Vendetta (41 page)

‘Identify yourself,’ a voice screamed behind him.

Mac turned to find two Airport Special Unit cops pointing their sub-machines at him. ‘My name’s Calum Burns. Security detail. TY45 Section.’ Mac knew the men wouldn’t have the time to check. ‘You need to get inside the terminal building now. There’s a smartly dressed young Asian man shouting religious slogans and carrying a rucksack. I’ll check out here.’ But they hesitated. ‘You need to go now; there are women and children inside.’

That got them motoring away from him. He didn’t want anyone else chasing his quarry. Katia was all his. But where was she? What would he do in a similar situation? Not head back to the terminal building, that was for sure. There were plenty of places to hide: refuelling lorries, staircases, buses, stepways, and of course a number of planes parked up and left where they’d been abandoned when the airport went into lockdown.

He fixed his gaze on the air ambulance again. Lights off but the engines were still running. It was a hundred yards away, so Mac bent slightly and rushed over. As he came round the front wheel, he noticed a small staircase propped up against the fuselage. Ten steps maybe. He ran his gaze up the temporary staircase, but froze when something flashed out at the top. A hood. A shadowed face.

Katia.

Startled, she jerked her head back in. Mac stormed up the stairs, weapon at the ready. He caught a flash of paramedic greens and a hood as he reached the top. She tried to slam the passenger door in his face. He tried to force her back, but she increased the pressure. Mac shoved his gun into the small gap between the door and frame, but half an arm shot out, displaying a red star tattoo. Katia dug her fingers into his wrist, trying to twist his gun away. Mac felt the door start to give, so he pushed on it with brute strength. But then he almost fell through the door as the pressure on the other side let up completely.

He stumbled, pushing out his arm to stop himself falling, slamming the door open. His head came up as he saw Katia rushing forwards. Quickly he straightened up and rushed inside the plane. He saw Katia’s figure run into the cockpit. He belted forward. But he was too late. The cockpit door slammed in his face. The lock turned.

Mac hammered on the solid metal with his fists. ‘Katia. Open the fucking door or I’m going to shoot it off.’ His fists beat in time to his screaming, ‘Open the door, you murdering bitch.’

He stood back. Aimed the Glock at the lock. But he tumbled back as the plane shook. There was a noise out on the wings. A gentle plume of fumes was visible outside as the engines powered up. The plane juddered and lurched forward. He went back to the door.

‘I’m warning you,’ Mac picked up his yelling. ‘I’ll shoot the engines out and kill the pair of us. Suits me – at least you’ll be dead.’

The aircraft veered shakily to the right and he fell to the side, clutching a piece of medical monitoring equipment. The plane began moving down one of the short runways in jerks and bumps, like a car being manoeuvred by a learner driver. Suddenly a window was blown out by a volley of bullets. Mac instinctively ducked.

‘Hear that, Katia? They’re shooting. You’ll never make it.’

The plane dropped slightly to the left as the tyres on that side were shot out. It veered off course, close to the side of the disused former docks that bordered the runway. It slowed and pulled back to the right before sinking again as the tyres on that side were blown to tatters by gunfire. Through the shattered window, Mac could see parts of the wing being shot away. The bare metal of the wheel rims scattered sparks everywhere as they scraped along the runway. The engines became louder as the plane picked up speed, but the shooting stopped as they moved out of range. Mac went over to the window and leaned out into the cold air rushing by. He thought they were doing about 50 mph. Not enough to take off but enough to turn the plane into a fireball at the other end. He went back to the cockpit door.

‘Katia – why did you kill Elena? Are you listening? Crash the fucking plane, but tell me why you killed your sister . . . ?’

The plane see-sawed as the ground became more uneven under its groaning, screeching and rubber-less wheels. The nose rose slightly and then fell back down. Mac rushed back to the window. They were out of runway and in front of them was the perimeter fence. Behind that several cops were standing and a police car was parked up. The engines howled and the crazed plane began to accelerate wildly. Mac ducked from the window as it crashed through the fence, sending the car spinning off and the policemen scattering in all directions. Mac crouched on the floor, head tucked into his body as the plane went into its death spiral. The nose wheel collapsed and the front scraped the concrete underneath. It spun round like a drunk and one wing broke off before it ground to a halt facing back the way it had come.

