Colette stood her ground. ‘Sir, this man has no ID. I think I should call security.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Adam asked him, unfazed, curious.
‘I have to get this away from here — as far away as possible. Please do as I say.’
Dima’s eyes were on fire now.
Adam considered this.
‘You’ll need some help. I think there’s a trolley — in the stationery store down the hall.’
Colette’s hand was on the phone.
‘I’m calling security.’
Dima strode across the room, prised the receiver from her hand.
‘Okay, now listen. Inside this copier is a bomb. We have minutes — if we’re lucky — to save the lives of everyone in this building and in Paris. If you get security they will detain me and I’ll resist and they’ll end up shooting me and everyone in the city will die.’
‘But — who are you?’
‘Yes,’ said Adam. ‘Who are you?’
Dima could hear rapid footsteps outside. He took a step towards Adam, and breathed in, daring himself to say the name.
‘Was your mother’s name Camille?’
Adam frowning, nodded. ‘My. . my natural mother yes, but she’s — how do you know that?’
‘Then if nothing else, do this for her.’
98
Adam and Dima wheeled the copier along the corridor and into a lift. Adam kept glancing at the intense stranger who had just burst into his life, warning of imminent apocalypse. And who, mystifyingly, seemed to know a detail from his life that he had shared with very few people.
‘Can I ask you how you knew—?’
Dima interrupted. ‘Just let’s get through this.’ He couldn’t tempt fate by imagining anything beyond the next few minutes.
Kroll materialised in front of them, breathless from running up the stairs. As soon as Dima saw him he waved the young man away.
‘Go Adam — go to the shelter,’ Dima shouted, waving Kroll forward. ‘Go there and don’t come out until there’s some kind of all clear.’ He pushed him away as Kroll took his side of the trolley.
‘Strange location to plant it. I’d have thought a better place would be closer to the ground. Closer to the foundations, more likely to demolish everything in one go. On the other hand, it isn’t a conventional bomb. .’
It was Kroll’s trademark way of handling tension — to talk incessantly, until Dima shut him up. But Dima had tuned him right out. He wasn’t hearing anything. He was thinking about where and how. He did notice that Kroll was wearing identical overalls to the unhelpful men in the cargo dock — though with a telltale small red-ringed hole in the chest.
It was cramped in the servicelift. The copier took up almost all of the space. Kroll squashed up against the doors and jabbed Basement. The best bet was back to the cargo dock and whatever van they could hijack. The lift struggled into action. It was old and slow. Agonisingly slow.
Dima was squashed against the rear, Kroll against the doors. He was still going on, apparently unbothered by the imminent apocalyptic danger inches from them.
‘You know, Dima, after this one, I’m really thinking of taking a break. After all, the kids are growing up. Absent fathers and all that. If I showed their mothers that I was really making an effort, showed real willing, I think things could be different. What do you think? Maybe do a little work for Bulganov. Nothing too arduous, you know. .’
Dima wasn’t taking it in. His head was already hammering from an overdose of adrenalin.
The doors opened. For a millisecond the world stood still as Dima looked from Kroll to the open doors and back to Kroll: three guards, and three slugs that smashed straight into his friend before he could even raise his pistol. He’d shielded Dima, buying him an extra split second in which to aim and fire three double taps — one into each guard’s centre mass. In two seconds all three dropped like liquid, one after the other. Kroll’s body blocked the trolley. Dima could only climb over the copier to his friend, who still had a faraway look in his lifeless eyes, the memory of his kids embedded in his expression.
‘Goodbye, dear friend.’
Dima moved the body to one side and grabbed one of the guard’s weapons and spare mags as he pushed the trolley forward, scooting it as fast as he dared towards the cargo dock. No time for any niceties now. Everyone in his path was a target. He manoeuvred the trolley through a set of double doors and into the cargo dock. An electrician’s van was just pulling out. He raced round the trolley, grabbed the door and wrenched it open. The driver didn’t look old enough to own a licence, let alone be in charge of a Transit van.
‘Turn it off. Out. Now!’
The youth obliged.
‘Don’t move.’
Dima looked round for more available hands. The glass booth was empty except for one body — undressed: Kroll’s source of overalls. He saw a movement behind a stack of boxes.
‘Come out!’ He fired a warning shot to speed things up.
Another of the unhelpful men from the glass booth appeared. He looked like he had been sick.
‘Over here. Get this thing into the van.’
Two more guards appeared. Dima took them down in two short bursts. The youth was crying now.
‘Just put the copier in the fucking van or you’re next.’
Dima prodded the boy with his gun. They got the doors open but both of them had lost their strength.
‘You two — that end,’ he shouted, grabbing the other end himself. Together they hefted one corner on to the Transit’s load bed then Dima pushed the copier all the way in.
‘Do nothing to get in my way or you’re dead, okay?’ The youth nodded eagerly.
Dima leapt into the driving seat and was off, accelerating down the ramp and out of the rear of the building. Ten past ten. He headed southwest down Rue de Richelieu, passing the Louvre on his left. Lights on, hazards flashing, gun and steering wheel in his left hand, his right hand on the horn. At the Quai des Tuileries he went right, into the oncoming traffic. At least they could see him and see that he wasn’t getting out of their way. He had to get out, get as far out as he could. It had been so long. All his intimate memory of Paris was either faded or out of date. Think! Where could he find somewhere empty, in Paris, in the time he had left?
Two police vans were now heading towards him, straddling the lanes. Nowhere to go. A question of nerve. He’d have more than them. He headed for the gap between them. They parted at the last second, but he crossed a junction and clipped a bus as he swerved left trying to avoid it, sideswiping a Citroen and scraping off the nearside mirror. The Citroen span round like a toy, taking out three more cars and starting a full scale pile-up. He jammed on the brakes, threw the Transit into reverse, crossed the reservation and continued. On the Voie Georges-Pompidou now, hitting a hundred plus kph. Madness. At any point someone could smash into him and that would be the end. But every metre he travelled was moving the epicentre further away from the heart of Paris. And further away from Adam Levalle.
99
New York City
Blackburn was on his feet, a hood over his head, being marched down a corridor by two goons. For a brief moment, when he was allowed to look at the mugshots, he had dared to think the tide had turned and they had taken him seriously. It didn’t last.
He could hear Whistler and Gordon behind. Their tone suggested that they were arguing, but from under the hood he couldn’t make out what they were saying.