Thirty-two
FOX LOOKED ROUND the restaurant at the group of hostages sitting silently on the floor, a smaller and more manageable number than downstairs, then tensed as Wolf put a gloved hand on his shoulder.
‘What do you think about releasing the children?’ he hissed.
This was something Fox had given plenty of thought to. ‘It’ll make us look merciful, and therefore worth negotiating with,’ he answered, casting a dispassionate eye across the room. ‘We’re playing to the Arab world as well as the West, and right now we just look like a bunch of killers. If we sow some doubt among the enemy, we’ll delay their assault until we’re ready for it.’
‘But we need more hostages to replace them. We don’t have enough up here as it is. What’s keeping those two downstairs? Go and get them. I’ll be all right here.’
Fox used the emergency staircase to get back to the third floor, moving quickly. He wasn’t keen to leave Wolf on his own with the hostages for too long. Although they didn’t look like they were capable of mounting any kind of organized resistance, he knew that you only needed one gutsy one, and for Wolf’s attention to be diverted for a split second, and they’d be facing disaster.
When he came out into the third-floor corridor, it was silent. Too silent. There was no activity at all, and no sign of either of the men, or any of the people they were meant to be rounding up. Fox knew he couldn’t have missed them. There was no other way up to the restaurant, with the exception of the lifts, and he’d put all of them out of action earlier.
He looked up and down the empty corridor, his finger tensing on the trigger of his AK-47 as his concern grew.
That was when he heard it. A scraping sound coming from inside one of the nearby rooms, as if someone was scratching at the door with their fingernails.
He walked slowly towards the source of the noise, stopping at the room from where it was coming.
A small dark patch was spreading out from under the door, only just visible against the burgundy of the carpet, and Fox could hear another sound now, alongside the scratching. The tight, gurgling breaths of a man drowning in his own blood.
Keeping his finger on the AK’s trigger, he slipped the key card from the pocket of his overalls, pushed it in the reader and, in one rapid movement, kicked open the door.
It only flew back a foot because it was being blocked by a man lying across it like a human draught excluder. It was one of his own men, the ex-marine Leopard, and his balaclava-clad head had been smashed to a bloody pulp. Blood bubbles formed in his open mouth like petals as he tried to breathe.
Fox kicked the door again, harder this time, shunting the body back a few inches, repeating the process until it opened completely. Stepping over Leopard’s body, he went inside and immediately saw Panther, propped up against the wall on the other side of the room near the bathroom door, still in his waiter’s uniform. His head was slumped forward, his shirt drenched in blood.
Fox felt someone touch him and looked down sharply. Leopard had lifted one of his gloved hands, and the material had briefly touched his leg.
He sighed. Leopard had been a good soldier, but he was no use to him now. He pushed the barrel of the AK against his ruined head and pulled the trigger.
The hand dropped down with a leaden thud, and the rasping breaths stopped.
Fox looked round the room. Leopard’s AK was lying on the bed, its stock smashed so badly that the trigger guard was hanging off, rendering the weapon useless. Near the bed on the floor the body of an old man lay on its side. He’d been shot, but there was no way, given his build and the damage done to Leopard and Panther, that he was the one responsible for their deaths.
Holding his rifle out in front of him, Fox checked the bathroom and the corner cupboard but they were both empty.
There were a few kids’ toys on the floor – Transformers and a model truck – and a black leather handbag sitting on the table on the far side of the bed. Stepping over the toys, Fox picked up the handbag and looked inside, quickly locating an American driving licence in the name of Abigail Ruth Levinson. She looked skinny and petite in the photo, which made Fox pretty sure she wasn’t the killer either, and since it definitely wasn’t someone who still played with Transformers and Tonka toys, someone else was involved. Someone who clearly knew what he was doing.
His hand brushed against something in the handbag, and he pulled out a clear plastic bag containing what looked like stubby blue pens. He looked more closely and saw that the pens contained insulin. So, she was a diabetic, and one who had to inject herself as well. Which meant she’d be needing them again at some point soon.
He slipped the package into the pocket of his overalls and threw the bag on the floor. It was possible that Abigail and the boy were not known to the killer, and therefore no longer with him, but if they were, and he had her insulin, then it might prove useful at some point.
However, in the end, that was scant consolation. Already two of their number were dead, and the Glock that Panther had been carrying was missing.
Fox sighed. Whichever way he chose to look at it, they now had a real problem on their hands.
Thirty-three
SCOPE MIGHT HAVE learned first aid during his days in the military, but he was no doctor, and although the wound didn’t look that serious, he couldn’t tell for certain.
It took him close to five minutes to get through to the emergency services on the hotel room phone. He told the woman on the other end about what was happening in the hotel, keeping out the details of his own involvement, and explained that he was with a woman with a gunshot wound to the leg that needed urgent treatment.
The operator asked him a lot of questions about the injuries, and told him how to stabilize the bleeding.
‘I know all that, and I’ve done everything I can.’
‘Is the patient conscious?’
Scope glanced at the bed where Abby lay on her back, smiling weakly at Ethan, who was crouched next to her, holding her hand and wiping her forehead with a damp cloth, which was what Scope had told him to do, hoping that it might provide him with a distraction and make him feel useful. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘That’s good. Help will be on its way soon.’
‘Help’s already here. I can see it out of the window. What I need to know is when it’s actually going to come in here.’
‘As you can appreciate, the situation is still very unstable, and the paramedics will need clearance from the police.’
Scope didn’t bother asking when that was likely to be. He could tell from the operator’s voice that she wasn’t expecting a change in the situation any time soon. It felt very much like the security forces were preparing themselves for the long haul, which wasn’t good news for either Abby or her son.
‘Remain in your room, try to barricade the door if you can, and wait until help arrives,’ the operator continued. ‘Help will come, I promise. Now, I’m going to put you through to one of my colleagues in the police, who’d like to ask you some questions. Can you hold?’
Scope said he could, hoping that the police officer would have more than platitudes to offer him.
But he didn’t. The cop sounded young, and he asked Scope a lot of questions about what was going on. How the attackers had got in, what their numbers were, that kind of thing. Scope told him the truth. He didn’t know a great deal about what had happened, other than that there appeared to be quite a few gunmen, and that the one he’d heard speaking had what sounded like a Middle Eastern accent. The cop, who sounded way too interested for Scope’s liking and therefore probably had something to do with the intelligence services, then started asking him more personal questions. What was his name? What was he doing in the hotel? Where was he in the building at
