Hard Knocks (22 page)

“Maybe he’s just a sub contractor,” I said. “You told me Gregor Venko was thought to be behind these kidnappings, but it was a change of style. Maybe he’s farmed the work out and Gilby’s on a retainer to get the job done any way he chooses.”

Sean was quiet for a moment, but I could hear his brain turning over. “Now that
does
fit,” he said eventually. “I don’t like it, but it does fit. I’ll get Madeleine on to tracing the money, although that’s going to be a difficult one, if not impossible. The Swiss are a tight-lipped bunch.”

“When I last spoke to Madeleine, she said she was working to find out more about the men in the Peugeot. Has she made any headway yet?”

“Not really,” Sean admitted. “We know the parent company’s Russian, and that’s where we’ve hit a brick wall.”

“Russian?” I said. Madeleine had mentioned the Russians and it had rung vague bells at the time that I hadn’t been able to clarify. Then it clicked. “The last kid to be taken before Heidi was a Russian. I don’t know what circles the kid’s father moves in, but there’s no chance he’s hired in mercenaries to harass Gilby into giving him back?”

“Could be,” Sean said and I heard the quickening. “You might have something there. We’ll try and trace a link between the two from both ends, see if we have any more success that way. Good work, Charlie.”

There was closure in his voice. I realised that he was getting ready to end the call, and almost panicked.

“So, how was your Arab prince?” I said, almost babbling. It was the first thing that came into my head. It sounded crass, even as I said it.

“Spoilt, bored, demanding,” he came back with immediately, “but rich enough to pay a double-rate fee without a quibble. For that I’m prepared to put up with most of his bratty ways.”

“Oh,” I said. My mind had suddenly emptied of all rational thought, except that Sean was going, and that I didn’t want him to.

There was a pause. “Charlie,” he said gently, “are you OK?” It was that very gentleness that was nearly my undoing.

“Yes,” I said, “it’s just—” I broke off, bit my lip.

“Just what?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s nothing. Look, Sean, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?” I ended the call fast and leaned my head down so my forehead rested against my knees.

I’d thought I was stronger than that. I’d thought I was over him, but our almost daily contact, even by telephone, had reawakened feelings I’d thought were dead, not sleeping. At that moment I’d come so close to telling Sean just how much I’d missed him. The very fact that I’d been tempted to do so frightened me far more than any dangers presented by Major Gilby and his men.

My mind went back again. It was a long time since I’d thought about that first time Sean and I had got together. Chance and circumstance had played a big part in it, really.

I’d been more than halfway through the Special Forces course by that time and had just gone through a nasty Resistance-to-Interrogation exercise that had been particularly difficult to take. If it hadn’t been for Sean’s unexpected reassurance part way through, I sometimes wonder if I would have had the stomach to see it to the bitter end.

That evening we’d all been issued with weekend passes, probably by way of reward. Everyone was rushing around getting ready for a night on the piss. Their first opportunity to let go since the course started. I hadn’t felt like celebrating. I’d showered and changed into my civvies, but hadn’t planned on leaving camp.

Until, that is, quite by chance I ran into Sean in a deserted corridor. He’d nodded shortly, as he would have done with any of the trainees, and made to move past me. Suddenly I wanted to know why he’d encouraged me alone to keep it together, to keep going. If I’d had longer to think about it, I might not have dared approach him. But I didn’t, so I asked him, straight out.

He’d paused for a moment, unsmiling, regarding me with those brooding eyes. “You would have made it without my help, don’t worry about it,” he said at last, but as he turned to leave I put my hand on his arm.

“Thank you, anyway,” I said simply, and meant it.

He’d looked down at my hand and for a moment I thought I’d offended him, crossed the line, been too familiar. I remembered the brilliant smile he’d given me during the exercise, the one no one else had seen, and I couldn’t be sure, either way.

Then he’d looked up, straight into my eyes. I’d seen the fire jump there, and the need.

Next thing I knew I was holding onto him, or he was holding onto me. I never knew who made the first move. His mouth was crushed down onto mine with a hunger that left me breathless, and exultant. Those long, clever fingers were framing my face, diving into my hair.

The want was explosive, all-consuming, clawing through my body, the sheer force of it taking me by surprise. I couldn’t feed it fast enough, couldn’t touch him fast enough, to begin to satisfy the craving. Although I’d known in some corner of my mind that I found Sean physically attractive, something had warned me he was trouble. I’d been both wary, yet minutely aware of him, but I hadn’t realised how deep it ran.

By the time he broke away we were both breathing hard. I could feel the heat coming off me in waves.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the very first moment I set eyes on you, Charlie,” he said softly, pinning me with those velvet dark eyes while he stroked my hair away from my face. His fingers stilled. “But I wouldn’t have done anything about it if I hadn’t seen that you wanted it, too.”

“Yes,” I said. I would have said anything, so long as he didn’t stop.

He smiled at me. No smugness, no triumph. God he looked so different when he smiled. “Question is, what do we do about it now?” he murmured. I couldn’t find the voice to answer. He was staring at me like he hated to tear his eyes away. “You have a weekend pass, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“So do I,” he said. “Meet me outside the main gates in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes,” I said again. No hesitation.

He let go of me. I ignored the squawk of protest my nerve endings sent up, like having a plaster ripped away from oversensitive skin. As soon as the contact was broken a measure of sanity seemed to return to both of us. I leaned weakly against the nearest wall, unsure if my legs would support me without it.

“Christ. Jesus,” Sean muttered, taking a step backwards, almost stumbling when Sean never stumbled. He was the epitome of co-ordinated grace and muscle. “Why am I doing this? I
never
do this.”

