‘Are you okay, Eddie?’ Kit asked.
‘Yeah, I will be. Got pretty bashed up, that’s all.’
The Indian grinned. ‘Lots of new scars you can use to impress the ladies.’
‘My lady’s seen all my scars already . . .’ He tailed off, the jokey discussion unexpectedly triggering connections in his mind. A scar . . .
‘What is it?’
‘That woman who went into the cells while we were coming out - she had a scar on her face.’
Kit looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t notice.’
‘You weren’t looking at her face. But I’ve seen it before . . .’ He frowned, thinking - then his eyes widened. ‘San Francisco! Shit, she was there just before we were attacked! She was with the Khoils.’
‘Pramesh Khoil?’ asked Kit, surprised. ‘The Qexia man?’
‘You know him?’
‘Everyone in India knows him - he’s our Bill Gates. Are you sure it was the same woman?’
‘Positive - and now she’s been in the same place as Fernandez twice.’ Realisation dawned. ‘She might be trying to bust him out! Come on!’
They ran from the office, hurrying to the elevators. Eddie jabbed repeatedly at the call button before losing his patience and barging open the stairwell door, clattering up it with Kit right behind.
Seventh floor. They raced for the security gate, getting startled looks from Interpol personnel as they ran past. Another frustrating delay as they waited to have their IDs checked, then they rushed to the interrogation room—
The woman had been there, all right - but not to free Fernandez. He was still cuffed to the chair, but now his head lolled horribly, mouth no longer curled in a smirk but gaping in breathless terror. His neck had been sliced open almost from ear to ear, dark blood still flowing from the deep wound.
‘Shit!’ Eddie gasped, pushing past the startled Kit and running back to the gate. ‘That woman - black hair, scar down one eye - where is she?’
‘She left just before you came back,’ said the guard, confused. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What’s going on is that she just strangled one of your fucking prisoners!’
Kit ran up. ‘I want a full security alert - lock down the building! Nobody gets out until we find this woman. Now let us through!’
‘Yes, sir!’ The guard hurriedly opened the gate, then picked up a phone to raise the alarm.
‘How many ways are there out of here?’ Eddie demanded as they pounded back along the corridor.
‘The main entrances are on the east and west sides, and then there are the fire exits, the underground car park . . .’
‘She won’t be trying to get away on foot.’ Interpol’s headquarters were close to the southern bank of the river Rhône, a nearby lake limiting possible escape routes. They reached the elevators; one had stopped at a basement level. Eddie hammered at the call buttons again before going for the stairwell.
A siren blared as they reached the third floor. ‘Lockdown, lockdown,’ said a man over the PA system. ‘Security personnel, seal off designated exits. All other personnel, remain where you are.’ The message was repeated in other languages as they continued their descent.
Basement level. Eddie kicked open the door - to find a uniformed man sprawled in front of the elevators in a pool of blood. The holster on his belt was empty.
‘She shot him with his own gun,’ he told Kit, dropping into concealment behind the parked cars and signalling for him to do the same. ‘Which way’s the exit?’ Kit pointed. ‘Okay, you get more people down here - I’ll try and find her.’
‘Be careful, Eddie,’ warned Kit as he went to the emergency telephone by the elevators.
‘What do you bloody think I’m going to be?’ Hunched low, he checked for any signs of movement before scurrying towards the exit. A door slammed, but the echoes of the car park made it impossible to tell where. He weaved through the ranks of vehicles to a concrete ramp leading up to ground level. Yellow and black striped barriers blocked both exit lanes.
Still no movement. Maybe she was trying to get away on foot, doing the unexpected . . .
‘Eddie!’ Kit called. ‘The guards are on their way!’
The shout spurred their quarry into action. A big Citroën C6 peeled out of a bay and sped towards the exit - then swerved at Eddie.
He dived on to the bonnet of a Renault Clio as the Citroën ripped off the smaller car’s bumper, then crashed into one of the security barriers. The windscreen cracked as the obstacle rode up the car’s bonnet, but the C6 had built up enough momentum in its charge to smash through, the broken barrier clanging to the concrete.
Eddie ran back to Kit. An elevator disgorged a trio of armed guards. ‘We need a car!’ he told them. ‘Someone give me your keys, quick!’ One of the men fumbled in a pocket. Eddie snatched the keys from him and pushed the button on the remote. Lights flashed a few rows away. He ran for the vehicle, an ageing, dented little Volkswagen Polo - not his ideal choice to pursue a large and powerful executive cruiser, but all that was available.
He started the car and pulled out. By now, Kit had issued orders to the guards and run to the main lane, waving him down. Eddie skidded the hatchback to a stop. ‘Come on, get in!’
‘I don’t have a gun!’ Kit protested as the Englishman set off again.
‘You’ve got a phone, haven’t you? Call the Lyon cops and get them to set up roadblocks!’
The car reached the ramp and raced up to ground level. The road curved away from the Interpol building to join a street to its south. Eddie braked hard at the junction, not sure which way to go until he saw flashing hazard lights to the right - the fleeing Citroën had hit another car. He swung past the stricken vehicle and headed southwest, parallel to the river. They passed a bridge over the Rhône, but more signs of collision and chaos told him the C6 had turned south.
Kit shouted instructions in French into the phone. ‘There’s a unit in front of us,’ he reported. ‘It’s going to cut her off.’
Eddie spotted the C6’s distinctive vertical tail lights carving through the traffic about a hundred yards ahead. The Citroën sideswiped another car, which spun out - he veered on to the wrong side of the road to avoid the scrum of vehicles skidding to a stop behind it.
Flashing lights, a police car shooting out of a side road on to the boulevard. Madirakshi braked hard, the C6 fishtailing to duck down another street to the right. The cops followed, Eddie turning in after them. He crashed down through the gears, trying to recover speed as quickly as possible. Ahead, the police car closed on the Citroën.
Vertical brake lights flared—
The cops crashed into the C6’s back. Glass shattered, the big car’s mangled hatchback flying open - but the pursuers came off worst. The police car veered off course and hit a lamppost head on, folding around it with a shattering crunch that echoed through the street. Kit gasped what Eddie assumed was a Hindi obscenity.
One of the C6’s rear lights was still working, a single red slash speeding away. Eddie followed, sounding the horn. A near miss at a crossroads as the Polo swerved wildly to avoid a van cutting across their path, then back in pursuit. The closely packed apartment blocks, candles flickering in their windows, gave way to open space. They were back at the river, multicoloured searchlights waving skywards on the far side where the waterfront buildings were illuminated in every colour of the rainbow.
Eddie had no time to appreciate the sight. Madirakshi was heading for a bridge. He realised her plan: to disappear amongst the tourists flocking to see the spectacle of the Festival of Lights.
Another police car tried to block her path across the bridge. She didn’t slow, deliberately aiming for its back end and smashing it out of the way. The crumpled police car whirled like a top, spinning on to the pavement and scything down a pedestrian.