The Vanishing (8 page)

Another crackle, then: ‘
Yes.
’

The man was standing not four feet from them. ‘We can’t find her,’ he said quietly, in broken English. What was the accent? German? ‘They fucked it up. Went fucking crazy, shooting everything. Can you get over here?’

A short break, then a crackle and click. ‘
Yes. I’m done.
’

‘Any problems?’

‘
No problems. He didn’t get far. It was a diversion, I think. But he wouldn’t let me near. He was armed. He got one of the Somalis. You clear at that end?
’

‘You could say that. They shot everything that fucking moved. One left only. The woman – Mailot.’ A pause, then the man added: ‘One down here too. The target shot him.’

There was a longer gap before they heard the voice on the radio again. ‘
Clarify. They missed the target and the other woman?
’

‘No. Just the target. Mailot is here. I have her.’

‘
Fuck …
’ More words followed, but in a completely different language. Russian? Whatever it was, the anger was very clear.

‘Suggest we just sit tight and wait,’ the one in front of them said. ‘We’ve got it all covered. The target will have to eat and drink. There’s nowhere to go.’

‘
We can’t wait. It has to be sorted quickly. We have five days maximum. That’s the deal. And she could lie low for much longer than that. Or there could be interruptions before then – it’s likely there will be. It’s her birthday in five days, so anyone could arrive – people like this use helicopters like they’re taxis. They can get here quickly. She could have invited a cruise ship full of people. We have to find her now …
’

The voice was silenced by the man in front of them cutting in. ‘But we can’t cover the whole island.’

Another pause.

‘
I agree. But maybe the other girl can help. Wait for me. I’ll ask her.
’

She scrambled too quickly back to the first mesh, making too much noise. Tom followed, grabbing at her legs, trying to slow her. She’d flipped, he thought. Something had snapped inside her. She was going to give them away, get them both shot.

But at the other side, back in the open, she stood immediately and moved straight into the jungle. She clearly knew where she was going, and he had trouble keeping up with her. She ran through the fronds with the gun in both hands, head down to stop the branches lashing her eyes. They were deep into the trees before he could catch up, grab her and spin her to face him. ‘What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?’

‘They’re going to do something to Janine,’ she panted. ‘You heard. I have to stop them …’

‘For Christ’s sake! You can’t stop them. There’s four of them. Maybe more. All armed …’

But already she was off again, heading downhill into deeper layers of fern that rose well above her height. He cursed and followed into the damp darkness. As the ground levelled out she pushed through to a narrow trail, with less vegetation around her legs, then started running along it in the half-light.

He had to stop her. Precisely what they wanted was to get her to break cover. If they were covering this trail then it was already too late. He kept pulling at her shoulder, trying to halt her, but she shook him off, kept going. She was much stronger than he had imagined. And determined. The trail was getting wider, moving uphill, the trees farther apart at each side, letting in more light through the gaps in the canopy. If they were up ahead, waiting for her, then she would be perfectly visible. ‘Sara, please stop,’ he cried, trying to whisper and shout at the same time. ‘Please stop …’ He was out of breath but managed to hold on to one of her arms and swing her sideways. She stopped and raised the gun. He thought she was going to hit him with the stock, but right then, from off to the left, they heard a woman starting to scream. Sara’s face twisted in pain and she started to run at full speed along the trail, completely careless. ‘It’s Janine,’ she shouted back at him. ‘It’s Janine.’

For a moment the options went through his brain. She was going to get killed, or captured. He was sure of it. So he didn’t have to follow her. She was no longer being rational, she was dangerous. The kidnappers’ plan was working. Get her friend screaming, get Sara out into the open. But he didn’t have to follow. He kept saying it to himself. He didn’t have to follow. He felt something scratching his arm and looked down to see three black ants – each as big as his thumb – walking across his bare flesh. He brushed them off, then glanced around at the hanging vegetation, the trailing creepers and darker areas above. There were wet, rotting plants all around him, soft beneath his feet, their smell thick in his nostrils. Already he had no idea where he was. Already his options were closing down.

One more try, he told himself. One more. He started after her again.

