Reaction of the tiger, p.29
REACTION OF THE TIGEr, page 29
part #4 of André Warner, Manhunter Series
Alternating watches, we kept an eye on the NATO team and clocked them leaving on their daily sortie to Russia a little after noon. We were all togged up and ready to leave and, while I fetched the guns, Maura started the Audi and aimed it at the road.
‘How do we know where they’re going?’ she asked, wriggling across to the passenger seat as I got behind the wheel.
‘They have to be going to the border. This road – the 969 – doesn’t go anyplace else. There are logging tracks through the woods on both sides but they won’t be using those.’
‘How do you know that?’
I swung right onto the 969. ‘Because that’s an MPV they’re in, not an SUV. If they were going cross-country they would have a car like this one.’
To my ears I sounded confident. It made some sense at least.
We rolled along the deserted road. Crumbs of snow tumbled all around, were batted aside by the Audi. The skies were full of the white stuff, which might work in our favour if we had to drive on uncleared roads. The border was only eight kms. ahead.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling,’ Maura said abruptly. ‘I need to pee.’
‘What!’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Why didn’t you go at the hotel.’
‘Don’t be angry. What with all the excitement about hiding the guns I didn’t think about it.’
She had done well with the guns. It would have been churlish to berate her over a bodily need.
We were about halfway to the border. It wouldn’t cost us many minutes. I eased the wheel over and we came to a standstill. She hopped out.
‘Won’t be a minute.’
She made for the trees. I watched as she squatted, facing the road. She waved to me; I waved back. Bladder relieved, she blotted herself from a pack of Kleenex, and stood up, tugging the leather pants up over her hips. About to start back, she stopped dead, stared at a point on the ground just beside her.
‘Drew! Quick, come and look at this!’
‘Jesus, Maura, we haven’t got time.’
I hurried around the back of the Audi and across the stretch of coarse grass to the trees.
‘Look, look!’ She was pointing at a shallow gulley in the ground just behind where she had squatted.
I couldn’t see anything except dead branches and pine needles.
‘What? Where?’
‘There, for heaven’s sake!’
I stooped and followed the line of her finger. Still nothing. It was then, while I was off balance, peering at nothing as it turned out, she pushed me in the small of my back. It was not a playful, loving push, it was an almighty shove with all her strength behind it. Down I went, into the depression. My landing was cushioned by pine needles. Which was fine. It was never Maura’s intention to injure me, but, as now became clear, to immobilise me for long enough to allow her to get back to the Audi ahead of me.
While I floundered, cursing, in decades of pine droppings, she was going flat out across the grass verge. I was barely back on my feet when I heard her gunning the engine.
‘Maura, wait!’ I sprinted for the car, but even as I reached the roadside it accelerated away, rear wheels spewing snow and gravel all over me.
Chasing it would have been a waste of energy. I stood in the middle of the road and watched the Audi roar off towards Russia. My humiliation was total.
‘You stupid bitch,’ I said with feeling, addressing the car’s shrinking image. ‘You bloody crazy boneheaded bitch.’
Maybe I should have seen all along that her character hadn’t changed to the extent of standing aside and letting me kill a man. She had probably been plotting how to foil me from the minute she arrived in Helsinki, or even before she left the States. Served me right for taking her at her word. That’s what love had done to me, André Warner, the hotshot hitman who made a half million dollars US for every life he took. André Warner, who never compromised on security, who suspected everyone and always erred on the side of mistrust.
What a joke.
But Maura’s motives were pure. She was doing it for love. She couldn’t be faulted, and I couldn’t be angry with her. I just hoped she hadn’t been serious when she talked about doing the job for me. She couldn’t have been.
Could she?
* * * * *
Nellim was about five kilometres from where Maura had dumped me. Less than an hour’s walk. In the other direction, where she had driven, was nothing but a border post. And my prey.
Two alternatives then. To set off in her tracks, or to return to the hotel. If she was bent on killing Wharfe, I had to prevent it. It was an act she would surely come to repent. It would mark her for life. There’s killing and there’s killing. Do it in self-defence or to save someone else or in the name of your country, and you stay clean. Do it for any other reason, and you’re just a killer.
