She launched herself through the doorway and was safely behind the skip by the time the first bullets rattled against it. There was a vehement curse in German, then silence. The German was somewhere on the H-shaped catwalk on the opposite side of the shed. The other sniper was crouched behind a rusted workbench close to the main doorway. Two black Honda scramblers were parked close to the workbench and her first thought was to put them out of action, but she doubted whether she could get in a clear shot without exposing her head. She heard footsteps on the catwalk and peered up into the semi-darkness trying to get a fix on the German’s movements. It was too dark for her to see anything, but from where he was, twenty feet up, she would be perfectly silhouetted against the open door. He was closing in for the kill.
She bit her lower lip anxiously, her eyes scanning the darkness above her in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of movement. It was all she needed to give her a chance to retaliate. A sudden burst of gunfire from behind the workbench riddled the wall harmlessly behind her. She saw the German at the last possible moment. He was down on one knee, the FN FAL semi-automatic rifle resting lightly on the railing. Its barrel was pointing straight at her.
She had no time to aim and fired off four shots in rapid succession. One of the bullets struck his forearm and he cried out, dropping the rifle which clattered noisily on to the concrete floor below.
She was expecting to be pinned down by a concentrated bout of gunfire to give the German a chance to retreat but instead the second sniper swung his FN FAL on the unsuspecting German and gunned him down. He then sprayed a fusillade of bullets across the front of the skip as he pushed one of the scramblers out through the doorway. He kick-started the motorbike and continued to fire wildly behind him as he sped away. By the time she reached the doorway he was out of firing range. She moved cautiously up the corroded metal steps on to the catwalk and knelt beside the German, the Beretta pressed into the nape of his neck.
There was no pulse. She pushed the Beretta into her anorak pocket then rolled him on to his back and pulled off his black balaclava. He was in his late thirties with thinning brown hair and a rugged, weatherbeaten face. She went through his pockets but all she found was a spare clip for the FN FAL.
She wiped the clip on her anorak, then removed his leather gloves and pressed his fingers on either side of its shiny surface. If he had a criminal record UNACO would have a set of fingerprints. After slipping the clip carefully into her anorak pocket and zipping it closed she descended the steps and scooped up the fallen FN FAL. She ejected the clip and threw it amongst a pile of discarded wooden crates in the corner of the shed, then buried the rifle under a mound of rubble in the pockmarked skip.
Sensing she was being watched, she spun round to face the doorway, the Beretta gripped tightly at arm’s length. Immediately she lowered the gun. The two boys were no older than six, their eyes wide and fearful as they stared at the gun hanging limply at her side.
‘Are you making a film?’ one of them asked innocently in French.
She pocketed the Beretta, her hands still trembling as she thought of how close she had come to firing on the turn. She crossed to the doorway and led them away from the shed.
‘Yes, we’re making a film,’ she replied in French, then squatted down in front of them, her hands resting lightly on their shoulders. ‘What are your names?’
‘Marcel.’
‘Jean-Paul. What’s your name?’
‘Sabrina.’
‘Are you really a film star?’ Marcel asked.
She nodded, then put a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone though, we’re filming in secret.’
‘Where are the cameras?’ Jean-Paul asked, looking around him.
‘They’ll be here later this afternoon. We’re just rehearsing at the moment.’
‘Will you be on television?’ Marcel asked.
‘Next year,’ she replied with a smile.
‘See, I told you it was a movie,’ Jean-Paul said and pushed Marcel playfully.
‘Didn’t,’ Marcel replied and pushed Jean-Paul back.
‘I saw a man here the other day. He said he was also in the film.’ Jean-Paul gave Marcel another push. ‘You weren’t here. You were sick.’
Sabrina stared at Jean-Paul. ‘What man?’
‘He said I wasn’t to tell anyone but I guess it’s okay seeing you’re also in the film. He wasn’t as friendly as you.’
‘Did he say who he was?’
Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘But I bet he’s the baddie.’
Sabrina decided to play her hand. ‘I think I know who you mean. A big man with black hair?’
‘Yes. Is he the baddie?’
Sabrina nodded. ‘What was he doing?’
‘He and another man were putting some barrels into that wagon over there. He said it’s part of the film.’
‘How long have those wagons been standing there?’ Sabrina asked, trying to bring Marcel back into the conversation.
He shrugged and glanced at Jean-Paul. ‘Since we started playing here.’
‘How long’s that?’
He shrugged again. ‘A long time.’
‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ Jean-Paul asked.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she lied. ‘How about you?’
‘We play here every day,’ Jean-Paul replied, then gave Marcel a playful shove before running away towards the fence.
Marcel scowled then ran after him.
She waited until they were out of sight before returning to the shed. The German was too heavy for her to drag down the steps, so she reluctantly decided to push him off the catwalk.
She cupped her hands underneath him and eased him over the edge. She felt momentarily nauseated as the body struck the concrete floor but quickly regained her composure and, after hurrying down the steps, she scanned the shed for a suitable place to hide the body. A row of corroded steel drums caught her eye but she quickly discounted them. Even if she could have got him into one, which she very much doubted, there was no guarantee it could hold his weight without breaking. A tattered brown tarpaulin bundled in the corner of the shed? Not only would it be an obvious place to look but she was uneasy about what might be living underneath it. A picture of the rat crossed her mind and she instinctively rubbed the back of her hand across her cheek. The workbench? She crouched down and jerked open the two doors, fully expecting the cupboard to have been converted into a homely little rat lair. Plenty of cobwebs but no rats. The space was divided in two by a metal shelf, which she managed to dislodge and pull out. Then she dragged the body to the workbench and pushed it into the cupboard, head first. There was enough room for the body, except for the left arm.
No matter how she tried she couldn’t prevent the arm from flopping out on to the floor.