The Chinese Assassin (28 page)

The lookout left by the emergency exit
had
removed all the
bulbs
from the lights
in
the rear section of the corridor
and under
cover of the darkness all five
men unwound long canvas
straps from their
waists and bound the unconscious
form of Yang
tightly
to the stretcher.

As
Fei
pushed open
the
exit door the
engine
of the ambulance in the
parking
bay on the other side of
the
mews coughed
and started
up. It
was
the sudden roar of the engine in the silent,
locked
mews that first
alerted the Russians watching
from the television repair
vans
on the other side of the Street. They
saw two Chinese run ahead
down the
fire-escape
and leap nimbly outwards to straddle
the
high wa
l
l. They watched the
m
lean
backwards
and
guide the stretcher onto
the
top of the wall, preparing to slide it down to
the driver waiting
by
the
now open back
doors
of the ambulance.

Razduhev, in
the front of the
first
van, gabbled rapidly into his walkie
talkie as
he watched the five
Chinese slithering
down the
wall. When
he’d finished he ordered the driver to start
his
engine in preparation for giving chase. Within
seconds the
stretcher had
been
run smoothly into
the
rear of the
ambulance
. The five men
jumped
in
behind
it and
the
ambulance driver
flung himself
behind
the
wheel, leaving the rear doors open.

The puzzlement of
the Russians
at this
turned
to astonishment when
the
ambulance,
instead
of crashing out through the barrier onto the street, shot away backwards up the darkened mews. The
Chinese
driver leaned out of his seat,
peering
behind
him
as he reversed
the
cumbersome vehicle at
speed
between
the
rows of parked cars on either side of the cobbled lane. The
horses behind
the yellow double doors of
the riding stable whinnied
in fright at
the
sudden
noise as
the ambulance shot past,
its engine
roaring in reverse, and it
was halfway
along
the
length of the mews before the back doors of
the
Russian repair vans opened to disgorge four men. They
flung
themselves across the road,
leaping the
metal barrier one
after the
other,
and dashed
headlong after the retreating ambulance.

The
Chinese
driver kept his
foot
on the accelerator until it slammed hard
against
the
wall
at the top of
the
mews, buckling the
open
rear
doors and
throwing
the
men inside to the floor in a tangled heap.

Only
the stretcher
bearing the unconscious
Yang remained
in its
place, held by three
canvas straps
that had
been
attached to
the
trolley. Within moments
the men
were on their feet. They
freed the stretcher and slid
it quickly through the doorway in the
wall
to
the waiting American in the back of the laundry truck.
He laid aside his shotgun
and
clamped
the
stretcher
quickly
into
place
on the trolley.
Then
he
climbed
back
through
the hinged panel into the
driving seat.
The
engine
had
been idling
from the moment the ambulance
started
up at
the
other end of the mews
and
by the
time
the last of
the
five
men
had scrambled
through
the
wall
and onto
the
narrow side benches, he had the truck moving slowly forward across the yard.

Because the
driver
of the ambulance had been
peering
backwards up the mews throughout his
frantic
drive, he
didn’t
see the pursuing
Russians
until after he’d switched off
the engine and
lifted his head to look out through the front
windscreen.
The urgent clatter of their feet on the cobblestones,
and
the aggressive crouch of their bodies as they ran, left him in no doubt about
their intent.

Drawing a
knife
from a sheath inside his
shirt
he threw himself out of the
open
door. The four Russians, with R
a
zduhev at their head, were at that moment
still
twenty yards short of the ambulance. Above the racing
engine
of
the
laundry truck on the other side of
the
wall he heard the frantic voices of his comrades,
calling
to him in Chinese. He
lunged
desperately towards the back of the ambulance. But the
twisted
metal of
the
crumpled rear doors had
been ground
deep into the brickwork. All access to the
gap in the
wall,
except
from
inside the
back of
the
ambulance, had been cut
off.

From the close
rush
of feet behind him he knew the four
men
were almost upon him and without
turning
his head he leapt for the top of the creeper-covered wall. But even while his
fingers
were
still
scrabbling for a hold among
the
vines he felt hands
close
around his ankles. He lashed
out
wildly with both feet and
managed to
free himself
as they dragged him back to the
ground.
He fell on all
fours, trapped and
at bay, his back to the wall, his
teeth
bared,
the knife
clutched before him in his right hand. The
Russians
hesitated in an uncertain semi-circle, then on a grunted order from Razduhev began advancing slowly as one man towards him.

‘Ch’u pa! Ch’u pa!’ The trapped
man screamed
the
two Chinese words repeatedly
over his shoulder as the Russians closed in. He
didn’t
stop
until
he heard the
slatted
back
door
of
the
laundry truck slam shut on
the
other side of
the wall.
A roar of rapid acceleration followed,
then the truck’s
racing engine began to fade rapidly as it shot
across
Old Barrack Yard
and
out into Knightsbr
i
dge.

The
Chinese grinned triumphantly round at the Russians
confronting him. But his expression
changed immediately
to one of alarm as one, on a barked order from
Razduhev,
took a sudden
flying
leap at
the
top of
the wall
in an attempt to
catch
at least an identifying glimpse of the
departing
vehicle. The
Chinese twisted
sideways
and flung himself
at
the
climbing
Russian in a suicidal
attack,
plunging his knife
again
and
again into his unprotected lower back.

The stabbed
man
flung back his head and his
guttural scream
of agony
echoed
round the
mews.
The reflex of
pain
tightened his grip among the gnarled
tendrils
of the
vines and
he
was still hanging
on the
wall
when one of his companions drew out a silenced
pistol
and, stepping
close,
shot the
Chinese
four times in the chest from point
blank range.

The
knife
clattered to the cobbles
and the Chinese twisted
round,
staring wildly
at the
man
who had
shot him.
Then his eyes misted over and he sank slowly
into
a foetal crouch at the
foot
of the
white wall, coughing
blood onto the cobbles.

The stabbed man’s wailing
ceased
suddenly
and
for a moment the silence was broken only by the sound of
the laundry truck’s engine
fading into the night. Then lights
began
to come on in
the
upper windows of some of the mews
houses.
One of the Russians cursed softly and moved to lift the stabbed man down from the wall.
Razduhev
spoke a fast volley of
words
into his
walkie-talkie
handset, then, a moment later,
carrying
the
injured
man between them, they
all
turned their backs on the dying
Chinese and rushed
away into the shadows,
anxious
now only to
regain the safety
of their closed vehicles.

On Sloane Street,
the innocuous-looking laundry truck was
heading south towards the Thames at a steady, respectable speed that would attract no
attention.
Within five minutes it would cross the river over Chelsea Bridge, and long before
the
police alert
was
put into force it
was
swallowed up with
its
human cargo inside one of
the
anonymous, grime-covered
industrial
warehouses beside the river at Nine Elms.