feet hitting the concrete directly behind the shaven-headed man. His left hand clamped over the man’s mouth as the knife in his right cut into the flesh of his neck and, in a single sweep from left to right, severed the windpipe and the carotid artery, sending a spray of blood pluming through the air in a downward arc. The man fell dead at Carver’s feet.
The young woman turned round to meet this unexpected threat, and Carver threw himself at her, reaching out for her gun with his empty hand and stabbing the knife up towards her guts.
The knife never got there. Carver felt the woman’s slim hand clamp against his wrist, her grip surprisingly powerful, crushing enough to cut off the supply of blood to his hand and weaken his grip. So now they were locked in a stalemate, each able to prevent the other from using their weapon, but unable to make an attacking move without releasing the grip that was keeping them safe. They stumbled into the centre of the tunnel, turning around in a fatal dance in which each partner was trying to kill the other. The woman was the first to make a move, bringing her right leg round in a scything kick towards the side of Carver’s left leg.
Carver evaded the kick, pulling the woman’s much lighter body with him and taking advantage of her fractional loss of balance to spin her around and then hurl her at the far wall. The woman’s skull hit the breeze blocks with an audible crack, stunning her so that she stood groggily, leaning back against the wall and presenting her body to Carver front on.
A second later the knife that Carver had thrown was embedded in the woman’s delicate, slender throat, and her body was sliding, stone dead, to the hard, cold floor.
Carver waited for a second to see if anyone else was coming, but there was only silence. He stepped across to the corpse and took the gun from the lifeless right hand. Then he sprinted down the corridor toward Alix. Less than a minute had passed since they’d entered the tunnel, and the only un-silenced shots had been the ones that had killed the buggy driver. They would actually serve to keep anyone else away: nowadays no unarmed security men, or even police officers, would advance towards a suspected gunman. The health and safety culture that put the reduction of risk far ahead of the doing of duty would see to that. But that would not prevent the authorities from setting up a security cordon. Unless he and Alix got out fast, they’d be trapped underground like rats in a blocked drain.
He was going flat out round the bend: so fast, in fact, that he slipped and went skidding and scrambling to the floor, accidentally saving his life as the bullets intended for his upright body slammed into the breeze blocks behind him.
Carver tucked his head into his shoulders, turning his fall into a roll, then got straight to his feet, his gun in front of him. He was just about to fire in the direction from which the firing had come when he caught sight of the shooter.
It was the sixth Chinese, the one in the black designer gear: the leader.
He was standing behind the buggy.
He was not pointing his gun at Carver.
He was holding it against the side of Alix’s skull.
73
Derek Choi could hear more voices echoing down the tunnel, British voices, getting closer. Yet he made no attempt to escape, nor did he bother shouting threats or demands at Carver. As long as he had the Petrova woman at his mercy, Carver could do nothing. In the meantime, Choi was happy to let the time go by until they were all discovered. Carver’s death was really only a means to an end. The ultimate objective was to prevent him getting out of Wimbledon, so that Malachi Zorn could escape. If Choi and Carver both ended up in custody, that aim would be accomplished. Choi carried a diplomatic passport, and his immunity would keep him safe. Carver, though, would have a lot of explaining to do. He might have powerful friends, but they would not help him if the police were conducting a multiple murder investigation. Carver would be left alone to face his fate: the bizarre British obsession with correct procedure would see to that. He would be rotting in jail for the rest of his life.
Carver could see that Alix was looking straight at him. She glanced down for an instant at her feet, then straight back at Carver with a look on her face that said, ‘Shall I?’
He gave a fractional nod of the head, then switched his eyes back to the gunman, stared at him hard and shouted out, ‘Oi! You!’
That got his attention.
At that moment Alix brought up her right knee and then slammed it down again, driving the point of her heel into her captor’s foot, then, as his grip on her loosened, throwing her body down too, and leaving him exposed.
Carver finished the job with two more kill shots.
He ran to Alix. ‘You OK?’
She nodded angrily, furious with herself. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking behind me and-’
‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here.’
They ran back up the tunnel, past the corpses strewn across the scarlet-smeared concrete, till they got to the door marked ‘Pilates’.
Carver stopped beside it. He wiped the handle of his gun, then threw it away. He took a deep breath to settle himself. He looked at Alix. ‘We’re drunk. We’re idiots. All right?’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘Whatever you say…’
He pushed open the door and as they went through put his arm around her and slurred, ‘You really are bloody shexy. You’re worth every penny.’
Alix gave him a dig in the ribs with her elbow, and then in a heavy Russian accent giggled, and said, ‘You English men. So funny. But so small.’
They had found their way into a large treatment room. A track-suited female instructor was giving instructions to a pair of male players, who were lying face-down on mats.
‘Lift your heads and your feet and hold the stretch…’ she said. Then she saw Carver and Alix and snapped: ‘Who are you? This is not a public area.’
‘We’re looking for the bogs,’ said Carver with drunken amiability. ‘My friend Natasha.’
‘Oksana,’ said Alix.
‘Well, whatever she’s called she’s bursting for a piss.’
‘Get out!’ shrieked the instructor. The players were getting to their feet, looking as though they were ready to remove these drunken intruders personally.
Carver raised his hands palms out, appeasingly.
‘S’all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll be moving along. D’you happen to know the way to Centre Court?’ He grinned stupidly. ‘We have ama-a-azing seats.’
‘That’s the way out, mate,’ said one of the players in an Aussie accent, pointing at a door on the far side of the room. ‘Up the stairs. Out the door at the top. You’ll be right opposite the court. Time to go.’
‘But you can stay,’ said the other player, giving Alix a cheeky grin.
She gave him a withering stare.
Carver took her hand and said, ‘Come on, darling. I need another drink.’
They followed the tennis-player’s instructions and found themselves back out on St Mary’s Walk, just another couple in the crowd. It took a few minutes to make their way round to the debenture holders’ entrance.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Alix said, giving Carver’s arm a squeeze.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said.
Carver followed her as she went off towards Zorn’s seats. Ahmad Razzaq was still there. Dmytryk Azarov was still there.
Malachi Zorn, however, was gone.
74
