Headhunters

Chapter Fifty-Six

John Milton had done an excellent job of securing Meir Shavit to the chair. He had originally wound the tape around his wrists and ankles, lashing him to the armrests and the legs. There was no play in the bonds and, when Shavit complained that he had lost the sensation in his fingers, Milton had rearranged him. Now, his wrists were bound together, but his arms were otherwise free. He was secured to the chair by the tape that remained around his ankles and the chair legs. Another long span of tape had been unspooled around his chest and the slats of the chair. He could touch the tape around his chest with his fingers, but there was no way he would be able to work it free.

Shavit looked down. The man Avi had shot was still out cold. The girl had checked that he was still breathing and then she had left, following Milton and Avi through the broken doors.

There was a pistol on the floor next to the balcony. Avi’s Glock. He must have dropped it when Milton charged him.

He looked at the shattered bowl. It had belonged to his mother. She had inherited it from her mother. It had been left behind when the Nazis took her to the camps, but she had managed to find it again when she had been rescued. It was one of his most precious possessions and, in any other circumstance, its loss would have filled him with sadness.

Now, though, it presented him with something else.

An opportunity.

He had very limited movement, but maybe it would be enough. He started to swing left and right. The chair started to move, slowly at first, and then more noticeably. The legs to the right started to shuffle and scrape across the tiles and then, as he worked harder, they rose up off the floor altogether. Gravity pulled the chair back down onto all four legs the first two times, but Shavit was encouraged and redoubled his efforts.

His momentum raised the legs from the floor a third time. They clattered back down again.

He tried once more, grunting with the effort as he tried to transfer all of his weight to his left, straining against the tape that held him to the chair.

The chair swung to the left, teetered there on the remaining legs, and then toppled over.

He tried to stiffen his neck to absorb the impact that he knew was coming, but he was only partially successful. His left temple bounced against the cold tile and he felt a sudden gust of dizziness that he thought was going to be beyond his capacity to master. The impact slammed his teeth down on his tongue and it was the coppery taste of the blood in his mouth that he focused upon. He anchored on it, squeezing his eyes shut so that he could see starbursts of light against his lids and then, when the moment had passed, he opened them.

He was on his side, still secured to the chair. The shards of the glass bowl were inches away from his face. He reached up with his bound hands, his fingers latching onto one of the larger pieces and twisting until he could wield the sharper, jagged edge. He turned it around again so that the sharper edge was pointed backwards, towards his chest, and used it to start to rip through the tape.

Milton glanced at Matilda.

Enough.

It had to be now.

He spat out a mouthful of crimson blood. “Avi.”

Bachman turned back to him.

“You got any more?”

Bachman ducked his head and bull rushed him. Milton started to fall back, but didn’t try to evade him. Bachman wrapped his arms around Milton’s waist, put his shoulder down and tried to force him to the ground. Milton pressed up until his thighs burned, desperate to stay on his feet, knowing that he was dead if he fell. Bachman pushed down and Milton pulled up, and they stumbled back toward the parapet.

Milton reached down and locked his arms around Bachman’s chest.

Bachman guessed what he was doing and redoubled his efforts to force him down onto the ground. He hammered blows onto Milton’s torso, pummelling his kidneys, each blow triggering fierce jolts of pain, but Milton did not let go and he did not go down.

Bachman changed tactics, reaching for Milton’s legs and trying to trip him.

Milton held on and yanked Bachman up, with a sudden surge of strength that allowed him to lift him off his feet.

Milton staggered another step towards the parapet.

Bachman reached down, pressed his face against Milton’s thigh and bit down as hard as he could.

The pain was intense, but it helped. Milton found the strength for one last heave.

The rail of the parapet bumped into his body, against his buttocks and just below his waist, and, with Bachman still held aloft, Milton allowed himself to fold over it.

His feet left the surface of the terrace as he overbalanced, quickly flipping upside down. His shoulders dropped violently and the terrace disappeared as he tumbled to the clashing water below.

Matilda watched in horror. Milton had grabbed Bachman around the waist and, with a loud groan of exertion, he pulled up so that Bachman was briefly upside down. Milton stepped back and overbalanced across the guard rail. They both toppled over the parapet and fell out of sight.

She ran the remaining distance to the parapet. She thought she heard a splash, but, as she reached the parapet and looked down, there was no sign of either man. The tide was pummelling the rocks, white froth and spume blasting up, but that was it.

She couldn’t see either of them.

Meir Shavit picked up Avi’s Glock and hobbled across the balcony.

He saw the girl with his shotgun.

He saw Avi facing away from him.

He saw John Milton.

Milton had grabbed Avi around the waist and was dragging him back toward the parapet.

Avi didn’t know what Milton was doing and hadn’t realised the danger he was in. Shavit understood, but there was nothing that he could do to prevent it.

He tried to take aim with the pistol, but Avi was in the way. He didn’t have a shot.

Milton gave a big heave. Avi’s feet left the ground as he was turned upside down.

Milton overbalanced.

Both men fell over the parapet and disappeared from view. Shavit knew that the drop was fifty feet to the surface of the sea, and the tide there was strong. Too strong for them to swim clear, and that was in the event that they survived the plunge.

