Before Joe could call a warning to watch his back, Bill put a finger to his lips, telling him to remain silent. He stood smiling grimly at them. He drew a second gun from his pocket, holding it in his left hand. The spare. Joe recognised it as a .22 pistol. Probably the one he’d used on Natalia. “That’s better. That’s good. Now we won’t be interrupted. I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
He moved swiftly towards Kingstone and, deftly reversing the heavy Colt, he smashed it into the man’s face. Kingstone collapsed groaning onto the ground, blood beginning to flow from his mouth and nose. Still conscious, Joe thought, as the eyes flashed up at him briefly in appeal. But badly hurt. He’d been too startled to move his head back with the blow and he’d taken a cruncher.
“What the hell …!” Joe made to dash to the senator’s aid.
“Back off!” The Colt, right way round again, emphasised the command.
“Bugger you, Bill! What are you up to?”
“Carrying out an execution. And you’re going to help. This toe rag’s a traitor. Hadn’t you worked it out? And I thought you were smart! I tried to warn you. My firm’s had their eye on him for months. I’ve been charged with sorting out the problem. On foreign soil for choice. And if a British and highly respected copper finds he has to kill a renegade resisting arrest, there’ll be no comeback for the FBI. This is big, Sandilands and it stinks. More convenient for my government to contain the whole sorry mess and dispose of it well away from home.”
Joe was struggling to make sense of this. “But you saved Kingstone’s life—killing Natalia! If you wanted him dead why not stand back and let her oblige? What are you thinking, you barmy bugger?”
Was that doubt or irritation narrowing the sergeant’s eyes for a moment?
“She jumped the gun. Messed up. He was always my partner, my responsibility. I got my final orders in the hall this morning. He’s done or said something that’s made him surplus to requirements. ‘Kill him within an hour of leaving the conference.’ Those are orders you don’t disobey.”
Joe was bewildered and exasperated. This made no sense. “Of course you do! You’re a man with a mind of your own, not an automaton! What’s happened to you, Bill? Look here—I won’t be involved with your patriotic pigtail-pulling and wrist-slapping!” Joe’s anger was making him reckless. “Get a grip, man!”
“Or what—you’ll put me on latrine duty for a month? Stuff the officer talk. They’re giving you no choice. Here, take this!”
To Joe’s surprise, Armitage held out his Colt.
In his uncertainty, any gun would have felt reassuring in Joe’s grip. He took it, his finger reaching automatically for the trigger and held it down by his side.
“I’ve lent you my Police Positive, Sandilands,” Armitage said. “Your fingerprints will be found all over the stock of the gun that shot the senator. Clear as day. Go on then. It won’t be the first man you’ve killed and you’ll be doing the world a favour. You could do it in the trenches. You can do it now. If you need a reason, I’ll give you one. The best.” The voice lost its challenging flourish and took on the directness of a bayonet thrust as he added: “This piece of shit was planning to assassinate his own president.”
“Nonsense! Kingstone would never …”
“He’s about to spring a military coup against Roosevelt. He’s planning to use the army to take over Washington.” Two more thrusts to Joe’s heart.
Joe looked from one to the other, confused, knowing only that he was being used. “I don’t believe that!”
“No one’s interested in what you believe. Just for once in your life, shut your mouth and listen to what someone’s telling you! No time for your verbal prestidigitation, old man.” For a moment, the lip curled in scorn, then, with a return to his usual earnest tone: “Take it from me, Sandilands, one killing here in the park will prevent millions on the battlefield. Hasn’t that always been our aim? We fought our war to end war and if one last push is all it takes, well, that won’t hurt, will it? It’s a small price—the quick death of one traitor. I didn’t drag you out of the mud to have you foul up just when you can truly serve your country—and mine.”
“Who’s been feeding you this drivel, Bill?”
Armitage looked into Joe’s horrified face, shook his head and murmured, “This man doesn’t deserve to live. No way he can be allowed to open his mouth in court. This way’s clean and quick. Go ahead. Your back will be covered. At the highest level. You know how it works. You’ve wielded the brush in more than one state white-washing yourself. Seen you do it. You’ll come out of it smelling of roses. As ever. A hero. In line for yet another promotion. Come on, Captain—do your duty. England expects … the world expects … Old Horatio wouldn’t have dithered.”
At the use of the joking reference to his army rank, Joe looked from his sergeant’s familiar features smiling at him, invoking Admiral Nelson, and across the path to the bloodied and contorted face of the man now hauling himself to his knees. Unable to speak, Kingstone snarled his hatred and tried to stand and take his bullet on his feet. Joe raised the gun.
There was still a smile on Armitage’s face and he nodded encouragement as the barrel came up and took unwavering aim. Without a word, Joe pulled the trigger.
The dry click of a hammer on an empty chamber is the most harrowing sound in the world if you’re holding the gun. The gloating face of your intended target, the most unnerving sight. Armitage went on grinning in triumph. Without much hope, Joe kept the gun trained on the sergeant’s heart and he pulled the trigger again. Nothing.
“Oh, how inconvenient! No bullets! Well what do you know! I always wondered where I stood with you, Captain. Now I know for sure. Where I’ve always stood—just so much cannon-fodder. Expendable. I should be dead. For the second time! You were eager to put a noose round my neck seven years ago. Ungrateful sod! I can drop you with a clear conscience and no uncertainties.” And, with a burst of irritation: “You can stop looking over my shoulder in that stagy way. I know all the tricks you know—and more. There’s no cavalry about to dash up and save you. That greasy Branchman you keep on a lead is down at the Savoy sorting out the Frogs’ loose interpretation of room service. Now—something else I’ve been looking forward to—a dish eaten cold, did you call it? Well, caviar’s served on ice, isn’t it?” He raised the .22 and stepped closer. “I’m breaking my first rule of killing: keep your trap shut and just shoot. But this is special. I’ve waited years and I’m savouring the moment. I’ll remember you, Captain, when I raise my glass of champagne at the Ritz tonight. Little Miss Ivanova and I will make time in our romantic evening to murmur your name. Both your names, as we sip our Bollinger.”
Kingstone’s croak of protest was obliterated by the crack of a gunshot reverberating around the grove of trees. A bullet smacked into the tree a foot above Joe’s head. Joe fell automatically into a crouch, eyes searching the shrubbery from where it must have come. A missed shot? A warning?
The second shot did not miss its target.
Armitage, a look of astonishment on his face, had swung round, covering the shrubs with his .22 and the next bullet caught him squarely in the chest. A third tore through the muscles and bone of his upper arm. He reeled backward then sank to his knees, blood spouting from both wounds. The .22 slithered to the ground in a rush of blood.