He drifted past the office block, ignoring it like Palmer had told him.
‘Men like that,’ Palmer had explained, although Szulu didn’t think he needed to, ‘can smell trouble. They’ve got senses most people don’t have. Like radar. They develop it because of what they do.’
Not just them, Szulu had wanted to tell him. I had that sense when I came out of the womb. It was part of the Szulu family DNA.
He glanced at his watch. Right on time. He pulled an about-turn and drove back, then turned sharp left and left again into the street behind the office block. As he did so, he lifted his foot off the accelerator and pumped it hard two or three times. The engine responded with a cough and a rattle, followed by a stutter as the fuel flow was interrupted, then did a kangaroo-hop as he repeated the process. He waved an apology to a car coming the other way and allowed the van to drift to a stop in the middle of the street. The engine stalled with a pop as he let his foot off the clutch. Simultaneously, he reached down and tugged hard at the length of nylon cord hanging from the glove box.
Under the bonnet, the other end of the cord was joined to a simple lever mechanism, then a flint and wheel from a cigarette lighter, and a cardboard Starbucks cup half filled with lighter fuel. A tug of the cord, and the flint made a spark over the fumes and splashes of petrol rising from the cup through the lid. He’d fitted a neat little spring since the last time he’d used it, so he could try again if it didn’t take first time.
He swore. Nothing happened. He tugged again and began sweating. Damned if he was going to go back to Palmer and tell him it hadn’t worked. He’d stick his head under the bonnet and strike the bloody lighter himself before that happened.
There was a whump from the front, followed by a thin plume of smoke curling out of the vent and up the windscreen like a soft lizard. He could smell lighter fuel. He counted to ten, then stamped on the accelerator. The engine flooded, as he knew it would, and he tried to re-start it. The starter motor whined noisily, but refused to catch.
Thicker smoke began seeping from under the bonnet, and he saw a faint flicker of orange in a gap in the bodywork. He checked his watch. Palmer must be counting, too, waiting for the bang.
The smoke became black and oily, snaking lazily out from all sides and lifting into the air. It billowed across the narrow street, gusting in the faint breeze and clinging to the sides of the buildings. Szulu could smell it now, hot and choking, making his eyes water. A voice shouted nearby, and someone laughed.
He jumped out of the van, leaving the door swinging open, and popped the bonnet. The heat surged out fierce and instantaneous, followed by a blast of flame and a curl of black smoke which seemed to reach for him like an angry monster. He dodged sideways and tried to locate where his fire-starter was lodged. If he could get the device out, all the better. There’d be nothing for any nosy accident inspector to find, should they come looking. But one look told him that his little plan had worked too well. The cup and lighter were gone, consumed by the flames. If he got any closer, he’d be roast meat. Best if he bailed out and left it to burn. With a quick check to see nobody else was close enough to try any heroics, he turned and ran.
He was only fifteen yards away when the van exploded. A gust of hot air touched the back of his neck and something whizzed past his left ear and clanged off a Renault parked at the kerb. Glass smashed as something went through a nearby window.
Szulu stumbled, his legs going weak, and hit the ground, his knees burning on the tarmac. He felt a momentary panic, enlivened by a sense of achievement. Was that impressive or what? He scrambled to his feet and turned to watch the van burn, the flames stained blacker than the night air as oil joined the mix. He checked the pavement again for pedestrians; Palmer didn’t want anyone hurt by this. But there was nobody to warn away, the few onlookers still some fifty yards away at the end of the street.
He stood for a moment shaking his head, hoping to preserve the image of a distraught driver with his livelihood going up in flames before him. He rubbed smoke from his eyes, and grinned to himself. For the first time in his life, he didn’t care what anyone thought. He’d done what he’d set out to do.
Up on the fourth floor, in the windowless washroom, the sound of the explosion barely registered, a dull crump above the noise of the extractor fan. Fedorov, always acutely alert for unusual sounds, glanced towards the door.
Riley heard it, too, and strained desperately against the tape holding her in place, hoping against hope that it would weaken enough for her to get free. Her face was already smarting painfully from the splash burns, and she was trying not to imagine the results if Fedorov did what he had threatened, and what effect the bleach would have on her skin, her hair. Her eyes.
She almost gave in and screamed, but she knew Fedorov would be onto her before the first sound was out.
‘What do you want from me?’ she demanded, coughing and heaving against the smell. A distant part of her brain was dredging up the constituent parts of bleach, recognised from the kitchen at home, the useless details filed away in her subconscious: Sodium Hydroxide and Sodium Hypochlorite. The words were almost harmless when she thought about them; mere chemical words to warn the domestic masses. To be washed off immediately and kept out of the reach of children. In case of contact with eyes, seek medical help.
‘Who says I want anything?’ Fedorov bent over and breathed in the fumes for a few seconds, as if relishing the purity and headiness of a fine wine. He turned his head and smiled, and she felt a cold chill run through her body. It was like coming under the gaze of a killer shark. She began to shiver violently and gritted her teeth, determined that this monster wasn’t going to have the pleasure of seeing her grovel.
Then footsteps approached and Fedorov straightened.
The door burst open and slammed back against the wall. The noise echoed around the room, followed by the sound of a wall tile hitting the floor under the impact of the handle. A tall figure stood in the doorway.
For a split second, Riley felt elation as she recognised Richard Varley. Then, behind him, a vaguely familiar figure. This man had a vivid mark across his face. She realised with a sinking feeling that he was the one she had hit with Palmer’s baton.
Varley looked stunned when he saw her. The colour drained from his face as he surveyed the scene, and he stared at Fedorov as if he didn’t recognise the man.
He shouted something, the words making no sense to Riley, although the tone was full of anger. But the language reminded her that he was really a former Russian soldier named Vasiliyev, and any fleeting thoughts she might have harboured about him being here to help her turned to dust.
The outburst continued in a torrent, harsh and uncompromising, his eyes blazing. The veins stood out on his neck as he gesticulated at Riley and the sink filled with water; the smell of bleach in the air and the empty bottle amid the fragments of porcelain on the floor.
When he finally stopped, Fedorov replied. It was in English and addressed to the second man. ‘Olek. That noise outside. See what it is.’
Olek nodded and disappeared. In the following silence, they could all hear distant shouting and a car alarm going off. There was no movement from Fedorov or Vasiliyev, who stared at each other as if they were figures in a ghastly silent tableau.
Moments later, Olek was back. He grinned nastily and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It looks like a delivery van caught fire in the street. The driver’s running around like a headless chicken. It’s nothing to worry about.’