Turning Point (30 page)

Pete slowly drew his weapon, sliding off the safety. Behind him, apparently uninterested, Arnulf was bent down, casually tying his shoelace.

‘Good performance,' Pete drawled. ‘But then you always were a gutsy kid. I'm almost reluctant to kill you.'

‘Then don't.'

‘Sorry, kid.' He aimed the barrel at Scott's chest. Still using his old gun, Scott thought idly, recognising the dark shape of the Colt pistol. ‘As I told you before – this isn't personal, it's business.'

‘Is that how you square your conscience, Pete?' he shouted wildly, stepping sideways to avoid the black muzzle. ‘Pretending it's someone else's fault – nothing to do with you – that it's not you pulling the trigger. My God, I hated Terry but he's worth a million of you even on bad days.'

Pete's face darkened. Scott watched the finger on the trigger tighten and shut his eyes.

Blasts of noise reverberated round the room, then a further sound of a chair hitting the ground.

Scott didn't move, waiting for the fatal blow. Then, feeling Hilary's breath still warm on his neck, he slowly opened his eyes to see Arnulf bent over Pete's body spread-eagled on the ground.

He sank down onto a chair, his legs like jelly, and grabbed at his head, the noise of the gun-shots still echoing against the bones of his skull. Behind him, Hilary stared in speechless bewilderment. Scott pointed. ‘Wh… who…'

The stolid lines of the bodyguard's face erupted into an impish smile, all at once transforming him into an ordinary big guy. ‘Name's Haupt. American Secret Service – ASS for short. Appropriate, don't you agree?'

‘Th-th-then…'

‘
I was the guy that saved your ass on that roof?
' He chuckled. ‘Yeah! It was all I could dredge up at the time. Thank God, we got lucky today. Vasilov hates blood – turns his stomach. Come on. We need to get you out'a here.'

Hilary stepped up. ‘What do you want me to do?'

The agent removed his jacket, the butt of a gun protruding from a brown leather holster strapped to his rib cage. ‘See if you can find something to tie this guy up with.'

Scott stared at the sprawled figure on the floor. ‘But he's dead.' He heard the words but they didn't make much sense. This was all wrong. Pete couldn't be dead. It was him. He should be the one lying there. He felt dead, all sensation gone, neither his sight nor hearing processing information. Even his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. In the distance, he caught the sound of voices and wondered who they belonged to.

Righting the chair that had fallen across the body, Arnulf stepped onto it, easily tall enough to reach the ceiling. He lifted a panel to one side, exposing a shallow false ceiling.

Hilary scrabbled behind the television set. ‘This do?' She held up a thick black wire, the plug and connection still attached at either end.

Arnulf nodded. ‘We've got to hide the body in the roof space. We'll use the wire to lash it to one of the beams. Stop it falling. You first, Hilary.'

‘What about the noise?'

‘No worries – it's only the hired help carrying out their orders. Besides, silent as the proverbial grave this place. Apologies – bad joke.'

Scott gazed blankly at the hole in the ceiling, finding it difficult to focus. As if in a trance, he watched Hilary climb up onto the table. Arnulf picked her up, shooting her upwards like an express elevator.

She disappeared and he caught a faint scuffling noise. She reappeared, leaning back down. ‘There's a narrow ledge by the wall. If we can drag him that far, we can lash his legs to the beam.'

‘Go for it! Twenty yards that way,' Arnulf pointed down the corridor away from the main lounge, ‘is the laundry room. You'll need to take care crossing it. It may be staffed but you should be okay. You can't hear yourself think with those machines.'

‘Okay and…'

‘Far side is a staff cloakroom. Drop down into there and straight into the engine room across the corridor.'

‘We need to break cover? Can't we get to it from the roof space?'

‘Not unless you've got a chisel handy to break down the wall.'

Hilary stared at him, her eyes big.

‘It'll be okay.' Arnulf patted the small hand, which was tightly gripping the edge of the metal framework.

Hilary eyes filled with tears, her smile watery. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. ‘Don't worry about me. I'm saving up my nervous breakdown till we get out of here.'

‘We've not come this far to fail now.' The big man grinned up at her. ‘Besides, Sean Terry hates losing agents and I'll never hear the end of it, if I manage to lose you two. You'll be fine. Even if you are seen, no one knows who you are. There's dozens of kids around here, you could easily be one of them. And the engine room won't be manned,' he added quickly. ‘On the far wall is a turbine. That's your way out. It's caged for safety but it comes off. I tried it one time, when I was searching for a fire exit, in case I ever had to get out quick.

