Sure Fire (6 page)

When the hood came off, John Chance was left blinking in the sudden light. The first thing he saw was the curved ceiling of the plane. He was in a large comfortable seat. There was no row in front, just an open space until the bulkhead a long way in front – comfort and style, Chance thought. Except, of course, that he was tied up.

“Boris Yeltsin himself sat in that seat,” a voice said. It was rich and deep, speaking English with a heavy Russian accent. “Several times.”

“Fancy that.” Chance's reply was barely more than a croak. “Doesn't seem like there's enough room.”

“Our guest is thirsty,” the voice said. “Probably tired as well. Travelling is such hard work.”

The man with the rich voice appeared in front of Chance. He was a tall man, slightly stooped, with hair that was so grey it was almost white. He was dressed immaculately in an expensive, handmade grey suit.

“Viktor Vishinsky,” the tall grey-haired man said. “I'm delighted you could join me.”

“How could I refuse?” His voice was stronger now. He held out his hands – tied together at the wrist. His ankles were tied as well, and he could feel the cords biting into his flesh. Straps held him tight in the chair. “You'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand, but…” He let the words hang.

“But you are rather tied up at the moment,” Vishinsky said. Teeth appeared in his thin face, but there was no other indication that he was amused. His eyes remained cruel and grey.

“…I never shake hands with insects like you,” Chance went on as if the man had not spoken.

There was a moment's pause. Then what there was of the smile vanished. At the same time, a fist slammed into Chance's stomach. He wanted to double up with the pain, but could not move because of the straps holding him to the chair. A large man in a white steward's
uniform smiled at Chance's pain and flexed his hand.

“Please, please,” Vishinsky admonished. He sounded reasonable and calm and friendly. But Chance knew the man would kill him without hesitation when it suited him.

Vishinsky was speaking again. “I know who you are, Mr Lessiter,” he said. Chance smiled at the use of his alias. The smile faded as Vishinsky went on: “Or should I say, Mr
Chance
.”

“You brought me all this way to check my CV, did you?” Chance said.

“No. But I must apologise,” Vishinsky was saying, “for not realising sooner that I had such a talented gentleman on my staff. I shall have to make sure that KOS checks up on the so-called experts it employs rather more diligently in future.”

“Always best to take up references,” Chance said quietly.

Vishinsky ignored him. “But in the mean time, what are we to do with you?” he wondered, leaning forward to stare into Chance's face. “Kill you?”

“Your people could have done that in London,” Chance pointed out. “You didn't need to put me on a plane first.”

“And where do you think we might be going?” Vishinsky asked. He didn't wait for Chance's answer, but walked slowly over to a table fixed to the floor on the other side of the wide cabin. He helped himself to a drink from a decanter – colourless liquid that Chance guessed was vodka.

“I imagine we're heading for Krejikistan,” Chance said. “Either to the headquarters of Krejikistan Oil Subsidiaries or to your own humble abode.”

“Oh, I have several humble abodes.” Vishinsky sipped at the vodka. “Do go on, this is most illuminating.”

“Very well. I imagine you've gone to all the trouble of kidnapping me because you want something from me. Something more than amusing conversation.”

“You know what I want,” Vishinsky said.

“Do I?”

“Oh, I think you do,” Vishinsky seemed amused rather than angry. “And I expect you're wondering what it is and why we need it. That small sample of fluid you took from my London installation.”

Chance could not help but smile. “I expect you want it because we blew the rest of it up, so that
sample – assuming I even took a sample – would be all that's left.”

“We know you took a sample,” Stabb said. “We have the CCTV footage. We saw you at the canister.”

“You think,” Chance said. “But whether I took a sample or not, why don't you just make more of the stuff?”

Vishinsky glanced at the steward, who looked like he was about to thump Chance again, but after a moment Vishinsky held up his hand to stop the attack.

“It is a very complicated formula which was unfortunately known only to the scientist who created it. Of course, it would be easy enough to reverse-engineer that formula given a sample of the fluid. And you have a sample.”

“But you,” Chance said, “have the scientist and his research…” Then he laughed as he realised. “No, you don't, do you. What happened? Did you get rid of him too soon? Assume he'd documented his research when he hadn't bothered, or hidden it too well?”

