Denied to all but Ghosts (39 page)

They left the train together and headed for
the station exit; Cavendish followed closely in Asimov’s wake and
was unconcerned regarding his almost intimate proximity to the
irresolute youngster.

Two taxis queued at the station entrance and
Asimov dashed for the first and jumped impatiently inside. Whilst
retaining a watch over his quarry, Cavendish stepped towards the
remaining taxi. Preoccupied with Asimov, the Untersucher failed to
notice the briefcase wielding suited man who dashed from the
station exit. The stranger shoved Cavendish forcibly aside to claim
the remaining cab for his own.

No one could accuse Marchel Cavendish of
being slow to react. He absently dumped his bundled coat on the
roof of the cab and roared defiantly as he brutally tore open the
cab door. The passenger looked astonished to see the tall blonde
leaning into the cab and even more astounded when he felt
Cavendish’s bony right hand grip and squeeze him maliciously around
the throat. As the snarling Untersucher increased the pressure, he
withdrew his arm from the cab and with it came the businessman, as
if glued to the hand. By the time the slick executive stood before
his assailant his eyes bulged from his puce face.

“My cab I believe,” stated Cavendish quietly
as he theatrically opened his right hand and released the object of
contempt from his grasp. The executive fell gasping to his knees,
clutching his agonized throat with both hands as if trying to
retain his severed head. Cavendish collected his bundled coat and
climbed economically into the cab. A briefcase flew from the cab to
land on the pavement beside the throttled man and burst open,
spewing forth the reprobate’s documents.

“Would you kindly follow that cab, please,”
asked Cavendish of his driver whilst pointing at the cab, which was
queuing to gain access to the main road. The weathered-faced man,
who epitomised a man of the sea, laughed.

“Nice move, son. Haven’t had a private
detective in my cab for a long time, certainly not a foreign
one.”

“Then today is your lucky day,” replied
Cavendish grimly. His blood was again pumping after his encounter
with the businessman and his attention returned to the task ahead,
the extent of his preoccupation exemplified by his acceptance of
the man’s statement regarding his nationality without his customary
denial.

“I had a regular once who was a private eye,
used to specialise in divorce cases, you know, following wayward
husbands and wives, all that kind of stuff.” The man’s Plymouth
accent was new to Cavendish and difficult to understand. “Yeah,
that was a nice little earner whilst it lasted, ended in tears
though, I read they plucked him out of the Barbican, been in the
water for long enough for the fish to have a go at him. Fish eat
anything, you know, if it’s dead they’ll eat it. When I was on the
trawlers...”

Cavendish paid no further attention to the
taxi driver; he concentrated on the taxi ahead. However, he had
little to fear for the driver certainly knew how to tail a suspect.
He stayed close at traffic lights so as not to lose their target
but maintained a circumspect distance at other times so as not to
arouse suspicion.

The journey through the post-war developed
streets of Plymouth was thankfully brief as far as Cavendish was
concerned, only a matter of seven or eight minutes. For all he
cared they may as well have still been in Bristol, indeed the
architecture and retail outlets did not look dissimilar to his
foreign eye.

Asimov was dropped off at a tall
seventies-style hotel up on the Hoe and Cavendish’s driver
continued his well-versed techniques in covert operations by
driving past the hotel and stopping just out of view amongst the
Victorian hotels and B&B’s that seemed to dominate this part of
Plymouth. Cavendish paid the driver and gave a generous tip.

“Very decent of you, Sir. Here, grab hold of
this, and give me call if you need me, the name’s Harry.” The old
sea dog handed Cavendish a battered looking card from a pile of
similar cards held together by a rubber band. The German absently
took the card and placed it in his coat pocket, which he still
carried to conceal his firearm.

As the taxi pulled away, Cavendish walked
urgently back towards the hotel, discerning the charmless vibes of
a state built urban tower block in eastern Europe, announced
garishly by the glass and reinforced pebble dashed concrete. He
smiled grimly at the thought that the hotel would not have looked
out of place in the downtown suburbs of Prague.

