I ran my hand along the wall until I found the light switch. We were in a large living room: two armchairs, a divan, a coffee table, a couple of dead house plants. At the far end, an integrated kitchen, long metal windows – and an air conditioner. I walked over and switched it on, but nothing happened.
Isabelle slumped into one of the armchairs and asked me if I had any cigarettes left. I tossed her the pack and lighter, and walked over to take a look at the windows. They were unlocked.
That was interesting. I rolled them back to find a veranda, complete with deckchairs and flowers sticking out of what looked like old petrol drums.
‘They had it good, didn’t they?’ said Isabelle.
I turned. ‘Who? Where are we?’
She laughed, her face momentarily obscured by a cloud of smoke. ‘You are very serious. “Who? Where are we?”’
‘Fill me in,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell you all my knock-knock jokes.’
She sat up and ground out my sixth-to-last cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table. ‘We’re in the Shell–BP camp at Port Harcourt. I thought you knew – Alebayo is using it as his headquarters.’
Of course. While I’d been feverishly fantasizing about throwing myself into the road, we must have been waved through some gates. The windows were unlocked because it didn’t matter if we left the house: we wouldn’t be able to get past the perimeter. I turned back to the window: the moon was dim in the rain, but I could make out a few more bungalows and, beyond them, the outline of a high concrete wall. I couldn’t see any machine guns in turrets, but it amounted to the same thing.
I had another look at the room. The Tilby-Wellses appeared to have left the place rather quickly. Magazines and paperbacks were still scattered across the coffee table: a two-year-old issue of Life featuring the lost notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci shared space with The Collected Short Stories of Somerset Maugham, My Family and Other Animals and a booklet about West African birds. Apart from the standard pieces of furniture, the only unusual items were a drinks cabinet and an antique radio set. The kitchen was home to a disconnected fridge and a rusty stove. The cupboards were empty, except for a couple of cockroaches and several tins of Bartlett pears. No tin-openers, though.
It was like a safe house, I decided. The thought comforted me somewhat, and I made my way back to the drinks cabinet, where I found the dregs of a bottle of Drambuie, a sliver of Tio Pepe, and about a quarter of a litre of lime cordial. A not-too-dirty shot glass was resting on the board, and I poured the lot into it and downed the result. It tasted vile: my teeth felt as though they were rotting away as they came into contact with the liquid. But for one exquisite moment it relieved the dryness in my throat. I also hoped it might contain enough sugar to send some much-needed aid to the pain surging through my lower back and thigh muscles.
Behind me, Isabelle announced she was going to find the bathroom to powder her nose. I investigated the radio set. It was in working order, so I tuned it to the BBC’s African Service. They were reaching the end of a bulletin – I wanted the headlines, to see if Pritchard had cancelled the PM’s trip. I turned the volume up as loud as it would go, and the weather report blared across the room. Cairo was hot. Oslo was cold.
‘What are you doing?’ Isabelle called from offstage.
I walked towards her voice. ‘The room may be bugged,’ I said, taking a left at the kitchen. ‘You might want to watch what you say.’
‘You should check the plants. Isn’t that where they usually hide them?’
If there were microphones, they could be anywhere – in the ceiling, the walls, the furniture. It would take at least an hour to turn over the place, and I didn’t know how long we had.
‘The radio is fine,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Here!’ she said, leaping out from behind the wall. ‘So what do you think?’ Instead of her usual Zazou black, she was now in a turquoise ankle-length dress.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘You don’t like?’ she said angelically. ‘I could no longer wear those wet clothes.’ She scrunched up her nose in disgust, then raised a finger. ‘I find something for you also.’ She vanished behind the wall again for a few seconds, then reappeared clutching a pair of silk turquoise trousers and a white tennis shirt. ‘Voilà! You will match me perfectly.’
I took her by the wrist and exerted some pressure. ‘We’re not going to a bloody fashion show,’ I said.
She pulled away. ‘What happened to those jokes you promised me?’ she said. She walked back into the living room, seated herself in one of the armchairs and pouted.
I didn’t have time to waste on games – somewhere in this compound, Gunner and his men were being interrogated. And any minute now, it could be our turn.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Do you have your press accreditation from Lagos?’
She looked up. ‘No – it was in my bag. Why?’
