The Hostage (45 page)

Lawton sat on his bed staring across his apartment at the glass vial on the coffee table, the opened hatbox on the floor. It was a clear liquid with a strawberry tint and was surprisingly refreshing looking. One microscopic spec could turn a human body into an incubator that within days would produce a virus so virulent it could be transmitted on a breath or by contact with the smallest imaginable droplet of perspiration. From the moment of infection a fit, healthy adult could expect to live five to seven days. Only during the last few hours, before an agonising death by internal drowning, would that person be unable to walk; just twenty-four hours prior to that they would have felt as if they had nothing worse than a bad cold. That meant for three to five days that person was a walking virus dispenser, moving amongst the living like some kind of grim, deadly crop duster on permanent spray.

Using a conservative estimate, if an infected person took a twenty-minute journey across London during rush hour, by Underground for instance, and infected a hundred people, and then another hundred on their way home, by day three those two hundred people would have infected forty thousand others. By day five, when that first person started showing signs of illness, four million would have been infected. Day seven it could have claimed twenty million people around the world . . . Lawton dropped his head into his hands, his brain aching from the effort of calculating the horror he would be responsible for.

It was no longer a case of self-preservation. He couldn’t let innocent people die just to save himself, and he would be just as guilty if he allowed someone else to do it. What he needed was a plan that would allow him to safely neutralise the virus as well as survive the wrath of the RIRA and the authorities. Achieving all three was probably going to be impossible.

To survive RIRA, he had considered the feasibility of Father Kinsella’s suggestion, putting the virus somewhere in the MI5 headquarters where no one could get near it before the authorities were warned of its location. But it didn’t take long to decide that was going to be unworkable. In his capacity he only had access to about fifty per cent of the building, along with a few hundred other people. There wasn’t a room he could just lock it inside. He couldn’t guarantee any office or closet would not be opened within five minutes of him leaving it. The building didn’t exactly empty out for the evening. MI5 was busy 24/7. It would be totally irresponsible even to take a chance like that. Only one person needed to come in contact with the virus for a split second to start the deadly chain reaction. Even leaving it without crushing it was a risk that was not worth taking, and that would work against him with RIRA anyway. Whatever was to happen, he decided he was not going to go down in history as the man who wiped out London.

He played with the thought of just running off with it, but then what would he do with it? He had no idea how to get rid of a deadly virus. Burying it somewhere was out of the question. He even thought about flushing it down the toilet or throwing it in the River Thames but he could not be certain that would kill it rather than spread it everywhere.

Then it came to him. It was really his only option and the simplest of all. He would leave it in his apartment and get as far out of town as he could. When he was well on his way he’d call the authorities and tell them where it was. The virus would be made safe and he might get away. All he had to figure out was where to go and how to get there.

He got up off the bed, pulled an empty holdall out from under it, and set about packing a few things while he tried to think of a place on this planet he could hide, not just from MI5 but from RIRA too.

 

Hank had stopped exercising after a drop in his energy level was made worse by an irritating thirst. It had been half a day at least since he’d been given a drink and a day or more since he’d eaten anything. He wasn’t feeling well at all. It was bad enough that he was not allowed to use a toilet, but now it seemed they were trying to starve him to death. Keeping him weak was no doubt an added measure of securing him, but it was also increasing his desperation and determination to make a break for it.

The door opened and someone came in. This was what he had been waiting for the past few hours. He immediately started to moan and slouch as if delirious. Whoever had walked in crouched beside him and untied his hood but did not remove it. Hank pulled away, moaning.

‘I’m trying to give you some food and water.’ It was the young man from earlier.

Hank accepted the water and choked on it a little. ‘I . . . I need help. I’m in pain. My stomach. I can’t empty my bowels . . . can’t shit. Please, help me.’ Hank acted as if he had hardly strength enough to hold his head up. ‘Please,’ he moaned. ‘Don’t let me die like this.’

