“What case?”
Platon punched him, very hard, in the stomach. Then he pulled his head up by the hair.
“The case on the other end of that chain,” he said.
Baladze was still winded, wheezing and gasping for breath. Platon had not let go of his hair. He gave it another hard tug, jerking Baladze’s head up and back.
“Well?”
For the first time, Baladze showed some defiance. He spat at Platon, leaving a dribble of spittle and phlegm on his chest. Platon smiled.
Then he kneed Baladze in the crotch.
Platon had retained his hold on the other man’s head. When Baladze automatically doubled up, his head was held, agonizingly, in place.
The pain was about to get worse. Platon whipped a two-fingered jab into Baladze’s eyes. Three of the most sensitive areas of his body were now all in agony, simultaneously. Baladze howled and writhed, which only increased the tugging on his scalp. His knees gave way, but Platon yanked him back up. He screamed again.
When the noise had died away, Platon repeated his question. “What was in the case?”
“A list…” Baladze whined.
“What kind of list?”
“List of bombs.”
Platon’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, pulling Baladze’s head toward him until their faces were barely a hand’s breadth apart.
“What kind of bombs?”
Baladze’s shoulders slumped.
“Nuclear bombs, old Soviet ones… all over the world… a hundred of them.”
Platon let go of his grip in sheer astonishment. No wonder that dried-up old witch had been so secretive. They must be shitting on themselves in Moscow. The former rulers of a mighty empire, so humbled that they had to call on gangsters to rescue their dirty secrets: If ever you wanted a sign of how things had changed, that was it. Still, it gave him an opportunity. If he could get the briefcase back, or even destroy it and then bluff that he had it, he would be in a very powerful position.
But where had the thief disappeared to?
Ignoring Baladze, who was now lying in a fetal position on the ground at his feet, Platon put himself in the attacker’s position. He had come from the back of the house: Why? Because he’d been watching from up on the hill-that was obvious. So where had he gone? Platon looked down the drive to the front of the property. The gates were still closed. So he hadn’t gone out that way. That made sense: Why head toward any oncoming cops? The obvious way out was back the way he’d come. Judging by Baladze’s condition, it can’t have been long since he’d been attacked. And barely three minutes had passed since he’d seen that explosion rip through the sky.
Platon stared up at the slope of the Puy de Tourrettes. The man was up there somewhere, or running like hell to get off there, more likely. He could still be caught.
“Kill her,” he said to his soldier, standing over the brunette.
There were three quick pops as the silenced burst of nine-millimeter bullets ended her life.
Platon put two shots of his own into Baladze.
By now, all his men had gathered alongside him in the forecourt.
“Nothing there,” said one of the men who’d been sent to scout around the back.
“We’re out of here,” said Platon. “Get back to the chopper. Fast!”
He ran back to the helicopter, yanked open the door, pulled himself back up into the copilot’s seat, and put on the headset.
“Go!” he shouted. “Up the mountain. We’re going hunting!”
71
Carver did not hear the helicopter until it was almost on top of him, just a couple of hundred yards away. Those bloody earplugs! He pulled the lumps of wax from his ears and was almost deafened by the clattering rotors. He dashed for the shelter of the nearest tree, pressing himself against the trunk and standing stock-still as the chopper flew overhead and disappeared again from view.
As it had passed him, Carver had seen the open copilot and passenger doors and the men leaning out, scanning the ground beneath them. They were looking for him. But who were they? The helicopter had civilian markings, not police or military.
It had to be Vermulen. That slimy Yank bastard had reneged on the deal. He wanted to save himself half a mil and remove any security risk by getting rid of a hired hand he couldn’t trust. Well, Carver had been there before.
Ahead of him, the sound of the helicopter diminished, then grew in volume again as it turned and came back again over the tree-strewn slope, slightly farther uphill this time. It was traversing the ground, to and fro, like a gardener mowing a lawn.