That was what I’d been afraid of. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ I said. ‘I’m working with The Times, but at the last moment I got ordered to the front, and we decided to work together. All right?’
She took it in, then nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I think you should relax. We’re not in danger now. It’s a story for your friends back in London, I think. A story for myself also – my office will be very pleased to hear it. Some of the photographs I took in the hut may change the course of the war. This level of suffering – it will shock people into action.’
She looked so smug, I could have smacked her. I pointed out that Alebayo might not be too keen to let her call her office, or hand back her camera. She didn’t hear me, so I moved closer and said it again.
She laughed, smoothing the pleats of her new dress with one hand. ‘I think he will give it back. He can be tough when he’s ordering his men to kill innocent Biafrans – I would like to see how tough he is in front of a member of the world’s press.’
‘These ones aren’t all innocent, though,’ I said. ‘The men are deserters.’
She looked at me, aghast.
‘Did you see the condition they were in?’
The silly bitch seemed to have forgotten we were in the middle of a war. It was bad news – if she tried to take Alebayo on, she’d really put the cat among the pigeons.
‘Alebayo hates the world’s press,’ I told her. ‘In fact, he hates anything that smacks of interference by the West. If you want to help the Biafrans, and yourself, you would do well to remember that.’
We listened to the football results in sullen silence for a few minutes. Finally, the familiar notes of ‘Lilliburlero’ whistled merrily into the room, and I turned it down slightly so we could listen to the bulletin more comfortably. Pakistan had a new president, there was fierce fighting in southern Vietnam, and John Lennon and his new wife were staging a protest in bed in Amsterdam. No mention of Nigeria or the British prime minister. I wondered where Pritchard was – probably a deal closer to Anna than I was.
‘That was about your operation, wasn’t it?’ said Isabelle when the report had finished and I’d turned the volume back up. ‘There was a coded message in one of the items!’
I shook my head. ‘We don’t do that any more.’
‘What, then?’ she said. ‘You might as well tell me now.’
‘The less you know, the better.’
It was a shame to have to treat her like a child, but she had a glint in her eye and it was worrying me. She was notching it all up for her exclusive report from the Biafran front, where she had been imprisoned in a bugged room with a British secret agent on a mysterious mission. It would make thrilling reading at breakfast tables across France – if we got out of here in one piece.
We listened to the radio for a while longer, and she cadged another of my cigarettes. I went over the story with her one more time, and then the door opened and Scarface marched in.
‘Move,’ he said, gesturing with his sub-machine gun.
*
The streets of the compound were quiet and deserted, but I caught a few glimpses of the site’s new purpose: a couple of camouflaged armoured cars and a Land Rover parked outside one of the bungalows, and a small obstacle course that had been set up on the other side of what had once been tennis courts. It was still raining, and Isabelle was having trouble with her new outfit, which was sticking to her in all the wrong places. God knows what Scarface made of her get-up; he didn’t say a word, just gestured which turnings we were to take and kept a close eye on our movements in case we decided to make a run for it. There was little chance of that, unfortunately – the only thing to do now was to talk Alebayo into letting us go as soon as possible. At one point, we passed a street that led to the entrance into the compound. It was a massive iron gate, and I managed to count eight guards before we had to make a turn.
After about a ten-minute walk, we arrived at our destination: a grand villa standing on the crest of a small hill. We walked up a path through the large and well-kept garden, passing jacarandas and palm trees. As we got nearer to the house, the sound of music spilled out onto the lawn, an American soul number with swishing drums and a plangent male voice singing about the end of the world. The doors to the place were open, and a handful of soldiers were pulling crates off a jeep in the forecourt. It looked a little like preparations were being made for a party – I half-expected to see a marquee being erected.
Scarface took us into the house, which still had the appearance of a private home – presumably this was where the managing director had lived. The paintings and mirrors still hung on the walls and there were vases filled with flowers. We walked down a short corridor, passing several soldiers on the way, their boots pinging off the tiled floor as they went about their business. Nobody gave us a second glance.