‘Don't forget to wedge the blades; you'll be cut to ribbons else.' He twisted round, pointing down at the floor. ‘Scott, pass me Pete's gun, you can use that.
And get a grip;
I need your help to lift the body into the roof space. They may find it in a couple of hours but, hopefully, by then you'll be long gone.'

Scott stared down at the body on the floor, a bright stain on the back of the jacket where the bullet had penetrated the man's heart. Vaguely, he recalled the ripped jacket worn by Tulsa soaked with blood. Confused, he stared up at the figure on the chair.

Arnulf followed the direction of his gaze. ‘I carry a spare, small calibre.' He pointed to his ankle. ‘Does the job and doesn't make a mess like the Colt Pete carried. Came in useful today. Can you use a gun?'

‘I can. Scott? For pity's sake…' Hilary's voice quivered.

Scott stared at the tear on her cheek. Like a bolt of lightning, his senses hurtled back, reality hitting home.
They were alive
.
They were actually alive! They'd been given a second chance.
Bending down,
he
dragged the gun clear of Pete's body trying to avoid looking at the dead face, its sunspecs knocked aslant when the body hit the floor. The weapon was surprisingly heavy, heavier than the one Tulsa had carried. He stepped up onto the table and passed it up.

‘I'm…'

‘No sorries, Scott. We're alive that's all that matters.'

Scott nodded, his smile hesitant. Catching hold of the metal framework, he swung himself up into the ceiling space.

Unlike the dark cavern of the air-conditioning unit, light from below filtered through the panels, leaving a sombre dusk quite different from the hostile darkness of the metal tube. Above him, no more than shoulder height, was a flat roof supported by a double row of stout wooden uprights. Scott stared at them uneasily, wondering how far underground they were and how much weight they were carrying. Recalling the gradual slope of the air duct, he reckoned the roof to be just under the surface. Most likely, loose rock and earth had been scattered on top for camouflage.

It was a long narrow space, cluttered with the usual builders' paraphernalia, lengths of cable running from one end to the other. Down the middle ran a galvanised air duct which rested in a cradle on short metal stirrups. Spaced evenly, these were bolted onto transverse beams, the light framework of the false ceiling pinned to the underside. On either side, partition walls of double block work poked up into the space, reflecting the run of the corridor below with its office-like rooms, the space between the blocks filled with polystyrene foam for insulation. At the far end was a solid brick wall. If Arnulf was right, the cloakroom lay just beyond.

He leant down putting his weight on the metal strips used to keep the panels in place.

‘These'll never hold us.'

‘Use the beams. You'll be okay – you can't weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds.'

‘A hundred and forty-five,' Scott managed to keep his tone light.

Arnulf gave a brief nod and, lifting the slumped torso high into the air, held it steady. Scott grabbed at the arms and pulled. The head flopped backwards, the dead eyes staring up at him. Scott felt his stomach lurch, wanting to throw up. Keeping his face averted, he edged back along the beam, slowly dragging the body after him, its jacket snagging on the rough metal. One of its arms flopped down, jerking erratically across the ceiling panels, the ring on its left hand rapping noisily.

Hilary shot him an anxious look and passed across the long piece of wire. Feeling sick as a dog, Scott worked it under the knees and, looping it round the beam, used the end with the plug to tie a knot.

‘That's good enough.' Arnulf popped his head through the hole in the ceiling.

Scott wiped his hands down his jeans. He crawled to the opening, ignoring Hilary's sympathetic gaze. ‘What now?'

‘When you get out, someone should be waiting.'

‘Who?'

‘No idea.' Arnulf stepped back down onto the floor and shrugged on his jacket, the button straining to fasten across his chest. It was weird, as if the fabric contained magical properties that changed the wearer into a wax work, his stance instantly becoming rigid and wooden again. ‘Got a message a while back that Terry wanted me out. Took no notice, then a couple of nights ago someone contacted me.'

‘Who?' Hilary repeated.

‘No idea. Never did see the guy's face. Told him about my fire exit and he checked it out. Said he'd be back but never showed.' Scott grimaced, guiltily aware he was responsible for Beau not keeping his promise.

‘If no one is waiting, head straight for the hills. There's a good path, six or seven miles will take you to a village. Tourists occasionally use it in winter for skiing. Go to the hotel, ask for Elsa. She's a friend. Incidentally, she was the one Terry contacted first. Tell her.'

