Hooded Man (53 page)

“Others have come, but they’ve never stayed. Then, when we came across you while we were out walking...”

“I need clothes,” he snapped suddenly. “And your car.”

“You’re not going?” It was phrased like a question, but it was also a statement. “You’re not well yet.”

Tanek was well enough. Better than he had been when he’d staggered away from the castle... how long ago? Days? Surely not weeks? He got up, letting the covers drop and not caring about Cynthia seeing his body. It must have been her who’d undressed him, anyway. But she seemed coy again, as if she hadn’t just been suggesting he stay for more than his health.

Ignoring Cynthia, he checked the wardrobe first – finding a mixture of men’s and women’s clothes. The trousers, shirt and jumper obviously belonged to the man in the picture; large enough to fit him, but tight where Tanek was broader across the chest, shoulders and legs.

“Please,” said Cynthia as he was getting dressed, “stay with me. I’ve looked after you, haven’t I?”

Tanek grunted, tugging on a pair of shoes he’d found in the bottom of the wardrobe. He made his way over to the door, once again disregarding Cynthia’s pleas. Then she grabbed him by the arm. He’d had enough; the woman should have known when to leave well enough alone. Tanek took hold of Cynthia by the shoulders and pushed her up against the wall.

It was then that he heard the growling.

Tanek turned to see the door had been nosed open by a large Doberman pinscher.

“William,” he said.

Cynthia nodded. “I had hoped you might be different; William really liked you. I hoped you’d join us here, stay and be our guest for much longer. But, well, as you insist on being so rude.”

Tanek never saw the command if there was one, but the dog leaped straight for him, teeth bared. His reactions were dulled from being flat on his back for so long, but the sight of that mutt coming for him soon sharpened them. Tanek let go of Cynthia, whirled around, and punched the dog in the side of the head. It fell across the bed.

Little wonder no one had stayed for very long when this was Cynthia’s protector. Leaving the woman, Tanek ran across to the bedroom door, slipping through and slamming it shut just as the hound had recovered sufficiently to leap again. He held onto the door handle for a few moments, grimacing at the snarling and clawing on the other side, and taking in what was around him: a small landing, a steep staircase that led to the front door.

Tanek let go of the handle and pelted down the stairs, almost tripping on the final few. He scrambled to open the front door, only to find it locked. Meanwhile, Cynthia had flung open the bedroom door and was ordering William to attack. Bracing himself, Tanek rammed the door, causing it to loosen at its hinges. There was a growling from behind, very close behind, and he slammed into the door again – this time knocking it flat.

Ahead of him, parked next to the cottage, was the Morris car Cynthia had mentioned. Tanek lumbered towards it, aware the dog was only seconds behind. The car was locked as well, so he elbowed in a window, pulled up the knob and climbed into the driver’s seat, barely fitting.

William jumped at the side of the car, desperate to climb inside and bite Tanek. He leaned over just enough to stay out of the reach of those vicious teeth, as he broke open the ignition housing and hotwired the engine. Shoving the gear stick into first, Tanek drove off, and William lost his grip. Through the rear-view mirror he saw the dog chasing after him, Cynthia at the front door watching the pursuit. Tanek sped up and pretty soon he’d left the woman, the animal, and the cottage behind.

With no real strategy in mind, except to get out of the region where Hood’s men might be searching for him, Tanek headed east. There was nothing for him on this island anymore and his best bet was to retrace his steps, head back over to Europe. Maybe even head back towards Turkey.

The Morris had an almost full tank of petrol – Tanek doubted whether Cynthia had driven more than a few miles since the time of the Cull – and it was enough to get him to the coast. In a small seaside village, Tanek appropriated a sailing boat and made his way back across the ocean. It wasn’t as easy as their bike ride through the Channel Tunnel, but he’d finally made it to the Netherlands.