The hotel was accessed through an automatic
sliding glass door and to his left he noted the two lift doors.
Ahead of him stood the veneered reception desk, the receptionist on
duty was busy in an office to the rear. A large foyer area, with
spaced seating lay to the right, beyond which large panoramic
windows offered a view to the paved patio area outside. The hotel
interior appeared far more inviting than the exterior might
suggest.

He followed the directions to the toilet. A
conference room lay before him and as he approached the toilet
door, he heard the pontificating voice of a speaker addressing his
audience, lecturing them upon how to close a sale.

The inquisitor quickly confirmed that the
clean air-freshened toilet was devoid of delegates as he strode
across the tiled floor and made for the end cubicle. After
completing his much needed comfort break he extracted the Colt
Python from its holster and swung out the chamber. Upon checking
the five rounds he kept loaded at all times, he inserted an
additional sixth. He reassured himself that the weapon was only for
show as he slowly pulled the holster around his shoulders. Finally,
he donned his coat and immediately felt appreciably calmer and
secure within the sanctity of its woollen embrace.

Cavendish left the cubicle and walked over to
a hand basin where he methodically washed his trembling hands as he
fought the temptation to rush recklessly ahead. Pouring fresh water
into the basin, he scooped the warm water onto his face. Looking in
the mirror, he waited for his pale eyelashes to expel the water
from his eyes, allowing him to focus on his reflected image. His
appearance did not surprise him, the dark shadows under his eyes
were emphasised by the pallor of his sallow skin, his blonde hair
looked greasy and in need of washing. Had his beard been darker
then his chin would have revealed a prominent twelve o’clock
shadow.

Once again he was forced to confront what he
was about to do. Should he challenge Asimov or keep him under
surveillance? He desperately wanted to select the latter course of
action but knew that by doing so he was only delaying the
inevitable. At some point, he had to deal with the rentboy and
recover the stolen artefacts. Regrettably, that point had
arrived.

He made his way through the empty foyer to
the lifts and selected the top, eighth floor. As the lift rose, he
fretfully studied his mobile's tracking app, tuned to locate
Asimov's mobile. He alighted cautiously.

To his right the corridor ended abruptly with
a window overlooking the hotel’s front car park. Glancing to his
left, he noted the main corridor running left and right at the end
of the short passage he was standing in. He took three swift
strides to reach the junction of the main corridor and peered
stealthily around the corridor to his left.

A trolley, used by the hotel staff to convey
linen and towels, stood in the otherwise empty passageway.
Cavendish walked silently along the green-carpeted corridor with
the bedroom doors to his right. An open door on his left revealed
the contents of the linen room, he listened to a female voice
emanating from somewhere within, enthusiastically singing an
eastern European folk song. Studying his mobile, he cursed as the
screen displayed an erratic image; the device was not sensitive
enough to pinpoint Asimov’s exact location.

Selecting the first likely room, he stopped
and grasped the brass knob with his left hand, his right hand
loosening the retaining straps securing his revolver before firmly
gripping the handle of the gun. Gently, he attempted to twist the
knob; it would not turn. He placed his ear to the door and strained
to pick up any sounds that may be coming from inside the room. He
heard nothing except his blood pounding in his ears.

Moving on to the next room, he repeated the
procedure, only this time he discerned the sound of a man’s voice
and perhaps another, the dominant voice undoubtedly belonging to an
American.

Taking the gun from its holster whilst
keeping it hidden within the folds of his coat, he side stepped
left, leant his back against the wall. He rapped firmly on the door
with his left hand. His knock went unanswered; he imagined the two
men in the room looking at each other and hoped that one of them
would come to the door to look through the spy hole. He rapped on
the door a second time, a longer, more demanding summons. This time
his call was answered by a challenge from within the room.

“Who’s there?” asked a soft voice with no
discernable accent.

“Open the bloody door,” mouthed Cavendish,
begging the man on the other side to cooperate. Cavendish was about
to tap on the door a third time when he saw the knob turn.

Instantly, the volatile Cavendish responded
by shouldering all his weight against the wooden door. He wondered
if his thrust was powerful enough to overcome the security chain
but it was not an issue, the occupants had not bothered to utilise
it.

