‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to let me use the bathroom?’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Holding the bucket in one hand and the gun in the other, the chauffeur walked back down the corridor towards Kite’s cell. Kite turned his back on him, feigned to miss a step then spun around as Kamran stepped into the room behind him. Pushing the gun away from his back so that it was pointed at the wall, he grabbed the Iranian’s jaw, drove it backwards and rammed the nail into his neck so that it buried in the throat up to the palm of Kite’s right hand. In the same continuous movement he slammed down onto Kamran’s forearm in an effort to shake the gun from his grip. The Iranian was retching, gasping for air, blood spurting from his throat onto Kite’s skin and clothes in thin, pulsing strands. He cried out, but his voice was muffled and strained. He doubled over and managed to fire the gun. The bullet missed Kite’s foot by less than an inch, lodging in the carpet. In the cramped steel room the noise of the shot was deafening. It spurred Kite to greater speed and violence. Kamran was trying to fight back, at once clutching his bleeding throat and flailing at his assailant with the gun, but Kite drove his knee into his jaw, grabbed his hair and repeatedly smashed his head against the wall, forcing the gun from his grasp. It fell to the floor and fired. A second shot whistled past Kite’s ear. He bent down, seized the gun, stepped back and fired two shots into Kamran’s head.
He had no time to pause and assess what to do next. He was not avenged nor somehow purified by the act of killing Kamran. Kite had been planning how to get off the ship since the moment he had woken up in his cell. Stepping over the body, he ran down the corridor, away from the interrogation room, opened a heavy steel door and found himself in a makeshift gym. There was a television bolted to the wall above a treadmill and a weight-lifting machine. Kite crossed the room, opened another connecting door and entered a sleeping area with bunk beds three-high on either side. The beds were all neatly made up. He did not know how many more men were on the ship, but had not yet heard any reaction to the gunshots. With Kamran dead and Hossein on his way to the cottage, Torabi might be the last man on board.
Then the sound of a door slamming behind him and the voice of a man calling out in Farsi. It did not sound like Torabi. Kite opened the next door and found himself in a bathroom. He moved quickly across the linoleum floor, again with the impression that the room was not being used: the sinks and mirrors were clean, the tiling in the shower area dry. As he was pushing open a swing door leading out into a narrow passage, there was a crashing sound behind him. Kite turned to see a man stumbling from the sleeping area into the bathroom. He was brandishing a gun. Kite fired two shots, hitting the man in the chest and stomach. He fell to the ground.
‘Put it down!’
Kite froze.
‘Drop the fucking gun!’
Torabi was behind him. Kite had no choice but to comply, letting the weapon drop to the floor. If he made any sudden move, however quick, Torabi would shoot him. It was a miracle that he had not yet put a bullet in his back.
‘Face me!’
Slowly Kite turned around, his hands in the air. Torabi’s feet were wide apart, planted on either side of the narrow corridor. He was aiming a gun at Kite’s chest.
‘You fucking killed Kamran. You killed two of my men.’
‘They were going to do the same to me.’
Torabi was slightly out of breath, as if he had heard the gunshots and run back to the ship.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘It’s me who is going to do the same to you. On your knees, you fucking liar, hands behind your head.’
Kite sank to the ground. ‘At least tell me that Isobel is free,’ he said.
The Iranian looked at his watch and smiled.
‘Hossein will be there now,’ he said. ‘Putting a bullet in her brain. I wish you could watch.’
‘There’s something you should know.’
Kite had one more card left to play. He felt extraordinarily calm, though he was about to break the one rule that he had vowed never to break.
‘Yeah? And what’s that?’
‘Ali Eskandarian lives in London. He has been here for the past fifteen years. I can take you to him. He can answer all your questions. You were right. I did lie to you. Your father is still alive.’
56
It was after midnight by the time the French police had concluded their interviews and allowed the Bonnard family to return home. Vence was by then deserted. The entire square had been cordoned off, all restaurants closed, traffic prevented from entering the town. Jacqui, who was deeply upset, went home with Martha and Rosamund. Luc drove Xavier and Kite back to the villa.
Nothing was said on the journey. Xavier knew that his father had been a coward. Luc was wrestling with the inerasable shame of his inaction; he had run when he should have stood his ground. He had abandoned his wife, his daughter, his son just at the moment when they needed him most. Kite, by contrast, had tried to fight back and was nursing a swollen jaw for his efforts. The comparison was stark. The incident
