Illegal Action

58

A dead squirrel lay flattened on the gravel at the top of the drive, still bleeding. “There’s been a car along here recently,” said Rodrigues, looking in the mirror at Michael in the back seat.

They were approaching the house that loomed at the end of the double row of lime trees, and a tense silence filled the car. Decay in all around I see, thought Michael as they neared, for though the building was an architectural jewel, it was a damaged one—he noted the missing tiles on the roof and the nest which rooks had made on top of one chimney. There was something spooky about the untended beauty of the place.

Michael broke the silence. “Stop here,” he said abruptly, well short of the terminating semicircle of gravel, where they could see two large black limousines parked. Rodrigues grunted and pulled over. As they got out of the car, both he and Maloney unbuttoned the holsters of their side arms.

The day was unseasonably cold, but the wind had died and a stillness hung like mist in the air. No birds sang, no cars hummed in the distance. They walked silently on the grass at the edge of the gravel drive, aware that the lime-tree avenue gave them little cover as they approached the house. Michael was very conscious of being in charge. This was his operation. But what was the best way to proceed? Ring the doorbell and ask for Miss Falconer? Find their own way in? There must be an open window somewhere.

The answer came when the large front door creaked open and a short dark man came out, moving lithely, almost cockily down the steps. Michael recognised Brunovsky at once. He felt relief—if Brunovsky were still here, then Liz must be as well. And there was no sign that the oligarch was in any danger. Far from it—he was waiting for someone, and a moment later a tall, powerfully built figure in a leather jacket came out, supporting an older man, who looked ill.

What’s going on? wondered Michael. Who was this sick man and why was he being helped to the car? Where the hell was Jerry Simmons?

He knew they had to make a move. “Don’t let them drive away,” he instructed Rodrigues. It was then that they were spotted: as the tall man bundled the invalid into the Mercedes, he straightened up and pointed towards them, speaking urgently to Brunovsky.

“Let’s go!” shouted Michael, and Maloney and Rodrigues began to run. By the car, the man in the leather jacket hesitated. For a moment Michael thought he would run for it.

“Garda!” shouted Maloney. Then “Police!”

The man turned to face them and raised his hands in surrender. It was Brunovsky who kept moving, sprinting towards the side of the house.

“Stop,” shouted Maloney, but the Russian kept running. You idiot, thought Michael; didn’t he understand it was the Garda? Michael was also running now, only a few yards behind the Irish policemen, and as he reached the car he decided to leave Brunovsky to it; he would be easy to find in the grounds later on. Right now his priority was Liz, and he stopped and turned to Maloney. “Leave him,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the fleeing Russian. “Come with me.”

They ran up the steps and into the house, where they stopped in the cavernous entrance hall and listened. Silence. Then, very faintly, they heard a slow thumping noise towards the rear of the building. Michael turned to Maloney and put a finger to his lips. “Wait here,” he whispered, “and don’t let anyone leave the house.”

Michael moved cautiously along the corridor until he reached an open door. He peered into a sumptuous but faded drawing room, with a view of gardens and, in the distance, a large oval lake. There was a woman in the corner, struggling with one of the French windows. She was trying to open it, he realised, and when she saw him standing in the doorway, she turned back and pushed hard against the lock.

“Where is Jane Falconer?” he demanded, just as the lock gave way and the French window flew open. Instinctively, Michael stepped forward into the room. “Wait,” he said, fearing the woman was about to run outside. “Don’t move.”

She cast a look back at him, openly scornful, and he took two quick steps towards her. This must be Greta. He still expected her to run for it, and was taken by surprise when she suddenly reached into her bag. The next thing he knew she was holding a gun. She said, with the precision of a foreign speaker, “Do not get involved.”

She’s going to get away, was his initial reaction before he had time to be afraid. “Put it down,” he said self-consciously, wondering where the line had come from. A movie? A thriller? He was amazed how calm he felt. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Maloney!” he suddenly shouted. And as he took another step towards her, watching for her to drop the gun, he wondered quite irrationally what Anna would think of him now.

It was the last thought he ever had. Greta fired twice, though only the first shot was needed—it hit Michael two inches above his left eye, and killed him instantly.

Maloney recognised the noise from the practice range, though he wanted it to be something else—a car backfiring, a balloon popped by a child; anything other than a gunshot. He was halfway down the hall when he heard it. Lord Jesus, he thought, then said it to himself, like a mantra, “Lord Jesus.”

He was reaching for his holster as he approached the doorway and he stopped momentarily to be sure he had his gun in his hand before he went into the room. He had never, in thirty-seven years on the force, drawn a weapon in anger, and he was relieved to see that his hand was steady. Still, he felt slightly foolish, as his initial panic gave way to doubt—probably he would find nothing more than some people embarrassed by the accidental bang they’d caused.

As he crossed the threshold of the room, his mind registered the body on the floor, crumpled and lying on its back. He realised it was the young lad from London, his eyes staring vacantly towards the high ceiling, a small black hole above one brow. But Maloney took this in only fleetingly, for in the background there was another figure, a woman, dressed smartly.

He would not normally have seen a female as a threat, but he saw the expression on this woman’s face, an expression neither of panic nor shock but of determination. She was holding a pistol by her side and something—he was never able to say what—told him in unequivocal terms that she was going to shoot him dead. He held his arm out to its full length, and just as he saw her weapon start to swing up, he squeezed the trigger of his own gun.

The noise and kick of the explosion surprised him, so much that he almost fell backwards. Recovering, he saw the woman drop the pistol, and his eyes watched with perverse fascination as it landed on its metal butt, bounced on the large Oriental rug, freakishly bounced again, then was suddenly smothered by the body of the woman as she collapsed on to the floor.

The first thought that came into his head—though he was to tell no one this, not even his wife—was: that wasn’t so hard. But then he fell to his knees, literally knocked down by the realisation of what he had done. Lord Jesus.