One of the men nodded to Black, who nodded back. Black stepped to one side. Now, from his position, he could see into a section of the conservatory. People sat on couches, chairs. Men. Talking quietly. Wearing long blue gowns. Wearing ornate Venetian masks, their faces hidden. Just like the video. Black waited, acutely aware time was running out. Any moment, the bodies would be discovered. Then sheer carnage. Black hardly dared to breathe, senses sharpened to a point. Music played, classical. Piano, violins. Recognisable, but Black couldn’t put a name to it. Suddenly a gong chimed, a soft echo from the opposite rooms, to Black’s right. The conversation stopped. The gong sounded again. Complete silence, save the guttering of a thousand candles.
A man emerged from the darkness. Wearing a soft red-velvet gown, trailing down to the ground. He walked solemnly, looking straight ahead, paying no regard to the guards on either side. He wore a full face mask delicately designed with swirling patterns of white and gold. Black froze. Behind him, heads bowed, followed two children. A boy and girl. No older than nine. Wearing white smocks down to their knees. Arms stiff, rigid at their sides. Faces pinched and pale, wraith-like in the strange shadows of the room. Behind them, another man, same trailing gown, ornate face mask.
They walked slowly past, a sinister procession. The children were trying not to cry. Black watched them go by. A sudden, powerful, raw emotion consumed him, like fire through his veins.
Pure red rage.
The procession made its slow sombre way out the hall, through the glass corridor, into the conservatory. Drapes were drawn, blocking Black’s view. A silence followed, heavy, portentous. Twenty heartbeats. A scream cut the silence – the little girl.
Black moved.
55
Black had his hands clasped behind his back, holding the Glock. He brought his hand forward and up, and shot the man next to him in the side of the head, close range, almost execution style. The man slumped to the ground, blood bursting out like a geyser. The other four men saw it happen, but shock made them hesitate. It was all Black needed.
He crouched, fired twice – two clean hits into the chests of the men at the door. Not kill shots. But the torso was an easier target. The remaining two – the men at either side of the drawn drapes – wakened into action, drawing pistols from shoulder holsters under their jackets. But their jackets were tight and buttoned. They were unprepared. Black performed a forward roll into the centre of the hall, finishing on his feet in a semi-crouch, fired twice. Both men fell, still fumbling for their weapons.
Five men down. Black strode over to the front door, loomed over the two fallen men. The Glock coughed twice. The same treatment for the men at the drapes. Just to be sure. Basic training of the Special Services – when you shoot someone, make sure you kill the fucker. Nine shots, nine whispers in the night. The Glock was out of rounds. Black drew out the Desert Eagle, a motherfucker of a gun, placed the Glock back in the holster. He remained taut and still. Men’s voices from behind the drapes, laughing. Black swallowed back nausea.
Time was drifting away. He swept aside the drapes.
And confronted evil.
56
A recollection, vivid beyond all others, remained with Black, to haunt him all the days of his life – a room glowing with a hundred candles; ten men, sitting on couches, chairs, divans, naked save for glittering complicated face masks; two children, kneeling in the centre of the room, bowed heads, stripped of their clothing, trembling with terror.
Ten masked faces jerked round. The children did not look up, kept their eyes fixed on the floor. Black faced the men, the formidable Desert Eagle held in both hands, moving it in a slow sweep about the room.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Hope I’m not intruding.”
The men didn’t move, transfixed by the dramatic change of events.
“If you please, take off your masks.”
None of them moved.
Black nodded. Encouragement was required. “I understand your reticence. Let me help.”
He shot the man closest to him, straight in the face. The force propelled the chair he sat on back off its legs. Without a silencer, the noise was like a cannon firing, amplified by the confines of the room. The two children screamed, jolted round to stare up at Black. If the men patrolling outside didn’t know there was a problem, they knew now.
The group, almost in perfect unison, removed their masks.
“The Desert Eagle can be persuasive,” said Black. He nodded at a fat, bald man, head shimmering with sweat.
“Hello, first minister. Unlucky, tonight. Kids – what are your names?”
The children stared, glassy-eyed.
“Your names!”
They snapped out of their trance.
“Alanna,” stammered the girl.
“Paul,” whispered the boy.
“Over here, beside me. I’m getting you out of this shithole.”
They didn’t move. Terrified. A noise behind him. The front door rattling. Men trying to gain entry. They’d be here in seconds, guns blazing.
“Over here! Now!”
The two children jumped to their feet, grabbing up their clothing, and scrambled over to stand next to him.
He gazed round the room, at the faces looking back. Some he recognised – there, the chief constable. And there – the man he had followed that evening. He glared at Black, lip curled in anger. No fear there. Sheer, undiluted hatred.
“It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.”
He picked up a tall bronze stand holding a tray of ten candles. He flung it over to the heavy velvet drapes at the windows. In a second, they caught fire. Black knocked over a side table, laden with more candles, a seat catching fire, the carpet suddenly alive with flame. One of the men jumped up. Black shot him in the neck. He emitted a gargled scream, staggering across the floor, bumping over more tables on his path, creating fire in other pockets
