STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (20 page)

Chapter 23

“Tommo, we got us a situation.”

Thomas watched himself in the café mirror as he answered the phone, staring back in dismay; he looked rough. “I’m listening, Karl.”

“I’ve located the hospital, but it’s bad news; two dead — professional hits. One’s our shooting victim from the docks — Dechevez — and the other's a cleaner. The police haven’t found a connection between them yet and we’re trying to keep a lid on things until they do.” Karl’s voice was unemotional; he could have been reading from a script. “The cleaner was Yugoslavian or . . . something Eastern European. I guess he’d be a former Yugoslavian now.” Karl had probably rehearsed that line.

“What’s the plan, then?”

Karl didn’t respond immediately. “There’s something else. I’m sorry, Tommo. There was a fire in South London, where you did the home visit.”

Thomas caught his reflection, nodding needlessly.

“The house is completely gutted, apparently. I don’t see how anyone could have got out of there alive,” the line went quiet.

Thomas let out a gasp. “It’s okay, Karl. I’ve got them! Petrov rang me — I put the family somewhere safe. This is down to Yorgi, isn’t it?”

Karl ignored the question and let out a whoop of joy. And then it hit Thomas like a smack in the face; he’d done something amazing. He touched his neck where the crucifix chain used to rub, back when he’d worn it to please his mother.

“Are you still there, Tommo? Wherever they are, they’re not safe; we need to bring them in.”

Now came the familiar dilemma: to trust or not to trust.

Karl wouldn’t wait. “Are you there? Listen to me. Yorgi is a Grade A psychopath. I’ve seen the file. If he’s killed twice today, he’s probably tying up
all
loose ends.”

Thomas felt a creeping sense of doom. “But I told Petrov not to call anyone.”

“Come on now — where did you take them?”

“Near Paddington — I cut through the City to save time.”

“No!” Karl wailed, “Central London — the congestion charge; there are vehicle recognition cameras everywhere.”

“I don’t understand. If Yorgi’s working alone . . .”

“That’s just it, Tommo. These people are pros — they’ll have connections. You better give me the details and pray Yorgi hasn’t got to them first.”

Thomas threw some money down on the counter — the way they do in films — and ran back to the hotel. Thank Christ he hadn’t driven off anywhere. He pushed the glass door, ignored the night porter and made straight for the stairs. He took them two at a time, rounding the final flight at the Fifth Floor, and slammed through the fire door. Left hand corridor, down towards the end. He knocked politely then thought better of it, banging with his fist. “It’s Thomas, open the bloody door.” He stepped back and sized it up; it looked tougher than he did.

“Alright, alright; you’ll wake Lukas,” Petrov scolded him. The door unbolted and then the latch turned — at least they’d done something right.

Thomas pushed his way in; Alexandra lifted her head from the sofa. “We couldn’t sleep so we watched television. Too much has happened; tell him, Petrov,” she looked daggers at her husband.

Petrov carefully closed the door then slicked back his hair with his fingers. “I over-reacted, made a mistake. Yorgi telephoned on my mobile and apologised. He wants to make amends, to drive over and collect us, but this Alexandra does not want.”

“Your house was burned down,” Thomas blurted it out in one breath. No warning, no preamble; no point.

Petrov pressed a hand to his forehead and staggered to a chair. “How?”

Alexandra didn’t say a word. She ran to a side room, where Thomas figured Lukas was sleeping.

He was glad she’d left the room; it made things easier. He stood over Petrov. “The fire was deliberate and Yorgi’s killed two people today.” And there was something about Petrov’s face; a knowing look in the eyes that told Thomas this wasn’t the first time. “Does Yorgi know where you are?” He felt his legs start to tremble. “We have to go,
now
.”

Petrov leapt to his feet. “Is impossible. My wife needs to sleep. Besides, I have told him nothing. He does not know where to find us.” He held up his mobile phone as if it was the evidence that would clear him.

The green light shone out to Thomas like a taunt. Oh Jesus: the mobile. As traceable as a number plate, with the right equipment. “When did he ring you?”

“About ten minutes after you left.”