I opted to make for the border. My boots weren’t made for power walking, but I managed a steady tramp. I passed several turnoffs and once, through the trees, glimpsed a building. As the border couldn’t have been more than two kilometres farther by then, I didn’t seek help.
,A large lake came up on my left and a smaller one on my right. No traffic, no signs of life, not even the animal variety. I thought fleetingly about bears and suchlike, mindful that my only protection had been reduced to a penknife. The snow was falling thicker and faster, blurring my vision. It was cold but not intolerably. I was dressed for it.
When I finally reached the border I discovered only markings on trees. No buildings, no guards, no barrier. No MPV or Audi either.
Frustrated, I retraced my steps. I explored the first turnoff I came to. It led nowhere. The second and third, likewise. By then it was past two and the dark sky darkening more. Night was imminent. I came alongside the track on my left that led to the building I had observed earlier. I ventured down it and as the building took shape I saw that it was a large private house, built along Swiss chalet lines in horizontal timber, interlocking at the corners, with a brick porch and shuttered windows. Some of the shutters were open revealing metal-framed windows with grills. Lights were on in two of the ground floor windows. A vehicle was parked to the side of the building. A black MPV. The licence plate was too far away to be readable, but it was certainly a dead ringer for the NATO team’s conveyance. I retreated in haste into the trees on my right, and from the safety of their shadows, considered my next move. The snow continued to fall, swirling a little in the eddies of wind that funnelled down the track.
Without a weapon, even had Wharfe been obliging enough to step outside on his ownsome, I couldn’t achieve much. Killing him by hand was within my ability, but for that I needed to be a lot closer.
After a while, with night almost upon me, I moved forward again at a trot, skirting around the house for a closer peek at the licence plate. It was them all right. Not only that, but a second vehicle was parked in front of it – a grey Audi Q5. Unfortunately, I hadn’t even looked at the licence plate of my rented Audi, let alone memorised it. It was too much of a coincidence though. Right time, right place, it had to be mine. Surely proof that Maura was inside the house. Presumably not of her own free will.
The Audi was unlocked. In the cargo space behind the back seat was the box that had contained my armoury. I expected it to be empty. I was wrong. Hardly able to believe they had been so lax as to not search the vehicle, I left the rifle where it was, ascertained that the Beretta still contained a full magazine. I racked the slide, lowered the hammer, and pocketed the gun. I transferred the two spare mags to my other pocket. Now I was ready to take on six probably-armed secret service agents. Odds not quite equal then.
Backing out of the Audi, I made my way around to the rear of the house. A light shone from a window, projecting a yellow rectangle on a stone-paved terrace. No sounds within. They had to be there, Maura too, though whether she was dead or alive was for me to ascertain.
I made sure my moustache was in place and my specs on straight. If I were to confront these people, I wanted to look my best.
A small porch, scarcely bigger than a sentry box, provided the only access to the back of the house. Reaching it meant passing the lighted window; I scuttled past bent double. The outer door proved to be unlocked, which was helpful. It squeaked when I opened it, which was less helpful. The inner door was locked, but I had the means to open it. It was a mortise type lock, easy to pick if you have the right tools and the knowhow. It’s the sort of thing they teach you in the SIS, and I hadn’t forgotten it.
With the special hooked blade that is one of a number of non-standard blades of my penknife, I manoeuvred the deadbolt lever of the lock, breaking out into a sweat when it clicked loudly into place and released the bolt. I didn’t wait for a reaction; waiting would only give them time to prepare. Better to get inside fast, ready to shoot back if anyone shot at me.
Inside was a mud room, with a bench and lots of coat hooks along the wall to my right. To the left a door, ajar, a sliver of light between door edge and frame. Voices.
The Beretta felt reassuring in my hand. Not that I expected to shoot anyone. They weren’t bad guys, hence didn’t qualify. Except Wharfe, and if I shot him in front of the others, I would be up on a murder rap. Even with Tony Dimeloe and the SIS behind me, the very least I could expect was arrest and detention until it was all cleared up. The Finns might not even make allowance for my quasi-SIS status.
