Famous last words.
‘ Can I?’ Her eyes dropped again and stared at her hands which she was wringing tightly together, like drying them underneath a warm-air machine.
Donaldson reached across. He laid one of his hands over hers. They felt clammy and wet. ‘Yeah, you can.’
Slowly Francesca took control of herself and raised her face. Quietly she gasped, ‘I think she was murdered.’
Donaldson’s insides did a double-back somersault, but his exterior, he hoped, remained a vision of placidity.
‘ We can’t talk here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to my room. You can dry yourself off and we can talk privately. I’ll get some coffee sent up. Come on.’
He stood up and offered a hand, wiggling his fingers in a gesture of encouragement. She hesitated a moment before taking it and rising slowly from her seat.
The rain had not abated. If anything it was heavier than before, backed by an ever-increasing wind which had started to howl. Donaldson turned up his collar and hunched into his jacket. Francesca buttoned up her long coat and tied the belt into a loose knot.
With a hand laid on her back, Donaldson guided her through the gardens of the Quinta, out of the walled grounds and onto the steep cobbled road which led down to the gate which opened onto the footbridge.
When they actually stepped onto the bridge, Donaldson was slightly ahead of her, now leading the way. The rain and wind were particularly bad here, exposed to the elements. Below, the main road was busy with traffic. The combination of wind, rain and traffic noise deadened all senses, making hearing and seeing difficult.
Which was Donaldson’s single pathetic excuse for not being switched on properly at a time when he should have been turned on and tuned in. Her nervousness should have rubbed off onto him. The furtive glances towards the door. The NVCs. They should have given the game away.
Instead, his chin was tucked down into his chest, his mind tumbling with the possibilities of what she was about to reveal to him. And he almost ran headlong into the man who was standing at the opposite end of the bridge, next to the elevator which descended into the hotel annexe.
At the last moment Donaldson saw him and pulled up sharp.
‘ Desculpe: Donaldson said, pronouncing it ‘dishkoolper’, meaning excuse me.
The man stood his ground, barring the way to the elevator doors. He was a big bloke, unshaven, tough- looking, wearing heavy jeans and a reefer jacket, both hands in the pockets, thumbs snagged on the edges.
‘ Excuse me,’ Donaldson said again, hoping he had read the situation wrong, because the man and his code of dress did not really shout hotel guest.
The man shook his head.
Fuck, a set-up, were the next words which leapt through the American’s mind. She s led me out here and I came like a fool and now I’m gonna get what Sam got. Goddam dickbrain!
Then he heard her say, ‘Behind.’
He looked, expecting her to be holding a gun or something, but no. Even in the rain, he could see her face was a mask of complete terror, as beyond her, walking slowly towards them across the narrow bridge, was another guy. Of similar proportion to the other — big and brutal-looking. Donaldson’s legs gave him a twinge of fear.
He had not been set up.
One of the drawbacks of working on foreign soil was that his authority to carry a firearm was withdrawn. He understood why, but it was one of those little things he had been unable to grow accustomed to. The instinct to reach for a gun was still there and his fingers literally twitched. In the past this lack of a weapon had been a problem of life and death magnitude. He was pretty sure he was about to discover that once again.
He and Francesca, who was now visibly cowering, were trapped. Hemmed in, one man either side of them. There was no escape across a bridge not wide enough for three people to stand abreast and a forty-foot drop either side, splat onto the road.
Because it was expected of him as an FBI employee, Donaldson kept himself fit and agile by means of regular workouts and daily runs. Before moving to the London office that had been a necessity; working in the field always carried the possibility of ending up in conflict situations where fitness could be a life-saver.
Since taking up the less strenuous appointment at the Legat, fitness had become more of a habit of pride than a operational necessity. He never truly believed he would find himself in such a position again — facing potential attackers. Nowadays he dealt with liaison, processing information, intelligence gathering, speaking to people on the phone — basically sitting on his ass in a smart office, pushing a pen and letting other people get into hairy situations.
But now he was glad that fitness was a part of his day-to-day life. He knew he was going to need the reserves it had given him.
FBI recruits are taught, wherever possible in conflict situations, to use their brains and mouths first; if that fails, switch to defensive tactics.
The last resort was deadly force.
Donaldson guessed he was about to skip the first two and go straight to the third option.
He squared up to the man by the elevator, who must have known exactly what he was thinking.
The man moved fast. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and, with his right, swung something in a wide arc towards Donaldson’s head.
He saw it coming, ducked low, put his left arm up to protect himself and took the full force on the forearm of what turned out to be a double motorcycle chain, welded together for extra weight and power. It wrapped itself around his arm like a python, cutting into the skin despite the protection of his jacket sleeve. He screamed in pain and staggered into the railings. The man drew back the chain with a flourish, as if he was demonstrating a bull- whip, and moved in. His big left fist rocketed into Donaldson’s throat, driving him back harder against the railings, from where he slumped to the hard metal surface.
Donaldson was vaguely aware of a scream from Francesca and the sound of a scuffle behind him and a rasping male voice, shouting.
Donaldson’s attacker launched a big kick towards his exposed groin. He grabbed the foot just centimetres before it connected with his balls and clung desperately onto it whilst the man tried to shake him free, and pounded him repeatedly in the side with the chain. Fleetingly, Donaldson saw the traffic passing below, under the bridge. It was a long way down.
Donaldson bit into the big man’s leg, right on the calf muscle at the back of the shin. He sunk his teeth in as hard and nastily as he could, trying to bite through the oil-tasting denim, knowing he couldn’t, but trying anyway.
Bites work well in fights.
The man let out an agonised roar. With a superhuman effort he yanked his leg out of Donaldson’s grip and teetered backwards, holding the bitten area.
Donaldson was up onto all fours, shaking his head. His toes sought grip on the slippery wet metal surface and he tried to launch himself at the man. He didn’t connect as hard and accurately as he would have liked, but when his left shoulder rammed into the man’s lower belly, it forced all the wind out of him with a rushing groan. He pushed him off-balance. The man toppled over and landed on his back with Donaldson about to dive onto him.
Still with the chain in his hand, he swung it wildly at Donaldson, who ducked properly this time, feeling the whoosh of air as it sailed past his head. The man whipped it back in the opposite direction so quickly that this time he caught the side of Donaldson’s face, knocking him from his position of advantage, sending him sprawling against the railings again.
Donaldson was on his feet first, recovering well, despite feeling that his jaw had been broken by the impact of the chain across it. He hit the man hard, determined to finish it. Twice in the face, Donaldson’s fists bunched hard like iron blocks, right-handed, two blows to the side of the jaw. The impact of each jarred his knuckles, but it did the job. The big man, who was only halfway up to his feet, dissolved like a jelly.
Donaldson spun round, concerned for Francesca.
He was too late. The second man had her pinned up against the railings, a hand clamped around her throat, trying to push her over. She struggled, twisting, fighting and clawing like a cat, but the man was too strong. With one last great shove, she went over the railings; her legs came up, she screamed, then was gone into the
