Vendetta (25 page)

So Phil did know about Bolshoi; not only that, he knew the man was coming to London. But Phil had never mentioned it to him once during his investigation. Why? He suspected Calum knew too. But how and why? And he was still no closer to working out why Bolshoi had had Elena killed, or how he was going to kill Bolshoi in turn.

Mac looked up at the clock.

6:27.

He needed to get out of here now. He left the terminal and went to the office door and checked the corridor. Clear. He strolled as casually as he could towards the lifts. As he did so, his new phone pinged. Text message. Reuben.

We need to make arrangements for your role tonight. Call.

He couldn’t contact him now; he’d do it as soon as he got out of The Fort. Mac looked up and froze. Standing in front of him were Rio Wray and two police officers.

fifty-six

6:28 p.m.

For Mac, running into Rio in the corridor felt somewhat like bumping into a former lover where things had ended badly.

‘1402c, we need to have a chat about things,’ Rio said calmly. ‘I’m sure we can sort everything out . . .’

The statement hung in the air, but Mac’s mind was already on other things. He’d have rated his chances against Rio and her two boys on the street, but in a corridor at The Fort . . . with dozens of officers milling around . . .

He forced a smile right back. ‘A chat? Sure – why not?’

All the time, his gaze was over her shoulder, casing the corridor. At the end, by a door that led to a stairwell, two burly detectives were sharing a joke. Mac checked over Rio’s two guys. There was no escape that way. He knew that behind him was a lift to the upper floors. No escape that way either.

Rio never took her eyes off him as she said to the men with her, ‘Why don’t you assist Mr MacDonagh to my office?’

They got in position on either side of Mac. The three men set off towards the stairs with Rio bringing up the rear. They walked down the corridor, past the joking detectives, through the doors. Past the lift. Down the stairs.

As they descended, Rio’s voice said behind him, ‘Mac, whatever’s happened . . .’

So sudden, no one saw it coming; Mac shoved both palms against the backs of the policemen and pushed them violently forwards. They stumbled and fell like broken puppets down the stairs. As they landed in a heap at the bottom, he twisted round. Grabbed Rio by the front of her blouse and threw her to the ground. He bolted up the stairs as Rio screamed, ‘Don’t be a fucking fool, Mac; you can’t get out of here . . .’

But he was gone. Through the doors and back into the corridor. The two joking detectives were still there. He bombed it to the lift. Pressed. It opened. Mac heard the commotion behind him. He jumped inside the lift. The doors slid shut just as his pursuers arrived at the lift with their hands outstretched. The lift hummed upwards and when the doors slid open he pressed one floor down again. When it opened this time, he slid out into an empty corridor.

A loud, blaring noise shattered the air. Fire alarm . . . no, the intruder-detection warning and he was the intruder. The building would shortly be going into lockdown, exits sealed, and an armed security team in flak jackets would be tearing the place apart looking for him.

Mac rushed down the corridor, peering through the glass windows of each office he came to. In one, he noticed three women on computers busily working away, apparently unfazed by the alarm. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, so that he appeared as normal as possible. Then he opened the door to the office and smiled at one of the women. ‘What’s going on? Is there a fire?’

She smiled back, one of her palms resting behind a love-heart photo frame of two cute boys. ‘No, it’s the intruder alarm. Don’t worry; it’s always going off . . .’ Then she added without being asked, ‘I’m Linda . . .’

Mac smile broadened. ‘But that’ll mean a lockdown, won’t it? I’m only visiting but I’ve got an appointment somewhere else and I need to leave.’

Linda warned him, ‘You’re not going anywhere, I’m afraid. But don’t worry about it. In five minutes’ time they’ll realise the intruder is the milkman and you’ll be able to get out. You might as well pull up a chair in the meantime.’

‘Have you got a piece of paper and a pen?’ Mac calmly asked.

