The Lost Testament

68

Bronson shook his head.

‘The ungodly don’t knock on doors: they kick them down.’

But he still put down his bag and took out the Beretta, holding the pistol out of sight behind his back before he stepped across to the door to open it.

‘I just wondered if you’d finished with the first-aid kit,’ the bar waiter asked, looking embarrassed when he saw Bronson’s serious expression. ‘Or if you decided you did need a doctor to look at your wife.’

‘Thanks,’ Bronson said, ‘but she’s fine.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ the young man muttered.

‘That’s fine, thank you for your concern, but we’re leaving soon,’ said Bronson, ‘and we’re in a bit of a rush.’ With that he thrust the first-aid kit towards the waiter, along with a twenty-Euro note, and closed the door again.

A couple of minutes later he and Angela stepped cautiously out of the room and into the corridor. She was carrying the leather-covered briefcase and her bag. In front of her, Bronson had his bag in his left hand, leaving his right hand free to use the silenced pistol which he’d tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but he was taking no chances.

The corridor was deserted in both directions, and they walked as far as the lift without seeing or hearing anyone. The descent to the garage floor seemed to take for ever, and at any moment Bronson was half expecting the lift to stop, the doors to slam open, and to be faced with any number of aggressors.

When the lift finally stopped, Bronson tensed, seeing dimly through the frosted glass what he’d been dreading: a vague bulky shape standing there and waiting for the lift to arrive.

He pushed Angela behind him, at the same time slipping the silenced Beretta pistol out of his waistband and holding it slightly behind his right leg, out of sight but ready for immediate use.

With a faint mechanical rumbling sound, the lift doors slid sideways.

The man standing there looked about fifty years old, wearing a somewhat crumpled and badly cut suit, and with a small suitcase in one hand and a newish briefcase in the other. As the lift doors opened, he took a step forward, then stopped when he saw that there were two people inside it, and moved backwards with a muttered apology in Spanish, glancing from Bronson to Angela.

He didn’t look threatening, but Bronson took no chances, keeping the pistol hidden but ready to fire, as he and Angela stepped out of the lift and onto the concrete floor of the garage. For a few moments, they just stood there, waiting and alert, as the man stepped into the lift and the door closed.

They both breathed heavy sighs of relief as the lift moved up and out of sight.

They bundled everything into the car as quickly as possible, then Bronson drove around the garage towards the curved exit ramp. The electrically operated door was controlled by a panel beside the ramp. Bronson stopped beside it, dropped his window and pushed the button.

As the door slowly began to rise, creaking lazily, Bronson caught the faintest sign of movement in his rear-view mirror. A figure was emerging from the staircase door beside the lift. He immediately recognized the man from a moment ago. He also immediately realized that his assumption about the man being harmless had been entirely wrong. The stranger was raising a black object at arm’s length, and pointing it directly at the car.