By the time he caught up she was at some kind of structure, hidden away in the trees, tall poles fastened together into a narrow platform, with a ladder going up. He couldn’t see the top clearly, but she was already pulling herself up the ladder. Was it one of the watchtowers? It looked less solid than the one he had seen from the dock, which had been a metal frame structure. He started up after her, the wooden ladder creaking with their joint weight. He wanted to shout again, to try to get her to talk to him, but he was frightened more than anything that the kidnappers were already right here, all around them.

As he got to the top of the ladder he realised it was some kind of observation tower, built to watch the monkeys, maybe. The floor was rough boards, the jungle hanging right there over the low railing. She was flat on her stomach already as he got off the ladder, the gun out in front of her, eye on the scope, like some kind of big-game hunter. He crouched down beside her but she reached out an arm and pulled him lower. ‘They’re there,’ she hissed. ‘Straight ahead. Get down.’

He lay flat, so that he was pressed up against her side, staring through a slit in a kind of rush fence that fronted the platform. He thought they must be about thirty feet off the ground. He could feel the platform swaying slightly. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Sara?’ He whispered the words into her ear, so close her hair was in his eyes. ‘Are you fucking mad?’ She was aiming the gun, ignoring him. He inched forward to see better through the slits and saw that she must have intended to find this place all along. She hadn’t been just running madly. The angle gave her a clear view into the area they had been watching from beneath the lab block, the area just behind the big house, though now from the reverse angle, from up behind the summerhouse. And now she had a clear field of fire. He could see figures moving around down there. The distance was about one hundred yards.

‘I’m going to stop them,’ she said. ‘I have to.’

‘If you shoot that thing they’ll know we’re here. They’ll fire at us …’

‘It’s a hunting rifle. It has a suppressor fitted …’

‘They’ll see the flash.’

‘The muzzle flash is suppressed too. They won’t see so clearly. They’ll hear something, but won’t know where it came from …’

‘If they look
now
they can see us, without you fucking advertising it. We’re
already
too close. Please listen to me. I’ve worked with these kinds of people. I have experience you don’t have. They will just start shooting blind. If you want to get us killed then fire that thing. Please stop and think …’

‘That’s Janine,’ she said. She started to shake. She had to bring her eyes off the sight. ‘Look at her. Look what they’ve done …’

He stared through the slit. He didn’t need the scope. They were close enough to see. There was a woman kneeling on the ground, next to the pile of bodies. The woman he had met last night, perhaps – Janine Mailot. But she looked different now. She was naked, he thought, blood streaked across her skin. She was crying hysterically. Just kneeling there, hands behind her back, crying. In the thick of the nightmare. He gritted his teeth. He could guess what they had done to her. ‘Christ,’ he whispered. ‘Christ Jesus …’ There was a white guy in view, standing behind her. He had a gun, though it wasn’t pointed at her. Was he holding her hair in one of his hands? Another guy – also white – was walking around the edges of the area, saying something. Nearer to the big house two black men were leaning against the wall, one squatting, smoking, both armed, both just watching the woman, as though something perfectly normal was going on.

‘There’s nothing we can do, Sara,’ Tom said. ‘The only thing we can do is get down from here, get to that phone and try to get help …’

‘They’ll kill her …’

‘No. They’re using her …’

Even as he spoke he heard a loud shout. Not the man standing beside Janine, but the other, who was out of sight now. What had he said?

‘SARA EATON!’

They both heard it clearly this time. He was shouting her name.

‘SARA EATON. I HAVE YOUR FRIEND, JANINE MAILOT. I HAVE HER HERE. IF YOU COME TO ME THEN SHE WILL NOT BE HURT. YOU TOO WILL NOT BE HURT. THAT IS MY PROMISE. I WILL GIVE YOU TEN MINUTES. TEN MINUTES, THEN I KILL HER.’

There was a heavy accent to the voice. Tom took his eyes from the scene and moved closer to Sara, so his face was almost touching hers. ‘Let’s go,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s a trick. We have to get away from here.’ But she had her eyes on the scope again. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’ He heard her take a breath, then hold it. He reached a hand to pull the gun away from her. His fingers were less than an inch from the stock when she squeezed the trigger.

