Constantine stood up and let out another muffled shot, more out of fear than necessity. Inside the bedroom, a corpse was oozing blood on the intricate pattern of the carpet.
Squeezing the gun handle, Constantine’s hand was slippery with sweat. His heart thumped. Around him, the colors seemed duller, the sounds fainter, the time slower.
But his mind raced like a light beam.
What alternatives did he have? What should he do? Wait in the room like a sitting duck? Or go outside and catch a slug in the head?
No time to think.
He rushed out of the bedroom and ran to the solid oak staircase, gun in one hand, the case in the other.
The second floor was empty. No one was shooting at him.
He hurried down the stairs, each crashing stride resonating in his temples. Reaching the ground floor, he stopped in his tracks, appalled by the ghastly image of Frau Hasler sprawled at the front door. The simple plump face had grown into a rigid mask of terror, features distorted, teeth bared. Mirth in her eyes had been washed off by streaks of blood that ran from a gunshot wound in her forehead. Her white apron had mopped up bright stains of blood as if to undo the damage.
She didn’t deserve an end like this, Constantine thought. A languid flow of life defiled and torn off so perversely.
Without warning, a strike came down against the nape of his neck, felling him. His skull thundered with exploding pain.
Before he could begin to recover, a kick connected with his spine.
He half-opened his eyes and saw Andrei Borisov leering at him, Berreta in hand.
“The roles reversed, pal,” Borisov laughed. “This is how you met me, and now I’ll see you off.”
He held the Beretta inches from Constantine’s head.
Borisov’s finger tightened over the trigger, and his eyes flashed with genuine satisfaction.
In that instant, Constantine swung his leg up in a frenzied kick, hitting Borisov in the groin.
Hard.
The former bodyguard toppled.
Gritting his teeth, doubled over, Borisov still had a firm hold on his Beretta.
Constantine reached for the small holster strapped on Borisov’s leg.
He found it and yanked out the revolver.
Thrashing, Borisov kicked him away.
Overcoming his pain, enraged, the bodyguard whipped out the Beretta, Constantine in his aim.
The gunshot opened up a wound in his head as Constantine fired.
14
Liechtenstein was so small that it would be no wonder if the gunshots had been heard in both Switzerland and Austria.
Constantine knew that he had to flee. Fast. Wiping his fingerprints off the weapons was pointless. He had left his prints all over the house anyway, as well as some blood from the gash cleaved on his neck by the Beretta. More than enough evidence for forensic experts.
He grabbed the briefcase. On his way out, he had to frisk Andrei Borisov once more, like he had done in the morning, with the exception that Borisov was now dead. Overcoming the revulsion of close physical contact with the body, he found the electronic key to the Porsche Cayenne. As soon as he had it in his fingers, he rushed away, as if escaping a plague.
He exited the house of death through the rear door, out on the portico, and headed towards the pine forest. Reaching the trees, he followed the edge of the hill, circling the hamlet. When he emerged from the forest, he found the hiking path that led back to Triesenberg.
No matter how fast his legs carried him away from the scene of massacre, the images chased him. He had crossed the line discerning humans from animals. He had killed. True, he had done so in self-defense. He had beaten professional assassins only because his will to survive had been greater than their commitment to murder.
But was he innocent of guilt?
He had not been forced to kill by circumstance — being in the wrong place at the wrong time — but rather by the contents of the attaché case, and his own urge to use the power of the documents within it.
It was a deadly sin predetermined one year ago, a part of the insanity he had plunged into. He had to end it all.
Do you want to reclaim your life?
Destroy anyone standing in your path!
The documents could help him achieve both ends.
There was no way back for him now. He had to deliver the attaché case to the Metropolitan.
To Moscow.
Ilia’s sources were powerful enough to use the material in full and protect him. It had been Malinin’s ultimate intention.
The car was still parked near the church, waiting for its master, unaware that it had changed hands. Constantine approached the Cayenne, struggling not to look around for witnesses of his rightful theft, for fear of appearing exactly like a thief, and drawing suspicion. He slid into the seat, threw the briefcase somewhere behind, and shut the door forcefully. The effect of a protective shell around him was reassuring. The stench of blood, the pain, the fear remained outside. He was inside. He was regaining control of his senses, the numbness of shock thawing off.
He brought the key to ignition, but saw that his hand was shaking so fiercely that he was unable to insert the key. Only on his third attempt did he manage it, every iota of willpower required to steady himself. Even though his hand no longer trembled, his mind was reeling.
He pulled out from the parking lot and drove out of town, accelerating on the main highway.
The 4.5-liter engine purred under the Porsche’s hood playfully, intruding into his thoughts, calming him as he forced his concentration on the soft sound. The road from Triesenberg to Vaduz was familiar. From then on he relied on the GPS navigation screen. Shortly, the B191 took Constantine out of Liechtenstein, becoming B190 already in Austria. Past Innsbruck, he charged north on the E60. Only a roadside plaque denoted the German border. As he sped over the invisible line separating the two countries, something churned inside Constantine. Apprehension, anxiety, déjà vu? All of that, perhaps.
He had returned to the country of his childhood — Germany. A different country, unified and prosperous, but the same land. And exactly as decades ago, he was returning from this land back home — to Russia.
A different Russia, indeed, but his only home.
The German autobahns allowed the Cayenne Turbo S to demonstrate its superiority over conventional transport, breezing along the roads in the rays of a lateral sunset, sometimes giving him the bravery to charge at 250 kilometres per hour. A dark night had settled by the time he reached Berlin — starry like in Van Gogh’s painting. The warped sky swirled around the lights, making Constantine dizzy. His vision blurred. He had traveled 800 kilometers from Vaduz and had another 1,600 ahead of him. He had to leave the remainder until tomorrow. In a single day he had crossed France, passed through Switzerland and Liechtenstein, survived a gunfight, and spent six hours behind the wheel of the Porsche, all the way through Austria, and deep into Germany. Trying to battle fatigue was becoming too dangerous. His muscles ached with stress.
According to the laws of the Bundesrepublik, all shops would be closed at this late hour, except for those at 24-hour gas stations. He found one, and stopped to refill the Porsche’s tank. In the grocery store he bought provisions — sandwiches, chocolate bars and water. Unwilling to leave more traces of his presence than absolutely necessary, he decided against a motel, so he permitted himself a three-hour nap in the back of the Cayenne.
By noon, he entered Poland. There, on the outskirts of the EU, the countryside was paltry, unable to boast the developed roads and myriad lights, a rural cousin awaiting hand-me-downs from wealthy relatives. In Warsaw, he was surprised to see a touch of France — a Carrefour hypermarket. He chose its multi-level underground parking lot as another temporary stopover, gearing up before the final 1000-kilometer charge to the finish line. A change of fresh clothes bought in the store was more than welcome, as was a paper cup of hot coffee from Carrefour’s food court. He needed a clear mind.