Assassin

47

Damon Tyzack was sorely tempted to shoot the two men who'd come with him as he'd run up the opera house after Carver. The chopper he'd whistled up, originally to take him and Carver away, couldn't land on the roof – typical nonsensical modern architecture, not a flat surface anywhere – and they'd had to be winched up one at a time on a rope. It took for bloody ever and did his state of mind no good at all.

He was already feeling stressed that Carver had taken out the other three and vanished. By the time Tyzack had got to the far ramp, Carver had gone. When he heard the sound of the engine, looked over the side and saw a man – it had to be Carver – riding off on a tinpot moped, it was too late for the three of them to make a run for the cars. They'd be better off up in the air. Still, he didn't feel too clever being hauled up to the chopper like some drowning sailor and then having to wait in the cabin while the other two came aboard. Not with the Oslo police sure to pitch up any moment. He seriously considered leaning out of the door and giving his men the old double-tap, there and then. But Carver was still out there somewhere and there was work to do. He didn't want to lose any more people just yet. And one of the men was Foster Lafferty: a total oaf, but he had his uses.

So now what?

Tyzack pulled on a headset and told his pilot to head south, over the water, away from the city. He needed to get away from the heat, find a minute to think. If he made a wrong move now, the whole thing could go tits-up. And he couldn't afford that. Not with a president to kill.