Splinter

56

‘After them!’ Marc shouted, and before Benny could protest he had grabbed the wheel. The car swerved to the right. They were flung forwards with a force resembling that of a rear-end collision, but Benny had merely stamped on the brake so as to regain control of the car.

‘What are you doing?’ he yelled, almost in unison with Emma, who had luckily fastened her seatbelt in the back.

‘Sandra,’ was all Marc said, pointing ahead.

It was warmer in the city centre than beside the Müggelsee. The snow melted as soon as it landed on the asphalt and visibility was considerably better.

‘Where?’ Benny was now, willy-nilly, taking the exit road to Tempelhofer Damm.

‘There, in that Volvo.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Please!’ Marc heard the desperation in his own voice. ‘Do me this favour.’

Benny shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was letting himself in for, but he put on speed.

They raced past the abandoned airport and along Tempelhofer Damm, heading in the direction of Airlift Square.

‘You could be right!’ Emma chimed in, hanging on to one of the grab handles in the back. The Volvo squeezed past a bus that was occupying two of the three lanes ahead of them. The road was further obstructed about a hundred metres ahead by a stranded lorry.

The Volvo was now out of sight and there was no possibility of overtaking it, but Benny sped towards the tailback without reducing speed.

‘Stop!’ Marc shouted, bracing himself for the worst. But instead of slowing down, his brother wrenched the wheel over and swerved on to the pavement. Emma started screaming, and all that prevented Marc from following suit was sheer bewilderment. A few seconds ago he’d had to urge Benny on, and now his brother was trying to kill them all. He didn’t regain the power of speech until they were level with the slip road to the airport.

‘Slow down, it isn’t worth it.’

Benny’s eyes flickered between the rear-view mirror and the road ahead. ‘Just so you know. We aren’t chasing anyone.’

‘No?’

‘We’re being chased.’

Marc turned to look.

Shit, what is it this time?

The motorcyclist only two metres from their rear bumper was taking no more notice of traffic regulations than Benny. Instead of a helmet he wore a black balaclava and a blue-grey scarf wound around the lower part of his face. Mounted on a light motocross bike, he was steering with one hand and holding something to his ear with the other.

‘Who on earth’s that?’

Benny picked up his mobile, which seemed to be receiving another text message, and shot back on to the road via an unoccupied parking space. Their faceless pursuer did likewise.

‘One of Valka’s guys,’ said Benny. He glanced at the mobile’s display and put it down again.

‘Valka? You mean you’re still working for that psychopath?’

At that moment there was a flash outside the car. Benny had just driven across a red light at around 100 kph. The motorcyclist behind them had also ignored the speed camera.

‘There, straight ahead!’ Emma cried, pointing to the yellow Volvo, which had reappeared at last.

They were now speeding along Mehringdamm towards the city centre. All that slowed them down were the numerous delivery vans, more and more of which were double parked.

Twenty seconds later, only a Smart car separated them from the yellow saloon and the motocross bike seemed to have disappeared. Marc didn’t notice this until he realized he could no longer hear it blatting away behind them.

‘Have we shaken him off?’ he asked as they ignored another red light and turned right into Leipziger Strasse. It had now stopped snowing.

‘No,’ said Benny, and Emma uttered another scream. The motorbike had shot out of an entrance on their right and the man in the balaclava was alongside them.

‘He’s got a gun!’ Emma yelled, ducking down. Benny braked hard before the man could pull the trigger, and this time it really was a collision that hurled them all forwards. The heavy 4x4 behind them had failed to react in time and was now propelling them across the carriageway with all its considerable weight.

‘Bloody hell!’ Marc shouted, but it was already too late. In the fraction of a second it took for the car to slew round, he recalled the last few moments before his crash with Sandra: the photograph of nothing identifiable, the sound of a tyre bursting, the steering wheel escaping from his grasp and the clump of trees coming ever closer.

Then came a crash, but not in his memory: in the present. They had hit the motorcycle. The rider toppled over sideways and disappeared under their bonnet. There was a frightful, protracted grating sound, worse than that made by ten fingernails scratching a slate, and their car came to rest at last.

Benny was the first to open his door, after an instant’s shocked silence, followed by Marc. Emma remained sitting in the back, trembling but unscathed. ‘Where did he go?’ she said.

Benny and Marc stared at each other in dismay.

The bike was lying wedged beneath the bonnet sideways on. There was no sign of the rider.

They were quickly surrounded by a gaggle of interested spectators. Traffic jams developed in both directions. Horns blared.

Marc went round the back to see if their pursuer had ended up beneath the wheels of the vehicle behind them.

‘Are you crazy, you idiots?’ yelled the driver of the 4x4, who had been inspecting his chromium-plated radiator grille, which was stove in. A man in his mid-fifties, he was wearing a tracksuit, sweatshirt and camouflage-green combat boots. ‘You must have shit for brains!’

Marc took no notice of him, nor did he bend down to look for the vanished motorcyclist. He was staring uncomprehendingly into Benny’s boot, which had sprung open on impact.

What the…?

In addition to a canvas bag, the boot contained a small arsenal: two knives, an automatic pistol, a pump-action shotgun and, unless his eyes deceived him, some secateurs, lying on top of a transparent plastic bag with some pink liquid sloshing around inside it.

Before he could reach for it Benny spun him around.

‘Leave it!’ he snapped.

‘But what have you been up to?’

Marc indicated Benny’s boot. His brother was now forcing the lid down with both hands.

‘That’s what I’d like to know!’ bellowed the tracksuited figure behind them. ‘Why slam on your anchors like that?’

Far away and faint as yet, police sirens could be heard approaching from Potsdamer Platz.

‘You push off, I’ll deal with this,’ said Benny. He rammed the lid shut.

Marc stared blankly at the car’s battered rear end.

‘I’ll explain later, I promise. There’s no time now.’

Benny looked at the intersection where the Volvo had turned off before the shunt brought them to a standstill.

‘There’s always a traffic jam on Friedrichstrasse. You could still catch them.’

His brother had to repeat himself before Marc shook off his inertia and resumed the pursuit on foot.