When he felt a semblance of his strength returning, he stood, keeping a palm pressed over the wound to stem some of the bleeding as he walked parallel to the workshops. Through alleys and gaps between buildings he saw the flash of police cruiser lights. Any surviving Israelis would have fled the scene before the cops had arrived. Witnesses would no doubt be telling crazed stories of guns and shooting. Eventually the area would be secured and searched, but by the time the factory was searched, the Kidon assassins would be long gone.
Victor hurried away, rain pelting his head and drenching his clothes.
Within fifteen minutes he was a mile away, on the outskirts of Sofia, walking along a quiet street. He paid a homeless guy fifty euros for his woollen hat before catching a bus. Victor sat at the back, with the cut side of his head pressing against the cold window glass to keep pressure on the wound, and looking like just another tired and soaked traveller. There were five people on the bus. Nobody paid Victor any attention.
The pain intensified as the adrenalin faded away. He checked his watch. A little after midnight. A new day. Wounded but alive, with the remaining members of the Kidon team far behind him. The Israelis wouldn’t be looking for him now. They would be extracting, just like him, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the failed kidnapping. They wouldn’t want to tangle with the Bulgarian authorities any more than he did.
Before the day was out the surviving members of the team would be back in Israel, trying to work out what went so wrong. In the coming days there would be reports to write, bodies to recover, funerals to attend, a nose to reconstruct. For the time being, they were no threat to him, but Victor knew the danger hadn’t passed. After tonight, more than ever before, Mossad would want his blood. They could get in line.
The reflection in the glass stared back at Victor. The eyes were unblinking black orbs set in a face without expression, distorted by raindrops. A translucent spectre hovering over the world beyond.
The bus headed out of the city. To where, he didn’t know. He didn’t much care. Victor closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.
As with my first novel, I owe thanks to many different people. Firstly to my incomparable editor, Daniel Mallory, and the wonderful and hard working men and women at Little, Brown – Hannah Clark, Richard Collins, Hannah Hargrave, Anne O’Brien, Thalia Proctor, Kate Webster, Tom Webster and everyone in the Sales team. I couldn’t ask for a more talented and dedicated bunch behind me.
I can’t thank enough my legendary agent, Phillip Patterson, for booking me a seat on this fantastic journey and for keeping me pointed in the right direction. Thanks also to the tireless efforts of Isabella Floris and Luke Speed at Marjacq.
Thank you to my parents, Susan & Roger, and my sister Emma for all the support and enthusiasm. My brother Michael’s ongoing contribution cannot be overstated, and my debt of gratitude to him grows larger all the time.
Finally thanks to Emmalene Knowles, Mag Leahy, Paul Mathews and Chris Wright for the numerous helpful comments and suggestions.