Killing with Confetti

21

During a far from comfortable night on the roof, Jack had slept fitfully. He had parked his bedroll in the gully between the outer wall of the Pump Room reception hall and the pitched roof over the adjacent corridor. After six years of confinement he felt less exposed with a solid wall close by. There was just room to stretch out lengthwise. Finally, an hour or two towards dawn, his overactive brain cut him some slack and he entered a deeper sleep.

About 5:30 A.M., he sat up and wondered where he was. In truth he’d been sleeping in a generous-sized gutter. Good thing there had been no overnight rain. The air had felt sultry during the small hours, yet this morning a slight September chill had taken over. It wouldn’t last much beyond dawn. The sky was as blue as any bride could wish for on her wedding day. The only vapour in view was at the far end, wraithlike wisps of steam rising from the Great Bath, hot water sourced from two miles down and forced through the earth’s crust at the rate of a quarter of a million gallons a day.

He reached for the water bottle and moistened his mouth and face. After eating the last of the sandwiches, he started assembling the assault rifle. He’d not used an AK-63 for some time, but it was obvious how the parts came together. This was the twenty-first-century model, the MA, used by the Hungarian army. The wooden stock and grips of the original version had been replaced with plastic components, yet the weight was still almost seven pounds. A new feature, the lower rail, could be used to attach accessories including tactical flashlights, a laser target designator and a grenade launcher.

He wouldn’t need a grenade.

Just 39mm cartridges, as many as it took.

He had two magazines loaded with twenty rounds each. He’d decided if he couldn’t hit the target with that many shots he would definitely use the handgun — against his own shit-for-brains head.

By 6:15 A.M., he was armed and ready, gun belt fastened, AK slung over his shoulder. Eight hours too early, but how else could he have got up here unseen?

Shortly after seven, he heard a heavy commercial vehicle being driven into the yard. He was on his feet at once. Could be simply a street-cleaning truck prettying up the yard before the tourists arrived.

Or something more sinister.

He shifted to the south end of the gully and peeked through the balustrade.

More like a van than a truck and parked just below where he was. A large, black van with an extending ladder on top. Three men had got out and were talking in a relaxed way as if discussing how to start work. The voices didn’t carry but at one point they all stared up at the balustrade.

Jack ducked out of sight.

In a moment he heard sounds of activity followed by the clang of the alloy ladder being dropped on the flagstones.

He risked another look.

Two of them were adjusting the extensions on the triple push-up ladder. The third had collected what looked like a backpack from the cab.

Alarming.

Jack resisted the urge to keep watching. He had a strong theory what this was about. Keeping his head down, he scooted back to where his things were, the bedroll, the gun case, the backpack, and scooped them up and hefted them along the gully to the corner farthest from the balustrade, right up against the outer wall of the Great Bath.

The clang of the ladder being swung and scraped against the stonework confirmed his theory. The guy with the backpack was about to be sent up here to check. He’d be over the balustrade in seconds.

Jack dragged the balaclava over his head and left the rest of his possessions in a heap. He’d use them as a lure. Hands flat to the surface he edged crab-fashion around the hip end of the roof to the other side where he wouldn’t be seen. He’d wait there and see if the bait was taken.

A regular metallic clunk-clunk could only mean the guy with the backpack was mounting the ladder. One, or both, of the others would be holding it steady.

Each rung could be the toll of a funeral bell. Whose funeral?

An audible shout of, ‘All right, mate?’

A shout back. Indistinct.

Then the slap of the guy’s shoes hitting the surface at the same level Jack was on.

Crunch point.

‘Made it,’ from the top.

‘Best of luck,’ from below.

Jack didn’t move. He was waiting for his unwanted guest to investigate and hoping to hell he looked along the gully first and spotted the bedroll and other things.

A tense interval.

Then a shout from below. ‘If you’re okay, we’ll leave you to it.’

‘No problem,’ from the roof.

The scrape and rattle of the ladder being tugged away.

More talk and laughter between the van men and the guy above.

Jack overheard the ladder being returned to the roof rack and clamped in place. A final exchange of greetings and then the engine started and the van chugged across the yard and away.

One on one.

He weighed the options. The invader was almost certainly a cop from some elite unit. There was a good chance he’d been posted here as an observer. This roof was the perfect vantage point, as Jack had discovered. The cop would be armed and alert and primed for action, but he wouldn’t yet know someone was up here with him.

The advantage of surprise. Use it to the maximum.

Observer or hunter, the cop was certain to explore the rest of his surroundings soon.

