The Einstein Code (26 page)

Max walked briskly across the snow, his boots crunching on the frozen ground. They reached the decrepit entrance to the building, steamy breath swirling around their faces.

‘The lifts don’t work, of course. Our men are in apartment 184, on the fifth floor. It is directly over 154, where Dr Wetherall is being held.’

Lou’s face was red. He had not shaved, and ice crystals clung to the stubble. ‘They’re here?’ he said. ‘How, did you . . .?’

‘What’s the plan?’ Jerry asked quickly.

‘Wait until we get to 184. The guys will brief you both.’

The flat stank of fast food, cigarettes and sweat. It looked as though the place had not been lived in for some time before Sergei’s men had arrived. In the living room, a pair of 1970s
suedette sofas, worn to the foam and covered in cigarette burns, formed an ‘L’ around a scored coffee table covered with McDonald’s wrappings and boxes smeared with ketchup. An
overladen ashtray took pride of place in the centre. In the corner of the room stood an old boxy TV, the screen smashed in.

Sergei’s men sat on one of the sofas. Max introduced them as Yegor and Ilia. Ilia looked in his mid-twenties with black curly hair. Yegor could have been his father; late forties, muscular
build. He had the same unruly black hair but it was cut shorter and sprinkled with grey, a stern face, a pink scar running down his face. Lou did not like to ponder how he had come by it.

Ilia offered them a half-empty bottle of vodka. ‘It’ll warm you up,’ he said and produced a gappy grin.

Lou was about to decline, but changed his mind. Taking a swig, he felt the fiery liquid rush down his throat, spreading burning fingers inside his stomach. ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed.

Ilia chuckled. ‘
Da!
Good!’

‘OK,’ Yegor said quietly. ‘This is the situation.’

He swept aside the McDonald’s cartons and spread out a sheet of grubby white A3 on the table. A floor-plan had been roughly sketched on the paper in felt tip.

‘This is 154, the apartment below us. Basically the same as this charming place.’ His English was almost perfect with barely a trace of accent. ‘There are three men in there
now.’ He looked up to hold Lou’s eyes. ‘. . . and your wife, Dr Bates.’

‘How do you know?’

Yegor glanced at Max. ‘It’s irrelevant, but we have sophisticated surveillance equipment that can pick up body heat and translate it into approximate images of the individuals. As
well as this we have listening devices. We have been able to hear every word spoken in there from a few minutes after we arrived last night.’

‘And Kate?’ Lou asked, the pain clear in his face. ‘Is she . . . OK?’

‘We can’t see her, of course, but they haven’t harmed her while we’ve been here. She has spoken a few times and sounds anxious and angry; as you’d expect. But
we’ve heard no sign of violence or distress, so we believe she is unharmed.’

Lou held the man’s eyes for a long time then looked down at the paper on the table. ‘What’s your plan?’

*

Max, Jerry and Lou left the apartment first. Exiting through the front door, they closed it behind them. Jerry had been given a two-way radio, an earphone in his right ear, a
coiled cable running down his neck to a receiver at his belt. He and Max had their guns out: Jerry primed his navy Beretta, Max carried an old Luger.

They took the stairs slowly, Jerry in the lead. Keeping close to the wall, they twisted round into the walkway, front doors to the apartments on their right. On their left, a shoulder-high wall
stretched the length of the passage. Over the wall they could see the car park beyond the rutted waste ground. Two inches of dirty snow ran along the top of the wall.

The walkway was deserted. The sound of a TV from one of the apartments further along drifted towards them. They pulled close to the wall of the building a few feet from the door to 154.

‘We’re ready to descend onto the rear balcony.’
It was Ilia through the two-way.

Jerry nodded to Max and Lou. ‘They’re ready to go.’

On the far side of the apartment, the rear door led onto a stark narrow concrete balcony. It was identical to dozens of others the length and height of the tower block. Yegor and Ilia were
poised to drop a floor from the balcony of 184, ropes attached through pulleys and keyed into the brickwork. They held Kalashnikovs close to their chests.

Yegor gave Ilia a signal and he dropped through the chill air to land silently on the balcony wall of apartment 154. A few seconds later, Yegor joined him five feet along the wall.

‘Ready on your signal,’ Yegor whispered into his radio.

At the front of the apartment, Lou stood a pace behind Jerry and Max as they took up position either side of the door. Jerry leaned in and pressed the bell.

