Ian Rankin [Jack Harvey 01] Witch Hunt (v4.0) (pdf)

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was definitely locked. He put his ear to the door and listened.
Silence. Then a shuffling sound. He thought about knocking,
then thought better of it. He motioned for them to follow him
farther down the corridor.
I m lost, he whispered. Is this the front of the building or
the back?
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Ian Rankin
The front, sir, Traynor whispered back.
Can we get someone on the ledge to take a peek inside?
I ll go check. And off Traynor tiptoed.
Back to your office, Doyle whispered to the girl. It s too
dangerous here.
He thought she was going to swallow her gum. He gave her
hand a reassuring squeeze in his and nodded along the corridor.
Off she walked, on silent tiptoe. Doyle went back to the door and
listened again. Silence. He put his eye to the keyhole, but it was
the wrong type. He couldn t see into the room. There was a gap
between the bottom of the door and the floor. He lay down, but
again could not see into the room. Traynor was coming back.
No can do, he said when they d moved away from the
door. The ledge isn t wide enough or something.
What about across the road? Can anyone see anything from
across there?
I ll radio and check.
And get some more men up here. We may have to storm the
place.
Don t we have the SAS to do that sort of thing?
Don t be stupid, Traynor. It s only a hardwood door, not the
Iranian bloody embassy.
Greenleaf appeared. A distance behind him, Doyle could see
Trilling.
Is she in there? Greenleaf hissed.
Doyle shrugged and nodded towards the Commander. Do
me a favor, he whispered to Greenleaf, keep the old man away
from here. He ll only be in the bloody way, and you know he
can t keep his voice down.
Greenleaf nodded, moved back along the corridor, and
stopped in front of Commander Trilling, talking to him softly.
Elder was questioning the guard called George. He was begin-
ning to get a sour feeling in his stomach about all of this, the
whole setup.
I m not even sure it was her, George was saying now. I
mean, it s hard to tell with some women, isn t it?
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Witch Hunt
Well, has there been anyone else, anyone new to you?
The guard shook his head. From Elder s walkie-talkie came
information that the procession of cars was leaving the Confer-
ence Centre, moving in slow convoy past the building he was
standing in. He felt like screaming.
Look, said the guard, I ve got to get back to work. He
walked over to the outside door, where a police officer was stop-
ping a man in a pinstriped suit from entering the building.
He s all right, said the guard to the policeman. It s Mr.
Connaught from the third floor.
I only went out to get these, Mr. Connaught was explain-
ing, waving some documents. I d left them in my boot.
The policeman looked to Elder, who nodded assent. The
officer moved aside, letting Connaught into the building.
What s going on?
Security, the guard explained. Some woman they re
after. This reminded him of something. Who was that blond
lady you were with?
Connaught shook his head. Met her at the lift. Don t know
who she was exactly.
Oh, Christ! said Elder, making for the stairs.
There was that shuffling sound again, like someone who was
seated moving their feet on the floor. Doyle took a deep breath
and knocked, keeping his back hard against the wall to the side of
the door, rapping with his fist and then removing it from any line
of fire. Silence.
He knocked again, a little harder. Anyone in there? We ve
got a meeting starting in five minutes. Hello, anyone there?
Silence. From their distance, Greenleaf and Trilling were
watching him. When Greenleaf spoke, he spoke in an undertone
which Doyle couldn t catch. Trilling s idea of an undertone,
however, would not have gone unheard in a football stadium.
I see . . . Yes, of course . . . As you see fit . . . Then a mes-
sage came over Greenleaf s radio (Doyle had switched his off: it
sat on the ground beside him). Greenleaf listened and mumbled
something into the radio.
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Ian Rankin
Doyle licked his lips. No use pretending any longer; no time
left in which to pretend. Traynor was returning, pushing past
Greenleaf and Trilling. He had four men with him.
Net curtains are in the way, Traynor whispered. Nobody
across the street can see anything. No movement at all.
Doyle nodded. I can hear somebody, though. Patches of
sweat were spreading from beneath his arms. And now Greenleaf
was creeping forwards.
They re passing the building right this second.
Can t hang around any longer then, said Doyle. He with-
drew his pistol, raising it high above him, gripped in both hands
and pointed ceilingwards. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Right, he said to the men around him. We re going in. They
were all withdrawing their weapons now, a series of quiet snicks
as safety catches were slipped off. Doyle looked at Traynor. You
keen to kick down that door? Traynor nodded. Okay, two of
you behind me, two of you other side of the door. Soon as the
door opens, we re in. My side low, other side aiming over our
heads. Take the diagonals. Got that?
They nodded, assumed their positions. Doyle, back to the
wall, crouched low. Traynor stood in front of the door, took a
moment to size it up. Greenleaf, who had gone back along the
corridor to let Trilling know the score, had withdrawn his own
weapon and was now advancing again, walkie-talkie gripped in
his free hand, watched by Trilling. Doyle gave Traynor the nod.
Traynor took a step back, both hands around the butt of his gun,
aiming it straight at whatever was behind the door. He raised his
right knee, so that the sole of his shoe faced the door, just below
the handle. And took a deep breath.
Dominic Elder ran up the stairs, across the reception area, and
out of the glass doors on to Victoria Street. He ran into a crush
of people, waving, some of them cheering, held back by metal-
grilled barriers from the road. There was a dull slow roar from
the motorcycle escorts. And then there was glitter in the sky, and
a net curtain, blown out from its window and wafting in the
breeze.
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Witch Hunt
And then there was the explosion.
A dull boom. Not a large explosion by any means, but
enough to panic the crowds. The motorbikes suddenly speeded
up, as did the cars. Front fenders dented back fenders as the cars
behind put their foot down. They were speeding away from the
scene, and the security men on the street had guns in their hands
and were trying to see what had happened. But it was raining
glass. That was what was happening. Large and small shards and
splinters, landing at velocity. And the screams were no longer
solely of fear.
What happened? he yelled into his walkie-talkie. John,
what the hell happened? He was jostled by people fleeing the
scene. Doors were kicked open as people attempted to find shel-
ter. Anywhere but on the street. Barriers clattered to the ground
as people scrambled over them.
The walkie-talkie crackled. He struggled to hear it. Bomb
inside the door. Hair-trigger.
Anybody hurt?
Traynor, leg blown off. Doyle . . .
What about Doyle?
Concussion.
The room, John . . . is there anyone in the room?
A pause. Negative, Dominic. The room s empty. Repeat,
the room is empty. Then: Jesus Christ.
What is it?
Chickens, two supermarket chickens.
They d walked straight into a bloody trap! If Witch had left
nothing else, she d left yet another warped calling card. Which
meant what? That the real attempt would take place elsewhere? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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