Питер Джеймс - Dead if You Don’t

Dervishi tapped his own chest, self-importantly. ‘So long as I pay you, you do what I tell you, understand?’

Lebedev continued glaring at him.

‘Are you going to answer my question, Luka? You are sure there’s enough explosive in that battery pack? To blow up a house?’

‘Let’s try it.’ Lebedev’s lips parted in his malevolent grin.

‘Maybe I’ll stick it up your ass and try it.’

Dritan looked at the others, attempting not to show his utter contempt for them. Contempt for Ylli Prek, for even daring to think he might deliver a bomb to the football stadium. For Luka Lebedev for making these evil things. And way, way above these two, Mr Dervishi, the arrogant, murderous monster.

Dervishi caught his eye and smiled. ‘My trusted Dritan, who has today killed three people who crossed me.’

‘You told me, Mr Dervishi, that if I did this, you would give me the money you promised and arrange your private aeroplane to fly me home.’

‘I did indeed, Dritan. Just one more task for you and then I will fly you home.’

‘That wasn’t our deal. You gave me besa .’

‘I said I would fly you home in my private plane. I’m doing that.’

‘You did not say there was one more thing. ’

‘You want to argue with me? You don’t like it? Go — just leave, I won’t stop you.’

Dritan hesitated. He was tempted to do just that. But, he realized, he was in Mr Dervishi’s hands. His name and details might be all over the border controls imminently, if they weren’t already. The only safe escape was by Mr Dervishi’s plane from the local airport where there would be no questions asked.

Mr Dervishi had given him besa . He could trust that. ‘I do it,’ he said, reluctantly.

‘Of course you will!’ Dervishi smiled and pointed at the primed phone. ‘I want you to go and see my uncle, Edi Konstandin. Take this phone to him and tell him it is a secure phone on which I will call him with a peace offering.’ He handed him a slip of paper on which he had written Konstandin’s address.

Dritan frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You leave it with him and tell him I will be calling him on it. When you ride away, you then send him a text.’ He smiled and blew out another perfect smoke ring.

‘And what about if someone sends me a text, by accident, on my way?’ Dritan asked.

Despite simmering visibly with anger, Lebedev said, ‘It is secure. To prevent against random or accidental texts to a wrong number being sent, you have to send the same text three times within a sixty-second window. Miss the window and you have to start over. Simples!’ Again, his metal teeth flashed. ‘Enter the number on your own phone.’

Copying it from the sheet of paper, Dritan tapped it in. When he had done that, he asked, ‘What should I do if your uncle is out, Mr Dervishi?’

‘My uncle rarely goes out, except to the football. He is confined to his wheelchair and he is too afraid of enemies. I wonder why!’

They stood in silence, whilst Dervishi blew more smoke rings. Finally, Lebedev said, ‘OK,’ picked up the phone and handed it to Dritan, who took it very nervously and placed it in the top pocket of his leathers.

‘One word of warning, Dritan,’ Lebedev said. ‘Don’t drop your bike — or the phone. Or there might be no more Dritan and a very big hole in the road.’

Dervishi and the bomb-maker grinned.

‘Text me when you have completed your mission,’ Dervishi said. ‘My plane will be waiting. I will give you instructions where to find the pilot.’

Dritan, watching him closely, saw Dervishi shoot a glance at Lebedev. And he clocked the smile Lebedev flashed back.

It made him feel very uncomfortable.

Dritan put on his helmet, went outside and stood in the afternoon sunshine beside the van, Hyundai and large black Mercedes, looking around, carefully, warily. And thinking.

Could he possibly trust Mr Dervishi? He had moved the goalposts. Would he move them again?

He did not like that glance he had seen between Mr Dervishi and the Russian.

Mr Dervishi would kill anyone who crossed him or who got in the way of any profit he might make.

He entered the address he had been given into the maps app on his phone, started the engine and rode off, slowly. A few hundred yards from the unit he stopped his bike, the engine running at tick over, and stood still, his feet on the ground, thinking.

He had a primed bomb in his pocket. If he carried out this mission, what incentive did his boss have to fly him out of the country?

None.

Looking around, he clocked the blue Jaguar estate that had been here when he arrived. But there was something parked beyond it, a dark-grey vehicle that had not been there before. It made him nervous. Maybe it was innocent. Maybe not.

Should he cruise round the block and see if it moved?

But if it was the cops, how could they be on to him so soon?

Shit.

He started the bike and rode off, back the way he had come.

The BMW that had been parked on the other side of the Jaguar estate was still there.

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

The incoming tide had risen up to his chin. Mungo desperately trod water to avoid the wire cutting into his neck. His ears were filled with the roar of the sea. A sudden surge sent water breaking over his head and he took some in, accidentally, through his nostrils, sending a searing pain through his head.

He whimpered. Help. Help. Help me.

It had been a long while since his feet had touched the ledge. He was kicking with his legs, desperately trying to keep his head above the water. He was tiring. Close to exhaustion. Kicking, kicking, kicking.

The water was rising.

Rising towards the vaulted, slime-covered ceiling.

Before it reached it, he would be totally submerged.

‘Owwwwwwwwww!’ His cry, as the wire suddenly bit into his neck, was muffled by the duct tape over his mouth.

I’m going to die.

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

Inside Unit 26, Jorgji Dervishi listened, smiling, to the sound of the motorbike roaring away into the distance. He puffed hard on his cigar and blew out two perfect smoke rings in succession. Then he turned to Ylli Prek and handed him the number of the phone Dritan Nano had in his breast pocket.

‘Wait until he is well away. Ten — better fifteen minutes. I tell you when to send the three texts.’

‘He is not coming back here?’ Prek asked. ‘Not texting you when he has done what you told him?’

‘That’s right, you got it in one,’ Dervishi said. He blew another perfect smoke ring.

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

‘Target’s on the move,’ Pip Edwards informed Oscar-1. ‘He’s leaving the industrial estate via the exit road — he has no alternative route.’

Keith Ellis well knew from his earlier days as a traffic officer the difficulties involved in following a target without being observed — especially motorbikes — and the dangers if it later turned into a pursuit. A couple of years ago an RPU officer had entered into pursuit with a motorcyclist who was weaving recklessly through traffic on a motorway. A short while later it had ended in tragedy when the biker turned off at an exit, lost control a few minutes later and hit a petrol tanker head-on.

Since then, and after a number of other motorcycle fatalities during pursuits, policy dictated that motorcycle pursuits should only be authorized in exceptional circumstances. As part of a kidnap in progress, this qualified.