The Geneva Trap

Chapter 57

The CCTV images were from an industrial estate on the northern edge of the city that was scheduled for demolition and redevelopment. They showed a battered blue van driving along a deserted road with a derelict office building in the background. The licence-plate number was half in shadow but enough was visible to identify the vehicle as Kubiak’s delivery van.

A few minutes later, they were en route. Fézard drove Martin and Isobel in an unmarked police car. Ahead of them was a police van, containing four armed officers, and the small convoy was escorted by two police outriders on big Honda bikes with lights flashing and sirens going.

They took the Marseilles ring road, their outriders easily slicing a route for them through the heavy early-morning traffic. Martin drummed his fingers nervously on the arm rest while Fézard smoked as he drove and Isobel hummed tunelessly in the back seat. At last they got off the ring road and entered an area of low-lying office buildings, warehouses, and lorry depots. It looked very rundown – at least half the sites had For Sale signs.

‘We’re lucky there was still a camera operating out here,’ said Fézard as they slowed for a traffic light. ‘There was a lot of theft in this area – the depots were particular targets – and at one point there were cameras everywhere. In the last three years, as companies have moved out en masse, the cameras have been removed.’

‘Where was the picture taken?’

‘Just there,’ said the Inspector, pointing to a junction of the main road they were on with a smaller access road. ‘He was travelling that way,’ he added, pointing to the smaller road.

He turned and they entered an estate, which was so rundown it made its semi-deserted neighbours look positively prosperous. Here the windows were either smashed or boarded up, and the squares of grass hadn’t been mown or the verges trimmed for many months. There were obviously no tenants left in these buildings, though through one set of broken ground-floor windows Martin saw three long-haired men in overalls gathered around a primus stove. Squatters.

They drew alongside the waiting squad car and got out. The senior policeman was shaking his head as they approached him. ‘We’ve checked all the roads here, sir, though there aren’t a lot of them. The whole estate’s due for demolition. Some gypsies tried to set up camp last month, but we moved them on. There’s the odd squatter, but otherwise the only people who’ve been here are property developers snooping around, looking to buy the land and redevelop when the recession’s over. No one’s here now – except for the demolition experts and the wrecking crew. They’re blowing up one of the office blocks any minute now.’

As if on cue there was a large boom, followed by another, and then another still. Turning round, Martin saw not far away a four-storey office block collapse as if in slow motion – the upper floors crumpled like cheap plasterboard, spewing out dust in a massive cloud as the lower floors followed. It was all over in seconds: a pile of brick dust and mortar now covered the site of what only seconds before had been a 10,000-square-foot office block.

He turned back to the policeman. ‘The CCTV caught the van we’re looking for as it was turning in. So why didn’t it catch it leaving as well?’

The officer looked at him, with the respectful contempt a local policeman shows to higher-ups from outside. ‘The camera was only facing one way, sir. If the driver left this estate and turned right on to the main road, the camera wouldn’t show it.’

Martin said, ‘What else is being blown up?’

‘A multi-storey car park.’

‘Really?’ There was so much space in this ghastly estate that another car park seemed entirely unnecessary – all the buildings had outdoor parking for visitors and employees, with spaces marked out in white paint.

‘It’s next to what used to be the hypermarket. That didn’t last long; it turned out people working here would rather do their shopping where they lived than where they worked. They tore down the store last year.’

‘But the car park is still there?’ persisted Martin.

‘Yes,’ the policeman conceded. ‘But not for long. They’re going to blow it up in about ten minutes.’ He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘They’ve prepared it for the charges already. The place is strictly no-entry. There are barriers all over. Believe me, no car could get in.’

‘Let me see it anyway.’

The policeman looked at him with undisguised annoyance, then shrugged resignedly. ‘This way, sir. But we shouldn’t get too close. You never know, they may set the charges off a little early.’

They walked past the remains of what had a few minutes before been an office block, and the officer pointed fifty yards further down the road. Martin saw it then – a three-storey edifice of grey concrete, the same cheap monotonous cladding worn by multi-storey car parks the world over. ‘We probably shouldn’t go any further,’ the policeman said.

‘You said we had ten minutes,’ said Martin sharply. He hurried ahead, and Isobel and Fézard followed behind.

Nearing the building, they saw that the entrance had been blocked by large concrete tubs – the kind used around public buildings in large cities to deter suicide bombers. Fifty yards away a few foundations were all that was left of the ambitious hypermarket which had once stood next door, and for which the car park had been built.

The policeman caught them up and pointed to the tubs. ‘No one could’ve got through those,’ he said. ‘And they checked the building for vehicles before they put those in the other day. The place is clean. But we need to get out of here.’ He pointed at the stuffed holsters wrapped with ropes around the columns of the car park. ‘The charges have been inserted. They’re going to push the button in about eight minutes from now.’ He looked nervously at his watch.

