Lucas tries hard to dissuade me as we drive round. He tells me that for a start I have no actual plan, and improvisation is hardly going to work, unless I'm prepared to kill again. And with two corpses to my name today already, do I honestly want to add any more? He also points out that the people inside may well be expecting me, knowing that there's a strong possibility I'll have discovered Snowy's body, and since I'm acting alone, and am therefore almost certain to be overpowered, that effectively means I'm a dead man. Lastly, it's going to be a lot safer to
find out who we're up against using more conventional detection methods in which he is, if he says so himself, something of an expert.
He says all this in the space of about thirty seconds, and I've got to admit I'm impressed by the strength and breadth of his arguments. Unfortunately, they don't work. My mind's made up, and I don't want to hang around thinking about what might go wrong because that way something inevitably will. Soldiers should never think too much when they're going into battle, and generally they don't, which is why they still go rather than dwell on the reasonable statistical chance that death awaits them and high-tail it the other way. There's an old adage that when the bullets are flying, you never think you're going to be the one to get hit, and it's true. Which is why I tell Lucas to turn right and then right again, and soon we're driving back down Orsman Road.
As we do so, I can see that a taxi has pulled up on the road directly outside our building, and two ordinary-looking businessmen in suits emerge from it. They walk up to the black door, and one speaks into the intercom. By this time we're driving past and Lucas hisses at me not to
stare. 'Look at me,' he demands. 'Casually. Like we're having a conversation.'
I do as he says.
'You never know who's watching,' he tells me, 'and we really don't want to stand out. Not after what's happened.' He takes a casual look in the rear-view mirror. 'You see, this is how we do it, using the mirrors. That way it looks natural. Right, the door's opened and those two guys have just gone in. Recognize them?'
'Never seen them before in my life.'
We're now coming to the end of Orsman Road where it meets with Kingsland Road.
'OK, drop me off at the top here,' I tell Lucas. 'I'm going to go in the back way.'
'I hope you know what you're doing,' he says, fixing me with an intense expression that accentuates his high cheekbones and Nordic features. It's a look that suits him. He has very vivid blue eyes, the colour of tropical seas in winter holiday adverts, and at the moment they're filled with what looks a lot like genuine concern.
If I had the time, I'd almost feel touched. But I don't. The clock's ticking, and I need to come up with some answers, and soon. So all I reply
is, 'Of course I know what I'm doing,' even though it must be obvious to all but the most deranged of observers that I don't. I lean over and put a hand on his arm. 'Thanks for everything, OK? I appreciate it. And I'm sorry for what happened to Snowy. But now you can go home.'
'Shit,' he snorts contemptuously as he stops at the junction, making no move to pull out, 'do you really think I'd leave you here alone?'
'I don't want you coming in with me. You've done enough.'
'I'm not going to come in with you, but I'm not going to desert you either. You've still got our phone, haven't you?'
'Course I have. I respect other people's property.'
'If I haven't heard from you in fifteen minutes, I'll raise the alarm somehow.'
'How?'
'I'll think of something.'
'I appreciate this,' I tell him, thankful that amid all the savagery of this day I've got someone I can rely on.
We watch each other for a long moment.
'Be careful, Tyler,' Lucas says eventually.
I tell him I will. We shake hands and I pull my hand away quickly, not wanting to drag things out, because if I do I know the fear will kick in and I'll lose the momentum that's been driving me forward all day.
I jump out of the car and he pulls away, turning left on to the main road. I start walking, watching the BMW as it disappears over the hump of a nearby bridge, and with each step I take I think about Leah and wonder why she, like Snowy, had to die for the mysterious contents of a briefcase.
It's time to find out.
When I get to the bridge, I see that it crosses a canal and that the buildings on Orsman Road back on to the canal path, which gives me something of an advantage. I pick out the target building. It's bordered at the rear by a brick wall about eight feet high, with a set of double gates in the middle topped with two lines of rusty-looking barbed wire. It all looks fairly imposing, but looks can be deceptive, and I know I'll be able to get through security like that easily enough.
Taking a deep breath, I descend the steps that lead down from the bridge to the canal path and walk as casually as I can towards my destination. On the other side of the canal a couple of
joggers run past, looking exhausted in the heat.
And then, finally, fate intervenes on my behalf. As I approach the gate, I hear someone talking behind the wall. Once again, the language is Serbo-Croat. I slow down and stop, and a second later I hear the gate being unlocked on the other side. There's nowhere to hide, so as it opens outwards, I step behind it and stand there, out of view.
A young guy in a cheap black suit emerges, letting the gate swing back on its hinges behind him. He's talking into a mobile phone, and he's got his back to me as he walks slowly down the path. Taking my opportunity, I curl my fingers round the end of the gate and stop it shutting automatically, then slip inside, leaving it on the latch.
I'm in a car park about twenty yards square which leads to the back of the building. There are banks of windows lining each floor. Most have the blinds down and the others appear empty, which seems strange given that there are about a dozen vehicles of all shapes and sizes in the car park, including a Jag and a brand-new Merc CLK-Class Cabriolet.
As I step forward, I hear the gate reopening as
the guy in the suit comes back in. He's off the phone now and has clicked the gate shut. I slip behind a metallic blue Land Rover Discovery and crouch down while he passes. He pauses to light a cigarette, then continues towards the back of the building. He's the only person I can see, and I walk behind him, my footsteps barely making a sound on the dusty concrete.
By the time he hears me, he's five yards from the back door and I've already retrieved the Glock from my waistband. He turns round, and I see that he's in his late twenties with bad teeth and ferret-like eyes which widen dramatically at just the moment when I smack him in the middle of the forehead with the gun's handle. He grunts in pain and goes down on one knee, so I smack him again, this time on the temple; the blow is easily enough to knock him unconscious. He'll be out for a good few minutes, which is the best I can hope for at the moment.
