Frederick Forsyth - The Negotiator

“All right,” said Quinn. “And the fat man told you there’d be no problem getting away afterward. Just a manhunt for a month or so, but with no clues to go on, it would all die down and you could live happily ever after. You really believed that? You really thought you could kidnap and kill the son of an American President and get away? Then why did you kill the kid? You didn’t have to.”

Zack’s facial muscles worked in something like a frenzy. His eyes bulged with anger.

“That’s the point, you shit. We didn’t kill him. We dumped him on the road like we was told. He was alive and well-we hadn’t hurt him at all. And we drove on. First we knew he was dead was when it was made public the next day. I couldn’t believe it. It was a lie. We didn’t do it.”

Outside in the street a car cruised around the corner from the rue de Chalón. One man drove; the other was in back, cradling the rifle. The car came up the street as if looking for someone, paused outside the first bar, advanced almost to the door of Chez Hugo, then backed up to come to rest halfway between the two. The engine was kept idling.

“The kid was killed by a bomb planted in the leather belt he wore around his waist,” said Quinn. “He wasn’t wearing that when he was snatched on Shotover Plain. You gave it to him to wear.”

“I didn’t,” shouted Zack. “I bloody didn’t. It was Orsini.”

“Okay, tell me about Orsini.”

“Corsican, a hit man. Younger than us. When the three of us left to meet you in the warehouse, the kid was wearing what he had always worn. When we got back he was in new clothes. I tore Orsini off a hell of a strip over that. The silly bastard had left the house, against orders, and gone and bought them.”

Quinn recalled the shouting row he had heard above his head when the mercenaries had retired to examine their diamonds. He had thought it was about the gems.

“Why did he do it?” asked Quinn.

“He said the kid had complained he was cold. Said he thought it would do no harm, so he walked into East Grin-stead, went to a camping shop, and bought the gear. I was angry because he speaks no English and would stand out like a sore thumb, the way he looks.”

“The clothes were almost certainly delivered in your absence,” said Quinn. “All right, what does he look like, this Orsini?”

“About thirty-three, a pro, but never been in combat. Very dark chin, black eyes, knife scar down one cheek.”

“Why did you hire him?”

“I didn’t. I contacted Big Paul and Janni ’cos I knew them from the old days and we’d stayed in touch. The Corsican was sicked on me by the fat man. Now I hear Janni’s dead and Big Paul has vanished.”

“And what do you want with this meeting?” asked Quinn. “What am I supposed to do for you?”

Zack leaned forward and gripped Quinn’s forearm.

“I want out,” he said. “If you’re with the people who set me up, tell ’em there’s no way they need to come after me. I’d never, never talk. Not to the fuzz anyway. So they’re safe.”

“But I’m not with them,” said Quinn.

“Then tell your people I never killed the kid,” said Zack. “That was never part of the deal. I swear on my life I never intended that boy to die.”

Quinn mused that if Nigel Cramer or Kevin Brown ever got their hands on Zack, “life” was exactly what he would be serving, as a guest either of Her Majesty or of Uncle Sam.

“A few last points, Zack. The diamonds. If you want to make a play for clemency, they’d better have the ransom back for starters. Have you spent them?”

“No,” said Zack abruptly. “No chance. They’re here. Every single bloody one.”

He dived a hand under the table and dumped a canvas bag on the table. Sam’s eyes popped.

“Orsini,” said Quinn impassively. “Where is he now?”

“God knows. Probably back in Corsica. He came from there ten years ago to work in the gangs of Marseilles, Nice, and later Paris. That was all I could get out of him. Oh, and he comes from a village called Castelblanc.”

Quinn rose, took the canvas bag, and looked down at Zack.

“You’re in it, mate. Right up to your ears. I’ll talk to the authorities. They might accept your turning state’s evidence. Even that’s a long shot. But I’ll tell them there were people behind you, and probably people behind them. If they believe that, and you tell all, they might leave you alive. The others, the ones you worked for… no chance.”

He turned to go. Sam got up to follow. As if preferring the shelter the American gave him, Zack rose also and they headed for the door. Quinn paused.

“One last thing. Why the name Zack?”

He knew that during the kidnapping, the psychiatrists and code breakers had puzzled long over the name, seeking a possible clue to the real identity of the man who had chosen it. They had worked on variations of Zachary, Zachariah, looked for relatives of known criminals who had such names or initials.

“It was really Z-A-K,” said Zack. “The letters on the number plate of the first car I ever owned.”

Quinn raised a single eyebrow. So much for psychiatry. He stepped outside. Zack came next. Sam was still in the doorway when the crash of the rifle tore apart the quiet of the side street.

Quinn did not see the car or the gunman. But he heard the distinctive “whap” of a bullet going past his face and felt the breath of cool wind it made on his cheek. The bullet missed his ear by half an inch, but not Zack. The mercenary took it in the base of the throat.

It was Quinn’s quick reflexes that saved his life. He was no stranger to that sound, which gave him an edge. Zack’s body was thrown back into the doorpost, then forward on the rebound. Quinn was back in the door arch before Zack’s knees began to buckle. For the second that the mercenary’s body was still upright, it acted as a shield between Quinn and the car parked thirty yards away.

Quinn hurled himself backwards through the door, twisting, grabbing Sam, and pulling them both down to the floor in one movement. As they hit the grubby tiles a second bullet passed through the closing door above them and tore plaster off the side wall of the café. Then the spring-loaded door closed.

Quinn went across the bar’s floor at a fast crawl, elbows and toes, dragging Sam behind him. The car moved up the alley to straighten the rifleman’s angle, and a volley of shots shattered the plate-glass window and riddled the door. The barman, presumably Hugo, was slower. He stood open-mouthed behind his bar until a shower of splinters from his disintegrating stock of bottles sent him to the floor.

The shots stopped-change of magazine. Quinn was up and racing for the rear exit, his left hand pulling Sam by the wrist, his right still clutching the bag of diamonds. The door at the back of the bar gave onto a corridor, with the toilets on each side. Straight ahead was a grubby kitchen. Quinn raced through the kitchen, kicked open the door at the end, and they found themselves in a rear yard.

Crates of beer bottles were stacked, awaiting collection. Using them as steps, Quinn and Sam went over the back wall of the yard and dropped into another backyard, which itself belonged to a butcher shop on the parallel street, the Passage de Gatbois. Three seconds later they emerged from the establishment of the astounded butcher and into the street. By good luck there was a taxi, thirty yards up. From its rear an old lady was climbing unsteadily, reaching into her bag for small change as she did so. Quinn got there first, swung the lady physically onto the pavement, and told her: “ C’est payé, madame .”

He dived into the rear seat of the cab, still clutching Sam by the wrist, dropped the canvas bag on the seat, reached for a bundle of French banknotes, and held them under the driver’s nose.