Thomas’s mind raced through the maths. Ten minutes, plus fifteen minutes or so, equals thirty minutes max; plenty of time to be on the move. And if Yorgi could access information on the hoof . . . shit. “Get up,” he snarled. “We’re leaving.”

Petrov’s mobile rang; they both just stared at it. Thomas’s senses went into overdrive; his first instinct was to grab the knife on the room service tray. Futile in itself, but a sign of how scared he was. His breath came in shallow bursts.
Think Thomas, think
. He grabbed Petrov’s mobile and switched it off with a strangle hold. Reality kicked in: get out, go to ground and rely on Karl. He clicked his fingers at Petrov and pointed to the side room. Next, he turned the TV off and rang Karl.

“I’m organising a team, Tommo. In the meantime you’ll have to improvise.”

Improvise? Thomas felt the sweat trickle down his back. He gave Petrov another few seconds, mainly to avoid arguing with him. The bedroom door opened, and the family was ready to leave. They looked at him the same way they’d done at the house — as if he had all the answers. He tried to draw strength from that.

“Right,” he held up a hand, as if he might grasp a passing plan, “got it. Here’s how we do it. Petrov, you go alone. Alexandra, you take the boy. Yorgi is expecting three people together. Petrov — swap jackets with me; quickly.”

It was bollocks, but it was a start. It gave them something to cling to; the delusion that he knew what he was doing. He and Petrov emptied out personal belongings and made the switch. Now came the tricky part.

He unlocked the door. An inch open and all he could hear was his own breathing and the television from next door. He emerged slowly, signalling for them to follow. But at the turn in the corridor, he had a flash of inspiration. “Stay in the room until the bells start.”

Alexandra narrowed her eyes. “What bells?”

He blinked twice and ushered them away. “Just be ready.”

He ran to the fire alarm and punched it hard, harder than needed. The sting in his knuckles felt good though; it seemed to sharpen his senses. He heard the alarm echo along the corridor; guest doors opened at random and a few simply closed again straight away. Stupid bastards.

Petrov and Alexandra wasted no time in joining the throng on the stairway. Thomas timed it and fell in close behind. He tapped Petrov’s shoulder at the last landing so that he could pass him. Alexandra had already slowed up by the fire door, with the child in her arms. She looked lost.

He gently grabbed her elbow and steered her out into the street. The police were already in attendance — maybe Karl’s doing, he couldn’t be certain. He told Alexandra to stand by the police car. Petrov, if he’d kept to the plan, should be making himself invisible. Only Thomas — wearing Petrov’s jacket — walked around slowly as if dazed by the chaos around him. He took his mobile out casually and hit the speed-dial
. Now, Karl
.

“I’ll be on-site in ten minutes, max. I got some of the boys in blue to help out. Stay in the crowd, Tommo. Believe me, Yorgi is out there somewhere. Be safe.”

Thomas didn’t feel brave now, or clever; he just felt sick to his stomach. Like he was in one of those nature programmes where the gazelle stands around waiting for the lion to strike. This was insane.
Easy, Thomas, just drift away from Alexandra; find a different policeman and ask some stupid questions
. Anything to let Yorgi see that
Petrov
was smart enough to stay out of harm’s way.

The police officer brushed him off and took a call on his radio, so much for Plan A. He listened without being obvious — something about sending everyone back in again. A firefighter approached, with a face like thunder.

“Some twat set off the alarm. We’ve scoured the ground floor upwards, just waiting on the basement. I’ll give you a shout when the Incident Controller gives the okay to return.”

This was where the plan unravelled. Still no Karl, and Petrov out there in the crowd — no doubt keeping an eye on Alexandra even though Thomas had told him to stay clear. They were bound to go in together, which pretty much defeated the object. He couldn’t keep them out on their own, in the open; couldn’t get them away, as his car was around the block. In short, screwed from all angles. He could slug the copper to create a bit of a commotion? Think again; the guy didn’t look as if he took any prisoners — maybe trigger a car alarm on one of the Mercs, then? Yeah, and what good would that do?

The mobile rang; he grabbed at it as if it were a lifebelt.

Karl was breathless. “I’m at the back of the crowd; get them ready.”