The lightweight person behind the door was
hurled devastatingly backwards as the charging Untersucher stumbled
inelegantly into a small hallway. He fleetingly noticed a bathroom
off to his immediate right as he regained his balance and pointed
his revolver into the bedroom in front of him. At his feet sprawled
the fragile figure of Zachary Asimov.

Cavendish responded at once by kicking Asimov
hard several times, emphatically persuading the stunned student to
crawl towards the waiting sanctuary of the bathroom away from the
brutal assault. The Untersucher’s aggression saved Asimov’s
life.

The adrenalin flushed Cavendish instantly
turned his attention to the stockily built man wearing a blue suit,
who was in the process of turning away from the large panoramic
window that offered a stunning view of Plymouth Sound and Drake
Island. Cavendish fell into a half crouch and raised his revolver
towards the man and was about to make a clichéd order for him to
remain where he was. The command was unnecessary, for the grey
haired corpulent man obligingly raised his podgy hands aloft. The
sight of a firearm obviously did not faze him; he even offered
Cavendish a submissive smile.

“I’m impressed, Herr Cavendish. I never
expected you to get here so quickly. Perhaps you can sort out this
mess,” said the calm modulated east coast accent of the American.
Without losing his line of sight on the suited man, Cavendish took
a step backwards with the intention of back heeling the door
shut.

Before the door could be closed, Cavendish
experienced a fearful thrust as the door collided violently against
his back and sent him staggering uncontrollably forward by means of
the unforeseen impetus.

He twisted instinctively as he tumbled to
land on his back against the beige carpet just inside the bedroom.
The heavy fall left him winded for the length of time it took for
four rapid shots to be fired from a silenced semi-automatic pistol.
That he heard the second and subsequent silenced shots informed him
well enough that he was not the intended target.

Cavendish, though still disorientated from
his fall, looked up towards the source of the silenced gunshots.
Intuitively, he swung his revolver towards the threat before him.
His eyes did not centre on the dark clad figure that had fired the
shots but instead upon the phallic black silencer that protruded
from the end of the assailant’s handgun, now angled to point at his
supine body. He knew that his gun was not aligned with the
Balaclava-clad gunman yet even so, he squeezed the double action
trigger.

The resultant sound bore no comparison to the
previous four shots. Instead of the contained expansive sneezing of
the silenced automatic, Cavendish’s revolver roared like a cannon
within the narrow confines of the room as the revolver bucked in
his hand. The explosive nature of Cavendish’s discharge and the
bullet’s shattering penetration of the wall adjacent to the
assassin’s head was sufficient to terminate the stranger’s
attack.

The masked man spun and quickly ducked out of
the room, which was fortuitous, as Cavendish fired a second
deafening round that sped through the air space vacated by the
gunman and embedded itself in the corridor wall.

A female voice screamed from somewhere out in
the passageway as Cavendish scrambled clumsily to his feet and
scampered to the doorway he had only seconds ago barged his way
through. He peered around the doorframe in the direction that the
assassin had fled. The assailant was fast and had almost reached
the door at the end of the corridor, lead to the stairs and an exit
route.

Again firing one handed, the Untersucher let
loose a third round. The bullet blasted a chunk of plaster off the
wall at the end of the corridor, showering the fleeing assassin in
white flakes and dust as he dived athletically through the exit
door.

Cavendish was about to give chase when he
glimpsed the silenced gun barrel protrude around the exit
doorframe. The assailant blindly fired four speculative shots along
the corridor in an attempt to discourage the inquisitor’s pursuit.
Cavendish ducked adroitly back inside the room and heard the
insect-like drone of the bullets as they seared past him.

Slamming the bedroom door shut, Cavendish
understood that he had to act quickly. If the cleaner raised the
alarm then it was unlikely that anyone would come to investigate
when she reported that shots had been fired, it was far more likely
that the police would be called and that they would respond with a
trained firearms unit. That, he hoped, would lend him precious
minutes. Asimov still exhibited the vacant appearance of a man in
shock, which was understandable having been thrown to the floor,
kicked into a bathroom and compelled to witness a gunfight.