Brute Force

91

Before I could move, Mansour threw back the sheet. He also shouted some kind of command, in a language that didn't sound like Arabic.

I wasn't going to spend a whole lot of time worrying about it.

Keeping his eyes and his pistol trained very firmly on me, Mansour brought his other arm across the bed and felt for the lamp-switch by the table. If his eyes left me for a second, I'd take him – but they didn't.

There was a click and the light came on. Because the TV was behind me, I knew Mansour's vision would light-adjust quicker than mine, so I concentrated instead on the weapon – hoping by the time I'd taken in the details, I'd have thought of something.

It was a Makarov semi-automatic, the one-time standard Soviet sidearm. Like the AK47, it was designed to be used in some of the shittiest, most hostile theatres in the world, and nearly always went bang when you wanted it to.

His finger was very much on the trigger. The safety catch, just above the pistol grip on the left-hand side, was in the down position. In other words, off. The muzzle was threaded to take a silencer, but didn't have one in place. If he needed to use it against an intruder, he wasn't going to be fussed about waking the neighbours.

Mansour was saying something; this time it sounded to me like Serb or Russian. He didn't shout, and he didn't look remotely scared. Quite the contrary, as he motioned for me to bin the knife.

Had he already gone for the panic-button on the wall? The only thing I knew was that fifteen seconds into this fuck-up he still had the advantage, and inspiration hadn't come my way.

At last he tried English. 'Who are you?'

No way was I going to let him know I understood.

He waved me back with the barrel of the Makarov and swung his legs off the bed. Then, continuing to keep his eyes on me, and with the pistol pointed squarely at my chest, he pulled open the top drawer of the bedside table and took out a mobile phone. He moved back towards the window to put some distance between us.

If he'd pushed the panic button, why would he now need a mobile?

This was the best chance I was going to get – the moment Mansour took his eyes off me, however fractionally, to dial. But the fucker must have read my mind. He started punching in numbers without once looking at the phone itself.

The press tones were the loudest thing in the room right now.

Eyes on mine, pistol aimed at my centre mass, he was still dialling when there was a loud crack on the window.

Mansour turned; I didn't.

I launched myself at him.

He brought the weapon up, but my punch landed so hard in his face that the shock made him drop it. As he fell to the ground, it clattered across the parquet and ended up somewhere in the shadows.

From down on the floor, a hand shot up and grabbed my crotch. He squeezed so hard I nearly screamed. I punched him again, hard on the nose. The back of his head snapped back and hit the floor. He went out cold.

I hobbled over to the dark corner. Retrieving the Makarov and knife, I went to the window. Lynn was looking up expectantly, like Romeo under Juliet's balcony.

I jerked my finger. 'The window – for fuck's sake climb in!'