NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (31 page)

‘Fuck’s sake,
woman - I’m tryin’ to help you -
ow
!’

Ray Szulu
rolled away clutching his groin and gagging. He coughed and spat as he
struggled to his knees, hissing, ‘Dammit, Riley Gavin – why you always tryin’
to hurt me?’

‘You!’ Riley
jumped up, realising who it was. She turned and looked towards the building she
had just fled. There was no sign of Vasiliyev, but another man had just emerged
from the doorway, and was standing there looking around wildly.

‘Where are the
others?’ Szulu grunted, getting to his feet, one hand clutching his groin.

‘What others?’
Riley was confused. ‘There’s only Palmer.’

‘Three guys
with guns. They went in earlier. You must’ve seen them.’

‘No, I-’

‘Never mind.
Come on!’ Szulu grabbed her arm. ‘I ain’t built for this hero shit. I want to
live.’ He dragged her back into the darkness as fast as he could, and she
stumbled after him, too tired to argue.

*******

Frank
Palmer heard a door slam below, followed by the heavy lumber of footsteps
receding down the emergency stairs. He hesitated. Someone had gone after Riley.
Probably the last security guard… or Varley. He hadn’t seen the man anywhere,
but he must have been here all the time. He briefly considered following, to
try and head him off, but he knew he would never make it in time. Given the
lead she had, Riley should be safe enough.

He walked along
the corridor and stepped through the door into the main office.

Grigori Fedorov
was alone. He was standing at the desk in the middle of the floor, stabbing
impatiently at a mobile. He stopped when the door closed with a muffled thump,
and turned. His face registered a brief flicker of irritation and puzzlement,
but it was gone just as quickly.

‘What ho,
Grigori,’ Palmer said softly, advancing into the room. ‘There’s good news and
there’s bad news. The good news is, all your goons are down and out. The bad
news is, all your goons are…well, I suppose you can guess the rest. It probably
doesn’t translate well into Russian, anyway.’

‘Who are you?
What do you want?’ Fedorov’s voice was surprisingly calm, as if he had been
interrupted in the middle of some boring but necessary paperwork rather than at
a crucial stage of his operations to ruin a competitor’s reputation and kill
off anyone who got in his way.

‘I want you,
chum.’ Palmer’s voice had lost any hint of humour. He stopped at arm’s length
from the man who had ordered the death of Annaliese Kellin, of Helen Bellamy
and probably Goricz, the building supervisor, and his family. ‘I want you.’

‘Don’t be
ridiculous. You are nothing.’ Fedorov’s tone was dismissive. He continued
pressing buttons on his phone as if Palmer was a minor interruption who could
be swatted away like a fly. He swore and tried another number, apparently
without success.

‘You can try
‘em all,’ Palmer told him, ‘but they won’t answer.’ He reached out and took
Fedorov’s phone and tossed it away across the floor. ‘Varley or Vasiliyev…
whatever you call him… the two tall guys – I don’t know their names – Pechov…
now I know he’s not going to sit up anytime soon… they’re all out of the game.’
He jabbed stiff fingers into Fedorov’s midriff, sending the man sprawling
backwards, coughing with pain and shock. He thought he heard a sound on the
landing behind him, and hoped he wasn’t about to be proven horribly wrong about
the diminution of Fedorov’s forces.

‘You are
insane!’ Fedorov snapped, struggling to stand upright. ‘You cannot touch me! I
have diplomatic protection. I can have you arrested for this!’

Palmer stared
at him, amazed by the man’s arrogance. Or maybe it was something deeper than
that. Perhaps in his own twisted world, he really believed he had done nothing
wrong; that he could bully his way out of trouble; that he possessed some kind
of diplomatic immunity. Maybe he was simply insane, having flipped over the
edge into a realm where reality no longer mattered.

‘Good try. But
no peanuts.’ Palmer lifted his hand and studied the gun he’d taken off Pechov.
It would be an irony for this man to die by the same weapon used by one of his
men. He stared into Fedorov’s cold little eyes, and saw something reflected in
them; a flicker of something in the Russian’s face which cut through the
arrogance and self-belief.

It was probably
a look Fedorov himself had seen in the face of his victims.

