Die Alone Page 27

  ‘That’s right, but that’s not the whole story.’ Marco’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm as he took a final drag on his cigarette and chucked it out of the window. ‘The history books get it wrong. They say it was all pre-planned, and indeed there was an attempt to assassinate him earlier that morning with a bomb by a group of Serb nationalists which failed. Ah, but the actual shooting …’ He waved a finger at me. ‘That was different. You see, Ferdinand’s motorcade was travelling back from a function at the City Hall when his vehicle took an inexplicable wrong turning and immediately got stuck behind another vehicle. This was just outside a delicatessen where a man called Gavrilo Princip was queuing for a sandwich. Now Princip was also a Serb nationalist and didn’t like Franz Ferdinand, but he hadn’t been planning on killing him.’ Marco shrugged. ‘He was hungry. He just wanted his sandwich, but then he sees the hated Ferdinand in an open-top car right outside the front door of the delicatessen. So he pulls a pistol out of his pocket, strolls right up to the car and shoots him and his wife dead. Just like that. Can you imagine it? If there’d been no queue there, or they’d had more people behind the counter, or Princip just hadn’t wanted a sandwich that day? There’d probably have been no First World War, and therefore no Second either.’

  He pulled the Mercedes into a deserted car park in front of a single-storey warehouse building.

  ‘Imagine that, Ray. Fifty million lives lost, all over a fucking sandwich. But that’s the way of the world, my friend. Small choices can lead to some very big results.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ I said, getting out of the car and following him up to the front door.

  The door was opened from the inside before we even got there by a large, unshaven man in a loud lime-green tracksuit and very white trainers, who looked like he hadn’t done any exercise in his life. He nodded at Marco, and it was clear that they knew each other well. They said a few words to each other in Serbo-Croat, and Tracksuit moved aside.

  ‘Come on in,’ said Marco.

  I followed him into a small reception room, shutting the door behind me but making sure not to lock it in case I needed to make a quick escape.

  ‘My friend here needs to search you in case you have a concealed weapon.’

  ‘If I had a concealed weapon I wouldn’t need to be here,’ I told him, but I lifted my arms anyway, and let Tracksuit give me what I have to say was a pretty cursory search. He found the flick knife I’d bought in Paris in my back pocket and threw it down on the reception desk, before leading Marco and me down a long corridor to the back of the building and into a large storeroom, lined with boxes. On a table in the middle were three pistols side by side, all without their magazines.

  Tracksuit went behind the table and made a gesture with his hand for me to take a look.

  ‘It’s just a matter of choosing the one you want,’ said Marco. ‘My friend here is reliable.’

  I noticed that Marco’s voice had risen a couple of decibels as he spoke – and then, as I heard movement behind me, I realized why. I just had time to glance over my shoulder and see a figure emerging from behind a curtain, but before I could react I felt a cable being looped round my neck and pulled tight.

  My air supply was cut off instantly as I was pulled backwards, then a second later the pressure was eased just enough for me to take tiny breaths.

  Marco smiled and took a phone from his pocket, while Tracksuit loaded one of the guns on the table with a magazine and pointed it at me.

  ‘Apologies for this, my friend, but there is a very large reward on your head. Not only that, but a good friend and business partner of mine, who’s invested a lot of money in the country, is also very keen to see you dead. His name’s Alastair Sheridan and he says you two are acquainted with each other.’

  I tried to speak but could barely manage a mangled squeak.

  ‘There’s no need to say anything, my friend,’ said Marco, raising the phone in my direction. ‘But Mr Sheridan would like me to record your death so he can view it later for his entertainment.’

  He nodded to the man holding the cord round my neck, and the next second it tightened once again. My would-be assassin forced me backwards, pushing his knee into my back as he applied the pressure. Already I could feel my vision blurring. In a matter of seconds I was going be unconscious.

