He heard a groan, then a scrape of sound, like fabric rubbing on something. It was coming from the far side of the bridge, behind the wall.
Was it Ganic, wounded and desperate, but willing Harry on so he could kill him?
It was Rik, arms tied behind his back and ankles held by a wrap-around of rope. Just enough to hold a man still. He looked groggy, his body limp, but he jumped when Harry bent over him. Then recognition flooded his face and he relaxed.
‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you?’ he moaned, shaking off the ropes when Harry loosened the knots. ‘I thought I was going to have to fight them off all by myself. Jesus, I’ve got a headache. That bastard Zubac. .’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. They came knocking not long after you left. I thought it was you and opened the door. Next thing I knew I was having the shit kicked out of me. I don’t remember much after that.’ He looked up with a start. ‘Where are they? I heard shots.’
‘Zubac’s dead. Ganic’s free and roaming but wounded. Lie still — you might have concussion. There’s a chopper on the way. We need to get back to Clare.’ He put a hand under Rik’s arm and helped him up.
‘Clare? You mean slice-and-dice Clare, the MI6 sushi chef? What’s that crazy bitch doing here?’
‘Saving our bacon, mostly, so stop moaning, you little tick — you owe her. She took a bullet.’
Rik made a sound, stumbling on shaky legs. ‘Long as I don’t have to be bessy mates with her. She gives me the creeps.’
They emerged from the bridge and crossed to where Clare was lying. Her breathing was uneven, but she was hanging on.
‘Christ, that looks bad,’ said Rik. He looked shocked, dropping the antagonism in an instant. ‘Is she going to make it?’
‘Only if they’re quick.’ Harry stood and listened, wondering where the chopper would come from. For Clare the seconds were ticking away.
Rik found Zubac’s gun. He checked the load, cleaned off some dirt, then sat down on the ground and looked up at Harry.
‘This was a fuck-up, wasn’t it? All of it. Was it necessary?’
Harry shrugged. He didn’t know any more. They hadn’t found the Protectory or Paulton, and one of their tame orcs was out there somewhere with a gun. He took out his mobile and called Ballatyne. This time the man himself answered.
‘You on another killing spree, Harry?’ he said drily. ‘I’m not going to have to send you back overseas, am I? The ambulance should be there any minute, by the way. What’s the damage?’
‘Clare Jardine’s badly wounded, Rik’s bashed up but moaning and one of the Bosnians was playing possum. He’s out there somewhere, bleeding, but armed and mobile.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s a police chopper somewhere above you now. Got a camera on board so good he can spot the freckles on a rabbit’s arse. Moment they see Ganic they’ll have him picked up by a Special Forces team.’
‘No,’ said Harry quickly. That was the worst thing they could do. ‘Let Ganic run.’
‘Say again?’
‘They have a car waiting ready to go. They were trying to get back across the Channel. Ganic wasn’t the brains of the outfit; that was Zubac’s role. Ganic’s a soldier. All he knows is they had to get out of the country — he won’t be thinking about why. With Zubac dead he’ll concentrate on getting back to Deakin. . and Paulton.’
‘Can’t do that, Harry. The man’s a cop killer.’ Ballatyne sounded adamant. ‘We let him get among the public with a gun and we’ll all end up in Parkhurst. There could be a bloodbath.’
‘Then get me to him before he can go anywhere.’
‘To do what? You’re not the executioner here, Harry.’
‘He’ll tell me where Deakin is hiding. Pinpoint his location and get me close behind, and I’ll follow him in before he gets anywhere public — but you have to be quick.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then it’s over.’
Ten minutes later, Harry was seated in the body of a British Chinook fitted out with medical equipment. He could do nothing but watch while the crew of army medics got on with their job, evaluating the extent of Clare’s injury and keeping her alive before they took to the air. She was still losing blood from the bullet wound in her side, and her skin was a frightening shade of grey. The chief medic was on the radio feeding through the details of her wound and current state ready for their arrival and Clare’s transfer to an emergency unit, while his colleagues busied themselves monitoring her condition and keeping her as still as possible against the build-up of vibration as the aircraft got ready to lift off.
Across from Harry, Rik was staring at her, his face a vivid array of colours from where Zubac and Ganic had subdued him for transport to the abandoned airfield. He had a patch of blood on his chest, but a medic had pronounced it a minor leakage from his shoulder wound which, Rik had explained, was caused by a carefully placed kick from Ganic on the way down.
One of the helicopter crew members waved at Harry and signalled for him to get out. Harry unclipped his belt and jumped down, and the crew member hurried him away from the noise and dust of the down-draught.
‘You’re to wait here,’ he shouted. ‘They’ve spotted your man less than half a mile away. He’s down and not moving. Another helicopter will pick you up in three minutes. Stand well back and keep your head down.’ He clapped Harry on the shoulder and jumped back into the fuselage, then the Chinook wound up and lifted off, enveloping Harry and everything around him in a stinging spray of soil, dust and tiny bits of gravel.
SIXTY
Ganic was lying to one side of the trail, face up, arms flung out to his sides.
As the police helicopter assigned to pick Harry up slid alongside the old railway cutting, Harry could see that the Bosnian’s hands were empty. He checked the cutting in each direction. Nobody about. But just beyond where he was lying, the remains of an old vehicle crossing were just visible where a track met the railway at right-angles.
There was no sign of a getaway car. Zubac’s suspicions had been correct: Soran had failed to keep to this part of the plan.
‘Drop me here,’ he said, pointing to the top of the slope leading to the track, where long grass would make a soft landing and give him some cover if Ganic was still a danger.
The pilot nodded and lost height, and Harry dropped from the doorway and rolled, feeling the impact through his legs. He stood up and took out his gun, then stepped over the wooden fence rail and crouched at the top of the slope just above where Ganic was lying. He hadn’t moved.
The helicopter pulled away, the down-draught fanning the surrounding vegetation and lifting Ganic’s jacket.
Harry mentally crossed his fingers, then slid down the slope. Holding his gun two-handed, he fixed the sights on the man below. Any movement and he was going to start shooting, and to hell with Ballatyne’s reaction.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ganic’s gun lying nearby. Too far for the Bosnian to reach out for it, even if he’d wanted to. It was covered in blood, with a trail of bright red splashes leading back in the direction of the bridge. Ganic’s shirt front was awash with red, too.
His eyes were open, watching as Harry approached. He showed no expression. But a blink showed he was still conscious.
‘You’re a tough man to stop,’ said Harry.
‘Fuck you, Englishman.’ Ganic’s whisper was faint, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘You lucky.’
Harry squatted down alongside him, showed him the gun. He felt no emotion at seeing this man down; Ganic had planned on taking Jean and killing Rik, and had a long list of bodies to his name, including the officers in Brixton. In the grand scheme of things, his time was long overdue.