The Wrong Man (36 page)

Thorpe looked out from the third floor window and adjusted the magnification on the night vision field glasses. As the four-wheel-drive
passed through the open gates, he could clearly see the figure drop off the back and disappear into the overgrown foliage
surrounding the property.

He shook his head and came away
from the window. Assholes. They just couldn’t do it, could they? Tell them four, maximum,
and they bring five. All right, fine, let them think they had the upper hand. He’d planned ahead for just this contingency.

At the moment, he was more concerned with Danny’s absence. He’d sent another message without any response and was loath to
use his cell any more.
Or either of the others. He could guess what had happened. She’d gotten carried away with the Falstaff
woman and lost track of time as she tried to make the fun and games last as long as possible. He’d seen it happen more than
once. Even joined in a few times, back in the days before her constantly evolving tastes got too much for him. Problem was,
that girl was just
too
damned addictive and he knew all too well where that sort of thing led. He still felt pangs of desire whenever she aimed
that movie-star smile at him, and for that reason distanced himself from her whenever he didn’t actually need her for a job.

But she could have handled the one outside for him. They’d obviously left him there to take care of Thorpe once he emerged
from the house. Probably to ‘persuade’ him to reveal his account details once they had the files in their hands. That’s what
Thorpe would have done. They didn’t realize he could stay here for days without being discovered.

Thorpe stepped through the doorway to the vault and switched on the small battery-powered lamp on the floor. He noticed the
light
was dimmer than before. Probably another hour before he’d need to replace the batteries. Pity he hadn’t been able to
find a replacement bulb for the one in the ceiling, but the lamp would do for the short amount of
time he’d be in here. Because without some kind of illumination, this would be unbearable.

He went back and slid the bookcase over but kept the vault door
open a crack, telling himself it was because of the cell phone
reception and for no other reason. He forced himself to ignore the all-consuming terror that threatened to take over, the
fear of being buried alive that had been with him since childhood. He told himself he was still in control of his surroundings
and could slide the bookshelves over any time he got the
jitters too bad. He glanced at the tins of food and the bottles of
water he’d brought along and assured himself this wasn’t so hard. He wouldn’t starve, and he had light and enough extra batteries
in his pocket to last for days, if it came to that.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he opened his laptop. Footage from four of the six cameras he’d hidden around
the house
filled the screen: the foyer, the kitchen, the living room and one of the upstairs rooms. He’d found the fuse box in the basement
earlier and now the house was awash with light. Good old Alicia Brennan, still paying the electricity bills for an empty house.
It was a wonder the rich stayed rich.

He watched the foyer camera showing the front
door. After a short wait, he saw it open and a muscular, clean-shaven Arabic
man entered, wearing a dark suit that strained at the seams. Thorpe enlarged the image so it filled the screen and watched
the man look around for a few seconds with his hand under his jacket. He said something to the ones outside. Then came a man
sporting a precisely cut goatee and wire-rim
glasses. This one wore a far better-tailored suit. The third was similarly dressed.
He had a full beard and carried a large briefcase with him. Finally, another one entered, even bigger than the first and wearing
a polo-neck and dark slacks. He stood just inside the doorway, looking in every direction.

Then the first three marched through the double doors
at their left and went out of shot while the fourth stayed by the door.
Thorpe reached for his walkie-talkie, shrank the screen and enlarged the one for the living room. He watched as the three
men approached the centre of the empty room, where Thorpe had left another walkie-talkie for them. The bespectacled man reached
down and picked it up off the floor. That would be
Sayyid, then. Thorpe checked his watch and pressed the transmit button.
‘Almost perfect timing, my friend,’ he said. ‘Two minutes early, in fact.’

Sayyid looked in all directions before bringing the radio to his mouth. ‘This is . . . unexpected, Martin. We do not meet face
to face?’

‘I’m shy, Sayyid. And there’s only one of me
while there are four of you.’ Thorpe smiled at that part. ‘Don’t worry, I can
do this remotely. Now I’ve placed parts of the file in four separate locations somewhere on these grounds. How we do this
is I’ll tell you where I’ve hidden the first piece so your man mountain can bring it back for your bearded friend. As soon
as he’s verified its authenticity, you can wire a
quarter of my fee to the account number I gave you. Once I get confirmation
from my bank, I’ll give you the next location and . . . well, you can guess the rest.’

‘Yes. Although it does raise the question of how we arrange the last payment. I will have the final part in my hand before
it is paid, yes?’

‘Kind of,’ Thorpe said. ‘But let’s
cross that bridge when we come to it. I’ve had time to think this all through so we both
end up with what we want.’

‘As you say. Please begin.’

