Did I kill the leader? Am I the leader now? Are they waiting for my signal?
Shit.
No. The man on his left came out from behind the stock pen and ran for the side of the barn.
The shadow on the right was moving too, coming down the slope, heading fast for the other side of the barn.
Niemand stepped out of the trees, moved down the slope in a crouch, reached the wall. The man on the right was around the corner. He would be waiting for him now.
He put the H amp;K in his left hand, took the knife out of his teeth.
He went around the corner fast, bent low.
The man was waiting at the corner, back to the wall, machine pistol up, at head height.
He turned his head, looked past his upraised arm at Niemand.
He was wearing sleek night-vision goggles.
Oh Jesus, he can see me, he can see a man in a black leather jacket.
The man’s weapon was coming down.
Niemand fired the pistol one-handed, fired two bursts at the middle of the body, bullets hit the brick wall, screeched, the man’s knees went, he sat down, he didn’t get off a shot.
Niemand ran past him, didn’t stop at the corner, went around it, got halfway along the barn, at the doors.
The other one appeared, night-vision goggles too, Niemand was running straight for him, the man hesitated for a moment, uncertain, he would have recognised the sound of the H amp;K.
Niemand shot him at point-blank range, in the chest, a three-round burst, gave him the double tap, the man went backwards and sideways, not dramatically, met the barn and slid.
Two bangs in the house, an instant apart.
The shotgun tripwire.
Someone in the house, the doorkeeper had left his position, come through the front door, into the sitting room.
Four down, that would be it.
Niemand ran for the back door, wrenched it open, ran through the room, through the sitting room door in a crouch, the dim lamplight, a figure on the floor… Little pops of flame, he didn’t hear the sound, he was punched in the chest, more than once, it was hard to tell, so quick, he stopped in his tracks.
Niemand emptied the magazine into the man on the floor, firing bursts as he went to his knees.
Silence.
No pain.
He fell over sideways, felt his head hit the stone floor. As if it belonged to someone else.
Breathing was a problem. Something stuck in his throat.
84
…WALES…
The farm gate was open and they drove up the steep drive and turned left, stopped in front of the low stone farmhouse. In the lights, they could see the front door-open, not fully open, ajar.
‘Well,’ said Caroline. ‘It’s the place. Here’s hoping.’
‘Yes. There’s a light on.’ They sat for a moment.
‘Cold to have the front door open,’ said Anselm.
‘Yes.’ She shivered. Her clothes made a sound, her chin against the fabric of her coat.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Since we’re here.’
He got out. Black night, cold wind whining in trees somewhere nearby. They were high here, clean air, it felt like the Balkans.
He went to the front door, reached across the threshold, held the doorknob and knocked.
Nothing. Not a sound.
‘Mr Niemand,’ he said loudly.
Nothing.
‘Jessica.’ Louder.
Nothing. Just the wind, the keening wind.
He felt the hair on his neck. He looked around. He could see Caroline in the car, her outline. His chest hurt.
She saw him looking at her and got out, came across the gravel, a tall woman, not unhandsome.
He tried again.
‘Mr Niemand. Constantine.’
Nothing.
He pushed open the door and went in. A small hallway, coats and hats. The light was coming from a door to the left.
A smell of something. No quite of burning, something more acrid. He looked around. Caroline was biting her lower lip.
‘I don’t know about this,’ she said quietly.
Anselm thought he would like to turn and leave, drive down the hill, along the winding road, through the cluster of buildings, get back to the highway.
Too late for that. It occurred to him that he had no panic symptoms. He was uneasy, he was close to fearful, but he was not showing the symptoms.
Caused by fear and violence, cured by the same.
Hair of the dog.
He went through the door, saw the legs first.
A figure in black, absolutely dull black, no head. No, a hood on his head, face down, his black hands around a black weapon, a machine-pistol. In the middle of the room, a shotgun tied to a chair was pointing at him. Anselm was too shocked to move.
Caroline made a noise, a deep, sobbing intake of breath.
On the other side of the room lay another figure in dark clothing, a man lying on his side, blood run from him over the stone floor to the edge of the carpet, soaked up by the carpet, blotted, blackish blood.
The man made a sound like a hiccup. Again.
Anselm did not think, he went to the man, pulled his poloneck down, put an index finger against his throat, in the collarbone cavity. The faintest pulse.
‘He’s alive,’ he said. ‘We’d better do something.’
For want of anything better to do, he took off the man’s rolled up balaclava.
‘It’s him,’ said Caroline in a voice without timbre. ‘It’s Mackie. Niemand.’
‘And a terrible fucking nuisance the man is too,’ said O’Malley from the doorway.
85
…WALES…
He came into the dim room, bent over and picked up the machine-pistol lying near Niemand’s head.
