The Armageddon Protocol

EIGHTEEN

Harry led Lucia into an old-fashioned but beautifully restored cage elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. They rode up in awkward silence until the bell pinged and he swung open the manual accordion gate and stepped out.

The hall was dimly lit but expensively decorated, with black and white pictures of 19th Century Paris on the walls. Parlour palms in white ceramic pots were stationed on the shining oak parquetry floor either side of a crimson-coloured Persian runner rug which led the way to the apartment door of Anton Zeman.

“Follow the red brick road,” Harry said.

They reached the door and after knocking to make sure no one was home, Harry worked his magic with the bump key and gently pushed open the door.

The apartment was empty and silent, except for the gentle whirring of a ceiling fan, which Harry thought meant this Zeman wasn’t too far away. Everything in the place gave an impression of old, quiet money — the original Degas sketch above the fireplace, the wine rack in the kitchen, the antique carriage clock on the drinks cabinet. It reminded Harry of the officer’s mess back in England, before he traded that life in to become a spook.

They walked to the back of the apartment and entered what was obviously the study.

“Maybe they got to him too,” Lucia said, lifting a cold coffee cup from a table beside a leather armchair.

Harry shook his head. “Maybe, but I don’t think so — at least if they did then it didn’t happen in here. No sign of a struggle.”

“Are we sure this is even the right place?”

“Oh for sure — check this out.”

He pulled back a net voile in the window and gestured toward the view.

Lucia joined him and gasped when she saw it. “It’s the view from the video!”

“The exact same view — just as I thought. I think it’s a safe bet that Anton Zeman and Andrej Liška are one and the same.”

“Harry! I hear someone opening the door!”

“Keep calm and stay here. I’ll go and welcome him home.”

Harry darted out of the room and into the corridor, snatching up a small but heavy bronze sculpture of Artemis as he went. He pushed himself up behind the front door and held his breath as it slowly opened.

A solid man in his sixties shuffled into the hallway. His sloping shoulders told Harry he was carrying the weight of the world on them, but as the old man turned to toss his keys in the bowl and shut the door, Harry stepped out and raised the small statuette.

“Oh God!” the man said, his eyes full of terror. “Don’t kill me, please!”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Harry said. “I’m here to help you. We both are.”

And then Lucia stepped out into the corridor.

Anton Zeman looked at them for a long time. He was judging them — measuring how trustworthy they were. That was fine, thought Harry. I’m doing exactly the same thing to you.

“Come away from the door,” Harry said, and they walked into the main living area. Without warning, the man turned on his heel and fled. Harry gave chase, tearing through the apartment in his bid to catch him, but slipped on one of the rugs and crashed over into the drinks cabinet. “Bugger!”

“Get up, Harry!” Lucia screamed. “He’s getting away!”

“No, no,” Harry said as he got to his feet. “He’s just popping along to the kitchen to make us a cup of tea.”

She rolled her eyes, hands on hips. “Idiota.”

Harry raced toward Zeman who was now halfway to the apartment’s entrance. The fleeing man lashed out and knocked his coat-rack over in a bid to slow Harry down but he got his jacket sleeve caught in one of the pegs.

As he struggled to free himself, Harry caught up and rugby tackled him to the ground. Zeman screamed out and tried to punch Harry, but to say the former soldier and MI6 man had dealt with worse was a tragic understatement, and seconds later the old man was subdued, but spitting with anger.

“Let me go!”

“Just calm down, Andrej!”

The man cocked his head and took a breath. “How do you know my name? No one knows my name! I am Anton Zeman!”

Harry sighed. “I know lots about you, including your real name, Andrej, and I’m not here to rob you or hurt you, all right?”

Liška’s breathing slowed but his face was still purple with rage and fear from the chase. “So you say now, but…”

“It’s true, and I’ll let you go to prove it if you swear you won’t run again.”

Liška seemed to think the proposal over, and then Harry felt his body go limp as he finally gave up the struggle and relented. “All right, fine. I swear.”

Harry slowly moved away from Liška and got to his feet. As the man stumbled up to his knees and then stood up, Harry closed the apartment door and locked it, putting the man’s key in his pocket. Liška looked aghast. “Just a precaution in case you change your mind.”

“What do you want?” Liška said, moving his head from Harry to Lucia. “Why have you broken into my apartment?”

“We just wanted to talk to you,” Lucia said. “That’s all.”

“When most people want to talk to me they usually use the telephone,” he said, his breathing returning to normal again. “They don’t break into my home.”

Lucia pointed her chin at Harry. “I’m sorry, Mr Liška, but my friend here likes to do things a little differently than most people.”

“I want a drink,” Liška said, and then turned to Harry. “I take it I’m allowed to make myself a drink, if this is okay with you?”

Harry nodded. “Knock yourself out, and I wouldn’t say no either.”

Liška snorted. “You have some nerve, whoever you are. I’ll give you that.”

“My name is Harry Bane, and this is Lucia Serrano. We’re friends of Pablo Reyes.”

Liška stopped pouring the Scotch halfway. “Pablo?”

“That’s right,” Lucia said gently. “I was his lover.”

“What do you mean were?”

“Pablo was killed last night in Madrid.”

The man bowed his head and closed his eyes before muttering, “Poor Gabriel…”

“Gabriel?”

“Pablo’s real name.”

Lucia sat down in shock as she realized the level of deceit she had been living with, but before she could respond, the man spoke again.

“How did you find me?” The whisky had calmed him now, and revealed the true man behind the false defenses. He looked like a nervous, broken man.

“We found something that led us to you,” Lucia said.

Liška looked aghast. “You found what? What did you find?”

“Pablo wrote your name in a book.”

“A book?” He lowered his voice to a mumble. “The clue…”

“The what?”

“Gabriel and I swore that we would leave each other clues that only we could solve — based on our interests. We both loved renaissance art, as you can see.” He swept his arms at the array of reproduction paintings on his walls. “We told each other we would leave clues based on that. The clue I left him was very clever — only he could have solved it, but now it’s all too late.”

“We know that Pablo…” Harry paused, glancing at Lucia. “Sorry, Gabriel, was hiding a NAND chip. We’ve seen its contents. It contains a strange film of birds dropping dead out of the sky above this apartment. This is how we were able to find you.”

“An experiment of mine that he recorded — something we were trying to reverse but it didn’t work…”

“What are you hiding, Andrej?”

“I cannot tell you — I am in grave danger.”

“Who is putting you in danger?”

“Don’t you understand? If you found me then they can find me!”

“Who are they?” Lucia asked.

Liška looked like he was about to be sick. He sank the Scotch in one gulp and poured another before getting up out of his chair and nervously looking out of the window. He began pacing up and down, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

“Mr Liška,” Lucia repeated. “Who will find you?”

He stopped in the center of his room and sank the second Scotch. “The Ministry.”