“There was an accident.” Vishinsky sounded angry now. He drained his glass and refilled it.
“The man's car… It was very unfortunate.”

“I bet.”

“But for your information, he detailed his research meticulously. We made sure of that first. You think we are stupid? But his notes, his paperwork…” He stopped, his eyes narrowing.

“Don't tell me you can't find it,” Chance said. “Don't tell me the poor man hid it as insurance. In the vain hope you wouldn't actually kill him so he couldn't reproduce his work for anyone else.”

“He didn't hide it,” Vishinsky said. “It is, as I said, unfortunate. But he kept his notes and papers with him at all times.”

“Took it to the grave, did he?”

“The car was just supposed to crash,” Vishinsky said. “But it caught fire.”

“Oh.” Chance did his best to sound mortified. “Oh, how terribly sad.”

“It is sad, yes,” Vishinsky agreed. “Because it means that we need you. Or rather the sample you took. And it is especially sad that my friend Mr Stabb will go to any lengths, inflict any pain, to make you tell us where it is hidden.”

“Even so, why should I? What's in it for me?”

“For you?” Vishinsky was smiling again. “An easy, quick, painless death.”

“And for you?”

Vishinsky smiled. “Let's just say it would increase my standing considerably.”

“Because of this formula, this fluid sample you think I have?” Chance asked.

“Exactly so,” Vishinsky said, raising his glass as if as a toast.

Chance laughed.

“Tell me where it is,” Vishinsky demanded.

“You might find this hard to believe, but I actually don't know.”

The steward moved quickly. Another punch. Even harder. But Chance had been expecting it and managed to tense his stomach muscles so it didn't feel quite so bad.

“Do you know a man called Andrew Phillips?” Vishinsky asked.

“Never heard of him,” Chance lied.

“We have photos of you meeting him several times while you were working at KOS. In some very strange places. Even at the scrapyard where we picked you up last night. Would you believe it, but he was
there too. One of my associates happened to see him leaving and followed. I expect Mr Stabb will know exactly where he is now.”

“Really.” Chance tried to sound bored.

Vishinsky nodded. “Really. And I think perhaps we'll ask Mr Phillips where this fluid sample might be. If he knows, then I'm afraid we won't be needing your services any more.”

“Tragic.”

“For you, yes. But if he doesn't know, I shall be wanting to talk to you again.”

“I'll look forward to that,” Chance said.

“I have left Mr Stabb in London to supervise matters there,” Vishinsky said. “My people in London can talk to your friend Phillips as soon as is convenient. But if we get no satisfaction, then there are a couple of other young people they may need to talk to.” He looked closely at Chance as if studying him for any change of expression, any hint of feeling. “But let's hope it doesn't have to come to that. I do
so
hate to see children suffer. Don't you?”

Chance met the man's gaze without blinking. His own face was a blank mask. “Their suffering will be nothing to yours.”

“We could call Mrs Gilpin,” Jade said.

“And tell her what? That Dad's been kidnapped? That just sounds daft.” Rich had slumped on the sofa, while Jade was pacing up and down in front of him. He had no idea what to do now, and Jade's constant movement was irritating him. But there was no point in arguing.

“I don't care how it sounds,” Jade told him. “It happened.”

Rich just grunted. “I know. I was there, remember? Might as well call Charmaine. She'd be as much help.”

“At least she'd believe us,” Jade said. She flopped down beside her brother on the sofa. “What are we going to do?”

“We're going to find him,” Rich said. “I don't know how, but we can't just sit around here while Dad's missing.”

“Do you think…” Jade turned and looked away from him. “Do you think they'll…” She broke off, biting her lip.

“Kill him? I dunno. I really don't.” Rich patted her gently on the shoulder. They needed to do something, he thought. Anything to feel busy and stop them getting too depressed. If Jade got in one of her moods, then she'd hide in her room and do nothing at all, which wouldn't help anyone. “Let's check Dad's stuff for clues.”

“What clues?” Jade asked, following Rich through to the study.

“Don't know till we find them,” he admitted. “But he was taken for a reason. If we can find out why, then we're a good way to knowing who. And then we work on where. Right?”

“Right.” Jade wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and went over to the desk. She started leafing through the papers on it. “I guess we need addresses, phone numbers, anything.”

