But she knew he was lying. All he was trying to do was shut her up because she had witnessed him murder her friend; he’d whisked her off to America, where he handed her over to Bussola and his organisation. It was doomed from the start. She could not even pretend she liked being fucked in front of a camera, or that it was a pleasure fellating a guy with a lens pointed at her. She tried, because the cash and dope payment was good… but she hated it, her eyes could not hide it and the camera saw it.
She didn’t last long before she was turned out onto the mean and dirty streets of Miami.
Eventually she gravitated into one of Florida’s most notorious motorcycle gangs — like Hell’s Angels, only a million times worse. Her life became a series of scenes from a movie: guns, robberies, shootings, drugs, one-man rape and then a gang-rape — fifteen of them — and being left for alligators to eat in the Everglades.
Somehow she survived.
She even got a job, on the sex-line, unaware that the business belonged to Bussola. And that night, when she saw the two of them together, Bussola and Gilbert, she flipped and attacked them — with the assistance of cocaine.
The cold light of dawn made her realise that by testifying against them, her life would be in danger; that was why she disappeared. By pure chance she had seen a copy of the Daily Mail with its coverage of the discovery of her friend’s body — Annie Reece, whom Gilbert had killed in her presence. An urge to do something for Annie had spurred her on to go and see Myrna, but then she got frightened again and ran out.
She returned a few days later when she discovered she had nothing to lose by giving evidence against Gilbert and, possibly, Bussola.
Danny frantically recorded everything on a witness statement form. It took four hours to write. When the statement had been completed and signed, Danny sat back and thought for a moment. At length she said, ‘There are a couple of questions which are nagging at me, Tracey. They’re not really answered in the statement and I haven’t pushed you — but one is why didn’t Gilbert kill you as well as Annie? He’s a ruthless bastard.’
Tracey squirmed uncomfortably.
Danny kept quiet, using the weapon of silence to her advantage, putting Tracey under pressure.
‘ I don’t know.’
‘ Yes, you do,’ Danny said quietly.
Tracey closed her eyes. A look of self-loathing crossed her thin, drug-ravaged face. She swallowed and then admitted: ‘I helped him to bury her body. Me and Ollie — we both helped him.’
‘ Shit.’ Danny sighed. She was going to need some advice on that one. ‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘The other question is, you said you had nothing to lose by giving evidence against Gilbert. What does that mean?’
Tracey took a long juddering breath. ‘When I ran out on Myrna I learnt something.’ Her voice was weaker than it ever had been. A tear appeared, clung to her eyelid, then rolled tiredly down her cheek. ‘I’ve just found out I’ve got full-blown AIDS. Gilbert and Bussola can’t do anything to hurt me now. If they killed me, they’d only be doing me a favour. I don’t have long to live anyway.’
‘ Oh, Tracey,’ Danny cried. She twisted in her seat and closed her arms around the young girl.
The remainder of the flight was spent dozing, eating and movie-watching.
And three rows back, Patrick Orlove’s slitted eyes kept observation on the back of their heads. In the flight bag by his feet was the pistol which Ira Begin had thoughtfully managed to have placed in the life-jacket pocket, by one of the airport cleaning staff employed on a casual basis by Bussola. It was a good gun. Light, accurate and would do the trick.
But when? Orlove had to think this one through.
To shoot someone in a pressurised aircraft cabin, so the movies would have one believe, could have extremely dangerous consequences. Orlove was no martyr; he didn’t want to cause the plane to plummet to earth. To strangle her when she visited the toilet was one option he considered, but it was messy. There could be witnesses and no doubt cops would be waiting to greet the plane. So that was ruled out.
He knew he had to hit her at the airport. Somewhere between customs and the arrivals lounge would probably be ideal.
As the flight touched down, Orlove was calculating how far a quarter of a million dollars would go. He had heard Portugal was inexpensive. Maybe he’d crash out there for a few months and reassess his future then.
The plane finished taxiing and linked up to the terminal. The ‘fasten seat belts sign’ was extinguished. The doors heaved open.
Hello, Manchester, Orlove thought. So long, Tracey. Whoever you may be and whatever you may have done.
Henry slammed down the phone. Near hysteria gripped his voice when he said to the woman at the information desk, ‘What stage are the passengers at from the Miami flight?’
‘ Should be collecting baggage very shortly.’
Henry ran towards the doors which led to the customs channel. In his ears, the words of Karl Donaldson rang out. ‘Shit!’ Henry burbled repeatedly as he ran to the doors — which he found to be automatic sliding doors which only opened when approached from the opposite side. Henry inserted his fingertips between them to try and prise them apart. They refused to respond.
There was, of course, no need for Danny and Tracey to wait to collect luggage. They had none.
Once clear of passport control, and after a slight delay when the customs officer carefully read Tracey’s emergency documentation, they were en route to the baggage reclamation area which they had to pass through to get to the green channel.
Patrick Orlove was right behind them, having been first in the queue for holders of non-EEC passports. He had presented a passport bearing the name of Daniel Harrison; it was forged, but good enough to fool even a close inspection by a customs official.
‘ What do you think you’re doing? You can’t go through there, mate.’
A hand crashed down onto Henry’s shoulder and spun him away from the automatic doors. He was ready to punch whoever it was.
‘ Jesus, thank God for that!’ he breathed in relief when he saw the heavily armed police officer staring sternly at him. An MP5 was draped across his chest, a handgun was in a holster at his side and he wore body armour and a peaked cap. The epitome of a friendly, helpful bobby.
Henry pulled out his warrant card.
They were so far ahead of the other passengers, having gone through the green channel unchallenged, that when they hit the corridor between the customs and the international arrivals hall, there were only the three of them walking down it — Danny, Tracey and Patrick Orlove.
This is easy, Orlove thought. Portugal, here I come! Pop her here, and the other one, then I’m away and two dead bodies will be lying there ready for collection.
He was only a matter of feet behind his targets. His hand went underneath his jacket and withdrew the gun from his waistband. He upped his pace slightly.
The women were strolling casually along, totally oblivious to his presence.
He concentrated on the spot at the back of Tracey’s head which, when penetrated by a bullet, would take the girl down as effectively as a vet shooting a horse with a captive bolt.
The firearms officer could not believe this was happening. The moment for which he had trained so hard, for which he’d been put through his paces so many times. And now, just like the cinetronic screen, it was being enacted in front of him. But this was no video clip. This was for real. He clearly saw the gun in Orlove’s hand.
It was coming swiftly up.
There was no time to shout a warning, as had been drummed into him, time after time in the training environment.
He was learning at supersonic speed that no amount of time on a firing range, or dealing with situations in a training environment, could prepare someone for the real thing. Fuck the psychological tests. They meant nothing when you were actually faced with a life-and-death decision right in front of your eyes.
If he did not shoot now, an innocent person would die. Orlove increased his speed. He was right behind the
