It had been a woman.
32
The woman with the gun was now my target and I set off in pursuit as she moved swiftly up the concrete steps towards the grandstand, both the gun and the envelope having been stuffed into the bag she was holding.
I hadn’t seen her face, not even in profile, as she had a mass of long greying curls that hung down across both cheeks.
Wig, I thought, as I struggled to keep up.
The movement of her body was keen and athletic, not that of someone old enough to have grey hair.
My plan had been simply to watch and identify the mole, and then to report back to Tony Andretti. But now I was chasing her shadow, hoping to catch a glimpse of her eyes to make a positive identification.
She went through the doors into the grandstand and turned right towards the exit. I barged past the other spectators who were on their way from the paddock to watch the race.
‘Sorry,’ I shouted to one elderly man as I almost knocked him over, but I didn’t stop to help. Instead I rushed forward, trying to keep the grey curls in sight.
The woman didn’t make directly for the exit but veered off to the left in the main lobby and disappeared into the Ladies’. I didn’t know whether she was aware that I had been following her. Quite possibly. It had certainly not been up to my usual high standard of covert tailing, more akin to a bull rampaging through a china shop. I didn’t really care, but now I had a dilemma. Did I follow her into the Ladies’?
She was armed and might be waiting for me to appear. I had absolutely no intention of walking into a hail of.40 bullets, expanding or otherwise, but I was worried she might be escaping through a window.
The men’s room was immediately alongside and I quickly went in there. Logic dictated that, if there were windows in the Ladies’, there would also be some in the Gents’.
There were just solid walls and electric light, and not a pane of glass to be seen.
I went back out into the lobby and waited, finding a concrete pillar to lean against so that it wasn’t too obvious that I was waiting for someone to emerge from the toilets.
There were loudspeakers in the lobby and I listened to the racecourse commentator as he described the horses making their way to the starting gate for the eighth race. Soon this deserted lobby would be filling with those leaving before the last race, making an early dash for the exits in order to miss the traffic jams. Watching the Ladies’-room door might then prove more difficult and I didn’t want to lose our best lead yet to the mole.
I needed backup.
Tony had asked me earlier if I’d wanted some and I had foolishly said no, fearful that a cast of hovering hawks might have frightened away the prey.
I pulled the non-smart phone from my pocket and began to dial Tony’s number.
‘Turn it off,’ said a man’s voice close into my right ear. At the same time something hard was pressed into the small of my back.
I turned off the phone and the man reached forward over my shoulder to take it out of my hand.
‘Move,’ he ordered, pushing harder into my back.
I moved, walking forwards.
‘Go left,’ he said. ‘Towards the elevator.’
He nudged me in the back again so I went to my left, towards the elevator.
I wondered how this could be happening.
Maybe there wasn’t a crowd of nearly a hundred thousand as there would be in ten days’ time, but this was no dark alley in some run-down city centre. It was a busy racecourse in broad daylight with security personnel within view.
Should I shout out to them?
‘Don’t even think about calling for help,’ the man said as if he was reading my mind. ‘You’ll never live to receive it.’
I kept quiet and walked.
We arrived at the elevator. It had a For Stewards’ Use Only notice stuck to the doors.
‘ “Up” button,’ the man said.
I pushed it and I could hear the mechanism start whirring somewhere overhead.
‘What’s going on?’ It was a female voice. ‘Who’s he?’
‘He followed you,’ the man replied. ‘He was waiting for you outside the restrooms.’
Now I was in deeper trouble. I didn’t like the odds. Two against one was bad enough but they also had guns while I had nothing more than my bare hands.
I dared not turn round but didn’t actually need to. I could see them both reflected in the brushed-metal doors of the elevator. It was not a clear image but it was good enough.
Bob Wade and Steffi Dean.
The FACSA lovers.
Not one mole but two.
The elevator doors opened and a prod from behind implied I was to enter.
‘Keep your face to the wall,’ the man instructed.
If he thought it would stop me identifying them, then he was wrong. But maybe he didn’t know that. Perhaps it was safer for me if he thought I didn’t know them, so I went right in, almost pressing my nose up against the back wall.
It could also be that they hadn’t recognised me. If so, I’d like it to stay that way.
The two of them followed me into the lift and the doors closed behind them. We started to go up.
‘Did you get the cash?’ Bob asked.
‘Yes,’ Steffi replied. ‘Did you deal with the groom?’
‘All done.’
‘So what shall we do with this one?’
It was a question that I was quite interested to know the answer to as well.
‘What do you suggest?’ Bob said.
‘Waste him,’ Steffi replied.
That was not the answer I’d been hoping for.
‘Not here,’ Bob said.
The lift continued on its effortless way to the top of the grandstand.
I knew exactly where it was going.
I’d been up here before on Monday night when I’d been searching for food and avoiding the attentions of Diego and his chums. This was the lift used by the race stewards to make their way up to their exclusive viewing eyrie, which was attached precariously to the very front edge of the grandstand roof.
The lift stopped and the doors opened.
‘Back out,’ Bob said.
I did as I was told.
Where were the damn stewards when you needed them?
They were watching the last race, of course, looking for wrongdoing on the track when it was all taking place behind them.
What were my chances?
There was a little good news and plenty of bad news.
The good was what Tony had said about the accuracy of law-enforcement officers with their guns. He’d told me that the New York City Police hit barely a quarter of their human targets at distances up to six feet. However, the bad news was that he had also said that his special agents were trained to shoot multiple rounds to make up for that. And, at present, the distance between Bob’s gun and my back was a lot less than six feet, more like six inches. He was hardly likely to miss from there.
How could I make the distance greater?
Running away might help, but not if he shot me before I had taken enough steps.
‘Turn round,’ Bob said, holding my shoulder so that I turned with both he and Steffi always behind me. That was a good sign, I thought. They were still trying to make sure I didn’t see their faces.
‘Walk.’
We were in a corridor that ran the full width of the grandstand from the lift at the back to the stewards’ room at the very front. It had been built into the depth of the roof.
‘Where are we going?’ Steffi asked, a slight nervous timbre in her voice giving away her anxiety.
‘There’s a door into the roof space down here,’ Bob said. ‘We’ll put him in there.’