“
Ready
?” Thomas hissed. “I split them up for safety — there are over two hundred people in the street.”

“Well, you better get a bloody move on. I couldn’t get a pick-up in time so I’m their ride out of here.”

The firefighter reappeared, had a few words with the police officer and raised a hand to sound the retreat. The residents morphed into grumbling cattle and moseyed on in.

Thomas picked out Alexandra easily. She had followed instructions and stuck by the police car. As he approached, she was in conversation with one of the cops. “Ah, here is my husband!”

He swallowed hard and hoped that the boy didn’t start screaming. “This way,” he all but scooped her up.

“Where is Petrov?” she whimpered.

“I’ll find him in a minute. Come on,” he pulled her arm roughly. They swam against the tide of returning hotel guests until Thomas caught sight of Karl’s old banger in the middle of the street. His heart skipped a beat; he had to steady himself against Alexandra as he led her to the car. She stared at Karl; he stared right back.

“It’s okay, really,” Thomas insisted, craning the door wide and nudging her towards it. “I’ll go and get Petrov.”

He spotted his own jacket heading back into the hotel and elbowed his way through. Other guests had made for the complimentary drinks; Petrov was rooted to the spot, standing in the bar like the ugly one at a Valentine’s disco.

Thomas zeroed in. “Alexandra and Lukas are already in the car — we’ll take you somewhere safe.” The way he said it, he was barely selling it to himself.

Petrov’s face was as blank as the décor. Thomas eased him outside. Karl pulled up and Thomas shouldered him to the car like he was an invalid. “I’ll sort your cases out later.”

Petrov opened his mouth, but he didn’t speak. Thomas reached for the front passenger door.

“That’s okay Tommo — I’ll see you back in the hotel bar for a wee chat.”

As Thomas sat down in the bar, he felt the damp patch cold on his back, clinging like a dirty secret. He shifted forward and glanced around the room. For all he knew Yorgi could be any one of them — no saying he had to look like Petrov. Yeah, he argued with himself, but Yorgi was a professional. Ergo, he’d have seen Karl driving off — he’d hardly be hanging around now.
Ergo
? For an instant he thought of Christine, all lips and Latin. He squished against the chair again and felt a droplet trickle down his spine to rest in the crack of his arse. He grimaced and pulled his top away. Sod this for a game of soldiers, he’d nip out to his car and get the sweatshirt from the boot. On the way out, he grabbed an empty beer bottle for comfort.

After all the commotion, the streets outside seemed unnaturally quiet. There was still traffic — this was London after all — but it was reduced to glaring lights and shrouded shapes. The side street was jam-packed with parked cars. He stuck to the shadows, avoiding the sickly orange glow of street lamps where he could. He moved quickly, keeping his wits about him.

He paused three vehicles from his car, and gripped the beer bottle more tightly. It might have once held extra strong lager but it wasn’t strong enough to take on a bullet. He smiled in the gloom; knowing exactly what he was doing: gallows humour. He took a breath, sucking it down like a smoker getting a fix.

Despite the bollocking awaiting him, he wished Karl were there. As if on cue, his arm throbbed through its dressing. Enough stalling. He took a final glance around then stepped smartly to the rear of his car. The boot catch gave way with a sigh; he reached in without bending his head, feeling his way around for the sweatshirt. For a split second he was going to change in the street, but he suddenly felt more vulnerable than ever. He didn’t want to let go of the bottle so he did a bit of a juggling act and slammed the boot down hard.
Good one Thomas; Mr Psycho might be out there but that ought to scare him off.
He jogged back to the hotel, kidding himself that his panting was due to being out of condition, not blind terror.

* * *

Yorgi watched closely as the stranger fumbled about in his car then ran back towards the hotel. This was a new factor, an unknown quantity. Killing him now would achieve nothing. No, this man had chaperoned Alexandra and Lukas out of the hotel; and he would be the best way of reaching them again. He might need a little encouragement, but he would cooperate. As for Petrov, well, he could be persuaded to do anything. Yorgi leered in the darkness, remembering how he’d forced Petrov to shoot a rat on the farm. Petrov had shaken and bawled; how he had pleaded! He had done it in the end though. They always did what he wanted in the end.