The music became louder with every step, and the instruments and voice started to mesh together. Scarface pushed open some double doors and we entered a large hangar-like room. It was dark, but I could make out desks, chairs, filing cabinets, telephones, several standard radio sets and a few SSBs. I could make out a faint glow from the rear of the room, and Scarface indicated we should head for it. As we got nearer, I saw that the light was emanating from a small area sunk a couple of feet into the floor. There was a campbed, a wardrobe and a mahogany table. On top of the latter was an antique gramophone player, from which the closing notes of the song blared, and a lamp, which cast a small pool of light on the tatty leather armchair in the centre of the ‘room’. Seated in this was Colonel Alebayo, his head tilted back, apparently asleep. He was wearing a black and gold kimono-type number and matching slippers. His uniform lay folded neatly on the bed, his cap resting on top of it.
We stood at the edge of the pit for a few seconds, watching him. Then Scarface coughed. Alebayo’s eyes snapped open, his head jerked upright and he jumped to his feet. Without looking at us, he strode the two feet to the table, stopped the needle and replaced the record in its sleeve.
‘The prisoners are here, sir,’ said Scarface unnecessarily, and gestured for us to walk down the three steps that led into the den.
Alebayo turned. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with a hint of a smile. ‘I can see that.’ Scarface thought about replying, but Alebayo waved him down. ‘At ease, at ease.’
Isabelle and I took up position side by side in front of the armchair, like two schoolchildren summoned before the headmaster. As he and his men had done earlier in the aircraft, we silently dripped rain onto the floor.
Alebayo seated himself again and looked us over. It was very quiet in here, more noticeably so after the din of the music. Alebayo’s face was as smooth and placid as a marble bust – it reminded me of the masks I’d seen in the market in Lagos.
‘Mademoiselle Dumont…’ he said, finally, and his voice was lilting, almost tender. ‘I’m sorry – are you married?’
She shook her head. Alebayo stretched an arm out from the depths of a satin sleeve and plucked a piece of paper from the table. His voice rose: ‘Mademoiselle, this is your authorization to be at the front. Is that correct?’
She glanced at it. ‘Yes.’
‘You have been a reporter for a long time?’
‘Four years,’ she said.
Alebayo nodded, and turned to me. ‘And how about you, Mister Kane? Where is your authorization?’
‘He’s my photographer,’ put in Isabelle.
Alebayo pursed his lips. ‘Really?’ He looked back down at her papers. ‘But it says here that you work for Agence France-Presse. Mister Kane told me in Lagos just the other day that he worked for The Times, and that he was covering the visit of the British prime minister there.’
‘That was true then,’ I put in. ‘But I got a cable from my editor this morning telling me to get out to the front and find a more interesting story. I proposed teaming up with Miss Dumont here. She agreed to it, as did my editor.’
Alebayo lightly waved Isabelle’s authorization, as though fanning himself. ‘They may well have, Mister Kane. But the Press Office of the Ministry of Information in Lagos did not. If they had, your name would also be on this piece of paper, or you would have your own.’
‘Here’s the thing,’ I said. ‘I did have my own, but we had a very bumpy landing and I couldn’t find it afterwards. I must have dropped it.’
‘How terribly careless of you,’ said Alebayo, amused at the flimsiness of the excuse. He folded Isabelle’s paper and placed it back on the table, then gave me a searching look. ‘Do you know David Ashton of The Daily Telegraph?’
This game again. He’d tried it with Churchill back in Lagos.
‘By reputation,’ I said. ‘I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him.’
Alebayo pressed his fist against his chin as if thinking. ‘How about Bill Turner of The Express?’
‘Don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Jack Stern? He’s at The Observer.’
I shook my head apologetically. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very sociable – I tend to stick to my work.’
He nodded. ‘I quite understand. I am much the same.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘But here’s the thing, Mister Kane. Those three gentlemen are all staying at a hotel very near here. So are several other British journalists. I took the liberty of calling earlier and asking if any of them had ever heard of or met a Robert Kane of The Times. And do you know – not a single one of them ever had?’ He eased back into his chair. ‘You must be very unsociable.’
There had always been the danger of my cover being blown. I hadn’t designed it for use in the field, and I’d only had time to take the most limited of precautions, namely securing the initial accreditation for Lagos. So it was no real surprise it was coming under strain. I didn’t say anything. It was his interrogation – he’d have to do the work.
‘No,’ said Alebayo after a few moments. ‘I don’t feel your story has a shred of credibility. But I admire your quick wits. The British Secret Service trains its agents well.’