‘I don’t know
what you are talking about.’ Fedorov’s voice wasn’t so certain anymore. His
eyes were flickering back and forth, looking for a way out. But deep inside,
Palmer recognised the thin borderline that hovers between hope and fear – and
Fedorov was slipping inexorably from one to the other.

‘Annaliese
Kellin,’ said Palmer softly. ‘Helen Bellamy. And nearly Riley Gavin.’

Fedorov
remained silent, his eyes burning with defiance.

‘What you were
going to do in the washroom,’ Palmer continued, his voice like cold silk, ‘with
bleach and boiling water. She’d have been blinded at the very least.’ He
checked the load in the magazine and flicked off the safety catch. He raised
the gun, his arm straight out, body turned slightly to one side, the barrel
centred on the other man’s forehead

Fedorov
flinched visibly, and his mouth trembled.

Palmer felt no
pleasure at seeing his fear. He was almost calm at the idea of what he was
about to do. It wasn’t legal and it was undoubtedly something that might follow
him into the still dark hours of the night, when thoughts of deeds done began
to intrude. But the alternative was to allow this monster to go free, to
continue his lethal trade. And that was something he couldn’t allow.

As his finger
tightened on the trigger, Fedorov’s eyes flickered away from the gun barrel and
settled on the doorway.

Palmer relaxed
the pressure on the trigger and slowly turned his head. Three man were standing
just inside the room. They were dressed in dark, casual clothing and baseball
caps, their eyes hidden beneath the shadows of the brims. Each man wore a
slimline comms headset. The two on either side were solid and young. They
looked like men who worked out regularly and trained hard. The man in the
middle was taller and older, but with the lean toughness of someone who has
lost none of the edge gained from years of experience.

Palmer hadn’t
heard them come in, and felt mildly annoyed at his carelessness. On the other
hand, he knew instinctively who they were.

‘Koenig,’ the
older man announced, reading his mind, and stepped forward. He was holding a
handgun down by his side, as were the other two. They had come prepared.

‘About time you
pitched in,’ said Palmer dryly. ‘I was just having a chat with this piece of
rubbish.’

‘So I see.’
Koenig motioned to his men, who moved past Palmer and took hold of Fedorov, one
on each arm. Koenig glanced at the gun in Palmer’s hand, still trained
unwaveringly on the Russian. ‘We’re not going to have any trouble, are we?’

‘That depends
what you’re going to do.’ Palmer glanced at Fedorov, who was looking even more
agitated in the grip of the two men. He guessed it had finally occurred to him
who Koenig and his companions worked for.

‘We’re taking
him with us.’

‘To do what?’

‘You don’t need
to know that. Sorry. I know what he did to your girlfriend. And the German
girl.’ He seemed genuinely regretful. ‘I’d love to leave him in your care,
believe me, but I’m afraid we have orders to assume prior rights on this one.’
He gestured at Fedorov as if the man were not human but simply a package, an
object to be dealt with and delivered. ‘The boss has a tendency to go ape-shit
if we don’t deliver.’ He smiled genially enough but neither he nor his men
looked prepared to back down.

Palmer sighed.
He knew his limitations. There was no point in trying to fight these men; they
were motivated and professional, and he had neither the resources nor even the
desire to prevent them taking Fedorov away. If he tried, he knew he might hurt
one or more of them, but in the end he would lose. The fact that they were here
right now meant one thing: that Koenig’s boss, Al-Bashir, was taking steps to
dispose of the threat to his commercial bid and to his wife’s reputation.

‘Fine by me,’
he said easily. He had already taken care of the man he believed was
responsible for Helen’s murder. The white heat that had allowed him to deal
with Pechov was now beginning to seep away. He could leave the fate of the man
who had given Pechov his orders to others. ‘There’s just one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You know he
had this building’s supervisor and his entire family killed?’

Koenig blinked.
‘I didn’t.’ He glanced at Fedorov as if seeking confirmation, but the Russian
ignored him. He shrugged. ‘So?’

‘If you let him
go, he’ll come back.’ Palmer’s message was implicit; men like Fedorov were
ruthless and would do anything to protect their reputation. The murder of two
journalists and the killing of the supervisor’s family was proof enough of
that. If he was allowed to get away, he would only go so far before re-grouping
his forces. Then he would turn and come after them all. He had the means, the
memory and the callousness to do it. Nobody would be safe.

