'He escaped three days ago.'
'From Gulanka?'
'Listen,' I said. 'This frees you too. Make a note of this address and get there as soon as you can. Do not drive your car away from the theatre. Get a taxi – if it breaks down or runs out of petrol, stay inside and ask the driver to get you another. Do not show yourself on the street – Sakkas' bodyguards will be hunting for you. The people whose address I've just given you will protect you and get you to London. You'll go by train to St Petersberg and fly from there. In London you'll be looked after until it's safe for you to come out and resume your career. Look for me in the audience one night. I want to see you dance again.'
Now it was time to phone Sakkas. I got a minion on the line and said, 'Tell Sakkas that Marius Antanov is back in Moscow.'
A few moments later an icy voice said, 'I don't believe so.'
'He escaped from Gulanka three days ago and he's ready to blow you.'
His voice was cool and alert. 'Who is this speaking?'
'You don't know me. I'm just a businessman and I have a deal for you.'
'How much will it cost?'
'A hundred million dollars.'
'And do I get the girl back?' he said.
'Of course.'
I gave him the rendezvous.
The Mercedes limousine was punctual, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the street from the abandoned fire station. Other cars followed, spilling their occupants under the neon glow of the lamps. I counted eighteen guards, each with an AK-47 slung from the shoulder. The doors of the Mercedes remained closed.
I crossed the street, aware of all that fire power concentrated on me. The tinted glass of the rear window slid down six inches as I approached. His blue eyes, like chips of ice, bored into me.
'Where's little Marius?' he said.
I pointed at the fire station. 'He's inside with three lawyers and a banker. They're waiting to draw up the contracts to transfer the funds to a bank in Switzerland.'
'What's in it for you?'
'I get a cut.'
He looked past me at the building through the flurries of snow. A light from the first-floor window shone dimly through the gloom. For a moment a figure was silhouetted there. He raised a hand in salute. Marius. Even in a bullet-proof vest it was a risk. He was a brave man.
'Bring him down,' said Sakkas and stepped out of the car. The snow landed on the black sable of his coat. I shrugged.
'I'll bring him to the door.'
The nerves tingled on the back of my neck as I turned my back on him and walked across the street. Here was the moment of truth. If Sakkas did not trust me he only had to nod his head and his guards would blow me to shreds.
As I stepped into the building the shot rang out. A single round from a 1.2mm Parabellum Deerslayer, I would have said. A man-killer at any range.
The great iron door of the fire station crashed behind me, cutting off the confusion outside as Legge's private army went into action. Behind the thick walls of the great building the sound of gunfire was muffled.
A fleck of debris hit the rusting fire-bell and left a faint note floating on the air.
AFTERWORD
by Jean-Pierre Trevor
I am high above the desert and the thermals created by the 115-degree heat pitch the 737 around. The prepare-for-landing tone sounds so I sit down and start slow breathing to calm myself. Flying makes me nervous.
From my window at 17,000 feet I can see where I'll be staying – an Arabian horse ranch down there in the baking desert. This is summer and the Arizona desert is one of the hottest places on earth. In a few minutes we will be landing at Phoenix Skyharbour International. About 200 miles south of here, buried in the sand dunes of Buttercup Valley, are the remains of the plane that was used for the film The Flight of the Phoenix. Myfather wrote the book in the sixties and was brought out from France as technical director on the production.
The turbulence increases as the plane slows. I jot some thoughts down, notice how clammy my hands are. I am also nervous because of what I am about to face. I pray it won't happen.
I am going to visit a dying man known to millions of people as Adam Hall, the creator of Quiller. He is also my father, Elleston Trevor.
Arriving at the ranch under burnt skies, I greet Chaille, my father's wife, who has been battling by his side during his illness for the past two years.
I go into the living room, the walls framed with book jackets, mostly of the Quiller series, and then into a darkened room. The only sounds are from a machine that keeps a special air mattress inflated, the humming of the air-conditioning and a bell tinkling in Katrina the husky's collar. Resting on a mound of pillows is my father.
Softly I say, 'Hello.'
His eyes open slowly. 'Hello, JP.'
I stroke his forehead.
Outside the summer storm clouds are gathering. I look at this spectacular display of power and think: Please heal my father. I pray for a miracle and a small voice inside me says: Let him go if that is his wish…
Yet he wants to live so much. And Quiller Balalaika is pages short and this weighs heavily on him. I offer to set up a laptop so he can write. He says yes. I sit on the bed next to him and we try for a few minutes but he is too weak. Part of me resents Quiller because he reminds me of the shield my father has had to keep in place all his life. Maybe if Quiller was vulnerable he wouldn't exist. And right now my father is the most vulnerable I've ever seen him, so I'm very confused.
The next day when I go into his room he looks like someone who has had a huge burden lifted from his shoulders. I take his hand. 'Hello, Papa.'
'I'd like to work on the book if I may, JP.'
'Of course. Just give me a minute, I'll get the laptop.'
Chaille tells me that for three hours early this morning they talked of his distress at being stuck between life and death. It has given my father the spirit to write more.
We begin. There are long moments of silence as he creates Quiller and I look at his etched face, backlit from the desert light. Sometimes whole minutes drift by when I feel I am holding a flame that has been burning for years and the slightest breath will extinguish it forever. Then a word or a sentence, then more silence. The nurses know he is writing and stay in the living room.
'That's it.'
My father speaks the words in a slow voice. He turns as I turn and we look at each other, a few inches between us, he on his throne of pillows, me with a shaking laptop on my knees.