~33~

LARISSA PULLED THE TRIGGER and the gun jumped up in her hand. The bullet hit Pascal in the leg and he went down as though somebody had suddenly chopped it out from under him. Rhonda screamed and stumbled backwards. Pascal dropped his gun and grimaced and moaned loudly, as though he was about to clean and jerk two tonnes for the world record. He curled up on the floor and grabbed his thigh with both hands. He was panting like a woman between contractions, and his face glowed red with pain.

‘Everybody against the back wall.’

Kablunak stared grimly at Larissa. ‘If you have a brain, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I suggest that you use it.’

‘Move it, Viktor.’ Larissa took a single step towards him, gun high. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t do it.’

The Russian stared hard at her, his mood foul, his eyes murderous. Tense seconds passed. Then he nodded and put his hands in the air.

‘Now back it up. But not you, Jack. You stay right there.’ Christ. The side of Jack’s head throbbed. The back of it and the frontal-lobe area, too. He watched Kablunak and Rhonda move to the rear wall. Pascal swore in a constant stream. Larissa waved the gun. ‘Shut up. Sit.’ Everybody sat. She hurried over to the two guns lying on the floor near Pascal, and with her stockinged foot she kicked them under the sofa and then retreated to the desk again. Still holding the gun on her prisoners, she leaned down and slipped her heels back onto her feet, right foot then left. She did this one-handed, strapped them on with skill and speed.

‘Nice shoes,’ said Jack. ‘Not sure if they go with the bloody ear though.’

‘Everything goes with Manolo Blahnik.’ She straightened up. ‘Now, how about you hand that postal slip over?’

‘You’re still going to go for the Sergius?’

Larissa held out an impatient hand. ‘Don’t make me shoot you.’

‘The post office isn’t even open.’ Jack glanced at his watch. ‘There’s still over an hour to go.’

‘Not your concern, Jackie-boy. Come on. I’m not going to ask you again.’ She lifted the gun a little higher.

‘Okay, okay.’ Jack held up the palms of his hands. ‘I’ve got to reach into my bag, is that all right?’

Larissa nodded.

‘Think you’ll pass as a Jack at the counter?’

‘They never check the details with a pick-up slip.’ She smiled. ‘And if they do, I’ll just say I’m your wife.’

‘What about the missing piece of your ear?’

‘You bit it off making love to me.’

‘There’s blood all over your expensive jacket.’

‘You had to take me just as I was about to leave for work.’

‘Think they’ll believe you?’

Larissa pointed the gun at Jack’s bag, hanging by his hip. She frowned and flicked her fringe with agitation. ‘Think you’ll go to heaven because you died over an old Bible, Jack?’

He pulled his bag around and unbuckled the flap.

Pascal groaned, holding his leg. He was still coming to terms with what was going on: ‘He had it the whole fucking time?’ Nobody responded. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Jack reached into his bag. He fished around. Felt things at his fingertips.

Pen.

Bus ticket.

Cigarette packet foil and plastic.

An old lighter.

Fuck.

Another old lighter.

Pencil.

USB plug.

Curls of lint in the corners and lining.

No postal slip.

Shit.

… Kim?

Oh shit.

He did not panic immediately.

Jack stared at Larissa Tate. He pulled his naked hand out of the bag. He held it up, looked at it and turned it around a little, as though he was about to perform a card trick. When no ace appeared in his palm, Larissa frowned.

Woe the lowly second-hand bookseller.