Tom Cain - No survivors

Platon slapped him across the face.

"Are… you… Baladze?" he repeated, his voice tensing with anger.

Panic returned to his captive's eyes. He raised his forefingers to his ears and shook his head.

"Can't hear…" he whimpered, and then, "I think I killed her. But I don't know how… I don't know… oh, God…"

He began weeping again, his face crumpled in Platon's hands, as tearful and snot-ridden as a little child's.

When Baladze had raised his hands, Platon had noticed the cuff still attached to his left wrist, with its chain hanging loosely down his arm. He grabbed the chain and yanked it upward, bringing the wrist with it. He had to get it within inches of Baladze's nose before the Georgian could see it.

Platon gave the chain a shake. His unspoken question was obvious.

"It's gone," said Baladze. "Someone took it. Didn't see him. Couldn't see… couldn't hear… so loud…"

Platon gave an order to one of his men.

"Ask the bitch. Maybe she saw what happened."

The brown-haired woman was no more use than her boss: just as deaf, just as blind. When she realized her blond friend was dead, she started wailing, too.

Next, Platon turned his attention to the four-by-four. It had left a clear trail behind it, showing that it had come downhill at speed, turned hard, and then slewed to a standstill. Whoever had driven it must have taken Baladze by surprise: He would not have expected an attack from uphill, inside his own property.

Platon realized that the attacker must have used a stun grenade to disable Baladze and the two women while he took whatever had been attached to that handcuff: a case of some kind, presumably. If Baladze had cared about it enough to chain it to his body, its contents must have been valuable. That document Zhukovskaya wanted had to have been in there. Platon would get to that in a moment, but not before he had secured the rest of the property. The first two men out of the helicopter were still in position. Platon signaled to them with quick hand movements, indicating that he wanted them to flank around the side of the house and report back what they found. Then he focused on Baladze again.

The effects of the grenade should be wearing off by now. He put his mouth close to the Georgian's ear and then shouted: "Can you hear me?"

Baladze tried to look blank and uncomprehending, but a flicker in his eyes, an involuntary admission that he'd understood Platon's words, gave him away.

"Thought so," said Platon. "So… what was in the case?"

"What case?"

Platon punched him, very hard, in the stomach. Then he pulled his head up by the hair.

"The case on the other end of that chain," he said.

Baladze was still winded, wheezing and gasping for breath. Platon had not let go of his hair. He gave it another hard tug, jerking Baladze's head up and back.

"Well?"

For the first time, Baladze showed some defiance. He spat at Platon, leaving a dribble of spittle and phlegm on his chest. Platon smiled.

Then he kneed Baladze in the crotch.

Platon had retained his hold on the other man's head. When Baladze automatically doubled up, his head was held, agonizingly, in place.

The pain was about to get worse. Platon whipped a two-fingered jab into Baladze's eyes. Three of the most sensitive areas of his body were now all in agony, simultaneously. Baladze howled and writhed, which only increased the tugging on his scalp. His knees gave way, but Platon yanked him back up. He screamed again.

When the noise had died away, Platon repeated his question. "What was in the case?"

"A list…" Baladze whined.

"What kind of list?"

"List of bombs."

Platon's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, pulling Baladze's head toward him until their faces were barely a hand's breadth apart.

"What kind of bombs?"

Baladze's shoulders slumped.

"Nuclear bombs, old Soviet ones… all over the world… a hundred of them."

Platon let go of his grip in sheer astonishment. No wonder that dried-up old witch had been so secretive. They must be shitting on themselves in Moscow. The former rulers of a mighty empire, so humbled that they had to call on gangsters to rescue their dirty secrets: If ever you wanted a sign of how things had changed, that was it. Still, it gave him an opportunity. If he could get the briefcase back, or even destroy it and then bluff that he had it, he would be in a very powerful position.

But where had the thief disappeared to?

Ignoring Baladze, who was now lying in a fetal position on the ground at his feet, Platon put himself in the attacker's position. He had come from the back of the house: Why? Because he'd been watching from up on the hill-that was obvious. So where had he gone? Platon looked down the drive to the front of the property. The gates were still closed. So he hadn't gone out that way. That made sense: Why head toward any oncoming cops? The obvious way out was back the way he'd come. Judging by Baladze's condition, it can't have been long since he'd been attacked. And barely three minutes had passed since he'd seen that explosion rip through the sky.

Platon stared up at the slope of the Puy de Tourrettes. The man was up there somewhere, or running like hell to get off there, more likely. He could still be caught.

"Kill her," he said to his soldier, standing over the brunette.

There were three quick pops as the silenced burst of nine-millimeter bullets ended her life.

Platon put two shots of his own into Baladze.

By now, all his men had gathered alongside him in the forecourt.

"Nothing there," said one of the men who'd been sent to scout around the back.

"We're out of here," said Platon. "Get back to the chopper. Fast!"

He ran back to the helicopter, yanked open the door, pulled himself back up into the copilot's seat, and put on the headset.

"Go!" he shouted. "Up the mountain. We're going hunting!"

Carver did not hear the helicopter until it was almost on top of him, just a couple of hundred yards away. Those bloody earplugs! He pulled the lumps of wax from his ears and was almost deafened by the clattering rotors. He dashed for the shelter of the nearest tree, pressing himself against the trunk and standing stock-still as the chopper flew overhead and disappeared again from view.

As it had passed him, Carver had seen the open copilot and passenger doors and the men leaning out, scanning the ground beneath them. They were looking for him. But who were they? The helicopter had civilian markings, not police or military.

It had to be Vermulen. That slimy Yank bastard had reneged on the deal. He wanted to save himself half a mil and remove any security risk by getting rid of a hired hand he couldn't trust. Well, Carver had been there before.

Ahead of him, the sound of the helicopter diminished, then grew in volume again as it turned and came back again over the tree-strewn slope, slightly farther uphill this time. It was traversing the ground, to and fro, like a gardener mowing a lawn.

Whoever was up there, they knew he was down here. As soon as they spotted him, the hunters would be dropped and come after him on foot. Vermulen had commanded a U.S. Army Rangers regiment, so he'd hire only the best, and then equip them with the finest equipment. Carver had been very, very good in his day, but he was still short of full fighting fitness. Unless he was extremely fortunate, or they suddenly forgot everything they'd ever learned, they would get him in the end.

He did, however, have one advantage. Vermulen could not afford to lose the document that was, he fervently hoped, tucked away in Bagrat's case. So he was, effectively, holding a precious paper hostage. He had to put himself in a situation where he could not be attacked without the safety of that hostage being threatened. Somewhere like his car.