On nights when he’d let the boat drift and slept down below, Tanek had been surprised to find himself dreaming. He hadn’t been able to remember his dreams before. Now they were so vivid, always set in the burning forest and always featuring De Falaise. Somehow he knew, without it having to be explained, that the link his leader shared with the Hooded Man now extended to him. In each dream Tanek had got closer and closer to the man, and in one a stag had trotted up beside De Falaise, seemingly oblivious to the flames licking around it. The Frenchman had pointed to the animal.

“I do not understand,” Tanek had told him.

The flames turned to snow, falling on cold, bare branches. De Falaise looked at him with those black, empty eye sockets. “Help me,” he mouthed again.

“How?”

The dreams always ended at that point, leaving him none the wiser. Until a few months ago. He’d been sleeping rough on the streets of Warsaw when he’d had his most vivid dream yet. This time it all fell into place: what De Falaise was telling him to do, where he was telling him to go. The stag, the snow... He wanted Tanek to avenge him, kill the Hooded Man – something that had crossed the big man’s mind on more than one occasion, but he’d had no idea how to go about it. Now he knew. The trail was taking him to a person they’d often talked about – someone De Falaise had both hated and admired, because he’d succeeded where the Frenchman had failed.

It was how he’d ended up fighting in the Tsar’s arena, then sitting in his hotel room. His fighting skills, built up slowly again after suffering his injuries, had impressed. And his statement about having a proposition had intrigued Russia’s new monarch.

“So, what is it that brings you to our country?” the Tsar asked eventually, pouring a measure of vodka for himself and another for his guest.

“You obviously know what happened in Nottingham,” Tanek said to him, at the same time accepting the drink with a nod.

“I’ve always kept my ear to the ground.”

“Then you know the threat Hood poses.”

The Tsar started laughing, almost choking on his alcohol. “Threat? Threat? What possible threat could that woodsman and his followers pose to me?”

Tanek scowled. “That is exactly what De Falaise thought.”

“But your dead master was a lot nearer, wasn’t he? The world’s a much bigger place these days, my friend.”

“Hood is already expanding.” Tanek knocked back the vodka. “He has appointed himself protector of the region. Next it will be his country. Then he will look to Europe.” It was the most Tanek had said in years, probably ever. But he felt he wasn’t just speaking on his own behalf anymore.

The Tsar had leaned back, the leather of his suit competing with the squeak of the chair. “Let him come. He will have to deal with others before he reaches me.” Other warlords had taken over France, Germany and Italy. They’d driven De Falaise to England in the first place.

Tanek held up the glass, ready for another drink. “But your goal is to rule the whole of Europe, eventually, is it not?” The Tsar was silent, which he took as a
yes
. “Then sooner or later you will meet in battle. Why not now, when his forces are small and yours are great?”

“I’ve heard enough,” snapped Bohuslav. “He just wants revenge, sire.”

“True,” Tanek agreed, before the Tsar could say anything. “But as I understand it, we could be of some use to each other.”

The talks had continued, well into the night, fuelled by liquor. Tanek could feel Bohuslav’s eyes boring into him as he appealed to the Tsar’s ego, assuring him that it wouldn’t take much to stamp out Hood, thereby also gaining a foothold in Britain from which to mount attacks on his enemies in Europe, coming at them from both sides.

“I have to admit,” the Tsar slurred, well into his second bottle of Smirnoff, “that the thought of conquering America’s biggest ally does appeal.”

Tanek nodded. “Once you have control of England and Europe, what is to stop you going after them, too?” The picture he’d painted was one of global sovereignty, with the Tsar well and truly on the throne. The man had lapped it up, as Tanek knew he would.

Placing Bohuslav in charge of the invasion, the Tsar had ordered preparations for the fleet of Zubrs to set sail, with a pit-stop at Denmark before the final leg across the North Sea. It was then that Tanek truly saw the scale of the Tsar’s power, the size of his army compared with the one that had been commanded by De Falaise. He also saw that the old-fashioned weaponry he’d used to fight Glaskov was thankfully limited to the gladiatorial arena.