‘Aren't you coming?' Hilary said, a pleading note in her voice.

A flicker of amusement broke into the stolid face. ‘Impossible! I'm too big to go crawling around up there. One false move and I'd bring the whole lot down. Besides, if I don't return…' He left the words unsaid. ‘When you catch up with Terry, warn him not to storm this place. It's rigged to flood the air-conditioning with carbon monoxide. And there's a load of innocent kids still here; at least half your group besides regular staff.'

‘I thought they'd already left,' Hilary said.

‘Not this lot. These are the kids they offer jobs; the ones without families, with no one to ask why they didn't return, and always the most easily led by that communist claptrap. Hurry now, before they come looking.'

‘Won't Pete be missed?'

‘I'll tell them he volunteered to burn the bodies in the furnace.'

A shiver of outrage and disgust swept through Scott, all of a sudden glad Pete was dead.

‘See you back in the States.' Arnulf made to fit the panel back into place.

‘Wait.' Hilary put out a hand. ‘Promise you'll get out. We owe you our lives.'

‘I'll do my damnedest,' he said and closed up the ceiling before she could say anything further.

‘Do you think we'll ever see him again?' Scott whispered, following Hilary's jeans-clad legs along the beam, the sole of her trainers flashing like the scut of a rabbit. He moved slowly, uncertain how much weight the narrow beams could take, although neither of them was exactly large.

Hilary called over her shoulder, her reply lost in a whirring of machinery coming from up ahead. He didn't bother asking her to repeat it. It didn't matter anyway. It was unlikely Arnulf would get out whatever the man said about Sean Terry hating to lose his agents. No way could he just walk out. His only chance was if a rescue party was already waiting, like he said.

Shinning over the partitions proved easy, and within moments they were facing the brick wall. Below them, the noise of the machines in the laundry room sounded like a symphony orchestra at full gallop, the drum in the washing machines thudding heavily as it spun round, with metal fastenings on clothes slapping noisily against the metal frame of the driers. Scott sat back on his knees examining the wall for gaps. Nothing obvious apart from a neat hole incised through the brickwork where the heating duct passed through. He tugged at Hilary's sleeve. ‘It's a dead end. We have to go back.'

Shrugging off his hand, Hilary got gingerly to her feet, keeping her head bent to avoid hitting it on the roof. Holding onto one of the uprights, she edged slowly along the wall, testing every brick with her fingers. She pointed triumphantly. In the darkest corner of the apex where the roof met the outer wall, successive layers of brick were missing, leaving a gap large enough to crawl through. ‘Whoever sussed this out was a genius.'

‘It was Beau.'

Astonished, she swung round, her mouth half open ready to ask a question. Losing her balance, her arms whirled frantically teetering on the edge of the light-weight panels. Scott grabbed her, pulling her upright.

‘Don't do that,' she said crossly, brushing away his hand.

Scott grinned with relief. ‘Which, save your life or scare you?'

‘Both! You did say Beau, didn't you?'

‘I did, but it's a long story. I'll tell you later.'

‘I'll keep you to that if there is a later. I'll go first, I'm thinner than you. Here,' she slipped out of her jacket. ‘Hold this.'

Clasping the low wall with both hands, she positioned her head, torso and one leg along the narrow ledge, keeping her weight on her second leg. Balancing carefully, her face turned sideways, she began to slide up her other leg. Scott could see the effort it was taking to keep her balance on the narrow brick shelf, the hand on the nearside of the wall white with strain. She rested a moment then, carefully repeating the manoeuvre, inched her foot down the far side, tumbling down off the wall and out of sight. Scott caught the sound of her feet crunching against some loose mortar and heard a whispered, ‘Give me your jacket and be careful – the ledge this side is pretty dicey.'

Mimicking Hilary's action, Scott lay prone on the wall. It was a close fit, his back scraping the low roof. Unable to see anything, he scrabbled for a foothold on the rough ledge and felt Hilary grab his foot guiding it down onto a solid piece of brick.

Below them, the washroom seemed bathed in silence. Scott hoped that meant the place was deserted, rather than someone reading a newspaper while sitting on the toilet. Keeping one hand firmly on the wall, he knelt down and carefully prised up the panel nearest them.

‘It's safe,' he called over his shoulder and lifted the panel away.

The washroom was quite small, with just enough room for a toilet and wash basin. Showing Hilary how to clamber down, using the top of the cistern as a foot rest, he ran over to the door and eased it open. The corridor was silent.