‘Okay. If your friend goes back to the entrance hall and climbs the stairs, he’ll take the left-hand corridor. There are three
doorways on the left. He’ll take the second one. There’s a walk-in wardrobe
against the room’s far wall. If he pulls up the
carpet in there, he’ll find a floorboard that comes away with a little effort. Tell him to bring you what he finds.’

‘Very well.’ On the screen, Thorpe watched Sayyid saying a few words to the bigger man, who then marched off.

Thorpe leaned back against the wall and waited. For the most part he was in good
spirits now that everything was working out
as he’d planned. But the anger he felt at Danny’s failure to show up soon threatened to override his satisfaction. The stupid,
smelly bitch just couldn’t keep her mind on the end game, could she? She was trustworthy in so many other areas, why did she
have to give in to her addictions so easily? Once this was over, she’d need
to be taught a lesson or two. Thorpe closed his
eyes, and after a few moments his good humour returned as he considered ways in which he might punish her. Painful ways.

He opened his eyes and the big man was already on the living room monitor again and in deep conversation with his boss. He’d
missed him entirely.
Careful, Martin. Keep your thoughts on the
job at hand
. He
watched Sayyid bring the radio to his mouth and say, ‘There is nothing there.’

Thorpe frowned. So the big one
was
as stupid as he looked. He got the sigh out before he pressed the transmit button. ‘I put it there less than two hours ago,
Sayyid.
Left
-hand corridor.
Second
room on the left.
Loose
floorboard in the wardrobe. Explain it to him. It’s not
rocket science.’

‘That is unnecessary. Naji speaks your language far better than I and he followed your instructions to the letter. He found
the loose floorboard already open, but nothing inside.’

Thorpe’s mouth opened as he finally understood why Danny hadn’t showed up. Bishop. And if he’d taken her cell, that meant
. . . ‘There’s somebody
else in the house, Sayyid,’ he said. ‘Name of Bishop. He must have heard the directions and got there
first.’

‘Who is this man?’

‘I used him to get the file,’ he said, shrinking the cameras down so he could fit all six on screen. ‘He’s dangerous.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

Thorpe thought for a moment. ‘I suggest, since you’re
all probably armed, that you find him and take him out.’

Sayyid looked at his colleagues and said, ‘This is your problem, Martin. We are not your personal assassins.’

‘Not even for ten million bucks?’

Sayyid lowered the radio and spoke to the others. A minute later, he raised it to his lips again. ‘My associate, Hanif, has
offered up a far more
acceptable solution. The original arrangement was fifty million dollars for the file, yes? If you are
willing to stick to that agreement, we would be more than happy to help you in this situation. In effect, Martin, you lose
nothing, depending on how you choose to look at it.’

‘Be serious,’ Thorpe said, trying to ignore the sick feeling he was getting in
his stomach.

‘I generally am about such matters. Come now, my friend, as a businessman you must realize the scales have shifted in our
favour. And unless you are willing to take on this man by yourself . . .’ He let the sentence hang, knowing he held the winning
hand.

Thorpe closed his eyes and banged his head against the steel wall.
Shit. Shit.
Shit
. He tried to think of another way around it, but knew it would ultimately mean giving away his position. And he couldn’t
do
that. Not for any price. Without Danny at his side, Sayyid’s offer was the only option left open to him. Which meant Bishop
had just cost him fifty million dollars. Fifty
million
. He couldn’t believe it.

He raised the walkie-talkie
and said. ‘You’re a goddamn thief, Sayyid.’ A pause, and then he said, ‘Do it.’

‘Consider it done,’ Sayyid said. ‘But please refrain from blas—’

At that moment, all six cameras went dark.

Bishop took his hand from the ruined fuse box and ran up the basement steps. He passed through the utility room and turned
left for the rear stairs. At the turn halfway up, he climbed two more steps and crouched down. He kept his gun and flashlight
aimed at the bottom of the stairs.

Wherever Thorpe was, and Bishop
had his suspicions, he’d be giving this Sayyid his location right now before assuming radio
silence. One or more of them would undoubtedly be along in a matter of seconds to check it out.

Bishop was counting on it.

He’d entered the house the same way as before and hadn’t had long to wait before the terrorists showed up. After logging each
face
as they’d entered, he’d listened in on the conversation and beaten the one called Naji to the first location. Right now,
the abandoned Zodiac letter, the envelope, the medical report on Ebert and the book on codes and ciphers were safely hidden
in the wardrobe in Natalie’s den.

Six seconds had passed since he’d plunged the house into darkness. He figured
they’d just send one to check the basement and
cover him from a distance. About thirty yards directly ahead, the rear windows let in just enough light for him to make out
basic shapes in the darkness. And then he saw a movement.

