Deception

FIFTY-SIX

They reached a wire fence, sagging in places, the posts canted at odd angles. On the other side was a railway cutting. The disused line Ballatyne had mentioned. The banks were carpeted with wild flowers, overgrown with bushes and brambles, spilling over in a frenzy of free growth all the way to the bottom.

Harry studied the area, noting where someone had slid down through the grass at one point, bending and crushing the stems, the way a man might if his hands were tied and he was unable to keep his balance.

He stepped over the fence and stood for a moment before venturing down the slope. If the Bosnians suspected someone was after them, they would be waiting at the bottom. Although on higher ground, the pursuer would be vulnerable, committed to the long slope with nowhere to hide but soft bushes and nowhere to go but down.

It would be like a turkey shoot.

‘I’ll go first,’ said Clare. She joined him and then stood by his side, staring at the ground below and no doubt thinking the same thing.

It was a trap waiting to be sprung.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We do it together.’ He pointed to where a path had already been flattened, where Rik had lost his balance. ‘I’ll take this, you take a spot further along.’ He set off without waiting, knowing that to argue was to waste time. Rik couldn’t have long left.

He slid down the slope by degrees, waiting for the slightest movement, the merest hint of sound. It might be all they would get. Zubac and Ganic were skilled on terrain like this, and would have trained and fought in open country as well as woodland. They had the skills and the motivation, and too much to lose to play safe. They would kill at first sight.

Harry reached the bottom and studied the terrain. The metal rails and sleepers were long gone, the ground now flatter, but scattered still with stone ballast which made walking uneven. There were signs of regular use, however, and he guessed this was probably part of a hiking route. He fervently hoped nobody was going to come this way today.

He waited for Clare to join him, then turned east. ‘Grinstead is this way. If we follow the line, we’ll find them.’

He led the way, with Clare following a few paces behind. They stopped every now and then, listening, checking the bushes ahead for signs of disturbance, for anything that shouldn’t be there. Overhead, the skylarks were becoming a distraction, and Harry wondered what the penalties were for shooting them.

They came to a bridge. Brick built and sturdy, with metal parapets and ornamental panels, it rose up above the track, throwing a shadow and dwarfing the surrounding bushes and trees with its sheer bulk. There was no sound of traffic passing over its length, only the birdsong, now distant and faint.

‘Unused,’ Clare murmured.

Harry said nothing. If there was anywhere to spring a trap, it was right here. Plenty of hard cover, lots of shadow, good vantage points from on high, tailor made for killing.

He heard a creak of wood.

They had passed an ancient grit bin a few yards back. Made of metal, with two wooden batwing-style doors set at an angle, it was a piece of railway detritus, abandoned and forgotten. Warped now and long since peeled of any paint, the doors were shut.

Except now they were moving.

‘Down!’ Harry turned, bringing up his weapon, instincts and training kicking in. He found Clare standing in his way, and stepped sideways to get a better line of fire. She moved back, trying to drag her gun round to bear on the target, but stumbled on a piece of ballast and lost her balance.

The batwing doors flew open, and the tall figure of Ganic uncurled from inside, grinning triumphantly. He had waited for them to pass before making his move, and now he had them cold. He was aiming at Harry, whom he clearly thought was the bigger danger. But as he squeezed the trigger, one of the doors fell back against his leg.

It was enough to distract him. The gunshot was loud in the cutting, the bullet so close to Harry’s head he swore he felt the wind of its passing.

He stood his ground and returned fire. Two shots, an echo of a third, and Ganic was flung backwards, trying to stay upright, a shocked look on his face as twin red spots showed on his shirt front. He dropped his gun and fell back into the bin, the doors disintegrating as his heavy body crushed them flat.

Clare had cried out. It took Harry a moment to realize that he had only fired twice. Clare had not fired at all.

But there had been a third shot.

He turned. Clare was lying across the track, a bright splash of red on her stomach. She had dropped her gun and was scrabbling in pain at the ground, trying to get up, and staring at Harry, eyes wide in desperation and shock.

‘Don’t move!’

Harry froze. Slowly turned his head. It was Zubac, standing just clear of the bridge and holding a semi-automatic. It had been a classic ambush. Zubac must have been waiting in the safety recess under the bridge, with Ganic taking the rear.

Zubac stepped out from the bridge, feet crunching on the scattered ballast, motioning with his free hand for Harry to drop his gun.

‘Drop the gun, Englishman, or I’ll finish off your bitch right now.’

Harry did so reluctantly, bending slightly to allow the gun to drop carefully. Misfires could also kill. It would be too humiliating to be gut-shot by his own weapon.

‘What do you want?’ He had to keep Zubac talking. Talking was good. Talking allowed for distractions and negotiations. Talking meant life.

‘Want?’ Zubac was looking at Ganic’s body, slumped inelegantly across the grit bin that had been his hiding place. If he was upset by the death of his friend, he showed no emotion.

‘Yes. You didn’t lead us down here for nothing. You could have been away and gone by now.’

‘True.’ Zubac shrugged and looked up at the sky. The skylarks had gone silent. Only the tractor droned on, ragged and distant. ‘It is pleasant here. Tranquil. Is that the word — tranquil?’ He dropped his gaze to Clare. ‘Help me and I won’t let her suffer.’ Harry glanced at Clare, who was groaning softly. Fresh blood glistened wetly on her blouse, with a trail running down her side. If he didn’t get help soon, she would die.

‘Help you how?’

‘Out of the country. With you I can get across the water.’

‘Why me? Hasn’t Soran got you a way out? Deakin? Nicholls?’

Zubac stared at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. ‘You know a lot, Englishman. Maybe too much. Maybe I should kill you right now.’ He lifted the gun and took the first pressure on the trigger.