“I never actually found him, sir. He wasn’t at home.” Farrell’s voice crackled defensively.
“And you checked the girlfriend’s?”
“Yessir. Place is empty. She’s AWOL.”
“Think they’re together?”
Farrell clicked his tongue. “Hard to say.”
“He’s onto something.” Potzner jammed the receiver under his chin, grabbed his coat and stuffed his cigarettes into a pocket. “And he doesn’t trust us. Stay where you are — I’m on my way.”
An hour and ten later they were outside Dracup’s flat. His car was parked in its allocated space. Potzner checked it out. A couple of CDs lay on the passenger seat; a few books in the back. Nothing unusual. Farrell took the front steps two at a time and waited at the door. He signalled to Potzner, whose sixth sense was already vibrating like a tuning fork. The door was ajar, a minute crack of darkness. Potzner joined Farrell at the top of the steps, listened briefly at the latch then nodded to Farrell’s unspoken question. He began the time-honoured countdown. On the count of two his P-229 was nestled comfortingly in his right hand. Three. Farrell’s foot hit the door hard and they spun into the room, crouching, one on either side of the front door.
Potzner’s first impression was that some basketball player was rifling through Dracup’s possessions. Absurdly his mind replayed a Harlem Globetrotters point — it had been a great match, and some piece of entertainment when the centre dummied then spun the ball into the basket with the wonderful leisurely disdain for the opposition that had made the ’Trotters a global phenomenon. He remembered it well — even down to the burger he’d eaten that night. Must have been ’79 or ’80? Abigail had been with him, and had turned to share the enjoyment of the moment. Her eyes were wide with pleasure; there was a small ketchup stain on her chin and he loved her for it. All this fast-forwarded through Potzner’s mind as he levelled the handgun and his lips framed a warning.
The intruder straightened up. The guy was over two metres, surely — his head would’ve scraped the ceiling in a normal apartment. Maybe it was the bandana that added to the impression of extraordinary height. He was holding something — Dracup’s laptop — unplugging the snaking connection from the wall socket.
Freeze. Farrell’s order came loud and clear. The man hesitated, sizing them up. Potzner was confident. There was nowhere to go; they had the exit covered. “I said get your hands up.” Potzner began to move forward, creeping across the polished floor like a ballet dancer on rice paper. And then the man did something odd. He smiled. Potzner felt rather than heard Farrell just behind and to his right, supporting, watching. Then the warning: “Sir!” But Potzner had seen it too, a smooth, unhurried movement from the large hands in which two small cylinders had appeared. They detached themselves and rolled gently along the parquet towards them, bumping in an irregular pattern as the asymmetrical shapes found their rhythm on the slippery surface.
His immediate thought was No way… not this time. He’d been on the receiving end of this kind of welcome before — on a standard patrol, even before the hell of Chu Pa. A quiet morning, ten buddies together, talking about home, girls, movies. No Charlie around — they were told the area had been cleared. And then the sudden shock, the air filled with rifle fire; three of his friends falling red-shirted to the jungle floor. Then came the lethal canisters of explosive, some airborne, some clanking along the path, the sudden dull thump of ignition, cries of surprise rather than pain on either side. And himself, somehow, unscathed in their midst. Still alive, the only one that by some quirk of physics or geometry had avoided the whirling metal and was doomed to face the accusing stares of the boys back at camp. So you made it? Too bad about Chuck, and Rich, and Al. They had clapped him on the back, left him to his guilt.
Farrell articulated all this in one word: “Grenade!”
Potzner threw himself at the nearest cover — the sofa — and found Farrell just ahead of him. The rolling death passed them by and rebounded off the skirting board by the bathroom. Then the sofa was driven back on a cushion of warm air, pinning Potzner to the ground. His eyes were filled with stinging smoke and a loud, whistling shriek invaded his ears just as the second grenade exploded. He felt the patter of shrapnel on the leather of the sofa’s backrest, and something hit his shoe with a sharp report. It felt like he’d been stamped on by a horse. He yelled and drew his legs in, waiting for another packet of explosive to come rolling along. Potzner clutched his pistol and made himself as small as he could. He had no intention of dying under a sofa. A few moments later when his instincts told him the danger had passed he broke cover and surveyed the scene with practiced thoroughness. They were alone in the apartment.
“He’s out,” he called to Farrell. But Farrell was already moving through the smoke towards the gaping hole in the wall that had previously supported Dracup’s front door. The apartment was a chaos of brick fragments and mortar; flame licked lazily up the blackened woodwork of the bathroom doorframe, exposing vulnerable electrics beneath stricken plaster.
Coughing and hacking they burst into the air. Dracup’s car was moving. Potzner clipped off a couple of shots, but Farrell laid a restraining arm on his shoulder. “Forget it. He’s out of here.” A small crowd had begun to gather, their shocked expressions accusatory and fearful. How should they engage with these two strangers who appeared to be responsible for what had just occurred? Questions began to fly from the crowd, some of concern, some openly hostile. “You all right?” “What’s your game, mate?”
Potzner waved them away with his pistol, as if swatting a swarm of irritating flies. Farrell moved amongst them. “It’s all over, folks. Nothing to see.” He flapped his open wallet at them. “Police business. Now move on. Move on.” He turned to Potzner. “You okay, sir?”
Potzner made a quick examination. His right foot squelched in its shoe; there was no pain. That would come later. He sat on what remained of the doorstep and inspected the damage. A jagged tear criss-crossed his leather upper. His fingers probed the gash and came away red. He cursed under his breath, then a little louder for the benefit of one woman who remained staring, mouth open, with shopping spilling from a supermarket carrier onto the rubble-strewn pavement. That hit the button. She fled, trailing her bargains behind her.
“I’m fine, Farrell. Just hunky-D.”
“He was packing some serious kit, sir.” Farrell helped Potzner struggle upright. “Kinda caught me out there.”
“Yeah. I guess that about covers it.” Potzner winced as he tested his full weight on the foot. Damnation. He’d need to get it seen to.
“Shall I call a paramedic, sir?”
“An ambulance, Farrell, an ambulance. This is England, not LA.”
“Right. An ambulance.”
“No. I do not want an ambulance. Just get a fix on that car, and get after Dracup. He can’t be far away. And get me to ER — I’ll direct you to the hospital.”
Farrell allowed himself a small grin. “Sir, I believe the Brits call it ‘Casualty’.”
Three hours later Potzner emerged from the hospital. He’d been lucky. Superficial damage only; five stitches, no broken bones. Hurt like hell though. He popped one of the prescribed pills and called a minicab. He watched the passing trade in broken humanity, raw materials for some junior doctor. Potzner hated hospitals; he’d spent enough time in their sterile embrace, heard the whispered conversations, the fearful encouragements, the bravery of the terminally ill. He was glad when the cab arrived. Sitting in the back he checked the time. Time to be an encourager yourself, Jim. He tapped the shortcut key and waited.