‘Don’t think you can fool us, bitch.’ Vanessa speaking. Then came the sound of a slap and a cry of pain, female. Could only be Maura. I kicked open the door, and planted my foot over the threshold to prevent the door from bouncing back and blocking my view. With the Beretta extended in a two-handed grip, I advanced into the room, which was a kitchen-with-dinette. All six of the NATO team were there, gaping at my gate-crashing entry; plus my lady love. She was in a chair, arms bound behind her, and an image of Jacqui in a similar pose flashed into my mind’s eye. A few differences: Maura was still fully clothed in sweater and leather pants, and didn’t appear to have been harmed apart from the slap. Or two. Both her cheeks were fiery and her eyes were watering.
‘Drew!’ she gasped.
Her captors didn’t speak at all. Their expressions ranged from mild astonishment through shock.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart.’
‘I told you there was something funny about him.’ This from Stefan, the Supo guy who had quizzed me at the hotel.
‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘You –’ I nodded at Vanessa ‘– untie her.’
She hesitated, looked to her American colleague for guidance.
‘Do it,’ he said.
I covered each of them in turn with the Beretta, and kept repeating the process. Nobody showed an inclination to go for a weapon, assuming they were carrying. If I had to shoot, it would be to disable, not with deadly intent.
As her bonds fell to the tiled floor, Maura jumped up and landed a heartfelt punch on Vanessa’s nose. Blood jetted. The woman yelped and staggered backwards until her behind touched base with the breakfast counter.
‘Now we’re even,’ Maura said, breathing in little snorts. Her cheeks still blazed pink.
‘Forget getting even,’ I counselled. ‘Check them for weapons.’
All of them were armed except, oddly, Wharfe. Maura dumped four automatics and a revolver on the counter. Nobody got cute during the process.
‘Hold on to the revolver,’ I told Maura.
She scooped it up. It had a shaped grip and an elongated chamber, with a shortish barrel. A ladies’ gun, probably Vanessa’s. My preference for a revolver for Maura was for the practical reason that revolvers don’t jam.
‘Check it’s loaded,’ I said.
She swung out the cylinder, snapped it back.
‘All present and correct. One for each of them.’
I suppressed a grin. ‘Simmer down. It’s for self-defence, not a massacre.’
‘You’ll never get out of Finland,’ the second Finn said.
‘Wanna bet? You should be worrying about your future, not ours.’
He paled slightly at the implied threat.
‘Who are you?’ Wharfe asked.
‘President of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Women.’
‘What?’
All right, so he didn’t believe me.
‘Find a bag for the other guns,’ I instructed Maura. She rummaged under the counter and came up with a plastic garbage bag.
The big question was what to do with our six captives. Locking them in a room was only do-able if there was a room with a locking door. Tying them up would take time, and they’d soon free themselves. I would have to settle for confiscating their cell phones, disconnecting the land line, and immobilising the MPV. Maura did a body search that yielded eight cell phones. Into the garbage bag they went. Again under my direction she went hunting down land lines. On her return two handsets joined the hardware in the bag.
‘There’s a fax machine in the room next door,’ she said. ‘ I’ve disabled it.’
‘You’re brilliant.’
She flashed me a smile. She was a fast recoverer.
‘You’ll be sorry about this,’ Marriot, Wharfe’s number two, growled.
‘I’m sorry already. But you shouldn’t abduct women and ill-treat them.’
He had no answer to that.
‘We’ll catch up with you,’ the second Supo guy said.
‘Better not,’ I retorted lightly. ‘For your own sakes.’ I beckoned to Wharfe. ‘You. You’re coming with us.’
He stiffened. ‘Why me?’
‘We want a hostage. It’s got to be somebody.’
Maura’s eyes narrowed at me across the room. She wasn’t fooled. Hostage one minute, corpse the next. I wasn’t ruling it out or in. Yet.
‘Fuck you,’ Marriot said. ‘Nobody leaves here.’
I reminded him I was holding a gun by pointing it at him. I should also have reminded myself that he was an Action Man, a field operative, same as I used to be. Potentially dangerous.