Suppressed or not, the report was deafening, the recoil kicking back into her so hard the entire platform moved. His jaw dropped, but his eyes were still focused on the scene ahead. He saw the man behind Janine punched backwards, on to his knees, then over on to his face. She’d hit him. She’d actually aimed the thing, fired and hit him. Tom was dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe it. She had just squeezed and fired while he was lying there uselessly, right beside her.

While he was still getting his head round it she fired a second round, making him jump again. He had imagined she would have to do something with the bolt first – maybe she had, but so quickly he’d missed it.

The black guys began to run now. ‘Stop. For God’s sake stop,’ he hissed. But it was too late. Someone started firing an automatic weapon. One of the black guys stumbled, then brought up a gun and started shooting towards them. Suddenly, there was tracer whipping through the air above them. He could hear the singing crack as bullets went over his head and thwacked into the tree trunks. He cowered down, pressing his chin into the boards, but Sara was still going, pulling a magazine from the gun, slotting in another, working the action. He kept his eyes open, squinting through the slit. He wanted to move, to get up and leap backwards, run. But his limbs were frozen with fright. All he could do was watch. The tracers came in short bursts, arcing upwards and zipping away to the left of them.

The man she’d shot was crawling towards Janine, reaching a hand out to grab her. Janine was still kneeling there, in the middle of it all, howling and trembling. Sara got the gun down and fired once more. The man on the ground jerked back again, pulled his hand away, then started plucking at his clothing. She had hit him twice now. As Tom watched he managed to get something out of his clothing, then rolled on to his back. It was a pistol of some sort. It looked small, but the man could hardly hold it steady. There was blood all over him. He started shouting something at the top of his voice, pointing the gun at Janine. Tom saw it recoil, then heard the crack. Janine went over on to her face. He had shot her, brought the gun up and shot her.

Tom was frozen, his heart thundering, his eyes fixed on the body, unable to move or speak or react.
The girl had been shot.
It had happened, in real life, right there, less than one hundred yards away.

Sara snapped him back to life. She fired again, three times in quick succession, though all the men were now out of sight. Even the one on the ground was now behind Janine’s body. The tracer was still streaking above them, though. He felt the platform shudder and forced himself backwards to where the ladder was. He thought someone might have found them already and be climbing up. But there was no one there. He turned back to Sara. She’d dropped the gun and was flat out on the boards, arms splayed. He crawled to her, asking her if she was hit. He asked four times, finally almost shouting it. Her face was pressed into the wood and she was shaking her head violently. He couldn’t see any blood on her. ‘Let’s go,’ he shouted, abandoning caution. The shooting stopped, then started again. He could hear the men shouting things, see the tracer probing lazily into the trees about twenty feet to their right. They were firing wildly. She had been right – they couldn’t place their location. Not yet.

‘They killed her,’ Sara moaned. ‘They killed her …’

‘Let’s go. Now.’ He shook her roughly, but still she wouldn’t move.

‘I fucked it up,’ she wailed. ‘I hit him twice and he still killed her. I fucked it up …’

He felt like there was a block of ice in his stomach. He slapped the side of her face, very hard, then shouted at her; ‘Get up. Let’s go. Now.’

She frowned and stared at him, as if not even aware he was there. He was on his knees now, acutely conscious that the position placed his head too high, above the level of the fencing.

‘She’s dead, we’re alive,’ he said urgently. ‘I don’t want to die. You have to help me.’

In London, John Lomax was still up, in his Hammersmith apartment with his mobile phone pressed to his ear, Rachel Gower talking to him in the unsteady, nervous voice he had come to associate with this time of year. He was in the room he called his office, sitting at the wooden desk there in the pool of light cast by two anglepoise lamps that had belonged to his father, with the paperwork from Folder 328 spread out on the desk in front of him, though he wasn’t going to mention any of that to Rachel. He had been staring uselessly at it all when she called, half an hour ago. His eyes were tired and dry, but that didn’t mean he was ready for bed. These days it wasn’t unusual if he got to sleep after four and slept until ten or eleven in the morning. At fifty-two he was regressing to his teenage habits.