‘I was wondering when you’d get to that,’ I said. ‘I told you before I’m not a spy.’
‘No?’ he said. ‘Do not play games with me, Kane.’ I didn’t like that – I’d been getting used to the ‘Mister’ bit. ‘I am not buying the act.’ His voice was now tinged with that familiar sharp edge. ‘You are not an innocent journalist. You are a British spy, and you are in Nigeria to disrupt Russian involvement in this war.’
‘That’s absurd,’ I said. It was, really.
‘Is it?’ He let the words hang in the air for a moment, and we locked eyes: his were openly triumphant. ‘Do you deny that you have been monitoring our arms supplies?’
‘What arms supplies?’
‘The crates in the aeroplane you flew here on, Mister Kane. They contained weapons provided to us by the Soviets – as you well know.’
‘How the hell would I know that?’
‘They were all clearly marked with Russian identification. And Captain Alele has confirmed to me that you and he had a conversation in the rear of the craft…’
‘At his request!’ I said. ‘He wanted me to interview him!’
‘Come, come. Do you expect me to believe that if a trained British operative wants to investigate the hold of a plane, he cannot present himself to a junior officer in a certain way so as to ensure he gains the access he seeks?’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘It’s clear we’ve got off to a bad start. You didn’t like me when you met me in Lagos and it’s a shame we’ve run into each other again, because you seem determined to see my actions in the worst possible—’
Alebayo had one hand in front of his mouth, and it took me a moment to realize that he was quietly chuckling to himself.
‘“Run into each other”?’ he said. ‘Is that what you think we have done? Do you think I just happened to be passing by Aba? Let me enlighten you, my friend – I was looking for you. Two Russian diplomats were murdered in Lagos last night, and this afternoon the police put out an alert at all airports for a British journalist by the name of Kane, whom they urgently wish to question. When you turned up again at Lagos Airport, a very efficient customs officer, Mister Igbaweno, a distant cousin of mine, as it happens, radioed through to me to ask what he should do. I advised him to let you on the plane and promptly contacted divisional headquarters in Enugu. They were very understanding, thankfully. We have had a few minor disagreements, our two divisions’ – he offered a preview of a smile, then shut it off abruptly – ‘but when I explained that there was a British spy and murderer flying in their direction, and that I had already come across him and would like the opportunity of dealing with him myself, they were only too happy to let the plane be diverted. When the winds came up and your plane failed to land as your pilot had announced to our control tower, I sent some of my men out to see what they could find. It didn’t take them long to track you down. On arriving at the spot, I found that you had persuaded some of our troops to fraternize with the enemy. So you see,’ he concluded, folding his hands in his lap, ‘there is really no question of my misinterpreting your actions. They speak for themselves.’
Blown.
The police had known to look for Kane.
Blown by Pritchard.
What a fool I had been. I’d completely misread the man – desk work had killed my instincts. I was a fucking amateur, of no more use than Manning or, indeed, Isabelle. Because I should have – how could I not have? – realized what the bastard had been up to. When I had suggested delaying the PM’s trip, he had raised a few polite objections and then backed down, nodding that cadaverous skull of his at me. It was so obvious now that it felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. He hadn’t simply strongly suspected me: he hadn’t bought my story for a moment. He’d realized I was Radnya the moment I’d fled London. Farraday hadn’t told him to come out and run me; he’d told him to come out and find proof.
How terribly clever I’d thought I was being – but Pritchard had seen through my game from the start. He had expected me to run again, which was why he’d given me the deadline to meet him in town. Perhaps he’d had me tailed – in my rush to find Isabelle, I’d neglected to take the usual precautions – or he could simply have made a call to the Palace and discovered I’d checked out. That would have been confirmation enough, because there had been no guarantee he would find transport by nightfall, so it could only have meant a run.
He’d come out to Lagos certain I was the double, and I had confirmed it for him. So he had delivered on his threat, and blown me to the Nigerians. One anonymous call to the local police station would have done the trick. Result: I was in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by soldiers armed to the eyeteeth, in the hands of a man with a taste for sentimental songs and a hatred of journalists, spies, the West and especially, it appeared, me.
All of this shot through my brain as I listened to Alebayo’s crowing little speech. There were a few cracks in his logic, though, and I leapt on them ravenously.
