Paris
Nine-thirty. They cuffed Dima and put him in the back of the Renault, between two airport security officers. A third officer sat up front beside the driver. The sun was up. The downtown expressway was filling with rush hour traffic that grudgingly parted at the sound of the siren. Dima closed his eyes. All the better to concentrate. Less than an hour. Solomon had planted the device — or his people had. It could be anywhere in the building. It would have been smuggled in disguised as — what? Some kind of delivery — a container, a box. Something that no one would be surprised by.
Was there more that Rossin knew? If there was, Kroll would find it. The Cargotrak van — had it been used to deliver the bomb to the Bourse? Bernard, Syco, Ramon. How much did they know?
They were headed into the centre. The Eiffel Tower came into view, they tore round the Arc de Triomphe, weaving through the traffic. The driver was enjoying himself. One of the toughs next to Dima told him to ease up, but he didn’t. Dima kept very still, didn’t complain or protest. Always a challenge to keep your guard up when your quarry goes passive. He was saving himself for the right moment. None of them had seatbelts on. That was useful. He had spotted the driver’s firearm in a holster under his right armpit. He watched the road for a moment, when they were closing in on another vehicle. There needed to be some impact. A truck, laden with building materials. Dima took a deep breath to oxygenate himself before putting all the force he could muster into his legs. Lunging forward, he threw his cuffed wrists over the driver’s head and with his knee against the seat he yanked the cuff chain tight, moving his hands back and forth to grind the chain into the man’s neck as he tensed his neck muscles to resist. The driver’s head snapped back and his hands left the wheel. The two guards each side of Dima clawed at him, but a microsecond later the Peugeot ploughed into the truck.
The noise of the collision was drowned by the explosion of the inflating airbags, which pushed the driver and his front-seat passenger firmly back in their seats. At the same time, the driver’s seat buffered Dima. When the airbags deflated, a second or so later, the driver fell forward, his body limp. The front airbags couldn’t do much for the burly, unbelted passengers. The guard on Dima’s right went over the front passenger’s head and was half out of the windscreen, crushing the man in front as the seat folded beneath him as he went. Dima released the driver from his stranglehold and dived for his pistol, flicking off the safety catch and firing it into his side before it was out of the holster. The guard on his left was still conscious. He already had his gun half out. Nothing else for it. Dima blasted him in the temple, blood splattering the cloth interior, then patted his pockets and found the keys to the cuffs, plus — also handy — his airport security ID. He reached past him to open the door, booted him out of the car, then climbed over him and out. A pedestrian was staring open-mouthed at the scene. Dima waved the gun at him with one hand, and the keys with the other.
‘Open these or you’re dead. Now!’
Bending his head slightly as if to avoid being shot, the young man took the keys with trembling hands and undid the cuffs.
‘And give me your phone.’
A new iPhone.
‘Sorry. Hope it’s insured.’
Dima was off, running now in the direction of the Bourse — but it was more than a mile away. He dialled Kroll as he ran. The street was choked with traffic. He leapt into the road in front of a girl on a scooter.
Kroll picked up.
‘Hang on.’
He showed her the gun.
‘Mademoiselle, je suis désolé.’
She dismounted, her hands upturned and her eyes wide.
‘You’ll find it near the Bourse.’
He jumped on and sped off down the pavement, which was less congested than the street, steering one-handed, phone in the other.
‘I just heard from Bulganov,’ said Kroll.
‘Call the Bourse security. There is definitely, repeat definitely, a bomb in there. Persuade them to get everyone out. Something must have been planted in there. Unobtrusive. Grill Rossin. Maybe he knows something.’
Pedestrians flattened themselves against shopfronts as Dima tore down the pavement. Ahead, the Bourse loomed over the surrounding streets, a neoclassical monument to the creation of wealth. Its pale, timeless columns looked invulnerable.
Dima ditched the scooter, almost pulling it with him as he ran. His cell rang again. Kroll.
‘Dima! It’s in a photocopier.’
‘How many offices have they got in there? It’s going to be like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack.’
‘The police alert says “Shoot on sight”. You’ll never get in the building.’
‘I’m going to try.’
Kroll’s next words were just audible before his voice was blotted out by sirens.
‘The copier, could be an Imajquik. Logo’s blue and red.’
93
New York City
Blackburn turned the pages slowly, struggling to take in each face. Something about the nature of those mug shots gave them all the same sort of blank, impassive look. But then they were meant to be unmemorable. They’d been trained to give as little of themselves away as they could, to blend in and disappear.
‘Gentlemen, please.’
Gordon gestured at Whistler and Dumphrey, who had edged forward. ‘Let’s give the guy some space. We’ve come this far, we don’t want any mistakes.’
Blackburn kept looking. The room was so quiet that all he could hear was the hum of the traffic somewhere far below. New York at work, but for how much longer? He tried once more to conjure up the face in the Harker footage, the face on the security screen. The image in his memory was bleaching out, as if Solomon was willing it to fade.
He got to the last page. He recognised none of them as Solomon. He looked up, felt the atmosphere in the room change.
Then he turned the book over and started again from the back. On the fifth from the last page there were only three mugshots and one blank space. He paused at the page and looked up again.
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ groaned Dumphrey.
Blackburn just kept looking at them, his finger on the page. Under the blank space was the serial number: 240156 L.
‘Now you want us to think Langley doctored the book.’
Whistler found the idea amusing. Gordon didn’t. He clenched his chubby fists, little white dots showing on the tips of his knuckles.
‘That’s an outrageous suggestion.’
Blackburn tried to keep his voice steady, but anger and frustration gave it an alien vibrato. He dropped it to a whisper.
‘Solomon isn’t here. He’s your agent. But he’s not here. Why?’
Dumphrey sighed and looked at the others.
‘I think I’ve had enough of this freak.’
94
Paris
Dima mounted the steps, tucking the gun out of sight and holding the airport security pass in his hand. Two armed guards blocked his way. He held up the pass as he walked quickly towards them, not stopping.
‘Security chief’s office, quick! You’ve got a suspect package in there.’