‘Get them to delay it.’

‘The man pressing the button is half a mile away. I can try and reach him on his mobile but—’

Martin wasn’t listening. ‘Where’s the exit?’

‘Down there, around the corner. But listen— ’

He was already running. When he got to the corner he turned and saw the exit, blocked by a wooden barrier with a ticket-machine alongside. Here too concrete tubs had been placed, but they were smaller than those at the entrance. He noticed there were scrapes on the concrete floor around one of them, and when he looked more closely at the tub he saw that one side had been badly chipped as if a careless driver had backed into it. Some traces of paint seemed to confirm this.

‘What is it?’ asked Isobel behind him.

‘Look,’ said Martin, pointing down at the concrete tub. ‘That’s blue paint, and the van we’re looking for is blue. Come on!’ he said, running past the barrier towards the central staircase.

They raced up the stairs, stopping at each level only long enough to look for a vehicle. The first two floors were empty, and Martin’s spirits sagged again. There was nothing on the third floor either, and he was about to give up in despair when Isobel gasped ‘Look!’ and pointed to a ramp leading to the roof.

He ran on, up the ramp, to the open top floor of the car park. And there at the far end was something large and blue. A van.

Or what was left of a van. Its back end had been badly crushed and the bonnet was squashed like a concertina. Martin ran towards it, sprinting the final yards, with Isobel and Fézard just behind him. He peered into the cab; there was no one inside. He ran round to the crumpled rear doors and pulled on the handle, but it didn’t give. Locked.

‘Let me,’ said Fézard, pulling his weapon from the holster inside his jacket. ‘Stand back,’ he ordered, as he tilted the gun under the handle of the rear doors, so that the bullet would go upwards into the roof of the van. Then he fired.

The handle seemed to explode, leaving a small hole in the steel door. Martin put his hand in and pulled; the door gave way and swung open. And then they heard it – a muffled groan.

‘Liz?’ he shouted, his voice breaking. He reached into the van and pulled at two trussed legs until he could see part of a face beyond. The familiar eyes opened above a grotesque mask of white tape, and he saw her blink at the sudden light. He pulled off the tape wrapped around her lower face, guessing how much it must hurt but knowing that there was no time to spare. And he had to be certain she could breathe.

‘Ready?’ he said, and she nodded. Then he dragged her out far enough to put his arms round her waist and sling her over his shoulder.

‘Run for it!’ he said to the others, and in an awkward jog he carried Liz to the ramp and down to the third floor. Isobel and Fézard waited for him at the stairwell, holding the door open. Fézard tried to help him with Liz, but Martin shook his head. ‘You go on,’ he shouted as he started down the stairs. He prayed that the local policeman had reached the man pushing the button; otherwise it was going to be a close-run thing. He tried not to think of what the explosion would do to them all, caught in this claustrophobic stairwell.

He moved as quickly as he could, trying not to stumble on the steps. He reached the second floor, ran across the landing, then started down again. It seemed to take for ever to reach the first floor, focusing on each step, telling himself not to think of how far he still had to go or of the imminent detonation of the charges all around him. He was acutely alert. He could hear the sound of each step Isobel and Fézard took further down the stairwell. He could feel each breath Liz took as she lay over his shoulder.

And then there was only one flight left, and then just half a flight, and he concentrated on keeping his balance, ignoring the weight of the woman he was carrying, the woman he loved. Eight steps, seven, six, and Fézard was waiting, holding the door open, and there were three steps left, then two, then one, and he was out of the door, across the floor and through the exit into the fresh air. He didn’t stop running until he was well clear of the building, at least a hundred yards away, and then he put his burden down gently on the soft verge of uncut grass. Isobel came over and began working at the knots of the ropes that were binding Liz’s legs, while the police officer tasked with delaying the explosion came over and used a key to remove the plastic handcuffs from her wrists.

‘It’s okay, Liz,’ said Martin, crouching down beside her. ‘You’re safe now,’ and she managed a weak smile but didn’t speak. In the distance he could hear an ambulance wail.

He looked at the police officer. ‘Thanks for telling them to hold off.’

The man’s eyes widened in surprise, just as a loud rumble came from the car park. Turning, Martin saw the roof collapse first, on the side where the blue van was parked, then in a slow one-two-three motion each floor of the building pancaked like a collapsing deck of cards. Dust filled the air, and set them all coughing. But the engineers had done an excellent job, and within thirty seconds the air cleared enough to show a bright blue sky where once the car park had stood.

Martin turned and stared at the policeman. Looking absolutely mortified, the man held up his mobile phone. ‘I couldn’t get a signal, sir.’