The silhouette of a machine pistol was gradually coming into view from the left. For a second Bishop thought it might be another
Heckler & Koch, but the extended magazine wasn’t curved. Maybe a Steyr of some kind. Then came the hand holding it and part
of a big forearm. Bishop heard no sound at all and he knew these weren’t amateurs.

Part of the big man’s body came into view and Bishop heard a faint breath as the silhouette changed, the profile morphing
into a shapeless mass
as the man turned towards the stairwell.

Bishop aimed his flashlight at the head area and clicked it on. The man squeezed his eyes shut against the light and Bishop
pulled his
trigger twice. He saw two roses instantly bloom in the centre of the man’s forehead before he switched the light off. Then
Bishop ducked into the steps at his left, pulling his feet
out of the line of fire as a stream of bullets ploughed into the
wall and ceiling behind him. Small particles of plaster erupted at each hit, striking the back of his neck like hailstones
as the dying man reflexively emptied his gun.

Bishop ran up the rest of the steps and took the right fork at the top. As he ran through the dark hallway towards the front
of the house he heard short, controlled bursts of gunfire in the stairway behind. He pocketed the flashlight and pulled out
a five-inch-long steel hexagonal tube instead. The M84 stun grenade he’d found in Cortiss’s apartment and stashed in his knapsack.
Perfect for taking out the man stationed at the front door.

But as Bishop passed the last door
on the right, something big slammed into him. He landed face down on the floor without
his gun, but still holding the flash-bang. He rolled onto his back and a pair of hands grabbed his collar and pulled him to
a standing position. Then the man’s arms wrapped themselves around him and squeezed, trapping his arms hard against his side
and lifting him off the floor.
The
fourth guy
, he thought. The man must have raced upstairs the moment he heard the shots and waited for Bishop to run right into him.

The man’s strength was remarkable and Bishop felt a rib snap under the pressure as his breath exited his lungs in a single
burst. In response, he slammed his head forward and felt it connect with something soft. It felt like a nose giving
way. The
man gave a sharp grunt and took a step back and his grip loosened enough for Bishop to pull his left hand free.

Bishop took the stun grenade and smashed it into the man’s mouth, jamming it in as far as it would go. The man choked and
let go of Bishop as his hands went to his busted face. Bishop pushed the man’s hands away and grabbed hold of the
grenade’s
primary and secondary pull rings. He yanked them free, then pulled the man’s polo-neck up over his face to keep it all in.
He took two steps back, dropped his shoulder and aimed a side-kick at the man’s stomach. The man doubled over, and as he fell
backwards on to the landing Bishop turned and dived to the floor, clamping his eyes shut and pressing both hands against
his
ears.

The grenade detonated inside the man’s skull and a brief, thunderous explosion of sound and light reverberated throughout
the open space.

Taking the Maglite from his pocket, Bishop got up and swept the beam around the floor. Ignoring the man’s body as it rolled
down the stairs, he found his Beretta a few feet
away and picked it up. He turned off the light and ran back down the corridor.
He turned right at the end, past the rear stairs, then right again until he was in the next hallway along.

Bishop remembered the house layout well enough. There were three rooms on the left side. On the right, opposite the middle
doorway, was the door to a windowless storeroom.
That would be okay, except the door had always been locked before, and he
needed to move quickly. And the first and third rooms on the left both contained floor-to-ceiling windows. No good, either.
Too much chance of throwing light on his position when he opened either door. But the one in the centre had just a normal-sized
window facing some trees. Not much light at all.
Bishop jogged down the hallway and brushed his fingers against the right
wall. When they felt the storeroom door, he gripped the handle and pushed. As he’d suspected, still locked. Instead he entered
the door opposite and closed it behind him.

Bishop leaned against the door and touched his left rib, wincing at the sudden flare-up of pain. Felt like it was
cracked.
He was falling apart at the seams. But he was alive, while the terrorists were down two men. Just the ones called Sayyid and
Hanif left. And they wouldn’t be as careless now they knew what they were up against. They’d search the rest of the house
together, each covering the other’s back.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and the familiar
shape there made him wonder if Thorpe was watching him now. Bishop knew
top-end surveillance cameras could make the most of low-light situations, but even if Thorpe
could
see him, so what? He couldn’t transmit anything by radio without making targets of the other two.

But nothing was stopping them from conveying messages via cell phones. And sooner or later Bishop
would have to pass through
the kitchen or some other monitored area where Thorpe could see him. He couldn’t stay here and wait to be cornered like a
rat. Not when they had automatic weapons and ammo to spare.

Bishop closed his eyes. And thought of ways of turning a liability into an advantage.