Mac coughed as the overwhelming tang of kerosene filled his nostrils and smoke filled the bodywork of the wrecked aircraft. Shots rang from the cockpit: that was enough to get Mac back on his feet. The cockpit door was bent and buckled but still solid. He pulled it a few more times before doubling back. The passenger door was hanging open. Mac jumped down and ran to the front of the plane. One of the windows had been shot out. He climbed on the nose and peered inside. Empty. When he turned and looked across the blasted, post-industrial landscape, he saw a figure running.

ninety-seven

Mac knew that the plane was going to blow any moment, so he ran. But not quick enough. An almighty explosion ripped through the plane. An orange, red and billowing black fireball and twisted metal erupted into the air. Mac was lifted up and tossed in the air. He landed hard on a patch of grass. Lay winded for a while, his ears ringing. But he didn’t have time to rest; if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth, he was going to hunt Katia down.

Slowly he rose, hearing voices and lights coming his way. He had to get out of here before they reached him. So he mustered up the power and took off. Just kept moving and moving. Finally, near a disused pumping station, he stopped. Bent down, resting his palms flat against his thighs, filling his lungs with strong lugs of oxygen. Then he raised his head, saw, in the distance, billowing red, orange and black from the burning plane. He did a three-sixty look around but could see no sign of his target.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’

There was no way he was going to find her now. The plane had been a confined space, but now they were back in the open, she could be anywhere. But he wasn’t giving up. Clicking his body onto autopilot, he jogged away from the pumping station and soon found himself going down a lane that was bordered by council blocks, betting and pawn shops towards a bridge. Crossing the bridge was a distinctive red, white and blue Docklands Light Railway train. He was surprised the trains were still running, but remembered that the new mayor of London was piloting a three-month overnight service to meet public demand.

If you’re lost, follow railways, they always lead somewhere
. Mac remembered the instructions from his undercover training.

He went under the bridge and turned left, following a road that bordered the railway. Abruptly stopped when he saw something on the ground. He reached for it. Green paramedic’s top. He threw it back and started power-running. Reached the open-air Docklands Light Railway train station. He leapfrogged the gate that had no night staff to man it. Walked up the steps to the platform for trains into the city.

Passengers were gathered by the fence, curiously peering at the flames and smoke in the distant sky. All except one, a hooded figure sitting on her own at the dark, shadowy end of the platform. He moved towards her. At the same time the figure lifted her head. She watched as Mac drew closer and seemed to be becoming increasingly uncomfortable as he bore down on her.

Mac stood over her, slightly nervous that she’d made no attempt to flee and remembering she was armed.

‘Had enough of running, Katia?’

‘Sod off, you perv, or I’ll call the cops.’

This wasn’t Katia. A sound caught his attention, coming from the platform on the other side. He saw a hooded figure leaping up at a high wall, missing and slamming back down. A man jumped onto the track. The waiting passengers gasped as they watched him but he only had eyes for Katia. He scrambled up the platform as Katia sprang high against the wall again. This time her fingers gripped the edge. As Mac belted forwards, her legs began to frantically climb. He reached the bottom of the wall. Grabbed one of her legs. Dragged her down. She fell. Landed, her front hitting the wall.

‘Nowhere left, Katia,’ Mac threw high above the blast of cold wind. ‘Just me and you.’

Finally she turned her face to him. Lifted her chin, clearing it of any shadows. Mac saw her face for the first time. Stumbled back.

‘Elena?’

ninety-eight

2:40 a.m.

‘Elena.’ Stunned, he said her name again. This time it wasn’t a question.

