No Kiss For The Devil

41

At floor level, Palmer felt the dull thump of the explosion vibrate through the building. A trickle of dust rained down, silvery brown in the bulkhead lights. He winced. Whatever kind of device Szulu had used, he’d have made less noise with a pack of Semtex.

He stayed where he was. Give the men in and around the building time to react, to go to the windows and check the surroundings. It would be natural to look outside first, before assuming the noise had come from within. When they saw what was happening out in the street, providing Szulu had made it look realistic enough, they’d relax.

Earlier, after checking the outside of the building, he’d settled down to wait while the area had quietened down. The lights on the various floors had gone out one by one, all except for the lobby area at ground level and the dim glow from the desk lamp on number four. Still he had hung back, waiting. The move had proved to be a wise one; not long afterwards, a police constable had arrived with a civilian bearing a bunch of keys. They had left a few minutes later, the officer carrying some files and a cardboard box. The last remaining possessions, he’d surmised, of the late Mr Goricz. Hopefully, it was an indication that the police wouldn’t be back for a while.

He watched as the two taller security guards appeared in turn, checking the front entrance and scanning the outside of the building. They moved about at random, keeping to the shadows, and were plainly accustomed to the conditions. There was no sign of the shorter man, Pechov.

Satisfied he was unobserved, Palmer waited until the guards disappeared before moving over to the louvred vent he had used before. He removed some of the slats, then pushed in the mesh and dropped stealthily into the basement. The familiar smell of cement dust and stale air rose to greet him. Replacing the outer slats, he squatted down and listened, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows and the dull glow of the passage lights.

He allowed five minutes to go by, ignoring the first signs of cramp in his legs. All he could hear above the hum and click of the heating system was the rumble of traffic outside.

Once he was satisfied it was safe to move, he stood up and flexed his legs, then walked slowly along the passageway, stopping every few yards to listen. He moved past the scaffolding and the cement bags, stepping over the spread of spilled powder. He was no longer bothered about leaving traces; everything had advanced too far for that. He reached the dark mass of the puddle he’d seen last time, now more of a small pool, and stopped again.

He was about to step past the pool when he noticed the curved edge of a footprint.

He eased against the wall, straining to hear a hint of noise in the dark. His options right now were limited. He could either go forward or back. He studied the gloom along the passageway, searching for signs of movement. But it seemed to stare right back, unfathomable. Unfriendly. Someone had been down here recently. It might have been a maintenance worker, although that didn’t seem likely, given the mess down here. And Goricz hadn’t struck him as the sort to go out of his way to look for work. Maybe it was one of the security goons who’d come to check out the place. More likely, perhaps, but why bother? Had he left some sign when he’d come down here last time, alerting the men to his visit? Unlikely but not impossible. If they were already keyed up because of using the building illegally, they would be on maximum alert against anything out of the ordinary.

He squatted down and checked the area beyond the pool. There were no other prints beyond it, which meant that whoever had been here had been cautious enough to wipe their shoes before moving on.

He was concerned about Szulu’s diversion out in the street. The fallout wouldn’t last much longer; beyond the initial excitement of a vehicle fire and the arrival of the emergency services, there was little to hold people’s attention for more than a few minutes. He could already hear the distant wail of a siren, but any attention drawn to the outside of the building would soon diminish, and all eyes and ears would turn back on the interior.

He stood up and was about to step forward when something else caught his eye. A couple of empty cement bags had been moved or had fallen, revealing an object which looked startlingly out of place. He leaned down to study it.

Lying half covered by the empty bags was a strip of leather with a buckle at one end. The metal glinted freshly in the light, sharply at odds with the dusty surroundings. The other end of the leather was torn, where the stitching had been ripped open as if by great force.

He held the strip up to the light… and felt something inside him go still. The leather was burgundy in colour, and the buckle was gold.

The strap from Helen’s briefcase.

A pipe gurgled nearby, then died. A door slammed, distant and muffled. The high-pitched hum of the lift mechanism sang for a moment, then stopped. The living, breathing sounds of a building going on as usual.

Palmer took a deep breath to steady himself, and wrapped the strap absent-mindedly, yet with almost tender care, around his left hand.

Ten yards ahead, a bulky structure stood in the passageway. It was the aluminium ducting, part of the building’s heating mechanism. Palmer checked the tunnel behind him. Nothing back there. Ahead, some way beyond the ducting, he could see the solid outline of the door to the service stairs leading to the ground floor.

As he drew level with the heating duct, he heard a faint rasp, followed by a whisper of moving cloth.

And something cold touched the side of his head.