Masked and crouching in the gully between the balustrade and the roof, Jack was as still as the stonework, willing the cop to take the bait and move along the parallel gully on the other side of the roof.

Three or four minutes of silence felt like ten. Reasonable time for the cop to remove his own backpack and put his mind to choosing the position with the best view of the abbey front. He would be in contact by radio or phone with whoever was directing the surveillance and his first duty would be to report that he was in place.

Be my guest, Jack thought. Tell them to relax.

He had learned to be patient. He waited for the crunch of shoes on grit. The felt-lined gully had collected a million small bits of weathered stone. When the cop moved, Jack would hear him.

Presently he did. And rejoiced that the approaching steps came from the other side of the roof. Heard them quicken when the cop spotted the bedroll and backpack.

Heard them stop.

He would be level with Jack now. Only the angle of the roof separated the two men.

Jack freed himself from the sling of the AK-63 and gripped the hand guard.

It was all in the timing now. A trained cop would hesitate over whether to open the backpack. It could be a trap, a bomb. But it could also contain vital intelligence about the owner. A dilemma.

A few seconds of total concentration on the object at the cop’s feet.

He wouldn’t expect to be hit from above.

The pitch of the roof was slight, simple to climb, the apex no more than four feet higher than the lowest edge. Jack launched himself forward and over. He saw the cop standing in the gully, an average-sized young guy entirely in black — baseball cap, bomber jacket and jeans. Sunglasses. The head turned and the right hand moved to the belt. Half a second too late.

Jack didn’t shoot. He used the assault rifle as a club and swung the stock at the cop’s skull. Caught him square above the peak of the cap and felt the force of the impact in his own hands. The cop buckled and Jack leapt on him.

They crashed heavily in the gully, but the cop still had some fight in him and thrust both hands upwards, the heel of his right hand under Jack’s chin, fingernails digging into his flesh through the textile fabric of the mask, and the fingers of his left stabbing at Jack’s eyes.

Painful.

Jack swayed back and whacked the cop a second time with the AK, catching him hard in the ribs.

A grunt of pain.

Anything broken? He hoped so. He needed to maim the guy. Killing him would be over and above.

It seemed that the cop was winded at the very least because the hand under Jack’s chin lost all strength and slipped limply past his shoulder.

Jack slung the AK out of reach behind him, confident he could deal with the depleted cop now, sitting astride him on bent knees. As he’d suspected, the guy was armed with a self-loading pistol that Jack wrenched from the holster and tossed where the AK had gone.

‘What’s your name?’

Silence.

‘Name?’

‘Mm?’ Difficult to tell whether the vagueness was down to cussedness or concussion. The eyes squinted as if they had difficulty focusing, but that may have been caused by the sunlight. The baseball hat and shades had come off in the struggle.

The face was pudgy and boyish. It’s said you know you’re getting old when the police look younger. Since when had they started recruiting twelve-year-olds?

Jack pulled his own handgun from the holster and let the cop feel the muzzle against his forehead. ‘For the last time. Name?’

‘Paul.’

‘I’m ready to use this, Paul. Better do what I say.’ He felt for the side of the gully with his free hand and stood up while continuing to point the gun at the cop’s head. Give him a few years more than twelve. Could be twenty. ‘Turn over. Face down.’

Paul the cop obeyed him.

Jack’s backpack was within reach. ‘The gun is still at your head.’ He dragged the pack closer, pulled up the flap and felt for the roll of duct tape. ‘Clasp your hands behind your back.’

He got co-operation. Good thing. It isn’t easy prising tape from a roll with one hand. The guy couldn’t see behind him and wasn’t taking any chances.

Heavy-duty duct tape bound tightly is as good as conventional handcuffs if used the correct way, with the wrists to the rear and anchored to the body with extra lengths around the waist. Any fool can snap the stuff if the hands can be raised above the head and forced down. Jack trussed his prisoner well and then fixed the ankles.

‘You’re the baby on the team, right?’

No answer.

‘I’m guessing that’s why you were given the seven o’clock spot. Will they send a relief?’

A shake of the head.

‘Did they tell you to radio in?’

‘I already did.’

‘Where is it?’

‘The radio? In my bag.’

‘Any protocol about more calls?’

‘Only if I see something suspicious.’

‘You won’t see jack shit from where you are. Did they give you an identity — a number or something?’

‘Golf One.’

Spoken at once, without time for deception, so it could well be true. Golf was the standard word in the phonetic alphabet.

‘What’s your surname?’

‘Gilbert.’

G for Gilbert.

Even so, Jack would only use the radio as a last resort. He tore off another strip of tape and pressed it over Paul Gilbert’s mouth.