Carver

He was going flat out round the bend: so fast, in fact, that he slipped and went skidding and scrambling to the floor, accidentally saving his life as the bullets intended for his upright body slammed into the breeze blocks behind him.

Carver tucked his head into his shoulders, turning his fall into a roll, then got straight to his feet, his gun in front of him. He was just about to fire in the direction from which the firing had come when he caught sight of the shooter.

It was the sixth Chinese, the one in the black designer gear: the leader.

He was standing behind the buggy.

He was not pointing his gun at Carver.

He was holding it against the side of Alix’s skull.

73

Derek Choi could hear more voices echoing down the tunnel, British voices, getting closer. Yet he made no attempt to escape, nor did he bother shouting threats or demands at Carver. As long as he had the Petrova woman at his mercy, Carver could do nothing. In the meantime, Choi was happy to let the time go by until they were all discovered. Carver’s death was really only a means to an end. The ultimate objective was to prevent him getting out of Wimbledon, so that Malachi Zorn could escape. If Choi and Carver both ended up in custody, that aim would be accomplished. Choi carried a diplomatic passport, and his immunity would keep him safe. Carver, though, would have a lot of explaining to do. He might have powerful friends, but they would not help him if the police were conducting a multiple murder investigation. Carver would be left alone to face his fate: the bizarre British obsession with correct procedure would see to that. He would be rotting in jail for the rest of his life.

Carver could see that Alix was looking straight at him. She glanced down for an instant at her feet, then straight back at Carver with a look on her face that said, ‘Shall I?’

He gave a fractional nod of the head, then switched his eyes back to the gunman, stared at him hard and shouted out, ‘Oi! You!’

That got his attention.

At that moment Alix brought up her right knee and then slammed it down again, driving the point of her heel into her captor’s foot, then, as his grip on her loosened, throwing her body down too, and leaving him exposed.

Carver finished the job with two more kill shots.

He ran to Alix. ‘You OK?’

She nodded angrily, furious with herself. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking behind me and-’

‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here.’

They ran back up the tunnel, past the corpses strewn across the scarlet-smeared concrete, till they got to the door marked ‘Pilates’.

Carver stopped beside it. He wiped the handle of his gun, then threw it away. He took a deep breath to settle himself. He looked at Alix. ‘We’re drunk. We’re idiots. All right?’

She gave him a wry smile. ‘Whatever you say…’

He pushed open the door and as they went through put his arm around her and slurred, ‘You really are bloody shexy. You’re worth every penny.’

Alix gave him a dig in the ribs with her elbow, and then in a heavy Russian accent giggled, and said, ‘You English men. So funny. But so small.’

They had found their way into a large treatment room. A track-suited female instructor was giving instructions to a pair of male players, who were lying face-down on mats.

‘Lift your heads and your feet and hold the stretch…’ she said. Then she saw Carver and Alix and snapped: ‘Who are you? This is not a public area.’

‘We’re looking for the bogs,’ said Carver with drunken amiability. ‘My friend Natasha.’

‘Oksana,’ said Alix.

‘Well, whatever she’s called she’s bursting for a piss.’

‘Get out!’ shrieked the instructor. The players were getting to their feet, looking as though they were ready to remove these drunken intruders personally.

Carver raised his hands palms out, appeasingly.

‘S’all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll be moving along. D’you happen to know the way to Centre Court?’ He grinned stupidly. ‘We have ama-a-azing seats.’

‘That’s the way out, mate,’ said one of the players in an Aussie accent, pointing at a door on the far side of the room. ‘Up the stairs. Out the door at the top. You’ll be right opposite the court. Time to go.’

‘But you can stay,’ said the other player, giving Alix a cheeky grin.

She gave him a withering stare.

Carver took her hand and said, ‘Come on, darling. I need another drink.’

They followed the tennis-player’s instructions and found themselves back out on St Mary’s Walk, just another couple in the crowd. It took a few minutes to make their way round to the debenture holders’ entrance.

‘I’ll see you later,’ Alix said, giving Carver’s arm a squeeze.

‘I’ll call you,’ he said.

Carver followed her as she went off towards Zorn’s seats. Ahmad Razzaq was still there. Dmytryk Azarov was still there.

Malachi Zorn, however, was gone.

74

Carver ran like hell, racing back down the stairs, out of Centre Court and back across the Tea Lawn to the nearest exit gate. As he came out on to Church Road he heard police sirens in the distance, but getting louder. By now the carnage in the tunnel must have been discovered. He could imagine the panic as Wimbledon’s officials tried to work out how to respond. Should they carry on as normal, with the possibility of a gunman on the loose, or terminate proceedings for the day, risking panic as tens of thousands of fearful spectators tried to leave the grounds?

Not his problem. And at least it would keep the police fully occupied while he got on with his business. If he could get on with it.

He speed-dialled Schultz as he ran across Church Road between the crawling lines of departing spectators and homeward-bound commuters and dashed into the car park.

‘Any sign of Zorn?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Let me know if you see anything.’

‘Haven’t you got him in view?’

‘Lost him… long story.’

The fractional silence before Schultz next spoke was enough to tell Carver how unimpressed the big sergeant major was by that news. ‘So what do you want us to do?’

‘Nothing. Just keep your eyes open. The moment you see anything, let me know.’

‘Right, boss.’

Carver could see his Transit up ahead. But there was no sign of Zorn’s Bentley. ‘What’s the traffic like there?’ he asked.

‘It’s moving,’ said Schultz. ‘I mean, it’s not going quick, but it’s moving.’

‘Shit.’ He didn’t want Zorn in a moving vehicle. He wanted him stuck in a traffic jam, going nowhere.

‘OK. Keep this line open. If you see anything, shout.’

Carver did a quick calculation. From the moment he met Alix outside Centre Court to the time he saw Zorn’s empty seat couldn’t have been more than five minutes. Unless Zorn had decided to leave at the precise moment Alix saw the Chinese, he was unlikely to have had more than a two- or three-minute head start. Unlike Carver, he would not have run to his car. Nor could Zorn have done what Carver did next.

He opened up the rear doors of the Transit and leapt up into the cargo bay. A Honda CRF250X trailbike, a skinny, long-limbed red whippet of a machine capable of racing over virtually any terrain, from the wilderness to the urban jungle, was standing there with a helmet hung from its handlebars. A gun was clipped to its body, just ahead of where Carver’s right knee would be resting. A grenade was clipped to the left.