‘Where do you want it – arm or leg.’
The threat didn’t faze him, not outwardly at any rate.
‘Come on,’ I said to Wharfe, and he came, with a certain amount of reluctance. To Maura I said, ‘Keep him covered, while I watch this lot. If he tries anything, shoot him in the leg. That’ll slow him down.’
The three of us backed up towards the door, Maura lugging the bag of hardware. So far it had gone smoothly. It could have continued like that if Marriot hadn’t felt the urge to demonstrate his Action Man credentials. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed him sidling towards the sink. I was about to yell a warning, when he lunged for a stack of plates beside the sink. He probably only wanted to play frisbees but, pour décourager les autres as much as anything, I let him have it in the left thigh.
He yelped and fell heavily, making the plates rattle.
‘Anyone else?’ I enquired, doing a sweep of the other four.
‘Please don’t kill anybody, Drew.’ The plea came from Maura. She must have been recalling how she had outwitted me to prevent me from doing what I had been paid to do. I just wished she’d stop calling me Drew in front of hostile witnesses. Even if it wouldn’t naturally translate in people’s minds to André.
‘That was fancy shooting,’ the American guy said, stooping over the groaning Marriot.
‘Not that fancy. I was aiming for his knee.’ I gave them a mean look, hoping to scare them into behaving themselves. ‘Anybody comes outside before we’re gone gets the same treatment. And maybe next time I’ll hit what I’m aiming at.’
Leaving them with that image, Maura and I ushered Wharfe outside. He wasn’t dressed for the conditions, but I didn’t care. If I killed him, it wouldn’t matter if his corpse caught frostbite. If I didn’t kill him, it still wouldn’t matter. People who sell out their country deserve to have bad stuff happen to them.
Too late I remembered the MPV was blocking the Audi. Rather than go back meekly to ask for a key, a request likely to be obstructed, I decided to remove the MPV by the irresistible force of 3 litres of internal combustion engine.
‘You drive,’ I said to Maura. ‘I’ll sit in the back and keep him company.’
‘Make sure that’s all you do. Don’t go using him for target practice.’
‘Fine talk. Isn’t that what you planned to do?’
She looked away. ‘What about that?’ Indicating the MPV.
‘Start up and push. It’ll move.’
The Audi, though smaller than the MPV, proved to have enough grunt for the task of shoving it aside. When we were clear, I opened the side window and put a bullet in a front and rear tyre, which took care of any ideas they might have had about pursuit.
The snow was falling faster, and the 969 was buried beneath it. The wind had gotten up too. The 4x4 traction of the Audi shrugged the conditions aside and we trundled along towards Ivalo, in the snow, in the dark, with my victim sitting beside me, behind Maura. A sitting duck, in fact, delivered to me ripe for the plucking. Talk about serendipity.
I was on the lookout for a logging track. My basic plan was to walk Wharfe to a place away from the road, drop him, and let the snow serve as his shroud. Leaving his body in the woods wouldn’t cut it, as the closed-packed trees prevented build-ups of snow. The gamble was that the storm might not continue long enough to bury him. That said, it was already very late in the year for the first serious snowfall. Chances were, we were overdue for heavy coverage.
On the right, a track showed through the swirling flakes. I remembered exploring it; after about a hundred and fifty metres it came to an abrupt end on the shore of a lake. It was as good as anywhere to say goodbye to Ivor Wharfe.
‘Go down there,’ I instructed Maura, pointing.
She wrenched the wheel over. We went over a rough patch, jarring the Audi, then continued on. The lake when I had last seen it had partially frozen over and was mostly a tract of white. It gave me the idea of smashing a hole in the ice and pushing the body into it, where it would stay trapped until the spring thaw.
‘Where are we going?’ Wharfe asked, his voice tremulous.
‘For a swim.’
‘Drew!’ Maura wasn’t going to make this easy. Her presence alone was a deterrent, knowing how she felt about my work. Sitting on the sidelines while I deliberately put a bullet or two in Wharfe wasn’t in her make-up.