  But I hadn’t come entirely unprepared. The neck knife I’d bought in Paris – small, with a three-inch, razor-sharp blade – was still hanging from a cord round my neck, having not been picked up in the search. I grabbed at the cable throttling me with one hand, just to distract the people watching me die from what I was about to do, then shoved my other hand up beneath my shirt, acting like it was all part of a futile struggle, and yanked the blade free from its plastic holder. It was so small that even when my hand came back out with it I don’t think anyone noticed. At least not until I reached round and shoved it hilt-deep into my attacker’s thigh three times in rapid succession.

  The attacker howled in pain and let go of the cable as, coughing and gasping for air, I shoved it in a fourth time and let go, rolling free of his grip.

  ‘Shoot him!’ yelled Marco at Tracksuit, at the same time shoving the phone in his pocket and making for the door.

  Tracksuit squinted and took aim, and straight away I guessed he wasn’t a good shot, but then he didn’t need to be in a room this small with barely five yards between us.

  The two most important things to do when someone’s aiming a gun at you are to keep moving and to try to put obstacles between you and them. The guy who’d tried to kill me – burly, bearded and bald – was hobbling around, clutching at his bleeding leg while trying to remove the neck knife. Still coughing, but fuelled by the kind of adrenalin that comes when someone’s trying to kill you, I jumped to my feet. Tracksuit immediately fired two shots, but I was already behind the other guy, and I grabbed him by the shirt and propelled him towards Tracksuit. As he fell into the table, knocking it backwards, Tracksuit jumped backwards too, stumbling into a couple of boxes.

  He righted himself quickly but not quite quickly enough. As he raised his arm to fire, I careered into him, knocking his arm to one side, and driving my forehead into his nose.

  This time he went straight over backwards into the boxes, his head smacking hard against a shelf, and dropped the gun. I landed on top of him and punched him hard in the face before jumping off him and scrambling on my hands and knees over to the gun.

  I grabbed it and turned round, just as he was sitting up.

  His eyes widened as I shot him once in the face. They then widened some more, and he toppled over on his side without a word or sound.

  I stood up and, ignoring the other guy, whose trouser leg was now completely drenched in blood, suggesting that I must have severed an artery, took off after Marco. He was still running up the corridor, almost at the end now.

  ‘Marco!’ I yelled, my voice hoarse and painful. ‘Stop or you’re dead!’

  If it had been me, I’d have taken my chances and continued running, given that he was only a couple of seconds away from safety, but I was beginning to work out that, for all his talk, Marco wasn’t exactly a brave man. He stopped straight away and turned round with his hands up.

  ‘Get over here,’ I told him, pointing the gun at his head.

  He walked towards me looking worried, as well he should have done. I wasn’t feeling, or I suspect looking, especially merciful.

  ‘Listen, man,’ he said, stopping a few feet away, hands still firmly in the air, ‘it was only business. I’ve got nothing against you personally.’

  ‘That doesn’t really make me feel any better,’ I said, conscious that the act of speaking was really hurting my throat. ‘You’re going to have to atone.’

  ‘Sure, man, sure. Whatever you say.’

  His eyes darted towards a door to my left. Just a flicker. But it was enough for me to know that something else was going on.

  Then I heard it. A high-pitched moan, partially muffled. It was coming
from somewhere behind the door. It also sounded human.

  ‘If you want Sheridan, I can give him to you,’ said Marco quickly. ‘I can take you to him right now.’

  ‘Open the door,’ I told him.

  He acted confused. ‘Which one?’

  The muffled moan came again. Faint but audible to both of us.

  ‘You know which one.’

  I took a step back to give him room, keeping the gun pointed straight at his chest, and watched him turn the handle.

  ‘It’s locked,’ he said.

  ‘I know you have the key so open it or I’ll do to you what I’ve just done to your friends.’

  He looked at me, clearly decided it was best to comply, and fished out a key, turning it in the lock. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said, moving away as I looked inside.

