The Last Witness

can somehow get a message to Mundy right now, or find some other way to contact the safe-house or the team heading out there now to warn them.’

She started stumbling under the pressure. ‘I… I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can with what I have. The operation is top security-coded, and there’s just no other information on screen.’

‘I know. I know.’ Michel backed off a step, clutching at his hair. He’d simply got the stone-wall protection he wanted, and there wasn’t a single frame of reference he could think of to guide her. Two S-18 men who apparently made up next month’s guard shift had flown up from Ottawa to pick Elena Waldren up from her hotel and escort her all the way. No idea where they were flying from and no names; nor were any exchanged in the few conversations he’d had with the safe house. That was the whole ethos of the operation.

Constable Fuller drew fresh breath. ‘All I can do is try and raise Mundy. He says that he’s not available — but I don’t whether that means he simply can’t be contacted, or just doesn’t want to be. If he starts shouting, I’ll blame you.’

‘Thanks. But quick, huh. Every second counts on this.’

‘I think I’ve got that clear. I’ll phone you back in ten minutes if I can’t raise him on his phone or bleeper — sooner if I can.’

‘So just the four jobs, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ Santagata shrugged. ‘And then this one now.’

Roman’s mind was racing. Four contracts? Didn’t show much of an allegiance. But then if they were key contracts, ‘Santa Dave’ could be one of Giacomelli’s stars.

‘All pretty much the same as this?’

‘One the same, backing up. The other three hits.’

They fell silent again. Roman kept his gaze straight ahead, watching wisps of mist drift past the plane’s window as they battled through the night sky. He’d asked the questions nonchalantly, as if it was only of passing interest; and he didn’t want to press too hard or ask too many questions. Santagata might latch on that he was angling at something. Guys like Santagata usually had natural antennae for warning signs: it’s what kept them alive. Roman could feel Santa Dave’s eyes on him for a moment before he looked back ahead again.

Roman tried to ease the tension in his body. Massenat was wedged between him and Santagata at the back of the aircraft with Funicelli in the front with Desmarais, but for a moment Roman worried that with the repetitive tapping of one heel and his hand on the same thigh, Santagata might pick up that it was more than just due to the rough flight and what lay ahead of them.

The questions had been sporadic, not only to make them not so obvious, but because for the first half hour the flight had been very bumpy. On the worst parts, as the plane lurched and tossed and rattled, they all fell deathly silent. Nobody felt like talking. Except for Desmarais, who whooped excitedly, ‘Just like riding a wild bronco at Calgary.’ The sight of four tough guys gripped with white-knuckle fever seemed to tickle Desmarais. Roman felt like saving an extra bullet for him.

Then the weather settled a little; there was still the occasional bumpy flurry, but not so wild.

‘It was mainly cross-border jobs in Canada,’ Santagata added after a moment. ‘Art was always worried about me flying back out or crossing the border straight after a hit, especially as I became known. I think otherwise he’d have used me more.’

‘Right.’ Roman nodded solemnly. He felt the tingle rise up through his body until it reached his fingertips. Santagata had said it as if to explain why Giacomelli hadn’t used him more, but at the same time he’d signed his own death warrant. Roman knew every hit Giacomelli had made in Canada, and none of them were major! ‘Santa Dave’ was dispensable. Giacomelli wouldn’t stretch that far to make amends, especially not with himself and Cacchione later declared as a team. Giacomelli wouldn’t risk that level of confrontation over a lone hitman.

But having made the decision, the only question was when? He’d originally planned to do it later: he could claim that Santagata simply got caught in the cross-fire with the RCs. But there’d be too much going on then, too much else to think about. Roman chewed at his lip, and felt Santagata’s eyes on him again briefly, glancing sideways and meeting them only for a second: dark almost black eyes, shielded even more with the weak cabin light. Difficult to read into.

Had Santagata picked up on something? Some invisible electrical signal that ran between them: He’s planning to kill you. So make sure to take him out first. Or had it been a double- bluff all along? Santagata at the same time measuring him for a drop. Jean-Paul never really had believed him about not abducting and trying to kill Georges, and maybe this was the pay-off. After all, that’s what Santagata did most: hits, not playing chaperone.

He felt the sudden pressure of it all like a powder-keg: the bumpy flight, Santagata’s eyes on him intermittently, what lay ahead and the contingencies yet to cover — his nerves wound so tight with it all that his whole body was shaking almost in time with this tin-can rattling through the night. And all because he couldn’t bear living in his brother’s shadow a day longer. If he didn’t make the…

‘Jesus!’ The bottom dropped out of his stomach as the plane fell sickeningly. A sharp shudder as the plane hit the bottom of the drop followed by some heavy tilting and swaying — then it rose again as swiftly until Roman’s stomach was at the edge of his throat.

‘Here goes again,’ Desmarais commented, wrestling with the joy-stick.

They saw sheet lightning out to their right, about five miles away. The small plane bobbed and swayed, but just before the next sharp drop Roman noticed one advantage: Santagata was no longer paying him any attention, his eyes were fixed stonily ahead.

The drop was longer this time, the shudder so hard as it bottomed out that the cabin lights flickered off. Roman decided in that instant to take his chance: he simply might not get as good a chance later! In the darkness he leant forward; and as the lights flickered back on he already had the.22 out of his garter strap and pointed at Santagata’s face.

Santagata took a second to focus on the gun. Distant lightning flickered against one side of his face. ‘What the fuck is this?’

Massenat between them leant back with his hands held by his shoulders. A ‘this ain’t nothing to do with me’ gesture.

Roman smiled slowly. ‘You know those Bond films where he’s got a gun pointed at the bad guy, but he daren’t fire it in case one of them gets sucked out of the plane?’ Roman steadied the.22. ‘That’s the one advantage of these low-flying shit-heaps. We don’t have that to worry about.’

Roman squeezed the trigger as Santagata lurched and reached across. Still he would have got the shot off cleanly, but at that second came another sharp drop, the cabin lights flickering off again.

Then Santagata’s hand was on his arm, pushing it away. Roman struggled to point back at Santagata’s face. Santagata was strong, straining hard, and Roman had to bring his left arm up to get any movement back that way. He daren’t risk another shot on the off-chance: too many danger points it could hit.

The cabin lights flickered back on and he saw a patch of Santagata’s hair matted with blood, a trickle running down his forehead. He’d grazed the skull with the first shot.

Santagata reached for his gun with his other hand; Roman didn’t notice, but Massenat did. He pinned down the gun arm, then whipped his elbow sharply back into Santagata’s stomach. Santagata keened forward with the blow, heavily winded.

All the strength went from Santagata’s body in that same instant, and Roman wrenched his arm free as Santagata’s grip loosened.

Roman grabbed Santagata’s hair and pulled his face back up straight. ‘So it’s goodbye Mr Chips.’ Santagata’s eyes had barely re-focused on him as he put the gun by Santagata’s left eye-socket and pulled the trigger.

Santagata’s head flew back with the impact and Roman was left with some hair in his hand. He wiped it disdainfully on his seat.

Desmarais half-turned, his face as red as his hair. ‘You guys wanna pull stunts like that — least you could do is fucking warn me.’

Roman smiled drolly, his breathing still ragged. ‘Just imagine it’s still the fucking Calgary stampede — but now the cowboys are shooting in the air.’ Roman was glad that something could rattle Desmarais; it was his turn to gloat at the fear in Desmarais’ face.

They sat out the rest of the turbulence in silence, Santagata’s body intermittently double-lit by bursts of