‘No worries.
We’ve got it covered.’ Koenig did not elaborate further. ‘That it?’

‘He also had my
friend’s cat shot. I’d like to blame him for the war in Iraq, but that might be
pushing it.’

Koenig looked
at Fedorov with contempt. ‘I can’t stand cruelty to animals.’ He jerked his
head at his two men. ‘Take him down the stairs. Maybe we’ll let him trip a few
times on the way.’

He backed
towards the door in the wake of his men and their prisoner. ‘You did well,
Palmer,’ he said. ‘With barely any resources, you did really well.’

‘I had enough.’
Palmer wondered if the man knew about Szulu. He certainly knew about Riley.

‘The Rasta?’
Koenig was reading his mind again. ‘Yeah, we know about him. That was risky
with the van, though; a touch too much bang, I thought.’

‘I’ll be sure
to talk to him about it. It worked, didn’t it?’

Koenig chuckled
appreciatively. ‘Yeah. It worked fine.’

Something was
puzzling Palmer. ‘How did you know about Fedorov and this place?’

‘The day Riley
came to see the boss? She had a tail. When a man like Pechov shows up on our
radar, we like to know why.’ Koenig shrugged. ‘We had him followed. We’ve got
one of the best trackers in the business on the payroll. In the end, he led us
here.’

‘How
long were you watching this place?’

‘Long enough.
We came in when we had to.’

‘The man in the
lobby?’

‘He got in our
way. He went down.’ He gestured at his headset. ‘I’m told there are two more
down - one of them an own goal.’ He smiled as if it was all in a day’s work.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll clear up before we leave.’

Palmer
remembered the sound of footsteps charging down the back stairs, and wondered
if Varley was the own goal. ‘It might have helped if you’d done that first,
don’t you think?’ He couldn’t help it; with the other two men on the loose,
getting back down the stairs with Fedorov in tow might have proved more of a
problem than Koenig had imagined. Earlier intervention might also have helped
Riley get clear and away.

‘Sorry - we had
our orders.’ Koenig gestured with his weapon. ‘Anyway, we had a man stationed
outside to take care of any strays.’ He paused at the door and added, ‘Tell
Miss Gavin she’s welcome back in any of the company’s stores, anytime. That’s
from the boss.’

‘Gee, she’ll be
so made up.’

‘There’s one
condition.’

‘She stops
using Tesco bags?’

‘She destroys
the notes. All of them. She’ll know the ones I mean.’

Palmer pursed
his lips. If they were asking this, it seemed clear that the rumours nust have
some substance. Not that he thought Riley was going to do anything about it.
‘She might not agree.’

Koenig looked
sceptical. ‘She’s not going to use them – if she was, she’d have done it
already. It’s hardly her thing, is it?’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Anyway, we’ve
already got the rest from the hotel at Lancaster Gate.’

Then he was
gone.

********

‘Shush.’Szulu
touched a warning finger to Riley’s lips. They were crouched in the dark of the
doorway where he’d dragged her after her escape from the building. There was a
smell of rotten fruit and urine, and something scuttled away through a tangle
of discarded paper. ‘Stay still.’

Riley batted
his hand away. ‘Don’t shush me, you moron,’ she snapped, and felt instantly
ashamed of herself. He hadn’t exactly been forced at gunpoint to wait for her
to come out. Well, not this time, anyway. He could have done his bit and simply
disappeared back to his safer life of driving a mini-cab.

She touched his
shoulder. ‘Sorry. That was crappy of me. I always feel cranky after I’ve been
tied to a chair and tortured. You did brilliantly. Thanks.’

‘No sweat. Did
you say torture? Like what?’

‘Boiling water.
Bleach. That kind of thing.’ She said it quickly, preferring not to dwell on
what might have been if Var-Vassiliyev hadn’t come along at the right moment.
And Palmer.

‘No way!’ Szulu
sounded impressed. ‘Shit. They wasn’t messin’, then.’

‘No, they
wasn’t.’ Riley gritted her teeth, trying to shut her mind against just how
serious they had been. To add to it, now that she wasn’t running for her life,
the pain was kicking in again.

Suddenly an
engine roared and a van took off from the kerb and swerved into the car park.

‘It’s those
blokes I told you about,’ said Szulu excitedly. ‘They left a guy outside.’