A fraction of a second later, Ilia and Yegor launched themselves from the top of the balcony wall and smashed through the rear window of apartment 154, glass scattering around the tiny kitchen
beyond.

One of the kidnappers was at the stove cooking breakfast. He began to turn, his hand reaching down for a pistol tucked into his belt. Ilia shattered his face with a burst from his assault
weapon. The man crumpled over the frying pan and onto the lit ring.

It was just two steps from the kitchen into the boxy low-ceilinged living area. Kate was not there, but the other two men were slouched in front of a TV in a pair of La-Z-Boys. One of the men
had a shotgun in his lap. He reacted with incredible speed. Spinning to his right and off the chair, he brought round the gun and emptied both barrels. Yegor opened fire, killing him as Ilia flew
backwards and crashed to the floor. The unarmed man in the other chair raised his hands.

Jerry came round from the hall, his gun at arm’s length. Yegor dashed over to Ilia.

Crouching low and moving fast, Lou made it past the opening and found a pair of doors to the left and right of the hall. He tried the first one – an empty room with sleeping bags on the
floor. Whirling round, he pulled on the other door and almost fell into a blacked-out room. Kate was sitting on the floor against the far wall tied by ropes at her ankles and wrists, a gag over her
mouth. She looked terrified, her eyes huge in the half-light from the hall.

Within minutes two cars, a Mercedes 600SL and a dark-blue BMW, had pulled up outside the apartment block. People were emerging terrified and sleepy from their flats. Max played
it down, flashed a fake ID to show he was a member of the FSB, the state police, then escorted four of Sergei’s men to apartment 154.

From the bedroom where Kate had been held, she and Lou could hear the coming and going of the men. Kate was still shaking, sipping a bottle of water.

Jerry Derham stood in the hall just beyond the closed bedroom door and watched the men remove the dead – two of the kidnappers and Ilia, his face hidden by a sheet. Yegor glanced at the
captain, his expression rigid, then he followed the men out onto the balcony and down the concrete stairs.

Two men stood over the surviving kidnapper, Max was seated behind them in the main living area. Derham followed Kate and Lou out onto the balcony and down to the snow-strewn patch of tarmac that
served as a parking area. The car carrying the dead was disappearing around a corner about a hundred feet from the tower block, the dark-blue BMW stood with the engine running, exhaust fumes
billowing into the freezing air.

‘I think you should go to the local hospital,’ Lou said as he helped Kate into the back of the car and nodded to the driver holding open the door.

‘What I need more than anything is a hot bath, a cup of strong tea and about three days’ sleep,’ was the last thing Derham heard her say to Lou as the door of the car closed.
He waved them off and returned to the apartment.

The surviving kidnapper was bleeding, a stream of red running down his arm and dripping onto the cheap velour of the chair. The muzzles of two Kalashnikovs hung inches from his face. Max was
leaning forward in his chair talking to the man in Russian.

‘Max, this man needs medical attention,’ Derham said and stepped over. The prisoner was a youth, barely out of his teens. He had a spotty, red face. Sweat ran down his cheeks. He
said something in Russian, his voice anguished.

‘Please, Captain Derham, let us . . .’ Max said.

Jerry leaned down over the kid. ‘Let me see,’ he said, pulling the prisoner’s arm up and inspecting the wound. The kid winced.

‘He has a bullet wound in his forearm. It’s bleeding badly, Max.’ He lowered the arm gently.

Max nodded to one of the guards. He grabbed Derham’s arm. The captain cursed, jerked free and the man shifted position to get a fresh grip.

‘Please! Captain Derham!’ Max snapped and strode over. ‘Please . . .’ He pulled free Jerry’s arm and the guard stepped back.

‘You can’t just—’

‘Captain, we have our methods. Please try to remember you are a guest in our city. I would hope you would respect that.’

Derham pulled back and sat down in a chair the other side of the tiny living area. The kid gave him a desperate look.

‘Name?’ Max began again in Russian, standing over the young man.

He ignored the question.

‘Name?’

Max counted a beat then smashed his fist into the kidnapper’s face. His head snapped back against the chair, blood jetting from his shattered nose.

Derham spoke little Russian, but he could guess approximately what was being said.

‘Name?’

‘Vasily . . . Vasily Komonech.’

‘Who are you working for?’

The kid shook his head, snot and blood dripped from his nose.