  I felt my insides clench. It wasn’t what I thought. It was worse.

  Far worse.

  57

  As was often the case, Alastair Sheridan was pleased with himself. He’d just delivered a speech that was both measured and statesmanlike to an auditorium full of the great and the good of Bosnia-Herzegovina at Vijećnica, Sarajevo’s historic City Hall, and was now in the back of a limousine supplied by the office of the Presidency, being driven to the house deep in the forested hills above the city which he and Cem had bought through a shell company a couple of years back.

  The limousine had a police escort, again supplied by the Presidency, which was standard practice when Alastair was in town, given his importance as a British politician and an investor in the country, but it was especially needed tonight. Alastair’s friend and occasional business partner Marco Kovich, whom he’d met the previous year through Cem, had warned him of the presence in the city of Ray Mason. How that cockroach had managed to track Alastair all the way here was anyone’s guess, but the most important thing was that Marco stopped him, which he’d promised to do.

  Alastair checked his phone. He was waiting for a message from Marco to tell him that Mason had been dealt with, permanently. Alastair needed to see proof that Mason was finally dead. Only then could he relax entirely.

  There was no message. Alastair checked his watch. It was 10.30 p.m. He should have heard by now. Either way, however, Mason couldn’t touch him. The house was covered by year-round private security, and when Alastair was in residence he made sure that he had two guards on the perimeter at all times. The guards were supplied by Marco, and were not the type of men to ask questions or be too curious, which was a good thing because tonight Alastair was expecting a special delivery.

  He felt a shiver of excitement inside as he thought of the fun he was going to have later. It was just a pity that Cem couldn’t be there to share it with him.

  Still, he thought, at least it meant he’d have her all to himself.

  58

  The girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and she was sat cramped in a wooden carry-cage only just about big enough to hold a large dog, a filthy gag covering her mouth. Her feet were bare and she was clothed in a dark T-shirt and white, patterned skirt that had become grubby and stained. Her eyes, pale blue, were wide with fear and desperation.

  I turned to Marco. ‘You piece of shit,’ I said quietly. ‘She’s for Sheridan, isn’t she?’

  He tried to answer but no words came out. He was too busy staring at the gun, probably concluding that I was about to kill him. And anyway, how do you come up with an excuse for why you’re keeping a young girl in a cage?

  ‘Let her out now.’

  He nodded rapidly and unlocked the cage, gesturing for the girl to get out. But she didn’t move. She looked absolutely terrified.

  I approached her slowly, still keeping my gun trained on Marco, trying to look as unthreatening to her as possible. ‘It’s going to be OK. Do you speak English?’

  She shook her head.

  I put out a hand but she wouldn’t take it, and I noticed that she was wearing old-fashioned handcuffs. I turned to Marco. ‘Uncuff her and help her out. And tell her she’s going to be OK.’

  As he approached her she flinched visibly, clearly having been on the wrong side of him before, but he said something in Serbo-Croat, his tone gentle, and she allowed him to remove her handcuffs and help her out. She was bent over like an old woman and she looked unsteady on her feet so I gestured for her to sit down in a chair in the corner, which she did.

  ‘How long’s she been in there for?’ I said, taking the handcuffs and key from Marco.

  ‘Just a few hours.’

  ‘When’s she going to Sheridan? And tell me the truth or I’ll hurt you.’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘And you’re delivering her, right?’

  He nodded furtively.

  ‘And you know he’s planning to kill her?’ I was finding it hard not to kill him myself, there and then. ‘Of course you do. I bet you were going to make a lot of money out of it too.’

  ‘We’re not rich like you people. We have to take what work we can.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to work for me tonight to atone for what you’ve done. I assume Sheridan wants confirmation that you’ve killed me. How do you communicate?’

  ‘Via email.’

  ‘Get the address up on your phone now and show me the last message from him.’