He shook his head, wiped a hand over his bemused face. “You do believe me, Charlie?” he said, his voice shaken. “That is not a line. I have
never
hit on a trainee before.”

“Considering about ninety-nine per cent of them are blokes,” I managed, still trembling, “I’m relieved to hear it.”

He looked at me again, and something of the cool soldier was back in his face, his eyes. “Seriously, we shouldn’t do this. Who knows where it could lead. It just feels so—”

“I know.”

I stepped forwards, stepped in to him. I reached up, put my lips against his, and silenced his doubts along with my own.

***

The next morning, Figgis and Todd ferried us into Einsbaden village to carry out our site surveys, as planned. I was surprised, I must admit, that the Major was still prepared to let us loose off the Manor grounds, but he gave a rousing speech at breakfast.

The gang of criminals who’d attacked us were escaping from an armed robbery and had now been caught by the police, he’d lied, staring us straight in the eye. It was all done and dusted, nothing to worry about.

Looking round the students’ faces, I wondered if he saw the scepticism written there as plainly as it was felt.

Nevertheless, none of us voiced our disbelief and we dutifully allowed ourselves to be loaded into the school trucks. The only exception was McKenna, who’d been judged to be suffering from concussion from the crash.

It wasn’t like Gilby to show any sympathy for the sick, but maybe he was just worried about being sued. Either way, McKenna had been excused the 5am slog and was reported to be still sleeping when we rumbled down the driveway out of the Manor.

If Einsbaden had been quiet in the evening, it was little better during daylight hours. With the instructors observing, we’d been told to make an inconspicuous survey of the area. The idea was not only to learn the layout of the village from the point of view of ambush and escape, but also so we could generally baby-sit our principal.

“He’s going to want to know where to have a coffee, or breakfast, or buy a souvenir,” Gilby said to us. “It helps you avoid putting yourself and your client into a vulnerable situation if you know in advance the answers to these questions. Then you have to plan for the possibility of something going wrong. If so, where’s the local doctor? Nearest hospital? You will be tested on this knowledge before the end of the course.”

Personally, by the time I’d been in the village for an hour, I wondered why any high-powered principal would want to spend more than that amount of time there. It was just a pleasant little place with the usual local amenities, but nothing special enough to make you want to linger.

Besides, despite the sunshine, it was bitterly cold. I finished my tour and headed for the tiny café in one corner of the square, which promised good coffee and was pumping the tantalising smell of fresh pastry out into the street.

Inside, seated at a corner table opposite the door, I found Madeleine.

She looked relaxed, elegant, sitting there reading a guide book to the region and sipping espresso from a cup the size of a thimble. She glanced up as I came in, and her expression was artful. That air of slight resignation of someone who thought they had the place to themselves and is mildly annoyed to find they have not. As soon as she saw I was alone, her face shifted into a big smile instead.

“Well, something agrees with you,” she said brightly. “You’re looking fit.”

I didn’t answer that one, just took a seat at the next table, so I could distance myself if anyone else came in.
Yeah sure, Mad,
I thought.
I just love being shot at.

She must have seen something of that in my face, because she quickly became businesslike. “Do you have it?”

I dug into my pocket and brought out the Hydra-Shok that I’d retrieved from under Shirley’s bed that morning. I handed it to her and she turned it over in her fingers.

“Damn,” she said, frowning. “For some reason, when you said you’d found it on the range, I assumed it had been fired. I thought we might be able to get a ballistics match done with the ones recovered from Kirk’s body.” She gave the round back to me and I tucked it away out of sight. “That doesn’t tell us anything beyond the fact that it’s from the same manufacturer, and nine millimetre is the right calibre.”

“The men who shot at us yesterday were also firing nine-mil machine pistols,” I said. “I got a good look at one. It was a Lucznik PM-98.”

“Mm, good choice,” Madeleine said casually, as though I’d mentioned a brand of lipstick. “Made in Poland, I seem to remember, but they’re becoming popular with some law enforcement agencies.”

I pondered for a moment on the concept of the police in any country using machine pistols. Still, why not? The British armed response units used Heckler & Koch MP5Ks. Why shouldn’t an American cop have the capability to fire over six hundred rounds a minute?

“I’m surprised Gilby was prepared to let you all out of his sight this morning,” Madeleine commented when I didn’t speak.

I glanced through the window just in time to see Blakemore’s FireBlade pull up with a flourish near the bar on the other side of the square. He yanked off his helmet as another of the instructors stepped out of an alleyway to speak to him. Todd, I guessed, from the stocky build, though he had his back to me.

“I don’t think we’re out of his sight exactly,” I said. “They’re keeping tabs on us.” I stood up. “If you can’t tell me anything about that round, I’d best get back out there.”

I’d made it two strides towards the door when Madeleine called me back. There was something in her voice I couldn’t quite categorise. I turned, and sat down again with reluctance, keeping one eye on the window. When I looked down, I found she’d leaned across and placed a photograph on the table in front of me.

I picked it up. The image looked to have been taken on the deck of a boat. In the background I could see the rail and wake through the water. To the left of the shot were two people, standing wrapped in each other’s arms, smiling into the lens. Madeleine and a tall black man.

He must have been tall. Madeleine was no short-stop, but he towered over her enough to be resting his chin on top of her head. He was eye-catchingly handsome. Regal, with a brilliant smile. Happiness radiated from them.

I handed the picture back. She glanced at it with affection before slipping it into her handbag.

I knew I was supposed to ask, so I said, “Who’s the guy?” If I’m honest, I was curious, anyway.

“That’s Dominic,” Madeleine said.