He felt hot tears sting his eyes.

He turned, stumbled down the stone steps and, holding the gun out in front of him, approached the girl.

“Drop the shotgun!”

The old man was standing at the foot of the steps. He was carrying a pistol and, as Matilda turned to face him, he brought it around and aimed it at her.

“Drop it!” he barked again.

She did as she was told. It would be impossible for him to miss from this close. He held the pistol in a firm two-handed grip and started to walk down the platform to her.

“You killed him.”

She could see the tremor of emotion that passed across the old man’s wrinkled face: distress and, immediately afterwards, fury. He brought the pistol up a little and walked on, stopping at the parapet. He looked down into the water, just a quick glance. When he turned back again, his face was set into a pitiless mask. She had no doubt that he was going to pull the trigger.

Matilda knew that she was about to die.

She closed her eyes.

There was a loud report, a crack that came out of the darkness.

Matilda didn’t feel anything.

No pain.

She heard a heavy thud.

She opened her eyes, confused, and saw the body of the old man on the ground. He was face down. Blood was pooling around his head.

She turned. A woman was advancing toward her, holding a pistol steadily with two hands. She saw movement on the balcony and looked up to see another figure looking down at her. A man. She couldn’t make out his features in the poor light.

She kept her hands aloft. “Don’t shoot.”

The woman advanced. Matilda recognised her. It was the woman she had first met on the road outside Broken Hill. Keren Rabin. The man on the balcony descended the stairs and joined her. Malakhi Rabin.

“Bachman?” the woman asked her.

“Dead.”

“Milton?”

“The same. They went over the edge.”

The man reached the parapet. He kept his weapon on her and glanced down. Matilda looked at him, then at the body of the dead man, and then at the water. Should she jump? Was that her best chance now? Would it afford her an opportunity to get away?

Keren Rabin shared a look with her husband. Something was exchanged, an agreement made.

“I’m sorry about this,” she said as she took aim at Matilda’s head. “You’ve been very unlucky.”

There was nothing in Rabin’s face that suggested empathy. There would be no reprieve. She straightened her arm. Matilda stared into the little inky spot of the muzzle and then closed her eyes.

“Wait!”

She opened her eyes. It was Ziggy.

“Put the gun down.”

Malakhi Rabin turned and aimed his pistol back up the steps. Ziggy was at the parapet, his left hand held up before him. His face was bloodless and, as he moved closer, pain distorted his expression.

“Shooting her isn’t the right move.”

“So maybe we’ll shoot you, too.”

Ziggy was unarmed. “I wouldn’t do that.” He started to descend the stairs. “I’m the one who broke into your servers. Took all of your data. And I’m Milton’s fallback.” Matilda didn’t know what that meant, but she registered the flicker of concern that passed across Keren’s face. “Milton’s no fool. He knew you’d come after us. And I’m no fool, either.”

He reached the bottom of the steps and turned so that Matilda could see him fully. He was walking with the stick that the old man had used. His trouser leg looked as if it was sopping with blood. His face was covered with sweat. It looked like he might throw up.

“The information you want isn’t even in this country. It’s on several servers, in places you’ll never find it. I need to check in every six hours or the next thing that’ll happen is an email triggers. All the newspapers, TV stations and Internet sites I could think of — they’ll get it all. The Mossad’s secrets will be broadcast to the world. It’ll make WikiLeaks look like a minor diplomatic disagreement.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I? I know Blum has a reputation for gambling. Milton told me. But we both know that he won’t gamble on this. So put the guns down, please. We all know you’re not going to use them.”

The agents exchanged another glance, but did not speak.

Ziggy shuffled, putting a little too much weight on his injured leg, and he winced. He walked away from Malakhi, passed Keren and came to Matilda’s side. “Come on,” he said quietly, and tugged at her wrist.

She walked. The sensation was weird, as if she was out of her own body. The agents kept their weapons raised, but, as they approached, they stepped apart so that Ziggy and Matilda could pass between them and onto the decked area.

“You’re a lucky man,” Keren said. “Bachman was an agent, once. And the old man was a soldier, too, a hero, and they’re both dead because of you. We won’t forget that.”

Ziggy swallowed, and Matilda saw his larynx bobbing. He had put on a good show, but she could see how frightened he was. She was frightened, too. She reached out and took his hand.

“You’re going to have to help me,” he said. “I think I’m going to faint.”

She braced him with her arm and he leaned in.

“Where’s Milton?” he said groggily.

She bit her lip.

He turned to look at her.

“I think he’s dead.”

“How?”

“Went over the side with Bachman,” she said.

“Did you see him in the water?”

“No, neither of them. And that’s a long drop.”

They continued through the grounds of the villa, neither of them speaking. Matilda felt an itching sensation between her shoulder blades, as if the agents behind them were aiming their weapons at her, but there was no gunfire and no attempt to stop them. Ziggy grunted with the effort of walking. She braced his weight again and kept them both moving.

Eventually, as they passed around the house and made their way into the gardens at the front, Ziggy broke the silence.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s Milton.”

Matilda shook her head once, wordlessly, and Ziggy looked down at the ground and closed his eyes.

There was no point in pretending otherwise.

Milton was dead.