He did everything slowly, nothing suddenly. His hands went to his belt and unfastened the buckle. He was not self-conscious, never had been. Almost, because of the way his mind worked, he shared the agony of self-doubt inflicted on the hitman. In seminar talk it was ‘police-assisted suicide’, but in any canteen in Paris, Berlin, New York or London it was ‘suicide-by-cop’. It was the easy way, lifted the decision-taking out of the equation, had somebody else do the dirty stuff. Didn’t have to climb on to a parapet on a wide-span bridge or go up a crane ladder and feel the wind swaying it as he went higher, and didn’t have to sweat on whether there were enough pills in the bottle and he’d come to, alive and vegetable-brained. And easier than turning the firearm on himself, feeling the ugliness of the barrel in the mouth and the foresight in the roof above the tonsils. All about self-doubt, and all about the selfishness of a bastard who thought of himself only; most certainly did not think of the poor guy, police marksman, who blew him away, then went on to trauma counselling. It was a fucking awful place to be, and a fucking awful job – and Lukas had always said he would fight bare-knuckled any man who tried to take it off him. He did the zip on his trousers, let them fall and kicked them off, used a bare toe to move them aside and shove them with the heap.
‘Just keep watching me, Salvatore, and know that you can trust me. It’s all going to be fine. You and me, we’re going to sort everything.’
He took off his undershirt.
Not a fine sight, he thought.
Damn near twenty years before, the medic from the Bureau’s recruitment programme had taken a sight of that chest, the concave bit between the bones, the spindly arms sprouting, and failed him. He was told afterwards, when all the rest had gone well, that he presented, next to naked, a poor example of young manhood, and it hadn’t improved in two decades. He chucked aside the undershirt. Might have killed then for a cigarette and might have killed as well for a shower, long and hot, and soap. Not right for him to shiver and he didn’t. They watched him, as they were supposed to. Didn’t think that seeing him would give too much comfort to the boy. Didn’t think, looking at him from twenty paces would summon up too much suspicion and anxiety in Salvatore. Their eyes, the two sets, were never off him.
He heard, alongside him, a door open. He said, in his mind, bawled it: Fuck me, do I need that? Do I hell? He turned his head, not full on and used the periphery of his vision. An old woman stood in a doorway and she had a goddam cat in her arms. She looked hard at Lukas and shoved the cat down. It yowled, and she kicked it hard with a gnarled foot that was half in and half out of a slipper, and the cat flew behind him. The door slammed and a bolt was drawn. Silence. He thought the old woman had either refused to move or had been too deaf to know of the evacuation, the cat wanted to pee or crap and had roused her. End of story. I was near, God believe me, to a damn coronary. Don’t do it to me again, please. He had his arm up, scratched above his ear, and could say to his watch face, ‘I don’t aim to make it easy for the shite. We want him rotting.’
He wore navy boxer shorts. They had seen better days and the colour had faded from rich to dull and the elastic in the waist had lost the snap, and the shorts hung slack on his belly.
The pistol barrel had not moved, was in the boy’s hair.
‘I can’t abide shouting, Salvatore, so I’m coming a bit nearer. There’s sensitive things to talk about and I don’t want the world knowing what our business is.’
There were good goose pimples on Lukas’s skin. Mustn’t shiver. Mustn’t show fear. All bluff. He took the first step forward. All a bluff, and an opaque mist chucked over the reality. If the mist was blown away, the bluff called, he was dead and the boy was dead and Salvatore had achieved his bus-pass ride to the angels. The smile was good. It was a rare talent: Lukas’s smile never looked as if it was pasted on his face, and it was calm, quiet and as sincere as it came. He was on the fourth and fifth steps, stretching them.
‘I’m not a danger to you, Salvatore, I’m a friend, and I’ve come to offer help. Trust me.’
He didn’t know how much of what he said was understood, and was unable to gauge the Italian’s comprehension of his message. Lukas thought his bearing more important than anything. His nakedness and his lack of physique proved he threatened nothing, nobody. He heard behind him a soft but strangled howl, and wondered if the bloody cat was nuzzling its damn face against a rifle barrel, and if the animal had been hit with the heel of a hand. Had done ten paces, then twelve. The eyes of Salvatore seemed wider, the lower lip jabbered and the jaw wobbled. He had no voice. Lukas thought he tried to speak and couldn’t.