‘It’s a simple question, Vasily.’

‘I don’t know!’ the youth hollered.

Max leaned in and grabbed the man’s injured arm, twisted it roughly and found the entry point of the bullet. In the dim light the boy started to scream. Max pushed his thumb hard into the
gaping wound. With his free hand, he clamped the boy’s mouth as he struggled.

‘Max! Stop!’ Jerry was out of his chair. One of the armed men spun round with his rifle and Max jerked up as Vasily Komonech’s piercing screams reverberated around the
room.

‘No more chances, Vasily. Tell me who you are working for.’

Komonech was struggling to draw breath. Derham could see he was about to pass out. His face was bloodless, albumen-like. He tried to speak, but his voice cracked. ‘A woman. Rich woman.
Don’t know her name,’ he gasped in Russian. Max translated for Jerry.

Max gave Derham a questioning look and Derham got it. ‘Buckingham? Glena Buckingham?’

‘
Da, da.
Buckingham.’

‘Fuck!’ Derham exclaimed.

‘Who is your boss here?’ Max asked the kid. ‘You know you have to tell me one way or the other.’

‘Vladich.’

Max smiled. ‘Good.’ He turned to Jerry. ‘He’s working for Vladich.’

‘Vladich?’

‘An arsehole. Heads up one of the smaller gangs we hadn’t yet looked into.’ He straightened up from the chair. ‘Get rid of him,’ he snapped.

The guards yanked the youth to his feet. His legs gave way and they half-dragged, half-carried him out into the narrow hall.

‘What are you going to do with him?’ Derham flicked a glance towards the outside.

‘That is our business, Captain. Please don’t try to interfere.’

Derham made to reply, but Max had a hand up. ‘Please. I have something very important to discuss with you.’ He looked furtively towards the hall. They both heard the front door smack
against the wall and Komonech pleading pathetically.

‘What?’

‘We have received some significant information that I believe you should be told about . . .’

Lae, Papua New Guinea. Early hours of 2 July 1937.

Lae, steamy hot and wet, as it always was. Thirty degrees centigrade both night and day.

The scruffy hangar lay on the outskirts of the tiny town, part of a privately owned airfield belonging to a wealthy Asian importer. This late at night the whole complex was almost deserted with
just the swish of palm fronds in the sticky breeze stroking the west-side windows of the hangar like the fingers of an amorous lover.

Amelia was there, tinkering with the port-side engine of the Electra 10E. She had the metal object in her right hand and with the left she pulled aside a bundle of wires to expose the perfect
spot to locate the container.

They would be setting out on the final long haul of the circumnavigation at day break tomorrow. The plane was fuelled and ready, checked and double-checked.

She tugged the wires under the manifold and heard a sound from behind. She turned, saw nothing.

The wires were catching on the base of the object. She leaned in closer, twisted the offenders out of the way and repositioned everything.

The noise came again. This time she whirled round.

Two men were walking towards her. They were both tall and dressed in dark suits and ties. One of the men had cropped blond hair, the other wore a black Fedora. The former held a Beretta at waist
height, the stumpy muzzle pointed at Amelia. She raised her grease-smeared hands slowly.

‘Where is it?’ the man in the hat asked. He had a strong German accent.

‘Where is what?’ Earhart screwed up her face.

‘All right, this is what we are going to do, Miss Earhart,’ the gunman said. His English was clearer, crisp with an Oxbridge affectation. ‘Our time is limited. We are . .
.’ and he nodded towards his colleague ‘. . . entirely lacking any form of empathy. Neither of us cares a bit whether you cooperate or not. If you do cooperate and hand over the item
you were given in Dakar, we can all be on our way. If you do not, we will torture you, horribly, and we will not stop even after you have told us where we can find the thing we seek. Do you
understand me?’

She saw a movement behind the men as the palm fronds made another pass against the window; then a dash of fabric, a flash of white.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she lied, feeling a rivulet of sweat slither down her spine, a tight fear in her abdomen.

‘Okay,’ the man in the Fedora said, the shadow of the brim across his face.

Amelia saw another judder of movement, and in a fraction of a second she knew what it was. The blond man made to take a small step forward, his hand tight on the Beretta. Amelia caught a brief
glimpse of something metallic and slender swing down to the right of the gunman’s head. The spanner crashed into the man’s skull, sending him sprawling across the floor.