Funny thing, he hadn’t seen the black Audi saloon with the smoked windows come towards them on the street, then pull in outside that office door, flush up to the pavement and over double yellow lines — and hadn’t seen the man in the black windcheater with the hood up abandon his study of the horses’ form, and drift forward. Had seen damn all. Blinked, looked around. They hadn’t been in the street when the car had arrived. Their call had come, directing them to the location, after the car’s passenger had been dropped, and then the Audi must have headed away to find a place to wait until telephoned for the pick-up. He recognized the driver, who came round the back of the car, opened the rear door and left it ajar. The engine was running.
In Luke Davies’s ear: ‘Don’t bloody move. Move and I’ll kick you.’
He recognized the driver from the photograph in the file he had been shown that morning. Then he saw that the black windcheater was in the next doorway and had the newspaper half across his face, but it was held in only one hand and the other was deep in a pocket.
Grigori came out first from the plate-glass inner door, crossed the pavement, stood at the Audi’s rear door and held it wide open. Carrick had done a crash bodyguard course, two weeks’ residential from people who specialized in the private-sector market, and it had cost SCD10 more than two thousand of their budget. He thought then that Grigori would have failed the course, was listless and bored and didn’t do the drills. He had his head down, as if he was examining the shine of his shoes.
The Bossman followed, came through the door, then hesitated, maybe said something to whoever had escorted him down to the building’s lobby, as if it was a final exchange in whatever business had been done. Carrick was at the driver’s door, had only to drop into the seat, do the gears and they’d be moving. The Bossman was on the pavement, but still talking … then coming for the car.
Carrick saw the man, black against the grey stonework, emerge from the next doorway, and he wasn’t right. He was dressed casual and shabby, a layabout’s gear, and had a wino’s stubble where the cheeks and chin were not hidden by the hood, but he moved lightly on his feet, as if in an athlete’s dance, and closed on his Bossman.
Damn, damn — fuck— Carrick saw the pistol in the man’s hand. Short, stubby, a black barrel, same as the sleeve of the windcheater. Tried to shout and hadn’t a voice.
The arm came up, the pistol raised. The Bossman saw the man, gaped. Carrick came from the car. Where was the lump — where was fucking Grigori? Saw Grigori, saw him cringing. Saw Grigori pressed back against the car body, and his hands were up at his mouth; he heard Grigori’s shrill little cry. The pistol wavered in its aim.
Carrick charged. No thoughts in his mind. He made no evaluation. Went on instinct. Ran. Carrick came round the car’s bonnet, half tripped on the kerb and launched. Was brain-empty. As he hit the man, shoulder against stomach, he heard the first shot fired.
Was deafened, couldn’t hear. He might have shouted, might not. The second shot was fired and his head was a few centimetres from the barrel. Realized then that he wasn’t the target, that his Bossman was.
The man went down. They were on the pavement together. A first sensation, Carrick smelled cordite, sharp, from the pistol and fast food, chilli, on the breath. He heard the grunt, and knew it was an older man because the stubble was greying, pepperpot colours.
Turned him over halfway, fists grabbing the windcheater, then smashed his right knee up into the man’s groin. Did it hard, and heard the gasp. Heard the clatter as the pistol was dropped. Dared to look away, raked a glance, and saw Grigori still frozen, the Bossmann on his knees, his hands over his head, in the middle of the pavement.
One hand holding the windcheater, the other clenched. Punched a short-arm jab into the man’s face and felt the impact of his knuckles on the nose bone. Carrick scrabbled with his leg. The pistol went off the pavement, skidding across the slabs, and disappeared under the Audi.
He pushed himself up. The man groaned. His hands were over his privates, and he seemed to sing out his breath.
Carrick wasn’t a policeman. He was in the employ of Josef Goldmann. The play-act had been automatic. He lifted the Bossman up, held him almost as if he was a child, shifted him, legs trailing, to the car, and threw him inside and slammed the door. Was at Grigori’s side, had a fist in his jacket, by the neck, and flung him into the front passenger seat.
He ran to the driver’s door, dropped inside. Went into gear, surged, felt the slight bump and knew they’d gone over the pistol in the gutter. Realized that Grigori hadn’t closed his door, reached across and shut it.
Carrick drove away.
At the end of the street, alert from the adrenaline rush, his eyes went up to the mirror. He was ready for a following car, for a second stage in the attack, but he saw the man crawling on the pavement and then it looked as if he put two things, Carrick didn’t know what, into his pocket. Then he was in the gutter where the pistol had been, then shambling away. He swung his eyes down, saw the street junction clear and powered right.
His heart pounded. His arms were leaden and he clung to the wheel. He felt the Bossman’s fingers on his jacket and on his flesh, as if he was reassurance, but he couldn’t hear what his Bossman tried to say.
He drove away from the City. Beside him, Grigori trembled and was ashen pale. Behind him the fist held his jacket and would not release him.
It had all been reflex, and Carrick could not have explained it.
The street was empty except for the newspaper-seller. Then the commissionaire came down the same steps, stood on the same pavement, opened his tin, took out the rest of the cigarette and lit it, puffed, dropped it and ground it out where two men had struggled, then kicked it over the kerb.
It was as if, Luke Davies thought, nothing had happened. He could make no sense of it. There were no gawpers at upper windows, no crowds gathering and no sound of sirens. A woman had appeared, he did not know from where, and bought a newspaper. A delivery lorry had pulled up and was unloading and had its hazard lights flashing. The man in the black windcheater and the hood had disappeared from the far end of the street. He was trained to retain in his mind, with clarity, what he had seen, but he doubted himself.
He heard the snigger, then: ‘Come on, the show’s over.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Lawson … At the risk of sounding a complete idiot, did I see an armed attack on Josef Goldmann? Did I see Carrick?’
‘No names — highly unprofessional to use names. He’s November.’
‘Did I see Carrick fight off an assassin?’
‘I told you to observe. It’s all a matter of perception.’
‘And I did observe, and would have run to help him if you hadn’t stopped me.’ His arm had been held in a vice grip, more strength in it than he would have reckoned on Lawson’s having.
‘If you had broken free of me I’d have kicked you — as I promised — and you wouldn’t have walked for a week.’
‘What did I see?’
‘Decide for yourself. I don’t do twenty-four seven nannying.’
Lawson had gone, walked away, and Luke Davies had to skip along to catch him. Confusion reigned because he didn’t know what he’d seen — what should have been clear was misted.
‘Without him I was dead. I have no doubt of it — dead.’
In short, darting steps, Josef Goldmann paced the salon carpet. His wife watched him and knew better than to interrupt at a crisis moment.
‘You see it, your life — it’s as they tell you — at that one moment. You’re about to go to Heaven, Hell, wherever one goes, and you see your life. It’s extraordinary that you see so much. I was in Perm, in Moscow, I was with you, with the children. All of it went by me when I was low on the pavement and I was looking at a pistol and its aim was coming down to the line of my head. I could see the finger on the trigger. Believe me, the finger on the trigger was white from the pressure. The whiter the skin, the greater the pressure. The greater the pressure, the sooner he shoots, and I am dead — but Johnny hit him.’