Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

She called the surgery for regular updates on Lipinski, and found each one offering better news than the last, each report holding out more hope of a complete recovery.

‘I don’t know what you feed him on,’ said the receptionist at one point, ‘but that’s a hell of a tough cat.’

‘Polish meatballs, mostly,’ Riley told her, and thanked her before hanging up.

Out of boredom, she soon found herself going over everything that Richard Varley had said, the files on Al-Bashir… and the threats uttered by the man she now knew as Pavel Ivanovich Fedorov.

And Varley. She was still having trouble coming to grips with the idea of him being someone called Vasiliyev. It was all too alien.

Then came thoughts of Helen Bellamy and the German reporter, Annaliese Kellin, and the part they had unwittingly played in this affair. And how she had come within an ace of sharing the same fate.

‘You okay?’ Palmer stood in the doorway. He’d just returned from a tour of the streets around the hotel. He was, she knew, unwilling to take for granted that the gunman who had come to Riley’s flat wouldn’t find some way of tracking her down if those were his orders.

‘Palmer, I’m going stir-crazy,’ she replied. ‘I need to do something. Can’t I put on a hat and go out for a walk?’

‘Maybe later, when it’s dark. We still don’t know what resources these people have got. All it needs is for someone to spot you. Shooting the cat was a warning. I doubt they’ll leave it at that. Keep this door locked.’ He glanced at her mobile on the bed. ‘Any news?’

‘You mean the cat? Yes, he’s fine. Indestructible, according to the vet.’ She paused, unsure how to begin telling him about Natalya’s call. She felt more than foolish already, and didn’t need to suffer more humiliation over having been duped so easily.

‘And?’

‘What ‘and’?’

He rolled his eyes, and she told him about Richard Varley/Vasiliyev and his master, Fedorov.

Palmer took in the news with little reaction. ‘Don’t sweat it,’ he said evenly. ‘You weren’t to know. But it answers lots of questions. This was carefully planned and financed. They’re not here to fool around.’

‘Palmer?’ Riley got off the bed and faced him.

He waited.

‘Do you have something I can use?’ She gestured at the room. ‘I feel naked.’

‘You mean a gun? No way. Forget it.’

‘No. Not that. Anything… I don’t know.’ She shrugged helplessly, unsure about what she was asking. ‘Something.’

Palmer’s lips twitched. He reached into his jacket and took out a short black rod covered in hard foam. He gave a sharp jerk and it snapped into a tapered steel baton with a hard plastic tip. He pressed a release button in the handle and retracted it, then handed it to her. ‘Try it.’

Riley was surprised by the weight. But it felt reassuring in her hand. She flicked her arm sideways, the way she’d seen Palmer do it, but nothing happened. She tried again, harder. This time she was rewarded with a satisfying click as the baton extended and locked out.

‘Wow,’ she muttered, amazed by the feel of it in her hand. ‘Cool or what?’

‘It won’t make you bullet-proof,’ he warned her. ‘So take it easy.’

‘I will.’ She tried a couple of practice swings. ‘Where do I aim for?’

Palmer shrugged. ‘If you’re mad enough at the time, anywhere you can reach.’

‘What then?’

‘Then you run like hell.’

The long afternoon blended with agonising slowness into the evening. Riley stood up from time to time, swinging the baton and getting a feel for its weight, snapping it out and back. Palmer was right: it wouldn’t make her bullet-proof, but it might make all the difference if anyone came in here after her.

She eyed her phone and the time. It brought thoughts about John Mitcheson; it was probably morning wherever he was. They hadn’t spoken in weeks. Months, actually. Should she give him a call, or would that seem too desperate? If she did, what would she say that wasn’t going to sound pathetic? In the end, she decided against it. Boredom was insufficient reason to go unearthing something better left to take its own course.

In the end, she decided that enough was enough. She had to see the cat. And have a very strong drink or some fresh air, whichever came most readily to hand. She rang Palmer, but he wasn’t answering.

She checked her watch. Nearly six o’clock. She threw on a jacket and pocketed the baton, then slipped out of the room, half expecting Palmer to emerge from a doorway like a shadow and kick her back inside. She made her way downstairs and out through the rear entrance, which opened onto a narrow back street lined with skips, dustbins and a couple of bikes chained to some railings.

She decided to walk to the surgery, located on a quiet street in Westbourne Park. It wasn’t far and she needed to feel the stretch in the back of her legs and the firm pavement beneath her feet. Soft carpets and sprung floors were fine for a while, but there were limits to the amount of comfort she could endure.

She arrived at the surgery and was ushered through to what the nurse called the convalescence suite, a room lined with cages, each holding a sick animal. The remainder of the space was heaped with an assortment of medical equipment, boxes of animal foods and pet paraphernalia.

Lipinski was sitting up, wearing what looked like a backpack with lots of strapping holding it in place. He looked bored and restless. She knew how he felt.

‘He was lucky,’ the nurse told her, as Riley scrubbed the cat gently under the chin and he drooled over her fingers. ‘The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, so there was no internal bleeding. He’ll have a bald patch once the dressing comes off, but that will soon grow back.’ She eyed Riley cautiously. ‘The police said they’d be in touch. Sorry, but we had to report it.’

Riley thanked her and wondered if they had already been to her flat to make enquiries. No doubt Craig Pell would have something to say when he found out, and she found herself smiling at the idea.

After ten minutes of talking to the cat, during which time he veered from looking interested on hearing her familiar voice, to grumpy when he realised she wasn’t about to take him home, Riley decided she had better get back to her hotel room before Palmer began scouring the greater London area in search of her. She gave the cat a final rub along his flanks and said softly, ‘Never mind, chum. When you get out, you can compare bullet wounds with Szulu.’

With that, she told him to get well soon and left the surgery. She decided to take a taxi, in case Palmer was busy tearing his hair out, and set out towards the nearby Tube station, where the chances of picking one up would be greater.

She was only yards from the surgery when a large car pulled into the kerb ahead of her. A man jumped out and bent down to inspect a front wheel. He swore loudly and banged the wing, then stood up and looked around as if hoping a handy tyre depot would appear nearby.

As Riley drew level, he looked at her then looked away again.

Riley’s antennae began to tremble. There was something about the man. He was tall and muscular, with a bullish neck and cropped hair. The way he had looked at her was just a little too deliberate, too focussed. She gripped the baton inside her pocket, her heart-rate increasing fast, and began to step away.

The rest happened very quickly. Riley heard one of the rear doors of the car click open, and from the corner of her eye, saw a second man emerging. This one was shorter and heavier. The first man turned in the same instance and stepped towards her, reaching out with big hands.

Whipping out the baton, Riley flicked it open and slashed the first man across the face. She felt the impact travel through her wrist and lower arm, and the man cursed but kept coming. The baton fell away, her fingers stinging and unable to retain their grip. Before she could retrieve it, the second man was on her, scooping her up in his massive arms and bundling her through the door onto the back seat like a sack of laundry. Following her in, he landed on top of her with a grunt, smothering any further resistance.