Tim Stevens - Severance Kill

Krupina was shrugging on her coat. ‘The rest of you. How far away?’

Lev answered: ‘Few blocks. A couple of minutes.’

‘Glebher"+0"›?’

‘There in five. Do we have any idea — ’

‘No.’ She sat in her coat and hat, not wanting to lose contact with them just yet. ‘We have to assume the target is no longer in the locale. Priority is to find out what happened to Oleg, get him out of there if possible.’

Sirens were beginning to warble in the background, both down the line and through the open window of her office. She pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes.

*

‘Stop it,’ she shrieked, delighted and alarmed.

Bartos lowered her to her feet, kept one arm round her waist. Put the phone back to his ear.

‘Janos, you’re on my okay list. Right up there at the top.’ He grinned down at Magda, released her. She recognised the sign. He needed privacy.

Smiling, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Bartos listened as Janos confirmed the delivery of the package to the appointed venue. They spoke in code. It was unlikely the police had either of their numbers — pay-as-you-go disposable mobiles were the only phones Bartos permitted in his outfit — but there was no point taking unnecessary risks.

He gazed out the living room window, the view different from the one from his office. This one faced west, took in the broad sweep of the Vltava River.

He wondered why Janos had stopped speaking.

‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘There were… complications.’

Bartos felt the red rising up his shoulders, his neck.

‘Tell me.’

‘One down.’

‘How bad?’

‘As bad as it gets.’

Bartos ground the handset in his paw. FuckingRussians .

‘Just the one?’

‘A few bumps and scrapes for the rest of us.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Bartos began to prowl around the living room, fiddling with the godawful tacky bric a brac Magda insisted on littering every free surface with. ‘Just how many of the bastards were there?’

A pause. Bartos thought he could hear the click of a dry throat swallowing. ‘One.’

‘One.’

‘A prn›‹"+0"›o. A killer, I’d say.’

‘One Russian. And he kicked the shit out of you.’

‘He didn’t — ’ Janos caught himself before he went too far. ‘He wasn’t Russian. I don’t think so.’

Bartos clamped his teeth until the roots hurt. Then he hurled the phone to the marble floor, smashing his heel down on it again and again as shards of metal and plastic spun and scattered. He stretched his arms wide, fists clenched, flung his head back and roared, the bay window vibrating with the shock.

*

Calvary loped through the streets, automatically lapsing into the two lefts, one right pattern he normally used when departing a scene. Around him, over him, dark turreted buildings crowded, medieval and leering. Exotic aromas of pickled foods, spiced bakery and beer beckoned him like sirens. He had a sense of the river, cold and vast, looming nearby.

You let him get away, and you’ll never find him again .

As he strode, he plucked a forgotten dishcloth from a cafe table and wiped the blood off his face and neck. The Russian, Squat’s, blood. He turned the collar of his jacket up to hide the stain.

Didn’t even get close to him. Not even within striking distance.

Pathetic.

The tram had been braking and had hit him at perhaps eight miles an hour. It presented no sharp edge, and he’d started moving in the same direction so the impact hadn’t been as damaging as it might have been. Still, it had sent him sprawling, the breath knocked from him for the second time. By the time he’d rolled clear and got over the shock, he couldn’t see the Mercedes anywhere.

Round a corner the bridge stretched before him, steep and majestic. The Charles Bridge, one of the city’s landmarks. In either direction beneath it the black river’s massive bulk shifted restlessly. Across the river, high above, the towers of the castle stared down at him. A beautiful city. It stirred nothing in him.

He made his way across the bridge, which was as crowded as the streets. Dawdling tourists interwove with accordion-wielding buskers and puppeteers manipulating sinister-looking marionettes. All ignored him.

It took an age to cross. On the other side he turned away from the main thoroughfare and walked along the cobbles by the riverside. He stopped after fifty yards, leaned on the rail, looked back across the river. A choir of sirens rose from the Old Town, overlapping and distorted.

He pulled out his phone. It was undamaged.

‘Llewellyn.’ A jaunty rise on the last syllable.

‘I’ve lost him.’

Aath size=" tut of the tongue. ‘Find him again, then.’

‘No. Lost him for good.’

He gave a brief account. Llewellyn listened without interrupting.

‘Russians in the field, Llewellyn. What the hell was that about?’

He could almost see the pursed lips. ‘Hardly surprising, really. If anything, confirmation of our suspicions about him. He’s been on their payroll in the past. It makes sense that they’d keep an eye on their investment.’

‘Your intelligence made no mention that he was under surveillance.’

‘We’re not perfect. The Russians may have been too subtle for us.’

‘They stuck out like a sore thumb.’

‘Anyway.’ A beat. ‘Any idea what you’re going to do now?’

A gull wheeled up from the water, shrieking, inches from his face, and Calvary recoiled. He breathed deeply, tried to slow his heart.

‘As I told you, Llewellyn. He’s gone. Whoever it was that snatched him — and it wasn’t the Russians — they’re long gone. I can’t — ’

‘Hold on. You say it wasn’t the Russians?’

‘ No . It was a Russian that got shot dead. This was another group.’

For a moment he though they’d been cut off. He glanced at the phone’s screen.

Llewellyn said, quietly, ‘This makes things… complicated.’

You’re telling me.

Calvary said, ‘A hijacking and kidnapping, by an unknown group. I’ve no idea who they were, and you clearly haven’t a clue either. My role here’s finished, Llewellyn. I’ll do another hit, if I have to. But not this one. It’s over.’

His phone buzzed and he glanced at it. A text message had come through.

Llewellyn said, ‘Open it. It’s from me.’

There were no words, just a picture. The front page of one of the red-top tabloid papers.

Two words, in capitals: BLOODY MURDER. Below the headline was the photo Calvary had seen before, the one of him exiting the block of flats where Al-Haroun, the Songwriter, had lived. A smaller, inset picture showed Al-Haroun’s body, lifeless eyes staring at the camera, neck grotesquely twisted.

Not wanting to, Calvary tapped the screen to enlarge the picture. The text was blurred at this resolution but the first lines were legible. This is the unknown man caught on camera leaving the flats where .

Llewellyn’s voice came at him through the picture. ‘There still?’

Calvary raised the phone to his mouth. ‘You utter bastard.’

‘It’s a mockup, of course. But it’ll be tomorrow morning’s first edition. We won’t give a name, yet. That’s the next step.’

‘You prick.’

‘So, you see, Martin, it really is rather important that you find Sir Ivor. And despatch him.’

‘I closed his eyes. The Songwriter’s. I closed them, and you opened them, for the photo.’

‘Anything I can help you with, don’t hesitate to ask.’

Calvary said nothing.

‘Good luck, Martin.’

The connection broke.