The young man stayed beside Hank for a moment, no doubt considering the situation. He then stood and walked out of the room. Hank could hear him call out to someone in the corridor.A moment later he was joined by another man.

‘I think he’s in a bad way,’ the young man said.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ the other one said, sounding none too sympathetic.

‘I don’t know. He says he’s in pain and can’t shit. Maybe he’s bunged op.’

‘What do you mean, bunged op?’

‘Bunged op, for fock’s sake. He can’t take a shite. Let’s put ’im on the pot at least.’

‘Brennan said to leave him be.’

‘Brennan didn’t say he was to focken die. What if somethin’ happens to ’im? We’ll get in focken trouble . . . And you know what that bastard’s like . . . Come on, man. It’s only a visit to the pan, for fock’s sake.’

Hank decided to give the other man some encouragement and let out a moan. ‘Please. Help me . . . Please.’

‘Come on,’ said the young man. ‘I’m not into this torture lark. Brennan’s not here . . . He’s not even a focken Brit. He’s a Yank, for Christ’s sake.’

It seemed to be enough to convince the older man.‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s get him to the pan.’

Hank could feel his hands and feet being untied. This was it. He cautioned himself to choose the moment carefully. He would only get one chance. The main deck was his immediate goal. From there his best bet was the water. It was doubtful any of these people could swim half as well as Hank, even on his worst day. He could probably do the first thirty yards underwater in case they started shooting at him. He could manage fifty with ease in swimming trunks and healthy, but thirty yards in clothes, unwell and desperate was feasible. A duck-dive for a gasp of air and he might tack on another twenty yards. Then it would be a fierce breaststroke to wherever. If it was dark he had more than a reasonable chance of escaping. His biggest problem was going to be his initial break and then finding his way out on to the deck. That attack was going to have to be swift and positive to give himself a few yards’ head start. If he ended up in a wrestle with the two men he was lost. Or a wrong turn once he was off and running could leave him trapped. What he was going to need was a lot of luck.

‘Who the fock tied this op?’ the older man asked, struggling with Hank’s hands. ‘You got a knife?’

‘No.’

‘I’d better get a knife.That knot wasn’t tied by any focken sailor.’

Hank heard him leave the room. The young man untied Hank’s feet and then had a go at his hands. He pulled at one of the lines and it gave. Hank felt the rope go loose. ‘Eedjit,’ the young man said. ‘Couldn’t untie his laces that one.’

Hank let his arms fall limply from the pole as the rope was removed and he leaned heavily against it. He was completely untied, the hood was loose around his neck, and there was only the one man in the room. He debated whether to go for it right there and then, or wait until they took him to the toilet, which might produce a better opportunity. But what if this was his best opportunity? What if that Brennan character suddenly returned and ordered them to tie him back up and leave him alone? Before Hank could consider it further he had pulled off the hood. For the first time in weeks he could see clearly. The young man was kneeling in front of him wearing a bright yellow waterproof, the nose of a sub-machine-gun poking from it where it was, hanging by a strap around his neck. They stared at each other for a second. The young man was bright-eyed, fresh-faced, with curly orange hair. Hank’s face was pale and covered in a short beard, and his eyes were red.

‘You’re not supposed to do that, pal,’ the young man said and reached for the hood in Hank’s hands. Hank grabbed his wrist, twisted it harshly into a lock, bent the arm at the elbow with all his weight, and threw him forward until the man’s face slammed into the floor. Hank fell with him and twisted himself over so that he landed on top of the Irishman’s back, holding him firmly in an arm lock. The young man let out a heavy moan as Hank’s weight forced the air from his ribcage. The block of wood Hank had felt with his feet several times was inches away. He grabbed it awkwardly because of its rugged shape, raised it high and brought it down with every ounce of strength he could muster on to the back of the young man’s skull. The force of the blow not only tore open the flesh on the man’s head, it also broke his nose and jaw against the floor. But there was fight in the young man yet and he brought his free hand around and started to push himself up with it. He was having little success but Hank raised the chunk of timber again and brought it down with equal force.The young man shuddered under the blow but continued to push as if he suddenly knew his very life depended on this last great effort. Hank raised the wood and this time brought it down on to the man’s hand, cracking several bones in it. The young man wavered. Hank slammed him on the head again and the man started to sink. Another blow cracked his skull and took all the effort out his struggle. Seconds later he ceased to move.

