Secrets of the Dead

they’d bought from a sports shop and patted it, as you would a horse.

Gruber won’t dare count that much money in public, Michael had predicted. He’ll have a quick look, see what he’s expecting

– and find out it’s ninety thousand short when it’s too late.

Gruber unzipped the bag and peered inside. The frown on his face deepened. On the far side of the terrace, the ice-cream seller wandered past, looking for customers.

Gruber pointed at the parapet. For a moment, Abby thought he’d seen her. Michael seemed to argue, then put up his hands in a have-it-your-way gesture and followed Gruber across. They stopped a few yards away. Michael rested the bag on the low wall.

A cold wind blew across the Sava, carrying their conversation to Abby.

‘It’s all there,’ Michael said.

‘I would like to be sure.’

‘And I’d like to be sure you’ve brought what you promised.’ Michael kept his hand on the bag.

Gruber unbuttoned his coat and reached inside. Abby turned and leaned against the parapet, her back to the river, as if studying the citadel walls. By the gate, the child in the pushchair had unbuckled herself and run across to the ice-cream seller. Her mother hurried after her. In the distance, Abby heard shouts and the blast of air-horns. The race must have started.

Gruber pulled out a plastic wallet with a few sheets of paper inside. ‘I would not have come if I did not have it. A reconstruction of the text, and my own transcription.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘I would say so.’ He put a hand on the bag. ‘If everything is in order.’

Michael stepped back. ‘Be my guest.’

He glanced along the wall and met Abby’s gaze. He gave a small nod.

They hadn’t planned for this. Was he expecting her to mug Gruber in broad daylight? She began moving towards them. Concentrating on trying to peel apart the wad of euros in the bag without being noticed, Gruber didn’t see her. The folder had disappeared back inside his coat.

Gruber’s head snapped up. ‘You said a hundred thousand euros. This is not enough.’

‘You’ll get the rest when we’ve verified the document.’ Michael was speaking quickly, improvising. ‘We have to know that what’s in there is worth it.’ His eyes darted over Gruber’s shoulder and motioned Abby forward. Come on. She took another step.

A child’s scream cut the chilly air. Abby, Gruber and Michael all whipped around. The ice-cream seller had stopped halfway across the terrace, the steel lid of his cart raised as if to serve the girl from the pushchair. A long- nosed black pistol had appeared in his hand.

Instinct took over; Abby threw herself to the ground, just before the shot rang out. The terrace became a cauldron of frantic screams and chaotic footsteps. She peered up, and saw the ice-cream man running towards the bag on the parapet.

Michael and Gruber had vanished.

The gunman ran to the wall and ripped open the bag. He glanced inside, then threw it on the ground and peered down over the edge. He raised his pistol, aiming for something at the foot of the wall.

That’s where Michael went. There was nowhere else. Without thinking, Abby lifted herself up and launched herself at the gunman. He had one eye closed and the other trained on his target: he didn’t see her. Not knowing what else to do, she put out her arms and barged into him.

Agony exploded through the wound in her shoulder, worse than being shot because this time she felt every shred of pain. The man buckled under the impact, but didn’t go down. Abby wrapped her arms around his legs and clung on, rolling and writhing as he tried to shake her off. Then something struck her hard on the head. Pain flashed through her skull and she let go.

The ice-cream man kicked her away and looked back over the wall. He raised his gun again – but didn’t fire. From down below, she could hear shouts and motion.

Trying to keep low, crying with the pain in her side, she hauled herself just high enough to peer over the parapet. Thirty-odd men in singlets and shorts were running along the path at the foot of the wall, egged on by a handful of spectators. One or two glanced up at the commotion on the terrace above; most kept their eyes on the ground.

The wall was too high for Michael to have jumped – but there was scaffolding against it where masons had been repairing the ancient brickwork. Plastic sheeting flapped from the poles, sheltering anyone working inside.

The leading racers had just passed the bottom of the scaffolding. As the rest came level, a flap of plastic billowed out. Michael and Gruber ran out from the scaffold tower and plunged in among the athletes. There were shouts, a couple of angry shoves, but Michael and Gruber sprinted along, staying within the pack. The gunman followed them with his pistol, but two moving targets in a sea of people, jostling and overtaking all the time, were too difficult. He didn’t risk it.

The terrace had emptied – Abby and the gunman were the only ones left. He glanced down at her; she rolled herself in a ball and prayed he didn’t know who she was.

He hesitated. More shouts echoed across the terrace, and these were different: not panicked or confused, but threatening and authoritative. Abby peered through her fingers.

A soldier in combat fatigues was standing on the wall of the citadel, aiming a rifle at the ice-cream seller. A second soldier had come out of the gate and was advancing, rifle at his shoulder. For a confused second, Abby wondered if another war had begun; or if the ancient legionaries who’d guarded this spot had been reincarnated in modern dress. Then she remembered the military museum inside the citadel. The guards must have heard the shots.