‘With all due respect,’ I said, ‘your accusations don’t make much sense to me, Colonel. If my mission had been to assassinate a couple of Russians, why would I flee to the front? I can think of safer places to hide from the police. And why would I also be checking your cache of arms and encouraging fraternization? My knowledge of espionage is extremely limited, but would any agent really be given so many objectives to complete?’ I was surprised to find myself drifting into the same kind of cod-legalistic language he favoured, but decided it was a decent strategy: he might be more likely to free me if he felt we saw the situation in similar terms.
But he wasn’t impressed. ‘The precise nature of your operation does not concern me,’ he said sharply. ‘There is enough evidence of nefarious activity to condemn you several times over. As well as persuading Captain Alele to show you the weapons on board the craft, you also took photographs. Perhaps the Russians got in your way – or perhaps you decided to kill two birds with one stone.’ He waved the argument away. ‘In any case, you leave me no choice but to hold you here.’
I sensed Isabelle flinch beside me. Had she thought it would be so easy?
‘What purpose would that serve?’ I said, trying not to sound as though I were pleading. ‘My editor will soon wonder where I’ve got to, and then he’ll be in touch with the High Commission, and then you’ll have to release me – and I’ll have a very good story to publish.’
‘You think you can negotiate because you are British? I told you in Lagos that I care not a jot for international incidents nor my reputation, which has been besmirched time and time again until we have all become tired of it. It would be more convenient if you were not from one of our so-called allies, and our one-time colonial masters at that. Of course, I admit that freely. It is a nuisance. However, we cannot deal in hypotheticals, but in the realities with which we are faced. The reality of this evening is that you are revealed as a spy, and as such I cannot allow you to leave here until the end of this conflict.’
‘Until the end—’
‘Allow me to finish, Mister Kane. It will do you good to listen. I am confident this war will not continue for very much longer, so you need not fear your incarceration will be a lengthy one. The rebels are on their last legs, as the sorry specimens you encountered today testify.’
‘Will you also jail them?’ asked Isabelle. ‘After all, they may also be spies.’
Cat, meet pigeons.
Alebayo didn’t take long to answer. ‘I already have,’ he said simply. ‘They are enemy combatants. The women and children will be cared for by our medical staff, of course. What would you suggest I do in the circumstances?’
Isabelle nodded, but I could feel the anger surging within her. ‘And me? Will you imprison me, too, Colonel?’
Alebayo inspected his slippers for a moment, then looked up at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am afraid I must. It is unfortunate, but I have no means of knowing if you are involved in Mister Kane’s dirty work.’
Isabelle took a step forward, but Scarface was there at once, holding her back.
‘C’est un scandale!’ she shouted. ‘My government—’
‘Will be very angry.’ Alebayo nodded at Scarface to let her go, and he did, reluctantly. ‘Yes, Mademoiselle, I am well aware of it. My superiors will be equally concerned. There will be pressure on me from all sides to release you both. But I tell you now: I shall resist that pressure for as long as I am able. Because this is a war I am engaged in.’
‘And my camera?’ said Isabelle. ‘Does freedom of expression mean nothing to you? Will you hide what is happening in this country from the world?’
Alebayo snorted. ‘I will certainly hide military secrets from foreign powers,’ he said. He tilted his head, and softened his tone again. ‘Mademoiselle, if you are indeed innocent of any involvement with this man, please accept my apologies. But would you not agree it is a sound principle of war that if one finds a spy moving freely among one’s troops, one jails him and anyone associated with him?’
She was shaking her head furiously, like a child who doesn’t want to hear why she can’t have any more boiled sweets. ‘My father was ambassador to this country for fifteen years, and he knows people who will think nothing of ordering your dismissal from this disgrace of an army.’
‘Mademoiselle—’
‘Non!’ she cried. ‘You are a madman, and a bully, and a butcher!’ And she leaned forward and spat in his face, a full globule that slowly ran down his cheek and onto his neck and disappeared into the lapel of his kimono.
Alebayo didn’t react for several seconds. Scarface was trying to restrain her again, and eventually he shook his head and Scarface let go. Alebayo then stood up and walked across to the wardrobe. He took a handkerchief from one of the drawers and carefully wiped his face, before turning back to Isabelle.