Hank remained on top of him, breathing heavily, exhausted. Then as if a fire had ignited beneath him, he scrambled to his feet, the adrenalin dulling the aches in his joints and muscles. He went to the door, looked out, and darted back instantly. A man was heading down the corridor, rubbing the blade of a knife across the palm of his hand.

Hank grabbed up the block of wood and went to the side of the door. His foot hit something and it clanged noisily as it fell. It was a length of pipe. Hank quickly put down the wood, grabbed the pipe and raised it with both hands as the man stepped into the room. The man paused at the sight of his colleague lying still on the floor but that very second the pipe slammed on to his cranium so forcefully it nearly split his skull in two. Hank raised the pipe to smash him again but the man crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

Hank dropped the pipe, grabbed the man’s SMG and unclipped it from its strap. He checked the corridor in both directions. It was clear. He looked over the weapon, unsure what type it was, not that it mattered. He identified the cocking lever and safety-catch. He pulled at the magazine, pushed in the release button and it popped from its housing. The magazine had bullets in it. He pushed the rounds in against the return spring.They didn’t travel more than a few inches, indicating it was full. He pulled the cocking lever back and tested the trigger. The mechanism worked and he knew all that he needed to fire it. He pushed the magazine into the weapon, pulled the cocking lever all the way back, where it clicked into position, and gripped it firmly in both hands. A touch of the trigger would release the breach block to pick up a bullet, shove it into the breach and at the same time fire it, then return to pick up the next bullet.

Hank held the gun up vertically by his head and checked the corridor once again.There was no sign of life. A combination of success and the weapon in his hand gave Hank a shot of confidence. Luck had indeed been on his side, so far. He was halfway home. But if these two were armed it was safe to assume others he might encounter would also be. He decided to spend a valuable moment or two to think whether there was a way of improving his chances of getting safely off the boat.

He pulled the older man away from the door and closed it.

First thing first was to disguise himself as one of them. It might only give him one second of an edge in an encounter, but that was better than nothing. He knelt by the young man, who was more his size, and rolled him over. There was a lot of blood on his face. His eyes were half open and it didn’t seem as if he was breathing. He’d killed him. Hank could hear the young man’s voice in his head. He’d been alive and talking only seconds before. It felt strange. Hank had never really considered them the enemy, least of all this young man, who was the only one who had tried to help him. And yet here they were, the young man Hank’s first confirmed kill. One thing was for sure: there was no giving up now. He’d killed one of theirs. Hank glanced at the older man who was not moving either. Perhaps two.

Hank put down the gun and started to take off the young man’s yellow coat.

 

Stratton backed into a space between two parked cars and turned off the lights and engine. It all went very quiet in contrast to the haste and roar of the last couple of hours. They were in a narrow residential street in south London, with small terraced houses tightly packed on either side.

‘First right,’ Aggy said, indicating ahead. ‘There are two new-looking three-storey apartment buildings about a hundred metres along from the corner. His is the second building.’

‘Let’s take a look,’ he said, and just as he was about to open his door his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket.‘Wait a sec,’ he said and reached for it, pushed a button and held it to his ear. ‘Yes.’

‘We can’t confirm that Lawton was in Paris on the twenty-third, ’ Sumners said. ‘But he did take three days’ leave then,
and
he took two days’ leave to go to London the week before Spinks was lifted. The dates coincide with the meetings with Henri. We’re taking the lead. You’re to proceed.’

‘I’m around the corner from his flat, a couple hundred yards from Wandsworth Road and Queenstown Road. Where’s my backup?’