There's a wheelie bin a few yards away, next to a locked-up loading bay, with a pungent smell of old fish oozing out of it in the still heat. Shoving the Glock back in my jeans, I pull him roughly to his feet and drag him over to it. I remove the lid and the smell suddenly gets a lot
stronger. I dread to think what the people here have been eating. You wouldn't want to dump your worst enemy in here - unless, of course, your worst enemies are like mine are turning out to be. I hoist him over my shoulder, toss him inside, replace the lid and take a deep breath of fresh air.
The back door's a fire exit and it's been propped open with a stop. I open it slowly and find myself in a darkened corridor with cement flooring. There's an empty kitchen area to my right, and another door directly ahead of me, which looks more promising. I try the handle. It's unlocked.
This time I find myself in a carpeted hallway with lighted chandeliers on the ceiling. The air conditioning's on in here, and I can hear the steady buzz of casual conversation coming through some open glass doors ahead of me. There's a peal of female laughter, and I wonder what kind of place I'm in. I pass a carpeted staircase on my left, and then I'm through the glass doors and into a narrow, windowless bar, lit up by the soft glow of half a dozen Chinese lamps. The decor's not what you'd describe as expensive, but it's definitely making the effort,
and I'm surprised at how much better this place looks on the inside.
The tables lining one side of the room are teak in colour, and the low-slung armchairs around them are worn leather. Most of them are occupied by two types of people: thin young women who look barely out of their teens, wearing respectful, slightly vacant expressions, and skirts so short they're in danger of hanging themselves with them; and expensively, occasionally gaudily, dressed men with too little hair who, to put it politely, are a long way past their peak. None of them glances my way. The men are too preoccupied, and I'm guessing the girls wouldn't dare. This is, I realize suddenly, the public area of a brothel, and the people who run things will be somewhere else.
The barman - who's wearing a burgundy waistcoat the colour of the wallpaper and a minute bow-tie, and is the only man in here younger than me - looks my way with interest. I smile at him and turn away, heading back out and over to the staircase.
As I take the first of the steps, a door opens to my right and through it comes a short, squat guy with a razor-sharp widow's peak and a
more than passing resemblance to Bela Lugosi in his glory days as Count Dracula. We're only three feet apart. He scowls and opens his mouth to say something, but the gun's out of my waistband in one movement. I shove it hard against his belly before he can react, and move in close to him, putting a hand behind his neck so that we're almost in an embrace. He smells of stale and very cheap cigarette smoke. He looks extremely angry too, his features wrinkling into an expression of almost unhinged aggression. But he's not stupid. He can feel the Glock's barrel and doesn't resist as I give him a cursory pat-down, retrieving a four-inch flick knife from his trouser pocket.
I press my thumb into the pressure point just below his ear. 'I've killed two men today,' I tell him calmly. 'Unless you tell me what I want to know, you're going to be number three.'
He grunts something unintelligible and meets my eye to show he's not intimidated.
I know I haven't got much time. Any minute now, someone's going to come past, see what's happening, and raise the alarm.
'I'm looking for a big man with dark hair and very brown skin.'
He looks blank.
'He's had a lot of plastic surgery,' I add, hoping this'll help identify him.
He looks totally confused. 'What you say?'
I suddenly see what Lucas meant about not having a plan. It's time for decisive measures. Returning my hand to his neck, I slam my thumb into the pressure point and he gasps in pain, his legs wobbling. I could easily knock him out, but again, I doubt if he'd be under for more than a few minutes, and I really don't want to go through this whole building temporarily incapacitating every thug I come across, because, one way or another, I've got to get back out of here again.
'Right, up the stairs,' I snap, swinging him round and shoving the gun into the small of his back. 'You're going to take me to the guy who runs this place, and if you try anything, you'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.'
I push the Glock's barrel right into his back, just so he's in no doubt that I mean business, and he starts up the stairs. I follow very close behind, my breath on his neck. I hear more laughter coming from behind me, this time male, and the sound of chairs scraping across
the carpet. I'm guessing that some of the men in the bar are getting ready for their main course, and they'll soon be heading up the stairs as well. I give Dracula a shove to speed him up.
'You know who I'm talking about, don't you?' I whisper, and this time I flick open the blade on the knife and jab it hard against his cheek, almost but not quite breaking the skin.
He grunts again, a defiant sound, and I know this guy's not the sort who intimidates easily. I may have to make him bleed to get where I need to go, but I'm hoping he'll see sense. I was a soldier, not a torturer, and the idea of carving a blade across a helpless man's face is not a prospect I relish.
When we reach the top of the stairs, he turns left and we start to walk down a long hallway, the kind you get in a hotel, running the length of the whole floor with doors on both sides. All the doors are shut, but from behind several of them I can hear the sound of women faking sexual pleasure, as well as the occasional animal growl of exertion. The hallway itself is empty, everyone being far too busy to be hanging around in corridors, but already I can hear the new arrivals from the bar starting up the stairs.
I give Dracula another jab with the knife. He continues to walk, then stops at a heavy fire door close to the end of the hallway, and tries its handle.
'It's locked,' he grunts.
'Unlock it, then. I know you've got keys. I felt them when I searched you earlier. And hurry up.'
I jab him again, and this time the skin breaks and a tiny drop of blood comes out. Dracula flinches slightly, and pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket. I watch as the droplet trickles very slowly down his cheek, and for a moment the sight of it makes me nauseous.
He opens the door just as the punters and the girls come into view. Before any of them turn our way, I push him through and follow behind, hoping they haven't spotted us.