Bursting from the upstairs bathroom, he collided with the second man, who had just reached the top of the stairs. It was one of the young Austrian guards, a member of Ecker’s second-generation clones. He was at a clear disadvantage, as his right foot had not yet reached the safety of the landing, and Michael was moving at speed. Ducking instinctively, the soldier tried to avoid the collision, but Michael’s knee came up to greet his rapidly descending chin, catapulting him backwards down the stairs. Michael kept pace with the man’s descent, taking two, then three steps at a time, the whole scene playing out for him in slow motion. He watched as the man’s head impacted with the staircase wall, the plasterboard shattering in a cloud of dust and debris. The man’s momentum pressed his head back into an impossible angle, so that his face was pressed hard into the cavity in the wall. His limp body crashed onto the L-shaped landing in the middle of the staircase like a puppet. Hurdling the body, Michael made for the lounge, only to see his way blocked by a second intruder. The first young soldiers double, his arms stretched out towards him, holding a pistol. Michael sensed the gunshot before he felt the impact.
He awoke lying flat out in the back of a van surrounded by electronic equipment. Two banks of control panels covered both sides of the vehicle. Michael lay in the aisle they formed in the middle of the van, his hands tied tightly behind his back and his feet bound together with plastic cable ties. A searing pain filled his chest cavity, making it difficult to breathe and clamping his ribs together as if they were held in a vice. The fierce pain in his lungs felt as if it may squeeze the last breath from his body, and his only consolation was that Hofmann had no chance of escape. Quickly getting his bearings, Michael looked around, some forgotten training forcing him to act, helping him to assess his situation. A man sat over him, talking into a headset.
“ETA twenty-five minutes. We have the documents the Jarvis woman printed out, as well as the computer. We left the place a mess; they will think it was a robbery. She is traveling in the lead car and should be with you in ten.”
The squawking in his headset was too quiet for Michael to hear, but it was quite obvious what was happening. They were on their way to the club, where they would be interrogated, and most likely killed. The clone who had shot him sat on a typical office chair in front of the console, the chair’s casters allowing it to move backwards and forwards with the van’s motion. Michael waited till the van took a left corner, then kicked hard at the stool’s central leg. The man hurtled towards the driver’s compartment, both man and stool parting company with the floor. Even Michael was surprised by the force he had been able to muster. The man’s headset had been securely attached to the instrument panel in front of him, and as it started to retard his head’s movement, he parted company with the chair, falling back in Michael’s direction. A second kick of the legs directed at the man’s head had a similar effect to the one the staircase wall had inflicted on his unfortunate twin, snapping his neck. The van’s brakes were now being applied, and Michael felt himself being pressed towards the front of the vehicle. Pulling his legs up under his chin, he leant back into the van’s floor, planting his feet firmly against the van’s dividing wall. He allowed the moving floor to help him press his arms and hands down and under his bottom. Pulling them up between the wall and the tips of his toes, he ignored the pain in his shoulders as they tried to escape their sockets. He was on his feet by the time he heard the van’s back doors open behind him. Gripping a handle built into the van’s ceiling, he swung his feet in the direction of the opening door, kicking hard at the last moment. The door’s impact with the driver was perfect, throwing him off balance and sitting him down hard on the road. The pistol he had been holding skipped down the road’s dividing white lines, followed by Michael, who was jumping as fast as he could after it. By the time the driver was back on his feet, it was too late. Michael had the gun pointed at his chest. He did not wait for a surrender. There would be no prisoners—there was no time. Michael fired the weapon without a thought, releasing the bullet at the man’s heart. The impact sent a cloud of crimson blood up into the young man’s shocked face before sitting him down in the road for a final time that night. Michael had expected a rubber bullet; there was no other reason that he was still alive. But this had certainly been the real thing and didn’t allow the shooter the privilege of a change of mind. Hopping to the side of the country road, Michael bit through the plastic handcuffs and quickly untied his feet, before returning to the body and pulling the driver onto the pavement. Only then did he realise the whole event had taken place in the blaze of a car’s headlights. The van had stopped at a point in the road where there were no houses, but a car sat in the middle of the road some fifty metres away. Holding his hands up so as not to alarm the driver, he stared into the lights. There was no movement, no sound. Pulling his empty hand down to shield his eyes, he called out to the driver.
“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”
Nothing changed. A minute passed. I can’t stay here for fuck’s sake.
“Come out, I won’t hurt you. Please!”
He had no choice. Running in the direction of the headlights, he expected the car to rev into life and either drive over him or try to reverse away, but neither happened. Within a few metres, the reason became apparent. The front windscreen was shattered, and the body of a young woman lay in the driver’s seat. Her mouth hung open, her eyes unseeing, staring into a dark eternity. Michael’s guilt evaporating he turned and went back to the van, slamming the back doors shut, and jumping into the driver’s cabin. Jamming his foot onto the accelerator, the vehicle took off, lurching into its lane and speeding off in the direction of Gallery Street.
Listening to the events in the control room from the van’s microphones, Von Klitzing didn’t need an explanation of what had happened. Hofmann and Jarvis had become a liability.
“Send a team—kill him!” he ordered.
“Yes, sir. What should we do with the woman?”
“I will deal with her. Have her taken to the interrogation room.” Von Klitzing’s face was ashen, his brow creased.
You will regret this, Jarvis. Your wife will regret this!
35
The oak table was filled by the board’s swollen ranks. Heinz Hofmann was the only omission. Each of the original board members sat in their usual positions, the three reawakened sons present for the first time and regaled in military uniform, all standing to attention behind their chairs at the head of the table.
Von Klitzing addressed the table.
“Gentlemen, I have some bad news. I am afraid that Herr Hofmann will not be joining us. He will never be joining us. The recall therapy has failed. This evening, he killed three of our men and is, at this moment, on the run. He has been working with Jarvis’s wife to undermine the company and intended to go to the police with evidence they have collected. I had no choice but to give the order to terminate him. His wife is in our custody, and I will be interrogating her later. At this time, we do not believe that they were able to pass on any information to the authorities that could be detrimental to our mission.” Taking his chair as if he had just read the table the lunch menu, Von Klitzing laid his hands in his lap and looked to his right.
Reichard’s son moved forward without being invited.
“My name is Hans Bremen. Heil Hitler.” His heels slammed together as his right arm straightened into the Nazi salute, tearing through the blue grey cigar smoke that filled the room and hovered in a cloud above the men’s heads. The two men next to him followed his lead with a joint volley of salutes.