Vendetta (40 page)

Bolshoi straightened his jacket for the second time. ‘I don’t speculate. I’m a businessman who only deals in facts . . .’

Mac couldn’t let go of his anger. ‘You’re a fucking killer, just like Reuben and whoever snuffed Elena’s life out . . .’

The sound of the phone stopped his rant.

Bolshoi quickly answered. ‘OK . . . That makes sense. Good work. I’m hoping to be back tomorrow, I haven’t decided how.’

Bolshoi tapped the steering wheel with his phone. He took a receipt that had been left on the dashboard and made some notes on the back of it. ‘Do you know London Metropolitan Airport?’

‘Sure. It’s only five miles away. Up the river from St Katharine Docks.’

‘It seems that your theory might be right . . . Or wrong, we’ll see, but it’s the only lead we have. A woman booked an air ambulance to fly to Switzerland with a sick child tonight. It’s flying in an hour’s time. I suspect that’s her.’

‘An air ambulance? They cost a fortune . . .’

‘She’s got money – too much money, in fact. I have spoiled her a little.’ Bolshoi was lost in thought. ‘We need to get down there before she goes and I suggest we take my car.’ He threw his car keys at Mac. “You drive.”

ninety-three

2 a.m.

The car careered down the road. They went down main roads, honking traffic out of the way and shooting lights. London passed by in a fast mist of disjointed colours. The roads melted away and soon signs for the airport jutted out on the side of the roads. Above them, red and white lights flashed and turned as planes took off and landed. Mac brought the Bolshoi’s car to a halt once they got past the barriers. Then slid his hands on his lap.

On the other side of a security fence, various planes were parked up or waiting their turn to taxi to the runway. Among them was a small red and white jet with a red cross on its tail. A trail of vapour was coming from its twin engines. Bolshoi took out the receipt from his top pocket that he’d written on earlier. He checked the number and name on the fuselage and then wrinkled the paper and threw it out of the window. ‘That’s it.’

The two men looked around on the other side of the fence for any sign of a woman and child. There was none. But they could see a pilot wandering around performing pre-flight checks. Mac leaned over the steering wheel, but slid his hands closer to the seat between his legs as he searched harder before saying, ‘They must be inside the airport building, so we’d better go into the terminal.’

He felt a sudden coldness against his temple. Mac didn’t need to turn to know what that meant. But he did, anyway, to find Bolshoi holding a semi-automatic against his head. ‘I’m sorry, my friend, but you aren’t going anywhere. Your day-long vendetta is over.’

Bolshoi was cold, crisp and to the point. ‘I haven’t come down here to help you solve Elena’s murder. I’m here to find out what’s happening to Katia. Your presence will only be one of those boring complications, so I’m afraid it’s goodbye.’

He shoved his hand into Mac’s waistband and took his gun.

Mac had been ready for this. He had known Bolshoi wouldn’t need him after they’d arrived. He sneered, ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,
my friend
. Don’t you think I figured out that you could’ve tracked Katia down on your own through your contacts? The only reason you needed me along for the ride was to make sure you got me out of the way permanently.’

His hands between his legs, he slipped a finger into the pin of one of the grenades he’d stolen from the hit men earlier. Very carefully, he used the palm of his hand to show his explosive insurance policy to Bolshoi.

The Russian nodded. ‘You’ll be long dead before you can pull the pin.’

‘Probably. But possibly not. You’ve seen plenty of men killed, haven’t you? Strange things happen when shots get fired into people – and I only need a fraction of a second. Or perhaps my muscles will reflex in my death throes and the pin will get pulled anyway. Go on – I’ve been ready to die all day . . .’

Silence.

Bolshoi kept the gun in place.

Finally, ‘I like you, Mac. It’s too bad you haven’t wised up like Calum and gone into business on your own. I could put some work your way . . .’

Mac turned his head slightly and smiled. Bolshoi smiled back. Without taking his eye or the pistol off Mac, he reached behind his back with one arm. Unlocked the door. ‘I’m going to find Katia. You do as you please – but I’m warning you now, if you cross my path in the coming hour, I will kill you without hesitation.’

