man,’ Johnny said, not looking at all amused. ‘Drop that weapon or we’ll drop you.’

‘You could have shot me already,’ Logan mused. ‘So could your friend. He sneaked right up behind me, but he didn’t shoot. So I don’t think you’re going to shoot me now either.’

‘We don’t have to shoot to kill. I could stick one in a leg or even your bollocks. Drop your weapon or I
will
shoot you.’

Logan did as he was told, sliding the Beretta across the floor. Johnny stepped over and picked it up, placing it in his jacket pocket.

‘I presume you’re Blakemore’s men,’ Logan said.

Johnny didn’t answer, but Logan saw the glint in his eye. Yep, these were Blakemore’s men all right.

‘Get to your feet, slowly, with your hands above your head,’ Johnny said.

Logan again followed their command. They might have the upper hand for now, but he was sure they would give him an opportunity to turn the situation sooner or later.

‘So are you taking me to see Blakemore?’ Logan asked.

Johnny and Lorik ignored the question. Lorik still had his
gun trained on Logan but Johnny was holding his down by his side. He was looking about the car park as if trying to determine their next move.

‘What, you’re not speaking to me now?’ Logan said. ‘By the way, how are you two going to get me out of here? Have you even got a car? Or were you planning to frogmarch me through the streets of Paris?’

Johnny sighed, turned to face Logan and threw a fist into his gut. Logan doubled over, the wind knocked out of him.

‘Lorik, find us a car to take,’ Johnny said.

The fist had hurt Logan. But with his head still hunched over, he couldn’t help but smile. He’d been right. These two might have been good enough, or lucky enough, to have cornered him, but they hadn’t exactly thought out their next move.

Lorik cursed in his native tongue. Logan straightened up. Lorik, gun still held high, now began to scan the area in front of him.

‘There. We’ll take that one,’ Lorik said, nodding over to a silver Audi. It was parked three cars up from where they were. ‘It’s an old one. Will be easy.’

‘Come on then, Burrows. Follow me,’ Johnny said.

The two attackers began to move. Slowly and cautiously they edged forwards, their guns trained on Logan the whole time. Logan followed the direction of their movement, one step after the other. Lorik was in front of him, Johnny was at his side. It was a wise choice on their part. If they’d gone opposite sides of Logan – one to the right and one to the left, or one in front, one behind – there was a big risk they’d end up shooting each other if Logan made a move. It wasn’t rocket science, but plenty of people would have made that mistake.

They reached the Audi. It was an early nineties model. Johnny once again raised his gun to Logan’s head. For the first time, Lorik dropped his aim as he moved towards the car, but he never once let his eye contact with Logan go. He side-stepped up to the driver’s window. Still facing Logan, he delivered a single blow to the window with his right elbow. The glass shattered. Logan had expected an alarm to go, but nothing happened. It was an old model, but still, it was nothing more than bad luck that it hadn’t had an alarm fitted. Lorik smiled at Logan again. He was probably thinking the exact same thing.

Lorik reached in through the broken window frame and unlatched the door. ‘This will only take few seconds,’ he said.

He opened the door and finally broke eye contact with Logan as he climbed into the car. Lorik ducked his head down, level with the steering wheel, as he hotwired the car. For the first time, Logan had only one attacker watching him. If he was to make a move, now was his chance.

He was still deciding on how to do it when there was a banging sound behind him as the door to the stairwell opened and shut. Johnny instinctively looked over to see what the noise was. It was all the invitation that Logan need. He dived forward, low, and rolled into Johnny’s legs. He sent him straight up into the air. Johnny didn’t even manage to get a shot off as he went up and then down, crashing onto the hard concrete floor.

Logan was up and onto him immediately, placing a knee firmly into the back of Johnny’s neck. He picked up Johnny’s gun, which had fallen to the floor next to him. Johnny squirmed and Logan applied more pressure to his neck, enough to subdue any attempted struggle.

Whoever had walked in on them must have had the shock of their life. Logan had heard a scream, and the door open and shut again as the unlucky person made a quick getaway.

Logan heard a putter as the Audi’s engine came to life. He looked up at the car to see Lorik in the driver’s seat, staring directly at him. No sign of that smile now.

The car lurched forward. Logan pulled up Johnny’s gun. He fired two shots as he dived out of the way. Both bullets hit the Audi’s windscreen. The glass cracked but didn’t shatter.

Lorik didn’t make any attempt to stop or change course as the car continued forward, rolling over Johnny, who let out a piercing scream. He only applied the brakes at the last second, narrowly avoiding a collision with the parked cars.

There was a crunching sound as Lorik rushed to change his gears. Logan readjusted his aim as the car began to reverse. He fired off two more shots. Both hit the vehicle, penetrating the metal exterior, but missing Lorik. Logan dived for cover again as the Audi swept past, rolling over the stricken body of Johnny for a second time. This time, there was no scream.

Logan, on one knee, fired the remaining bullets in his clip as the Audi accelerated away from him, towards the exit. He
hit with every shot. Both the back window and the windscreen shattered. But Lorik managed to keep his head down. All Logan could do was look on as the car went up the ramp and out of the car park.

Frustrated, he got to his feet. He desperately wanted to go after Lorik, but he had no chance of catching him. He hurled Johnny’s gun away in anger. The clip was empty anyway; he had no use for it now. He headed to the fallen Johnny and knelt down beside his foe. He was lying on his side, his limbs twisted and bent awkwardly, his head turned with his face pointing up towards Logan. He looked in a bad way. But the small movements in his chest told Logan that he was breathing. They were short, shallow breaths, but he was definitely breathing.

Johnny didn’t offer any resistance as Logan rolled him onto his back. Logan was no doctor, but Johnny didn’t look good. The fact that the car had been travelling at low speed didn’t make a difference. He’d been run over twice. Logan was sure the car had run straight over his chest the second time, and knew that Johnny had little chance of survival.

Logan waved his left hand in front of Johnny’s eyes. They were open, but there was no response to Logan’s hand. No movement, no dilation.

Not much point in wasting any more time here.

Logan reached into Johnny’s pocket and retrieved his Beretta. He checked it over, pleased that the car didn’t seem to have caught it at all. He then made to get to his feet. But he stopped in his tracks when he heard a voice coming from behind him. A female voice.

‘Don’t you move another inch,’ the voice said.

Logan froze. Not out of fear, but surprise.

‘FBI. Drop your weapon and slowly get to your feet.’