Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

‘And?’

‘Accidents. Both of them. A car crash and a, er…’ She blushed. ‘A sort of sex game gone wrong. No suggestion of foul play.’ She said this last part brightly, as if it were good news.

‘Of course not,’ Sam murmured.

They sat in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Rain pattered hard on the window. Sam tried to connect this new information in his mind, but he still felt like he was doing a crossword without the clues.

‘How is your brother involved in all this, Sam?’ Clare asked quietly. She was looking wide-eyed at him, as though scared of the answer.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Maybe he was on to them. Jacob always thought he could do everything by himself.’ He set his jaw. ‘I’m going to go and see Dolohov.’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah. Now.’

‘I’ll come.’ She sounded plucky, but nervous.

‘No you won’t.’

‘You can’t keep doing this to me, Sam. Bringing me in when it suits you, then discarding me when I’ve given you everything you want. It’s not fair. I’m coming with you.’

Sam felt his face twitch. He stood up and looked out of the window. When he turned round again, his face was in shadow. ‘Go home, Clare,’ he said softly.

She sat obstinately on the bed. Sam looked back out of the window. ‘You asked me earlier if I killed the red-light runners. Do you want to know the truth? They were sleeping when we arrived. I shot them in the neck. I would have aimed for the head, but we were ordered to take their photographs. It’s not very easy to recognise someone who’s had their face blown away. Take it from me – it happened to some of them.’ He turned once more and stepped into the light. Clare was looking at him in horror. ‘Shocked, Clare? That’s fine. Be shocked. It stopped worrying me a long time ago. But let me tell you this. I don’t know who this Dolohov guy is. If he’s got something to do with your dead red-light runners, though, he’s not going to want to talk about it. So it’s going to be up to me to persuade him. Still think you want to be part of the party?’

It took a moment for Clare to reply. ‘Holy Mother of God, Sam. What are you going to do to him?’

Sam looked at her seriously. ‘Do to him? Hopefully nothing. Hopefully he’ll sing like a canary.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘If he doesn’t, I’ve been trained to make people talk.’

‘You’re going to hurt him?’

Sam continued with his dead-eyed stare. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. He looked at the door. ‘We should leave. There’s no point waiting and I don’t suppose you fancy spending the night in this shit hole any more than I do.’

Sam looked at his watch. 11 p.m. The rain had not let up; in fact it was worse. He was soaked to the skin as he walked along the Maida Vale street lined high with mansion blocks. At this hour and in this weather there was nobody else around. Cars had parked double on the road and lights shone out of those flats whose occupants had not yet gone to bed.

Dolohov’s mansion block was just like all the others along this part of the road: rather grand, imposing buildings with elaborately tiled entrances and ornate doors. He walked past the building several times, looking up for any likely entry points. Each floor had a small balcony protruding from the front, but without any equipment they were impossible to scale. He walked to both ends of the terraces, looking for fire stairs that he could use to get up to the roofs; but there were none. With grappling irons and the regular resources of the Regiment, gaining entry would be child’s play. By himself it was going to be much more difficult. He cursed under his breath as the rain swelled intensively. There was only one way he could get access to this place and that was through the front door.

The mansion block had a state-of-the-art intercom, which Sam viewed from the pavement. He quickly dismissed the idea of simply ringing Dolohov’s flat – he wanted to retain the element of surprise – and so he was left with only one option.

He scoured the pavement for a twig – just a small one. Then he bent down and undid his shoelace. And then he lurked under a nearby tree, and waited.

The rain continued to pour, but it made no difference to Sam. He couldn’t get any wetter. He could get colder, though, and he did. He started to shiver. He had been waiting for the best part of an hour when a taxi arrived, its yellow beams lighting up the rain and the road as it stopped right outside the mansion block. A woman emerged; she paid the driver, erected her umbrella and walked briskly up to the mansion block. Sam hurried after her. They reached the door at about the same time.

The woman – she was perhaps in her late fifties and had striking, once-beautiful features – looked at him nervously as she held her key fob up to a panel on the intercom. Around her neck she wore an expensive-looking fox fur, the stuffed paws of the animal still attached. The door clicked open and she pushed it.

‘Thanks,’ Sam said, filling his voice with gratitude. ‘Lousy weather, eh.’ He looked down and pretended to see that his bootlace was undone. The woman was inside now; Sam crouched down on the doorstep to do up his lace; as he did so, he dropped the twig against the frame of the door. It went unnoticed by the woman who was shaking down her umbrella. Sam stood up again and smiled at her. She looked uncertainly back at him and cleared her throat.

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said, ‘but do you have a key?’

Sam shook his head. ‘Staying with a friend,’ he explained.

The woman looked unsure of herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It’s just, we have this agreement, all of us. Would you mind buzzing up? Can’t be too careful…’

Sam stepped back immediately and held up his hands. ‘Of course,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Very sensible. No problem.’

The woman let go of the door. It started swinging slowly closed. ‘Thank you!’ she called. ‘So sorry!’

She disappeared from sight.

Sam waited. He didn’t want to walk in while she could still see him. The door closed, but did not click shut. The twig had done its work.

He gave it a minute before entering. His clothes dripped on the marble floor of the small lobby. To his right was a metal post cabinet with a locked box for each flat. Flat three bore the words Professor Alexander Dolohov in a neat, rounded hand. Sam started to climb the stairs.

The stairwell, warmly carpeted and with a smooth banister, was dark. At each landing was a glowing light button, but Sam didn’t press them, so his natural night vision became adjusted to the darkness. There was just one flat on each level. As he approached the third floor, he found his heart was pumping fast. Was it nerves, or was he getting out of condition?

Flat 3. The door was like all the others. Glossy black paint, a shiny brass number and a brass bell. Sam looked at the bottom of the door. A thin strip of light escaped. There was somebody there. He took a deep breath. It would be easy enough to shoot the lock and force his way in, but that would cause alarm in the mansion block. Much better to do it the easy way. He rang the bell.

There was silence. Sam couldn’t even tell if the bell had sounded. He rang it again and for a slightly longer time. Still silence.

And then a man’s voice, slightly high pitched and with the trace of an accent. ‘Who is it?’

Sam sniffed. ‘Delivery for Dolohov,’ he called. ‘They let me in down the bottom.’

A pause. No reply. Sam thought he heard footsteps on the other side of the door and without any warning, the strip of light at the bottom of the door disappeared. The darkness in which Sam stood became a little bit more impenetrable. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he stepped to one side of the door and pressed his back against the wall, feeling for his weapon. His hands were steady, but his breathing was deep and slow. All his senses were on high alert.