“Do you think he was expecting to meet the men
who took him?” Rich wondered. “He was certainly meeting someone.”

“And if it wasn't them, who was it?” Jade agreed.

At that moment, a bell rang. It took a moment for either of them to realise that it was the doorbell – they hadn't heard it ring before. Then they were both running to see who was there.

As they reached the door, there was the sound of a key scraping into the lock.

“Dad?!” Rich exclaimed, throwing open the door.

The man standing outside, holding the key, was a stranger. He wore thick-rimmed glasses and a long raincoat. His free hand was clutched to his chest inside the coat. He was swaying on his feet.

“Who the hell are you?” Jade demanded.

In answer, the man fell forwards, and Rich was only just able to catch him and hold him up. “Help me get him inside,” he said.

“Why?” Jade demanded. “Who is he?”

“I don't know.” Rich was gasping under the man's weight. “Just help, will you?”

The man seemed to have recovered enough to take some of his own weight. With the help of Rich and Jade he staggered through into the living room,
where he collapsed on the sofa.

“Chance,” he said, his voice rasping with the effort.

“He's not here,” Rich said.

“Do you know where he is?” Jade asked.

The man shook his head. “Is it safe? The sample – is it safe?”

“What sample? What's he talking about?” Jade leaned over the man, staring him in the face. “Just who are you? Do you know what's happened to our dad?”

Even from where he was standing, Rich could see the man's eyes were glassy and unfocused. Rich rubbed his fingers and brought his hand up to his face. His hand was covered in blood. Not just a smear or a splash. It was like he was wearing a crimson glove. On the floor, Rich could see the red trail, leading across the room to the sofa.

Jade seemed to have realised there was something terribly wrong too. She stood upright slowly, as if hardly daring to move. Rich could see that the man's coat had flapped open. The man still had his hand to his chest and blood was seeping through his fingers, staining the whole of the front of his shirt.

“Oh, my God,” Jade said quietly. “What's happened to you?”

“He's been shot,” Rich realised with horror.

The man was struggling to speak. “Don't worry about me. Just… the sample.”

Jade looked at Rich and then back to the man. “We don't know about any sample. We have no idea what you're on about. Who are you?” she asked again.

“Phillips,” the man gasped. Speaking seemed to be even more of a struggle now. “Andrew Phillips. Friend of Chance – your father.”

Rich was watching as if through a fog. But it was clearing slowly. “I'll call an ambulance,” he said. “The police.”

Phillips shook his head. “Too late,” he rasped. “Far too late. Just get out. Make sure the sample is safe and get out before…” His words were smothered by a fit of coughing. A red trickle ran from the corner of his mouth.

“Don't be stupid,” Jade told him. “We can't just leave you.”

“Get out!” the man said again, more forcefully. He tried to heave himself up, but the effort was too much and he collapsed back on to the sofa. He
reached inside his coat with his other hand, and when it came out again he was holding a gun – a flat, black pistol. “I'll do what I can for you,” he said.

Rich stared at the gun. “Maybe we should do as he says.” But he didn't think the man was threatening them. He was warning them about something – someone else. “You've lost a lot of blood,” he said.

The man coughed and Rich realised he was trying to laugh. “Just a bit. Go on, get out of here. While you still can.”

It was then that the window exploded. Glass showered across the carpet, followed by the wooden support struts as a large dark figure crashed into the room. Rich just had time to see that he was holding a handgun. It was pointing straight at Rich and Jade. They hugged each other close.

There was the crack of a shot. Rich flinched. But it was the man on the sofa – Phillips – who was shooting. Two shots in rapid succession.

The man from the window staggered back. His own gun went off, firing a single bullet into the ceiling. Then a third shot from Phillips cannoned into the man's chest and he was thrown backwards – back out of the window.

If the man cried out, his voice was lost in the sound of the front door shattering. Rich ran to the window, trainers crunching on broken glass and splinters of wood.

“We can't jump!” Jade yelled at him and he realised she was right. There was a rope hanging outside – how the man had got in. But it ended at the level of the window. He'd come down from the roof.

Jade grabbed Rich's hand and pulled him away, back towards the door from the hall.

“We can't go out there,” Rich hissed at her. Already he could hear the thump of running feet.

But Jade pulled him into cover behind the door. Just as two black-clad figures arrived in the opening.

