Carver

74

Carver ran like hell, racing back down the stairs, out of Centre Court and back across the Tea Lawn to the nearest exit gate. As he came out on to Church Road he heard police sirens in the distance, but getting louder. By now the carnage in the tunnel must have been discovered. He could imagine the panic as Wimbledon’s officials tried to work out how to respond. Should they carry on as normal, with the possibility of a gunman on the loose, or terminate proceedings for the day, risking panic as tens of thousands of fearful spectators tried to leave the grounds?

Not his problem. And at least it would keep the police fully occupied while he got on with his business. If he could get on with it.

He speed-dialled Schultz as he ran across Church Road between the crawling lines of departing spectators and homeward-bound commuters and dashed into the car park.

‘Any sign of Zorn?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Let me know if you see anything.’

‘Haven’t you got him in view?’

‘Lost him… long story.’

The fractional silence before Schultz next spoke was enough to tell Carver how unimpressed the big sergeant major was by that news. ‘So what do you want us to do?’

‘Nothing. Just keep your eyes open. The moment you see anything, let me know.’

‘Right, boss.’

Carver could see his Transit up ahead. But there was no sign of Zorn’s Bentley. ‘What’s the traffic like there?’ he asked.

‘It’s moving,’ said Schultz. ‘I mean, it’s not going quick, but it’s moving.’

‘Shit.’ He didn’t want Zorn in a moving vehicle. He wanted him stuck in a traffic jam, going nowhere.

‘OK. Keep this line open. If you see anything, shout.’

Carver did a quick calculation. From the moment he met Alix outside Centre Court to the time he saw Zorn’s empty seat couldn’t have been more than five minutes. Unless Zorn had decided to leave at the precise moment Alix saw the Chinese, he was unlikely to have had more than a two- or three-minute head start. Unlike Carver, he would not have run to his car. Nor could Zorn have done what Carver did next.

He opened up the rear doors of the Transit and leapt up into the cargo bay. A Honda CRF250X trailbike, a skinny, long-limbed red whippet of a machine capable of racing over virtually any terrain, from the wilderness to the urban jungle, was standing there with a helmet hung from its handlebars. A gun was clipped to its body, just ahead of where Carver’s right knee would be resting. A grenade was clipped to the left.

Carver pulled on the helmet, released the clips that held the bike to the floor of the van, pressed the ignition button, and drove the bike straight out the back of the van. Its shock-absorbers easily handled the impact as it landed on the grass outside, and then it spun on a sixpence as Carver pointed it towards the direction in which his quarry was travelling. But he didn’t head for the car park exit on to Church Road. Instead he revved the engine to a furiously loud chainsaw buzz as he steered between the lines of parked vehicles, racing over the grass, dodging pedestrians, squeezing so tightly between cars that his handlebars seemed to brush the paint-work on either side; all the time following the line of the road and keeping one eye out for any sign of Malachi Zorn.

Next door to the debenture holders’ car park was an area given over to the marquees used for corporate hospitality. Carver kept going, ignoring the outraged shouts of drunken businessmen as the nimble Honda zipped between the huge white tents. A man in a waiter’s uniform emerged from one of them, pushing a trolley laden with crates of empty wine bottles. He looked up in wide-eyed terror as Carver bore down on him, and let go of the trolley, which tipped over, spilling crates and bottles across Carver’s path. He slalomed and skidded through the sudden avalanche of glass and plastic, fighting to retain control as the rear wheel spun against the grass, before rocketing forward again as it regained traction.

He passed the last tent and headed into another one of the giant car parks, turning towards the exit this time and riding past a line of cars patiently waiting to leave, before forcing his way through the exit and left on to the road. As he passed the end of the tournament grounds, the road rose again up towards St Mary’s Church. The traffic was beginning to move a little faster. Carver swept past the church on to a road that ran between ranks of large suburban houses — hiding behind high brick walls, thick shrubs and trees, as if concealing their cosy, complacent prosperity from the passing hordes. He peered ahead, trying to spot the dove-grey Bentley. No joy. Then he heard a voice in his ear: ‘I’ve got visual contact, boss. He’s turning into Southside Common. Got to be less than two hundred metres away from me, maybe one fifty. What do you want me to do?’

‘Let him get closer. Jam the road. Then wait for my signal. On my way…’

‘Got it, boss.’

By Carver’s reckoning he was about four hundred metres from the turn into Southside Common. He needed to be there fast: fifteen seconds, twenty at most. He upped his pace still further, running flat out between the lines of traffic. Up ahead a bus had stopped, blocking the cars behind it and bringing the traffic to a crawl. Carver didn’t hesitate. He mounted the opposite pavement and kept moving, dodging metal bollards, waste-paper bins and another bus stop, muttering, ‘Sorry,’ as a mother pushing a stroller screamed and scrambled herself and her baby out of his way. On the far side of the bus the road was a little clearer, and Carver swung back down on to the tarmac. The houses on either side of the road were getting much smaller: little terraced cottages with lines of shops, galleries and estate agents scattered between them. He swung right, across a mini-roundabout and on to the crowded high street of Wimbledon Village, cutting up a yummy mummy in a BMW X5 and receiving a loud blare of the horn in exchange.

Almost there. He could yet make it. But only if Schultz and his mate did their bit.