She smiled and found what he wanted on her desk. He wrote quickly and then passed the paper to her. Linda read it and laughed. But when she caught his eye, her laughter died. The note read:

‘I’ve got a gun. You’re going to get up and come with me to reception, making it look like we’re two colleagues having a laugh and a chat. If we get stopped, I’ll do the talking. If you do as you’re told, you’ll be fine. If you don’t, those pretty little boys of yours won’t see Mummy ever again.’

Mac gestured with his head for Linda to follow him. But she stayed frozen in her chair. He tapped his pocket and extended his two fingers to indicate a gun and, slowly, she got up out of her chair. They left the office with him walking jam-tight by her side. Outside, the corridor was clear, and so they carried on walking. Above and below them on other floors, they could hear the sound of running feet and shouting. The lift doors were open but above them a notice flashed: ‘Out of service’.

Mac whispered, ‘Stairwell . . . You’re doing good, just stay calm and no one’s going to get hurt.’

They went down the stairs. As they did so, two armed men came running up from the other way. One yelled at them, ‘What are you doing? Everyone’s confined to their offices.’

Mac realised he’d grabbed Linda’s arm for support and he whimpered, ‘But that’s where we’re going, our office is on the bottom floor.’

The man waved his gun at them, ‘Well, move it.’ And with that they were gone. Mac and Linda kept walking until they reached a mezzanine balcony just above the ground floor. Mac locked an arm round Linda’s waist and jammed her so close to his body he felt her erratic breathing vibrating against his skin. He peeped down at the reception area. Armed police everywhere and, by the security gates, Mac could see Rio Wray and a couple of her sidekicks, positioned like spiders in the middle of a web.

Linda twisted her head slightly and whispered, ‘You’re stuffed. You might as well go down and turn yourself in. You can’t get out of here.’

‘Shut up.’

But she was right. There was no way out through the exit.

‘You’re coming with me to the basement.’

Linda stiffened. ‘Please, don’t rape me . . .’

He knew he was wrong to terrorise this ordinary mum, but the only way to make sure she stayed in line was to get her to think of the worst. The basement was his only option if what Calum had reminded him of this morning was true.

‘Do you recall that nuclear shelter under HQ where the code for the door was so secret, it couldn’t be written down? So they made it “9999” so the relevant people could remember it? Idiots, fucking idiots . . .’

He marched Linda towards the rear of the building, down a dimly remembered flight of stairs until they reached a solid steel door. The door had a sign attached; it was stencilled in the font used by the Civil Service:
In The Event of a Nuclear Attack, This Door Will Be Sealed.

fifty-seven

6:35 p.m.

The sign was rusting slightly round the edge and the door hadn’t been used in a very long time. Not since the days when the prospect of a nuclear attack had meant every official building in London had had a bunker installed under it, so that important people wouldn’t get fried by radiation. Deep underground, they could carry on with the administration of the blackened and blasted city above. As if anyone would have cared. When Mac had first joined The Force, the Cold War paranoia of the 1980s had lingered on, and so, in a drill once a year, everyone had donned radiation suits and trooped down to the bunker. They were given offices to ensure that the corpses above would still be able to rely on the forces of law and order. It was regarded pretty much by the staff as a day off. And, of course, it wasn’t without its comical side. In the confused and confusing tunnels and passageways that spaghettied under The Fort, staff used to get lost and no one really knew where the bunker began and ended.

‘Do you recall that nuclear shelter under HQ where the code for the door was so secret, it couldn’t be written down? So they made it “9999” so the relevant people could remember it? Idiots, fucking idiots . . .’

But had the fucking idiots changed the code since the end of the Cold War?

‘Stay put,’ Mac ordered Linda.

She just nodded, wrapping her arms round her trembling body as soon as he let her go. Mac opened the metal panel to the code box. The crusty keypad was stiff under his nervous fingers. He stabbed his finger at a single key.

9999.