Bolshoi scrambled backwards and disappeared into the night.

ninety-four

Mac didn’t follow at once. He knew the sorts of cars that high-end technicians supplied to people like Bolshoi. They always had high-quality concealed weapons in the dashboard or bodywork. He flipped various harmless buttons until, with a tug on the cigarette lighter, a hidden walnut panel opened near the gear stick and a drawer hummed as it ejected. Inside were two pistols. Mac inspected them and chose the high-capacity, low-recoil Glock. Checked the magazine. Fully loaded.

Running was going to bring him attention he didn’t need, so Mac got out of the car and walked smartly across the car park to the doors of the terminal. He peered through the glass. Bolshoi wasn’t hard to find. It was late in the day and there weren’t many people around. The Russian was deep in conversation with a woman on the information desk. She was trying to explain something to her visitor, but didn’t seem to be getting very far. The conversation seemed to heat up. But then Bolshoi seemed to cool everything down by backing off, raising his hands in what Mac was sure was an act of apology. He stopped for a few moments and then headed off in another direction. From his vantage point, Mac couldn’t see where that was.

The automatic doors slid open and Mac took a few steps inside. He wasn’t in the slightest doubt that, given the chance, Bolshoi would follow through with his threat and shoot him. A quick glance around revealed no sign of his man. Slowly and carefully, keeping a constant eye on the doors and entry points, Mac walked over to the information desk. The woman on duty was all smiles when he showed his badge. But her smile cooled when he asked about the air ambulance.

‘As I explained to a rather rude gentleman who raised the same issue a few moments ago, I have no information about private flights or a mother and son who may be travelling. I suggest you contact the company that’s arranging the journey.’

Dead end. He looked in the direction that Bolshoi had gone, but there was no indication of the where or the why. There were doors with ‘no admittance’, ‘staff only’ and ‘security clearance area’; there were toilets and a chapel. But no obvious places a Russian gangster might be pursuing his enquiries. Mac moved back outside, a little faster this time, and over to the security fence. The air ambulance was gently taxiing backwards and forwards, preparing to pick up its ‘delivery’. But there was no sign that Bolshoi had got through any security cordons and was lying in wait for Katia.

Back in the terminal, he twisted round – they were here somewhere, but where? Where? A uniformed airport worker to the left caught the corner of his eye. He kept his gaze pinned on him as a solution started to form in his mind. Distract the worker, disable him, steal his uniform and attempt to get airside with it. Determined, he started forward. Only got half a metre to the left before he heard the voice behind him.

‘Uncle Mac.’

Mac twisted round. In a chair that was far too big for him sat Milos.

‘Milos, who brought you here?’ Mac asked as he sat beside the child.

Milos’s face was pasty, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he was in pain – which no doubt he was, Mac decided, remembering the last time he’d seen the boy, lying in a fretful sleep in a hospital bed.

The boy gazed up at him, his eyes red as if he’d been crying. ‘Uncle Mac – do you know where my dad is? I don’t want to go to Swissiland. I want my dad.’

Mac gently caught the boy’s shoulders in his large hands. ‘Did Auntie Katia bring you here?’

The child’s voice dipped to a whisper. ‘I’m not allowed to say.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s private. I’m not supposed to say anything to anybody.’

‘Don’t worry, I know Katia . . .’

‘She’s not called Katia, her name’s Natasha . . .’

‘Where’s she gone?’

Milos looked confused, as if trying to find the right words. ‘Some men from the airport wanted to talk to her. Her name came booming around the room.’ Mac quickly figured he meant through the loudspeaker. ‘But we weren’t here – we were in the other room. She’s gone with them. She says it won’t take long. She told me not to talk to anybody.’

Mac patted his head. ‘She won’t mind you talking to me because she told me she’d changed her mind. You aren’t going to Switzerland any more. All she wants is for you to have a good night’s sleep.’

‘Will I see my dad in the morning?’