Phillips had managed to twist round on the sofa. Rich could see the man, teeth gritted with pain, as he brought his gun to bear, shooting over the top of the sofa's back.

One of the figures in the doorway seemed to stumble. The other was holding a larger gun – like a rifle, but with a stocky barrel. A machine pistol. The noise it made was deafening, echoing round the room.

The force of the gunfire moved the sofa across the
floor. Phillips had disappeared from sight. Ragged holes appeared in the plaster on the wall the other side of the sofa, and Rich shuddered to think what was happening to Phillips himself. Then the bullets raked across the wall, cracking into the television, which exploded.

The man with the machine pistol had run into the room as he fired. The other man stumbled after him and dropped to the floor, aiming a handgun. Rich could see his black jersey was wet on one side, and guessed it was blood from where Phillips's shot had hit him.

But he didn't wait to see any more. He pulled Jade with him out of the unguarded door, desperate to be out of the room before either of the men turned and saw them.

He was almost quick enough. Almost, but not quite.

The man on the floor was reaching back to examine where he'd been shot, and must have caught sight of Rich and Jade out of the corner of his eye. He cried out and raised the pistol.

A bullet ripped into the wall of the hall as Rich and Jade ran for the front door. A second later, a
deafening burst of automatic fire stitched a line of holes after them.

The front door was a shattered mess of wood. The hinges were twisted and broken. Rich and Jade pushed through, and Rich felt the sharp wood catch on his trousers. He didn't slow down.

“Lift!” he yelled at Jade, though she was right next to him.

“Too slow,” she yelled back. “Stairs.”

She was right – the lift wasn't there, and they didn't have time to wait for it. Dust and splinters were kicking up at Rich's feet, and he realised with shock that bullets were smacking into the floorboards. Rich hurled himself down the stairs, holding tight to Jade's hand.

The sound of the shooting seemed to have stopped, but they kept running. Maybe the gunmen didn't dare chase them out into the street, didn't want to attract attention. But Rich wasn't about to take that for granted.

They didn't stop running until they were three streets away. Then they collapsed, gasping and panting, hands on knees, as they doubled over to get their breath back.

Carl, the man who had been shot by Phillips, was holding a tea towel from Chance's kitchen tight to his wound. It was folded over several times to form a pad. He was lucky the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his abdomen, but it was bleeding a lot. With his other hand he was pulling everything out of each of the kitchen drawers in turn.

The other man, Ivan, was in the study. The computer was on the floor, the screen broken. Papers and books lay all over the place. The contents of the desk had been tipped on to the floor and the box on the phone line had been ripped off and thrown aside.

He moved on to the next room – a bedroom with two single beds in it. He pulled open a drawer, and found it was full of socks and underwear. There was a packet of cigarettes hidden in among the knickers, together with a mobile phone. The man gave a snort of laughter. Naughty girl.

“I don't think it's here,” Carl yelled in Russian. He winced with the pain of shouting.

Ivan returned from the bedroom. “We have to check,” he replied. “But quickly.”

“No cooking oil even. Nothing that could be what we're looking for.”

Ivan checked the fridge. “Milk?” He lifted out the carton. It was translucent plastic and he unscrewed the top to make doubly sure. “Just milk.”

“What about Alexei?”

Ivan sniffed. “Probably dead. But we should remove the body. Leave no trace. I hope you haven't bled on the carpet.”

Carl paled at the thought. “They will find my DNA. They can trace me.”

“Only if they have you on file,” Ivan assured him. “And we don't exist. Anyway, by this time tomorrow we'll have you home. They won't find you there.”

“And we won't find the sample here.”

Ivan sighed. “I think you're right. If anyone knows where to find it, my money is on those kids.”

“Do we go after them?”

Carl shook his head. “Not us. At least, not yet. But if we do find them…” He did not need to complete the thought. He smiled.

A woman had been standing on the street opposite the house when Rich and Jade ran out. Her long black hair caught in the breeze, blowing round her as she walked quickly but without apparent haste
after the two running figures.

She stopped in the shadows a hundred metres from where the twins were, gasping for breath, watching them carefully, wondering how best to approach them and win their confidence. It was vitally important that they trust her and believe what she had to tell them. She had to make them understand that she was the only person in the world who could help them now…