The Mozart Conspiracy

Chapter Forty-Four

Ben sprinted away down the sidestreet, leaving the sirens and the devastation behind him. The hail had softened to sleet. He leapt over an icy puddle, came down on the edge of it and almost fell. His head was still bursting from the impact of the truck and his breath rasped in his ears.

He stumbled around a corner and saw a cobbled alleyway to his left, narrow and winding, carving deep into the ancient backstreets of the city. He could see three black running shapes fifty yards ahead, their racing footsteps echoing up the walls of the buildings on either side.

The men were running to a waiting brown Volvo saloon. Brake lights blazed through the sleet. The engine revved and Ben gave chase. The escaping riflemen piled in, doors slammed and the Volvo took off, skidding away out of sight.

Ben stood in the middle of the wet road, his heart pounding, the gun hanging limply at his side as he listened to the noise of the car engine fade. But then it changed. There was a screech of tyres. The engine note began to rise.

The car had U-turned. It was coming back.

It rounded the corner, heading back up the alleyway towards him, accelerating hard. He could see faces behind the rain-spattered windscreen. Four, perhaps five men inside the car. He raised the Para-Ordnance and fired at the screen.

His bullet punched a web of cracks in the glass. The Volvo kept coming, faster, aiming to run him down. He brought the pistol back to aim.

But the gun was empty. He’d only had time to load five rounds into the magazine. Those five rounds were gone. The slide was locked back and the ammunition was still in the Mercedes. Two hundred and forty-five rounds, enough to hold off a small army, and he couldn’t get to a single one of them.

The Volvo was gaining on him-he could see the grinning faces behind the cracked glass. Ben turned and ran. The engine roared behind him in the narrow alley, drowning out the echoing clap of his footsteps as he half-sprinted, half-staggered over the slippery, glistening cobbles.

He wasn’t going to make it. The car crash had knocked the energy out of him and he could feel his strength giving out. Then he saw another alleyway entrance to the left. It wound sharply downhill between old walls and uneven houses, its entrance blocked by three old iron bollards. You could barely squeeze a large motorcycle between them, let alone a car.

Ben raced between them and heard the Volvo slide to a halt behind him. He hurtled down the steep alley, the downward slope giving him more momentum. The Volvo’s doors opened. A shot cracked and a bullet sang off a wall.

Ben ran on. The alley curved round to the right, taking him out of sight of his pursuers. He could hear their running footsteps coming down the hill. He rounded the lip of a crumbled wall, and suddenly the alley opened up into a little square. There was an old fountain in the middle.

He leaned against it and paused for breath, stuffing the empty pistol in his belt. He looked around him. From the square, a whole network of tiny streets ran off in different directions. There were six ways he could go. He stole a glance over his shoulder and chose one at random. It was even steeper. He ran as fast and as lightly as he could, to mask the sound of his footsteps. There was nobody following him. They must have gone a different way, but he still had to hurry. They could split up, they knew the city better than him, and he was unarmed.

Ahead of him, the downhill alleyway opened up onto what looked like a bigger street. Thirty yards, twenty. As he approached the bottom, he looked over his shoulder to check if they were following. He couldn’t see-

Brakes screeched. He couldn’t stop in time. He ran straight out in front of the red Peugeot.