‘Too late. Been there, done it.’ Palmer’s eyes were carefully blank. He could almost have been telling her he’d taken out the rubbish. ‘Who did this?’
‘Fedorov. He probably pulls legs off spiders in his spare time.’
‘He’s on my list, too. Can you walk? We need to get out of here.’
She nodded, but the movement make her cry out again. Palmer put a gentle hand under her chin, studying her face and neck with care. She hoped she didn’t look as scared as she felt. Palmer always maintained that fear wasn’t so bad. Fear, he claimed, can make you run faster.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said finally. ‘Hell — these people don’t know who they’re dealing with, do they?’ His voice was calm, solid and reassuring, as always. Typical Palmer at a time of crisis — trying to deflect her attention away from bad news. Yet there was something in his voice, and she noticed he was standing between her and the mirrors.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said softly. ‘But thank you.’ She felt some of the tension ebb away, his calmness reassuring and contagious. God, it was good to know he was here, and on her side. ‘I’m good. Really.’
‘You will be, I promise.’ He stared into her eyes, willing her to take in every word, to cut through whatever she was feeling. ‘I’ve seen stuff like this before. It’ll heal, I guarantee.’ He glanced towards he door. ‘Now, shall we break out of the asylum?’
‘Yes, please. I’ve had it with this place.’
‘Good. Now listen. You’re going down the emergency stairway. You’ll be in decent light all the way, so don’t stop, don’t look back. When you reach the main lobby, head straight for the front door. Go out and keep going. Szulu is out there waiting for you. Got it?’
She nodded dumbly, then reached out and took her shoe from his hand. She took the other one off and held them both. She could run easier without them. ‘What will you be doing?’
Palmer smiled enigmatically. ‘I’ve got some clearing up to do.’ He took a gun out of his pocket and inspected it. ‘It’s a cheap bit of Czech rubbish, but for what I’ve got to do, it’ll be fine.’
‘Palmer-’ Riley wanted him to leave it, to get him to come down the stairs with her away from all this. To leave Fedorov and his thugs for someone else to deal with. She’d never heard him talk this way before, and was frightened for him.
But he placed a finger against her lips and gently shushed her, and she knew there was no changing his mind. Since hearing about Helen, there never had been.
‘No arguments, kid,’ he said firmly. ‘We don’t have time. Don’t worry — I’m not going to do anything daft. Well, not too daft, anyway. How’s the cat?’
‘He’s fine. Built like he is, why was I worried?’ She held onto his arm and flexed both legs in turn, the numbness and tingling gradually receding. If she could blank out the pain in her neck and face, she’d be fine. ‘Varley’s here. Vasiliyev. And Fedorov has two other men at least.’
‘I know. Don’t worry — I’ll chase them round the building until they get tired.’ He led her over to the door and opened it a crack, listening. Then he glanced back. ‘You ready to roll?’
She nodded. Palmer opened the door and stepped outside. Silence. He motioned her forward, leading her towards the emergency stairs. When they reached the door, he pushed it open and pointed downwards, mouthing the word, ‘Go’.
Riley hesitated for a second, then did as she was told. When she reached the bottom of the first flight, she glanced back. The door was closing and Palmer had already gone.
She turned and continued on down. Her breathing sounded harsh and loud in the confined space, and her head was pounding. The burns were a constant fire under the shifting clothing, each movement of her arms and shoulders bringing a further bout of torture. Too much noise, she thought, dully. Too much… bloody noise. They’d hear her coming from Belgium at this rate. On the other hand, she told herself fiercely, if anyone tried to stop her, they’d get a two-inch heel in the eye for their troubles. If only she still had Palmer’s baton.
She spun past the next landing, sobbing against the fire in her skin, and kicked open the door. Too hard; the restraint was broken and it bounced against the wall, reverberating through the building like a twenty-one gun salute. Damn. Too late to worry now. She had to get out of here or Palmer would think she was a real wuss.
Down to the next floor. Bits of grit on the stairs, digging into her bare feet. She caught her ankle against a sharp edge, and felt the skin break. She ignored it. No time for pain. The alternative was far worse. Still no sounds of pursuit, but she had the ground floor to negotiate, which was the most dangerous part of the building. It would be like running across a bare, well-lit landscape.
She charged down the final flight of steps, through the fire door and saw the door to the basement facing her.
And a body lying bundled into the corner.
She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she guessed by the cheap suit that it was one of Fedorov’s thugs.
She hesitated, momentarily forgetting Palmer’s instructions. The words NO ENTRY stood out in big lettering on the basement door, a tempting invitation. Then his words clicked in again. Good advice, she thought; too many people in films went right up to the roof or down to the cellar, and promptly met disaster.
She turned and ran towards the main doors. And skidded to a stop.
A tall figure was standing with his back to her. He turned.
It was Vasiliyev.
46
Riley’s felt a stab of despair. Was this as far as she went? She had almost made it! Life really wasn’t fair.
Vasiliyev looked indomitable, balanced evenly on the balls of his feet, like a fighter waiting for an opponent to attack. But there was a subtle difference. He seemed thinner, less sleek, somehow, and his clothes, once so elegant, had lost their sheen. Or was it simply the man wearing them, she thought, his bearing now diminished in her eyes?
‘I didn’t want any of this, Riley,’ he said softly. Now, for the first time, Riley thought she could detect the faintest trace of another accent in his voice. Or maybe knowing his origins, and who he was — what he was — had begun to play tricks with her imagination.
‘You didn’t do much to stop it,’ she pointed out accusingly. Her breathing was laboured and she coughed as she stooped to put her shoes on. She winced as the pain in her feet and ankle blossomed to join the other hurts. It probably didn’t matter anymore whether she wore the shoes or not, but she was damned if she was going to stand here barefoot. As for using them as a weapon, it was a non-starter; this man was built like a tree. ‘What do you do now — finish me off and then vanish back to your mafiya pals?’ Her voice dripped with contempt, and she wondered how she could have been taken in by him. Then she realised that maybe she hadn’t; that deep down, there had always been something about him that had held her back. ‘Is this the end of the game — Vasiliyev? Or is that also a false name?’
A flicker of something touched his eyes. It might have been regret, she thought. Or surprise. Could men like him ever experience much in the way of emotion?
‘It’s Radko.’ He brushed a weary hand across his face. ‘Radko Vasiliyev. None of this was supposed to happen, Riley. I thought I had it all under control. It was… ’ He shrugged and gave the faintest of smiles. ‘Meeting you, I guess I forgot for a while just who I was dealing with. I doubt they’ll let me make that mistake again.’ He sounded genuinely sorry.
A door banged overhead, the noise echoing down the stairs. It was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. The newcomer was shouting something unintelligible. Riley guessed it must be Russian.
She looked towards the main doors, then at Vasiliyev. She wanted to suggest something — anything — that might offer a way out. To tell him to run, perhaps, to say he could give himself up or simply disappear into the night. But something wouldn’t let her. If he was going to do anything, he had to decide for himself.