Tim Glister: Red Corona

The pain knocked Knox off balance and he fell onto a sofa. As he did, Peterson sprang to his feet and plunged the shard into his thigh.

‘The future isn’t anything as small as politics or patriotism,’ Peterson said. ‘It’s about private enterprise. Finding something to sell and selling it to the highest bidder.’

‘And damn everyone else to a life of fear and oppression,’ Knox said through gritted teeth.

‘Maybe. Maybe they’ll fall into line like scared sheep. Or maybe they’ll finally realise all the promises of rewards for good behaviour are just lies to keep them in their place.’

It all finally, crashingly, hit Knox. He hadn’t been hunting the long machinations of a regime but the petty opportunism of someone caught up in them.

‘You’re a real hero of the revolution,’ Knox said, mustering some sarcasm.

‘I don’t really care what happens,’ Peterson said, leaning over Knox and driving the onyx shard deeper into his leg. ‘The only thing I need everyone to do, including you, is stay out of my way.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Knox said, between groans.

‘I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t take the hint. I thought you might when I burned down your flat, but you really are quite stupid.’

‘Was Holland in your way too?’

‘Well, I don’t have anything against him personally, but I couldn’t have him sniffing round, asking questions. And he wasn’t the only one who knew about your dirty little parental secret.’

Peterson stepped out of the remnants of the table and towards the sofa on top of the Beretta, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Knox.

‘My Russian friends were happy to help me arrange his unfortunate medical problem.’ Peterson kneeled down and reached under the sofa, this time wrapping his fist around the barrel of the Beretta. ‘They’ll be less than thrilled when they realise it’s only got them a halfwit as a new DG, but they tend to take a long view at the Lubyanka, so it won’t be a total disappointment.’

Knox couldn’t move. The pain in his leg was too intense. But he needed to stall Peterson, keep him talking. ‘Aren’t you worried about them coming after you?’ Knox asked.

‘They can try. But by tomorrow I’ll be untouchable.’ Peterson stood up, levelling the gun at Knox. ‘Now, I’m afraid I’ve got a schedule to keep.’

In the split second it took Peterson to steady himself before shooting, Knox pulled the shard from his thigh and lunged at Peterson, driving the onyx into his stomach as he shoved the gun away from him with his other hand. Peterson’s finger pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into the carpet as he doubled over. Then Knox pulled the makeshift dagger out of Peterson’s side and plunged it into his neck.

Peterson tried to say something as he fell to the floor, but whatever it was just came out as a bloody gurgle. He landed first on his knees, then on his side. By the time his head hit the suite’s deep-pile carpet he was dead.

Knox stumbled over to Bennett. She didn’t look good. Her shoulders had dropped, her hands had fallen into her lap, and her eyes were half closed. Her breathing was shallow. He pressed his hands against the large red stains on her side. The fresh pressure brought her round, and she stared at him. A thin smile curled her mouth.

‘Looks like we got there in the end,’ she said in a whisper.

‘Who said anything about the end?’ Knox replied, matching her smile.

He heard the click of a lock. The door to Valera’s bedroom opened and she cautiously stepped out. She looked down at Knox and Bennett, then walked slowly over to where Peterson’s body lay.

‘Is he dead?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Knox replied. ‘You’re safe now.’

Valera looked at the folder that was still on the desk, then at Peterson again.

‘Who are you?’

‘MI5.’

Knox could tell Valera’s mind was racing to understand what was happening.

‘So was he,’ she said, after a pause. She nudged the Beretta out of Peterson’s mortis grip with her foot. ‘What will happen now?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Knox said, turning back to Bennett to check that she hadn’t passed out again. ‘But there’s plenty of time to work that out.’

‘No,’ Valera said, her voice suddenly very hard, ‘there isn’t.’

Knox twisted round just in time to see her lean down, pick up the Beretta, and shoot him in the chest.

As Knox slumped down next to Bennett, a fresh blood bloom staining his front, Valera dropped the gun next to Peterson, picked up the folder, and walked out of the suite.

Knox knew where he was before he opened his eyes. He recognised the quiet hum punctured by distant footsteps and beeps, the smell of bleach masking other odours, and the rough cotton sheet tucked tightly under his arms. He forced his eyelids apart. It felt like a long time since they’d closed as he slid down the wall of Peterson’s hotel suite, blood seeping from his chest and thigh.

It took a moment for him to focus, taking in first the general, fuzzy details of the private hospital room he was in and then, more clearly, the two people sitting in wheelchairs at the end of his bed.

‘Hello, sir,’ Knox said to Holland.

‘Ah, the sleeper awakes,’ Holland replied.

‘It’s about time,’ Bennett added.

‘I told you it wasn’t the end,’ Knox said, trying, and failing, to shift his weight. He didn’t know how long he’d been in this bed, propped up on pillows and pinned in place, but he guessed it had been a while.

‘That was before you got yourself shot,’ Bennett replied.

‘True. How long have I been out?’

‘Two days,’ Holland answered. ‘You spent most of Monday in surgery. The doctors decided to keep you sedated for twenty-four hours to make sure you didn’t undo any of their hard work straight away. They thought you might come round yesterday, but they had to make do with me instead.’

‘Sounds like a reasonable trade. What did I miss?’ Knox asked.

‘Rather a lot, as it happens.’

Holland recounted the events of the last two days, starting with the chaos that MI5 had been quietly plunged into when the police informed them what and who a team of paramedics had been called to the Richmond for on Monday morning.

Peterson was pronounced dead at the scene, but Knox and Bennett, who were still clinging onto life, were rushed to Guy’s for emergency surgery. Bennett was out of the operating theatre relatively quickly once her surgeon established that the bullet that had pierced her side had missed her vital organs. She was stitched up, given a blood transfusion, and sent to recovery.

Knox, however, took considerably longer to stabilise. The bullet Valera had shot into his chest had ricocheted off one of his ribs and come to a stop with its tip lodged in the wall of his left ventricle. It took his surgeon several hours to safely remove the bullet, repair the lining of his heart, assess the damage to his rib, and then take a look at his thigh. Luckily, the rib was cracked but not shattered, and the onyx shard had created a clean wound in his leg without slicing any important tendons. After enough rest and some light physiotherapy, the surgeons predicted Knox should make a full recovery.

Knox looked at his wrists, realising there were no handcuffs or straps on them. ‘How are the police treating Peterson’s death?’ he asked.

‘As an internal MI5 matter,’ Holland replied. ‘Thanks, in large part, to Miss Bennett.’

‘I wasn’t totally out of it,’ Bennett said. ‘I heard everything Peterson confessed, and told everyone I could as soon as I came round.’ She smiled at both men. ‘By Tuesday morning people were lining up to listen to me.’