Even though the mingled platform light and shadows illuminated the grace of her nose, the breath beating out of her partially opened mouth, the blood rushing under and heating up the skin on her face, he still wouldn’t believe what he was seeing. Any more than Bolshoi had done before he was gunned down, he now realised. His whole day flashed before him – the woman in the bath, the pursuit of Reuben, Sergei and Bolshoi, the car wash, Milos, Stevie . . .

‘You set fire to your flat?’ The words came out of him stuttering and confused, like he couldn’t believe what he was asking her. ‘You tried to kill me . . .’

He reached out to touch her, her bracelet dangling against his wrist. She flinched. Her movement broke the spell. The horror of what he’d been going through all day caught up with him. The power of the emotion overwhelmed him. He raised his hand and slapped her across the face. Her head snapped back. She held the pose, but only for a few seconds, then slowly moved her head dead centre, with defiance hot in her eyes.

‘You set me up,’ he said simply. ‘Why? Was your life ever really in danger? Was this fucked-up day all your idea to get me to take out Bolshoi?’

Elena twisted her lips together like she wasn’t going to answer him. Then she unlocked her lips and spoke. ‘You’re an undercover cop. No matter how many people you killed, your people would always make sure you’d never go down for it. Bolshoi was the ultimate professional. I knew it would take a special professional to kill him.’

‘How could you be so sure I would do it?’

‘Because I left all the information you would need on my mobile phone. The texts that were signed Bolshoi but written by me. I left the simplest password on the phone for you to unlock it – 1,2,3,4. Once you had the information, you were meant to sit tight and just wait for Bolshoi to appear at eleven tonight. Of course I only realised later today that he was working with your government.’

So if Calum had given him the information from Elena’s phone this morning, he’d probably have ended up killing Bolshoi. He hated to think he had something else to be thankful to Calum for, but he did.

‘And I gave you a motive,’ she carried on. ‘I gave you a reason to live. And you needed one, didn’t you? You felt helpless about what happened to your son. You weren’t ever going to let yourself feel helpless again. So there was no way you were going to let anyone get away with killing me.’

‘How did you find out I was a cop?’

‘You were just too good to be true. I managed to get into your phone one night while you were sleeping . . .’

‘Who was in the bath?’ Then he remembered there was only one other person with a tattoo and he answered his own question before she could. ‘Katia.’

Elena’s breathing grew stronger.

‘But the DNA?’ he persisted.

She finally spoke. ‘DNA that could only be traced back through our mother . . .’ She drew in a ragged breath that left a streak of irritation across her face. ‘I couldn’t have made it any easier for you, Mac. How hard could it have been? I left those messages on my phone, you knew Bolshoi was coming to town. All you had to do was kill him to avenge my death for me . . .’

‘But why? He was your guardian, protector, like a father to you . . .’

‘He killed my father.’ The fury of her words backhanded him across the face. ‘He had to die . . .’

‘So I was the instrument of your revenge?’ The singed photograph he’d found in Elena’s fireplace of the two men smiling flashed through his mind.

But it was like she didn’t hear him, her voice continuing in a soft, faraway tone.

‘My father was a captain who always turned down promotion because he wanted to be in the field with his comrades. His commanding officer was Major Andreas Ryatin . . .’

‘Bolshoi?’

She gave a sharp nod. ‘Their unit was ambushed and Andreas tried to save my father, but he was killed.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘I believed that for years – and then two nights ago at the reception at the embassy to celebrate with the other former comrades of my father, I found out different. The drink was flowing too freely and, just as I was ready to leave, one of the old timers grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.’

Elena took another breath. ‘He started cursing and saying how all of this was bullshit. How bad the war was, how messed-up everything was. That if the commanders-in-chief had really cared about the foot soldiers, what happened in the Valley of Death in August ’88 would never have happened. I knew he was talking about my father so I let him speak. Can you understand what I felt when he told me that Major Ryatin was no hero, but had been treating the war as a business opportunity – stealing from the stores, organising desperate local girls into prostitution rings for scared soldiers; there were even rumours that he was doing deals with the enemy over guns and drugs. I told the vet to shut up, that he was wrong . . .’