  He did as he was told, and handed me the phone. I glanced briefly at the conversation they’d been having about the girl. Alastair was indeed expecting her tonight. He was paying Marco €100,000 for her, on the basis that she wouldn’t need to be returned. I felt sick and vengeful.

  I told Marco to stand facing the opposite wall away from the girl and then used his phone to send back a message to Alastair saying that the deed was done and I was dead, but that I was having trouble uploading the video and would show it to him later when I delivered the girl. Then I pocketed the phone.

  ‘OK, let’s go. We’re going to drop the girl off at the nearest good hospital.’

  As Marco turned back from the wall, I launched a kick that caught him right between the legs, sending him collapsing to his knees. He looked up at me imploringly, his face white as a sheet, and I thought he was about to vomit.

  ‘That’s just so you don’t get any ideas,’ I told him, and turned towards the girl, who was sat hugging her feet to her chest, watching us raptly.

  I smiled, wanting to reassure her that she was safe now, but she didn’t smile back. Instead, she simply stared at me with wild animal fear, and I wondered what terrible journey she’d been on to get to this place where she’d become nothing more than a disposable product to be consumed by monsters.

  When Marco had got back to his feet, I pushed him out of the door and gestured for the girl to follow, hoping she’d respond. She hesitated, then got to her feet and followed.

  As I picked up the switchblade from the desk where Tracksuit had put it, Marco’s phone buzzed in my pocket.

  I ushered Marco into the front of the car and the girl and I got in the back. Then, as he started the engine, I took out the phone.

  Good. When are you coming?? read Sheridan’s text.

  My text back was even shorter: Soon.

  59

  Half an hour later, Marco was driving his Mercedes up a long, winding hill through dense forest. Below us to the south I could see the lights of Sarajevo shimmering in the valley under a bright three-quarter moon. I’d made him drop the girl off at a private hospital in the city centre, and had given her a thousand euros of my own money to help pay for anything she needed. As soon as she knew she was free, she was out of the car and racing up the hospital steps in her bare feet and, watching her go, I truly hoped that she made it back home and managed to put the ordeal behind her.

  Now it was just the two of us, and Marco wasn’t going anywhere since I’d cuffed his right wrist to the steering wheel. As he drove, I emptied the magazine and checked the number of bullets. Nine. More than enough.

  ‘You say Sheridan’s got two guards on the property. Where will they be?’
I asked him.

  ‘He keeps them well away from the house,’ said Marco. ‘One is usually in the gatehouse at the entrance, where the camera screens are. The other is meant to be patrolling the grounds. Most of the time I expect they are both in the gatehouse.’ He looked back over his shoulder. ‘What are you planning to do?’

  I knew exactly what I was going to do. Until I’d shot Cem Kalaman a week ago I’d had my doubts that I could ever kill the way an assassin kills. But I knew now for sure that I could, and that Alastair Sheridan could no longer be allowed to live. The thought that he would have raped and murdered the girl in the cage, and made her final hours, possibly days, a living hell, steeled my nerves.

  ‘I’m going to kill him,’ I said. ‘And then you’re going to drive me back to the city, unless you fancy dying in there with him.’

  He shook his head energetically. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. You’re a piece of shit, Marco, but my quarrel’s with Sheridan, so if you do as you’re told, you live. But the moment you try to double-cross me, you die.’

  Marco looked at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m not going to do anything stupid, OK? But this is fucked up, my friend. You can’t just kill Sheridan. He’s going to be the next leader of your country.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ I said. ‘He isn’t.’

  Marco evidently decided that it was best just to shut up, because that’s what he did. A couple of minutes later he took a turning down a narrow, newly tarmacked road and slowed the car.

  ‘We’re coming up to the gatehouse. If my man at the gate sees my handcuffs he’ll know something’s wrong.’

  I passed the key over to him and slid down in the seat so I was out of sight. ‘I’ve got the gun trained right on your back, Marco. One wrong move and I start shooting.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said, taking the cuffs off and chucking them down beside his seat.