Desmond Bagley - The Tightrope Men

‘Now who is making light conversation?’ said Carey acidly. ‘But now that we’re talking of money you’d better make sure that the sum agreed goes into that Swiss bank account.’

‘You know us,’ said Kidder. ‘You know we’ll play fair — if you do. Now how about opening that safe?’

Denison could not believe what he was hearing. All the mental and physical anguish he had suffered was going for nothing because Carey — Carey, of all people — was selling out. It would have been unbelievable had he not heard it from Carey’s own lips. Selling out to the bloody Americans.

He considered the situation. From what he had heard there were only the two of them in the library. Carey was where he could be seen, over by the safe. Kidder faced him and had his back to the door — presumably. It was a good presumption because nobody conducts a lengthy conversation with his back to the person he is talking to. But Kidder had a gun and, window dressing or not, it could still shoot.

Denison looked around. Lyn was still standing in the same position but he could not ask for her help. He saw a large vase on the hall table, took one step, and scooped it up. When he got back to the door he saw that Carey had opened the safe and was taking out papers and stacking them on top.

Kidder was saying, ‘...I know we agreed to chase Meyrick and McCready just to make it look good but I didn’t expect all those goddamn fireworks. Hell, I might have been killed.’ He sounded aggrieved.

Carey stooped to pull out more papers. ‘But you weren’t.’

Denison eased open the door. Kidder was standing with his back to him, a pistol held negligently by his side, and Carey had his head half-way inside the safe. Denison took one quick pace and brought down the vase hard on Kidder’s head. It smashed into fragments and Kidder, buckling at the knees, collapsed to the floor.

Carey was taken by surprise. He jerked his head and cracked it on top of the safe. That gave Denison time to pick up the pistol which had dropped from Kidder’s hand. When Carey had recovered he found Denison pointing it at him.

Denison was breathing heavily. ‘You lousy bastard! I didn’t go through that little bit of hell just for you to make a monkey of me.’

Before Carey could say anything McCready skidded into the room at top speed. He saw the gun in Denison’s hand and where it was pointing, and came to a sudden halt. ‘Have you gone m...’

‘Shut up!’ said Denison savagely. ‘I suppose you’re in it, too. I thought it strange that Carey should have got rid of Diana and Armstrong so fast. Just what’s so bloody important in London that Diana should have been put on a plane without even time to change her clothes, Carey?’

Carey took a step forward. ‘Give me that gun,’ he said authoritatively.

‘Stay where you are.’

From the doorway Lyn said, ‘Giles, what is all this?’

‘These bloody patriots are selling out,’ said Denison. ‘Just for money in a Swiss bank account.’ He jerked the gun at Carey who had taken another pace. ‘I told you to stay still.’

Carey ignored him. ‘You young idiot!’ he said. ‘Give me that gun and we’ll talk about it more calmly.’ He went nearer to Denison.

Denison involuntarily took a step backwards. ‘Carey, I’m warning you.’ He held out the gun at arm’s length. ‘Come any closer and I’ll shoot.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Carey with certainty, and took another step.

Denison’s finger tightened on the trigger and Carey’s arm shot out, the hand held palm outwards like a policeman giving a stop sign. He pressed his hand on the muzzle of the pistol as Denison squeezed the trigger.

There was no shot.

Denison found his arm being forced back under the steady pressure of Carey’s hand against the muzzle of the gun. He pulled the trigger again and again but nothing happened. And then it was too late because Carey’s other hand came around edge on and chopped savagely at his neck. His vision blurred and, at the last, he was aware of but two things; one was Carey’s fist growing larger as it approached, and the other was Lyn’s scream.

McCready’s face was pale as he looked at the sprawled figure of Denison. He let out his breath in a long whistle. ‘You’re lucky he had the safety catch on.’

Carey picked up the pistol. ‘He didn’t,’ he said sharply.

Lyn ran over to where Denison lay and bent over his face. She turned her head. ‘You’ve hurt him, damn you!’

Carey’s voice was mild. ‘He tried to kill me.’

McCready said, ‘You mean the safety catch wasn’t on. Then how...’

Carey bounced the pistol in his hand. ‘Kidder went shopping for this locally,’ he said. ‘On the principle of “patronize your local gunsmith”, I suppose. It’s a Husqvarna, Model 40 — Swedish army issue. A nice gun with but one fault — there’s about a sixteenth of an inch play in the barrel. If the barrel is forced back, the trigger won’t pull.’ He pressed the muzzle with the palm of his left hand and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. ‘See!’

‘I wouldn’t want to stake my life on it,’ said McCready fervently. ‘Apart from that will it shoot normally?’

Carey cocked an eye at him. ‘I suppose Kidder has friends outside. Let’s invite them in.’ He looked about. ‘I never did like that style of vase, anyway.’ He raised the gun and aimed it at a vase at the other end of the room, a companion to the one Denison had broken over Kidder’s head. He fired and the vase exploded into pieces.

Carey held the gun by his side. ‘That ought to bring them.’

They waited quietly in an odd tableau. Lyn was too busy trying to revive Denison to pay much attention to what was happening. She had started at the shot and then resolutely ignored Carey. Kidder lay unconscious. The bandages around his lower jaw had come adrift revealing what seemed to be bloody pockmarks from the birdshot he had received in the marsh of Sompio. Carey and McCready stood in the middle of the room, silent and attentive.

The drawn curtain in front of the french window billowed as though blown by a sudden breeze. A woman’s voice said, ‘Drop the gun, Mr Carey.’

Carey laid down the pistol on the table and stepped aside from it. The curtains parted and Mrs Kidder stepped into the room. She was still the same mousy, insignificant little woman but what was shockingly incongruous was the pistol she held in her hand. There were two large men behind her.

‘What happened?’ Her voice was different; it was uncharacteristically incisive.

Carey gestured towards Denison. ‘Our friend butted in unexpectedly. He crowned your husband — if that’s what he is.’

Mrs Kidder lowered the gun and muttered over her shoulder. One of the men crossed the room and bent over Kidder. ‘And the papers?’ she asked.

‘On top of the safe,’ said Carey. ‘No problems.’

‘No?’ she asked. ‘What about the girl?’ The gun came up and pointed at Lyn’s back.

‘I said it and meant it,’ said Carey in a hard voice. ‘No problems.’

She shrugged. ‘You’re carrying the can.’

The other man crossed to the safe and began shovelling papers into a canvas bag. Carey glanced at McCready and then his eyes slid away to Kidder who was just coming round. He muttered something, not loudly but loud enough for Carey to hear.

He was speaking in Russian.

The mumbling stopped suddenly as the man who was bending over Kidder picked him up. He carried him to the french window and, although Carey could not see properly, he had the strong impression that a big hand was clamped over Kidder’s mouth.

The man at the safe finished filling the bag and went back to the window. Mrs Kidder said, ‘If this is what we want you’ll get your money as arranged.’