The door opened easily. Sean let go of the handle and sank to the ground once more, anticipating a shot at chest level. He pushed the jamb, allowing the remains of the light to fall into the room. An old set of chairs and a dining table nestled against a corner. A couple of tattered armchairs faced a black iron fireplace.
Two shots rang out, coming from the front. They must have spotted Finch. Poor bugger.
A round struck the concrete floor, making a sharp phutt. Sean rolled as a silenced machine gun stuttered, stitching a line of pock marks in the ground. A long arm reached through the gap, grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him in. The door slammed shut and another hand grasped his wrist in an iron grip. Someone wrenched the gun away, sending it spinning across the room. He was hauled to his feet by an immensely strong man whose breath stank of rotting meat. Another person grabbed his arms and zipped them with plastic cuffs.
One of the men barked out a command in Russian. Sean struggled, and the man hit him over the head.
Sean collapsed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The morning after his arrival in Paris, Khostov sipped a coffee in a local café. He felt safer in the busy city having changed some of his money to buy clothes, and was brooding about how to find a new passport. Getting rid of his current identity had to be a priority. Khostov considered his options. The centre of Paris was probably the best place to contact someone. He realised he would have to deal with some shady characters of the Paris underworld. The problem was his cultured upbringing in Moscow had ill-prepared him to make such contacts.
Where should he start? To ask the café owner outright if he knew anyone able to forge a passport would be lunacy. Supposing he enquired about something similar first, but not quite so shady; a visa extension or a travel permit perhaps? But how to approach the right contact without being reported to the police or the security services? Khostov considered the sign advertising free Wi-Fi to customers. The Internet might provide the answer. Using the PC in his hotel lobby would leave traces of his searches on the hotel’s server. By buying his own computer he could maintain his anonymity.
After purchasing a laptop and searching the Internet he found a small company dealing in short stay documentation. They were prepared to help him obtain a Schengen visa which would allow him to travel freely in France and other European countries for a maximum of 90 days. When he checked their address, he discovered they operated from a pokey office in a backstreet.
The permit took two days to come through. When he visited the premises to collect the document, he met a Frenchman with dark hair and a very lined forehead. The man counted the money slowly, occasionally holding the notes up to the light to check for authenticity.
'I need your help with another matter.'
The man regarded him suspiciously.
'You remember I told you I fled my homeland in Russia. I want to be sure if they go looking for me, they won't find me.'
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. 'What can I do?' he asked.
Khostov hesitated. 'I want a new passport.'
'You can get that through the normal channels.' The Frenchman tilted his chin towards the exit.
'No, I cannot.' Khostov tapped the visa he had just bought. 'You didn't provide this through the normal channels.'
The lines on the man’s forehead creased even further and he sighed. 'It is very expensive.'
'I have some money.'
'It may take a week or so.'
'I'll wait.'
'I need half now, and half when you have your passport.'
Khostov began to count out the notes.
Sean regained consciousness in the car, his face bumping on the floor pan where he lay. Two men's feet pressed against his body, preventing him from sitting up. He guessed he was in a 4x4. Given the size and layout of the space it could be a Land Rover Discovery.
They were moving at speed; swinging from side to side, the tyres screeched around the corners. He became conscious of the sound of a helicopter. The engine bellowed, as if the men had just noticed too. Through the Discovery's windows Sean could see a dark sky. Abruptly the daylight disappeared altogether, replaced by flashes of artificial light. They were in a tunnel.
The 4x4 slammed to a standstill. He listened as the driver and front passenger got out. The bodyguards continued to hold him down. One pointing a gun and signalled, indicating Sean should not make a move.
Sean heard a car coming towards them, slowing to a stop nearby. The door opened and the driver got out.
'What's the matter guys? Has there been an accident?'
The bodyguards jerked Sean upright and pulled him out of the Discovery. He glimpsed the other car, an Audi, before being bundled into the back seat. The two heavies sat on each side of him. One of the men forced the Audi driver into their 4x4 and ordered him to drive away.
They waited a few seconds as their Discovery drove off, then took off in the opposite direction. The whole exchange had taken less than 30 seconds.
As the Discovery left the tunnel, the driver found a police cordon across the road. Armed officers knelt behind their vehicles, rifles and hand guns drawn.
He slammed on the brakes and the Discovery screeched to a halt. An officer with a loud hailer told him to get out slowly, placing all firearms on the ground. He was to take five steps away from his vehicle and sit on the road with his hands above his head.
The frightened driver complied. 'I am not armed! Some lunatics stopped my car and forced me to drive this!'
The police reminded him not to get up. The man slumped on the tarmac, relieved that his ordeal was over.
Though Sean felt groggy and ill-prepared for violence, he didn’t find it hard to understand why the Russians had chosen the farm close to a tunnel. They had anticipated helicopter pursuit.
An hour later they began to slow. The best chance to escape would be when the car stopped, but he was surprised when they picked up speed again. Streetlights flashed past and soon disappeared as they left the built up area. Shortly afterwards they drew to a standstill and one of the men dragged him out of the Audi. The light from a single floodlight cast deep shadows, illuminating a concrete roadway outside a large farmhouse and out-buildings. Another member of the gang held a handgun, but he was too far away for Sean to disable.
Sean’s pulse rate rose rapidly, and he felt an stinging ache in his stomach as adrenaline surged into the bloodstream. For a moment he experienced real fear, then decided to act.
He seized the man nearest him, swinging him around to block the line of fire and propelled him in the direction of the gunman. The man fired off a wild shot before they connected. Sean went off like a hare, running low, swerving from side to side. He dashed into the farm, hoping to make the dark fields beyond.
He heard the slam of a door as the car started. A high stone wall prevented his immediate escape. Sean increased his speed at the expense of dodging bullets, taking a quick peek over his shoulder. The car filled his vision. He broke left and then right. The Audi overtook him, sliding sideways, tyres squealing through the handbrake turn, pulling up in front of him.
Sean did not stop. Using the door handle as a toe hold, he jumped. His other foot touched down solidly on the roof. A shot rang out and Sean sprang, landing heavily on the ground. As he scrambled to get up he was grabbed roughly by two of them. A third approached. Sean could not see his face, but his breath stank.
Without warning the man punched him several times in the stomach. Sean sank to his knees. He saw another fist coming and rolled with the blow, sprawling on the muddy concrete. They hauled him upright and dragged him towards the main building. His heart fell. There were four of them and they were professionals.