A hell of a way to spend a night. Good damn thing he looked down because there was syringe glass on the walkway concrete, and shit from a dog – not the cat’s. A hell of a place to be… He kept the smile in place. An instructor for the training of the Critical Incident Response people had said it was the best smile he’d come across and asked why it couldn’t be carried from the role-play scenarios into the canteen when they ate together. It was an act, had no truth. Fifteen paces taken, then sixteen. Always smile. The boy gazed at him like he was a messiah.
‘You have my word, Salvatore, and my word is my bond, that you can trust me, and that way nobody’s hurt, and we get to go home, and you get a proper bed and some sleep and a meal. What I’m working at, Salvatore, is that every one of us is a winner. You know about winning. You win because you’re smart, Salvatore. I can see that. You’re a big man and smart, a winner.’
He could see more of the boy’s face than the hood’s. Shouldn’t have allowed a personal feeling to intrude in the work – had done, and Lukas saw that as a failure. A small one, but failures totted. Too many small ones and there was weight enough for catastrophe. Catastrophe was the pistol being fired, blood spurting, bone splintering… The boy had a good face. Assault teams, negotiators and co-ordinators all wanted to believe that the target for rescue was worth saving, was of gold-plated value. Found half the time, after a rescue, that they were creeps, useless – some too fucking arrogant to offer gratitude, not that Lukas wanted thanks. Wanted a job done well. Had counted them, had done twenty-one steps, was level with the doorway. It was a good face and a terrorised face.
‘I appreciate you letting me up close, Salvatore. An idiot wouldn’t have, but you’re a smart guy. Can I call you “friend”? I’d like to.’
He wasn’t certain. Lukas stood in the centre of the walkway. The boy and Salvatore, wrapped together, like one, were in the doorway. The pistol had not moved from the back of the boy’s head and he saw that it remained cocked, the finger inside the guard, resting on the trigger bar.
‘I want to talk with you, hear you, and that way I can best be your friend, and I can help you.’
He was not yet certain that the hood would not shoot. Inexact sciences – whether, when, why a gunman would pull the damn trigger. One of many sciences for which there could not be textbooks, only a bedrock of experience, was getting into the mind of a holed-up gunman and anticipating whether he wanted to be in a warm, cleaned-out cell or hankered after a one-way ride to Valhalla. Lukas didn’t know.
He did a little roll of his eyebrows to Salvatore. ‘I doubt he means anything to you, that Eddie, anything at all. Doesn’t mean anything to me. Not smart like you, friend, not a winner. Means a great deal to his parents. Pretty ordinary people, and that’s why I said I’d try to help. They’re not winners either – not like you are.’
He put his hands on his hips, as if he was standing in a bar, talking with a man he knew and respected, and sent a message big and clear, and spoke a confidence.
‘He – that’s Eddie – doesn’t know that the bitch – the woman he came to find – wasn’t prepared to lift a finger for him. I’m not supposed to tell you this… She couldn’t care less for him – could have sent signals, could have opened up channels. She’s not changing her mind. You could have sent bits of him back to her, or all of him dumped on her doorstep, and she wouldn’t have changed. Only word for her, “bitch”, but he, that’s Eddie, has only found that out these last three days, whatever. Hurting him, Salvatore, won’t change her, won’t alter a hard bitch… It’s just what I’m thinking.’
They were in the doorway. From where he stood, he couldn’t have touched the boy. Would have had to take a couple of steps to be close enough, then could have tousled the boy’s hair, pinched his cheek or slapped his upper arm for encouragement, but he hadn’t yet convinced himself that the hood wouldn’t shoot. It all happened, in these situations, so damn fast – was so damn unpredictable.
He thought that at least five rifles were aimed at the little part of Salvatore’s body protruding from the doorway’s recess. Not enough to give the marksmen an aim and have them shoot, and the pistol remained at the boy’s neck. It would be one word, or a short sentence, one movement or gesture that could change it, and the pistol might be moved and might be fired. Lukas didn’t know. He stood, near naked and cold, fighting the urge to shiver, and couldn’t know whether what he said or did would win or lose it. The lips moved. He strained to hear.