Each craft carried either three T-90 MTB battle tanks or a mixture of APCs, BTR 60 or 90 Armoured Fighting Vehicles, IMZ-Ural motorbikes and UAZ-3159 jeeps, plus around 50 troops (Tanek was told that pre-virus this number would have been at least double). The men were equipped with the standard AK-47s, but also Saiga-12 semi-automatics, 9A-91 shortened assault rifles, PP-19 Bizon submachine guns, compact SR-3 Vikhrs and, for real stopping power, NSV-12.7 large calibre machine guns, RGS-50M modernized special grenade launchers and AGS-17 automatic mounted grenade launchers. The list went on and on, virtually making Tanek salivate.

As he glanced up from his labours, Tanek saw the impressive array of military vehicles and equipment in the Zubr’s bay. But in spite of being given full use of a selection of rifles and pistols, there was still something comforting about fashioning his own distinctive weapon. The sight of a crossbow bolt entering someone was so much more satisfying than a messy bullet hole.

He was alone at present, the troops having gone off to eat, so Tanek had taken full advantage of the silence. Just the thrum of the engines and creaking of the hull as the hovercraft made its way across the water, taking him back again to the place he’d departed just over a year ago, where he hoped to use his new repeater crossbow on the people who’d cost him the old one.

There was a noise off to his left, at the back of the bay – someone behind one of the T-90s. Tanek licked his lips and began to assemble his chu-ko-nu, hands flying over the wood, pieces slotting together around the stock, sliding the fully loaded magazine on top last, and pointing it in the direction of the intruder.

“Impressive,” said a voice. Somehow the man had appeared at Tanek’s back, and there was a cold sensation at his throat. Tanek risked a look downwards and saw the curving blade of a hand sickle.

Bohuslav.

“Now that we’re alone, I thought we could have a little chat. I don’t know exactly what you’re up to, but you’re hiding something. And you should know this: If you cross me, or if your actions in any way interfere with the Tsar’s designs, I will kill you. And I will enjoy it.”

Tanek snorted. As he’d thought: trouble.

“You may have been able to talk him around, but I am altogether a different animal.”

“Look down,” said Tanek.

He couldn’t see the man cast his eyes downward, but he heard the sharp intake of breath when Bohuslav saw that the knife Tanek held in his other hand was hovering inches away from his side.

“Now let me go.”

Bohuslav reluctantly eased the pressure on Tanek’s throat. The larger man stood, turning to face the serial killer. They each held their respective weapons high: Bohuslav’s two sickles; Tanek’s knife and crossbow.

“This isn’t finished,” Bohuslav told him.

“I know.”

Then Bohuslav lowered the blades and left, moving soundlessly – which confirmed to Tanek that he’d made the noise up front purely as a distraction.

Tanek sat back down and let out a long sigh. He looked up again at the machines of war, at the hull around him. He was in the belly of a much greater beast than this one, when it came right down to it. So much had happened to him since the castle, and there was still so much at stake. More than Bohuslav or even the Tsar realised. Especially them.

He cast his mind back to the last of his dreams before entering Moscow. The last thing De Falaise – or the dream version of him – had said. “Help me...” the blind ex-Sheriff had attempted to say again. Then:

“Help me and help my child.”

CHAPTER NINE

H
E’D NEVER WANTED
to be in charge.

Not even when he’d helped to set up the floating markets in Nottinghamshire. He’d been content to be the person who guided everyone along, without actually being the focal point. People assumed he was organising things even then, though; had always come to him for advice about trading, to settle arguments and disputes. Mainly because he liked things to run smoothly. Even when he’d worked on the proper markets back before the big bloody hiccup that was the AB virus, folk had done the same. He’d only have to point out the best use of space, where the fruit and veg stalls would work better, or make a few observations on buying and selling, and everyone would think he was running the whole damned thing, instead of just being another trader.