The sonless father looked into the eyes of the fatherless son. Mac hated lying, but at the moment the one thing this child didn’t need was the truth. ‘I’m sure you will.’

Milos yawned and nodded, so Mac reached over to pick him up, but stopped when he saw a well-dressed woman walking towards them. His arms fell back as he tried to see her face. But he couldn’t make out her features because her head was down. She got closer. Closer.

‘Milos, if I tell you to hide under the chair, make sure you do it.’

Mac didn’t check the boy’s face to see if he understood his command because he only had time to see the woman. She got closer. So close . . . Raised her head. Middle-aged, twin-set-and-pearls membership stamped all over her.

‘Excuse me, young man.’ She addressed Mac in one of those clipped English accents where the speaker doesn’t appear to be moving their lips. ‘I left a bag there – have you seen it?’

At the shake of his head, she rolled her eyes. ‘Fuck. I expect the bastards have taken it away and blown it up.’

With that she turned and stomped away.

‘Do you want me to play hide-and-seek now, Uncle Mac?’

Mac didn’t answer. He couldn’t take Milos to safety as planned, not with the chance that Katia-Natasha might appear.

The boy yawned again. ‘I’m tired. Can we go now . . . ?’

‘Not . . .’ But Mac never finished the sentence. He noticed the boy’s eye was fixed on something behind them. He turned to find Bolshoi standing over them.

ninety-five

The Russian stood motionless, looking down at the man and boy. Walked round and took a seat next to Mac. ‘Is this the kid?’ When he got no answer he whispered, ‘Katia can’t be far away then.’

‘Please, don’t start anything now, we don’t want Milos involved, do we?’

Bolshoi grunted and gestured at Reuben’s son, who was confused and alarmed by Uncle Mac’s new friend. ‘He was involved from the day he was born. And please don’t ask me to believe that this child’s welfare will stop you doing what you have to do, any more than it will stop me doing what I have to do.’

Mac looked down at Milos and wondered if that was true. Bolshoi sneered at him because he knew he was right. ‘Make sure . . .’

Bolshoi broke off and looked urgently over at the door to the administration block, from where a figure in a plain grey tracksuit and hood – pulled down like a mediaeval monk’s – had emerged.

‘Katia?’ Bolshoi whispered as he jumped up.

He started power-walking to the figure that had stopped just as Mac shot up.

‘Katia! It’s me!’ Bolshoi’s voice grew louder as his feet picked up speed.

‘Get under the seat,’ Mac ordered Reuben’s son.

‘Katia. It’s me . . .’

Katia tipped her chin higher just as Bolshoi shifted in Mac’s eye line, masking his view of her face. Suddenly Bolshoi stumbled.

‘Katia?’

With a sharp one-two move, the shape of Katia’s body changed as her hand whipped out. Only when someone screamed did Mac realise what she held in her hand. A semi-automatic pistol. She pointed it at Bolshoi and pumped the trigger.

ninety-six

2:30 a.m.

The side of Bolshoi’s head exploded and he toppled backwards as another volley hit him in the chest. Mac dropped down and rolled to the side as people scattered and screamed. He pulled his head up to see Katia running towards a departure gate.

As he shot to his feet he yelled at the woman with the lost bag, ‘Make sure the kid under the chair is looked after.’ Then he pulled out the Glock and set off after Elena’s sister.

There would be no escape for her. With fences and waterways around the airport barring her escape, and plenty of armed security available, the killer was caught like a rat in a trap. After seeing the professional, almost gleeful, way Bolshoi had been cut down, Mac ran past a desk where someone was yelling, ‘Gunfire in the hall . . . how the heck do I know . . . ?’ The person ducked when they saw Mac and the gun.

‘Armed police!’ he shouted as he ran through the security area, jumping over metal detectors and scanning machines. Then along a glass corridor towards the departure gates. Out on the tarmac, waiting patiently, was the air ambulance. No sign of Katia. Mac pumped two rapid bullets into the glass that separated him from the plane. The glass shrieked as it shattered. He stepped outside onto the tarmac. Caught his breath in the cold wind and looked around.