Pulled the handle to the door. It remained defiantly shut. Not such fucking idiots after all, then. He examined the pad. It hadn’t been cleaned in decades. He turned in desperation to Linda. ‘Have you got a hairpin?’

She rapidly shook her head. Mac began hurriedly thumbing through his wallet. He took out a credit card and used the corner to scrape away at the edges of the key. When he’d done, he tried again.

9999.

Bollocks, same response. He tried again, his anger mounting. He sawed away with his card so violently that there was a click, followed by the sound of a small object falling to the floor. Mac looked down. The number nine key had come away. Disbelieving and dazed, he picked it up.

Linda begged, ‘My boys are too young to lose their mum.’

Mac threw the nine back on the floor and examined the broken keypad. Where the nine had been was a small metal button caked in dust and grease. Using his fingernails he tried to clean it up, and then tugged it backwards and forwards. Behind him, at the top of the stairs, he could hear shouting behind the door. He pulled the button towards him and pressed it in.

Pulled and pressed.

Pulled and pressed.

Pulled and pressed.

There was a brief pause before the heavy lock groaned and dropped. He yanked on the door handle and it gave slightly but refused to open. He grabbed it with both hands, put his foot on the wall. And heaved. Slowly, and with much creaking and wailing of the hinges, the door opened to the bunker beyond. He peered inside.

That’s when there was a scream behind him, ‘He’s down here! He’s down here!’ He turned to see Linda fleeing up the stairs.

He didn’t have time to go after her, even though he knew she would lead Rio straight to him.

fifty-eight

6:40 p.m.

Cursing, he slipped into the bunker. Slammed the door. Turned the lock.

Darkness.

He searched along the chilled wall, hands weaving like a man reading Braille. There had to be a light switch somewhere. The air was dank, unpleasant in his lungs, as he kept moving sideways. His right hand hit something. He stopped moving. Let his fingers feel. Round outline. Size of an egg. He felt over it. Stopped when he encountered something jutting out of it. Slim, cold, hard metal. Switch. He flicked it on.

Blue fluorescent light.

The first thing he noticed was a corridor in front of him. Mac ran along the corridor, past the offices marked clearly for various individual posts in the new blasted Britain, past conference rooms, past rooms with iron bedsteads for the survivors. But no sign of another exit. He choked on the concrete dust particles floating in the air. He doubled over, coughing hard. Wearily, Mac rested on a wall, trying to suck oxygen into lungs. But, as he did so, echoing through the blue-lit corridors, he heard banging and deeply muffled shouting. The enemy were at the gates. He ran on.

Another junction. One sign pointed to ‘Executive Committee Rooms’, whatever that was. Another unhelpfully suggested that if you wanted ‘Ministry of Defence liaison’ you should turn left. Mac stopped again. He knew there would be an exit point somewhere into another building. The distance he had already run and the necessity for interconnection between government departments meant there had to be. He began running again, but then brought himself up short. He could hear the echo of voices and movement. No doubt about it now, they were in the bunker.

He fled in what he hoped was the opposite direction to his pursuers, ducking and diving although he could see no one. And still the endless rows of blue lights and the endless offices and empty rooms and official signs. He reached another junction. One sign again pointed to ‘Executive Committee Rooms’. Another if you wanted ‘Ministry of Defence liaison’ . . . Bollocks, he’d run in a circle.

Behind him, he heard a shout of: ‘Don’t just run around – find the access points and seal them off.’

Mac looked around on the wall at the end of the passageway and saw the dark shadows of figures against a background of blue light. He pulled out his gun and darted off towards MOD liaison. But as he turned a corner, at the other end of a passageway, he saw two cops, dressed to kill. For a few seconds they stood looking at each other before one of the officers raised his gun and shouted, ‘Stop or I’ll shoot . . .’

Mac ducked. Twisted back round the corner. The sound of the gunshot that followed pulsed like thunder up and down the enclosed space until it faded and died. From another direction, he heard a shout of, ‘He’s shooting, he’s shooting, take cover . . .’