‘I can assure you, Mademoiselle Dumont, that I am no madman. I am in full possession of my faculties. As for being a bully and a butcher, that is for others to judge. But during these difficult days, I often think of my time in the Congo with the United Nations, and something one of my colleagues there shared with me. “When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.” I believe it is a Swahili saying. At the moment, there are several elephants fighting on the grass of Nigeria. But two of the largest beasts are Great Britain – and France.’ He pointed a finger at Isabelle. ‘Your government is providing arms to the rebels. It is you that is making a mess of the grass. My job is to minimize that mess.’ He nodded at Scarface, who stepped forward and placed the butt of his gun into her back.
‘Put them with the others,’ said Alebayo. ‘I do not wish to see them again.’
*
The rain had finally stopped, though it wasn’t much comfort. Scarface prodded us through the Toytown streets. Whereas earlier I’d sensed a tiny measure of warmth in his manner, something I might have been able to work on, now there was no mistaking his open hostility. We were no longer Europeans summoned to see his commanding officer; we were foreign spies, and his prisoners to boot.
I inwardly cursed Isabelle and her little performance – it was a wonder Alebayo hadn’t had us shot there and then. The worry was that she wasn’t finished. Just as I could sense Scarface’s hostility behind us, I could sense her seething as she trudged along beside me.
I tried to keep my mind on tracing our bearings in relation to where I’d seen the entrance earlier, and concluded that we were heading north-east from it. It was a pointless exercise – if I was going to make a dash for it, now was the time, because there would probably be more soldiers wherever we were being taken. But I wasn’t going to run, because Scarface had a sub-machine gun and he might be inclined to use it. And even if he didn’t, or missed me, I had already seen that the entrance was well guarded. All my options had closed down. So I marched on, turning when told to, hoping that Isabelle had got it out of her system.
After about a quarter of an hour of walking in silence, we arrived at a series of interconnected bungalows. Scarface jabbed us towards one of the doors and we stepped through and walked down a long corridor with doors on both sides. Each had a name-plate and a title – it looked as though we were in a former office block.
We were pushed through a door marked ‘Walker, Godwin – Chief Accounts Officer, B-3’, into a sea of familiar faces. Everyone from the plane was here, seated in chairs or lying on mattresses on the floor. They all looked up at the limping secret agent and his elegantly attired accomplice. Gunner had removed his shirt, and there was bruising on his chest – it looked like he’d had a rough time of it. The Biafrans were mainly sprawled on the mattresses, eyes closed, limbs sticking out of their thin ‘uniforms’. I noticed with relief that the women and children were not here, and hoped that Alebayo had been sincere when he had said they would receive proper treatment.
I quickly surveyed the rest of the room. It was the archetype of an office: a massive square desk that looked like it had come in from a Punch cartoon, grey filing cabinets, dead pot plant. Perhaps the place was bugged. There were no other exits, no windows – and no guards. It was odd, but then why waste men? The prisoners would also have seen the gates and known the futility of trying to make a run for it, and they probably assumed someone was stationed outside the door anyway. They were also, of course, hardly in a fit state to escape. But still. It could be an opening…
‘Do you think this is humane?’
It was Isabelle. She had turned to Scarface. Her hands were resting by her hips, but her glare was fierce.
‘Do you?’
He stared back at her for a moment, his face expressionless, his arm clutched firmly around his gun.
‘This is a war, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘You are enemy combatants.’
Isabelle was trying to hold back tears. ‘That is what your superior said. What do you think? Do you think these people’ – she gestured at the Biafrans on the floor – ‘are a threat? They are starving to death!’
And then it happened. Scarface, perhaps about to launch into a more elaborate answer and wishing to make himself more comfortable, lowered his gun arm. And I saw the look in Isabelle’s eye. It was sheer madness – you never attack a man holding a gun unless you really know what you are doing – but I saw what she had in mind. Too late, though, because she let out a terrifying scream and leapt at him and, Christ, it very nearly worked, because he stumbled backwards and she began scratching at his eyes and it looked, for the briefest of moments, as though she had managed to overpower him. But then the gun came up. My legs had barely started moving before the shot went off, and the two bodies crumpled to the floor, and there was stillness.
All told, it must have taken about five seconds.
I looked down at the floor. Scarface was clutching his eyes with one hand and using the other to try to prise Isabelle’s body off him, but he was still holding the gun, so it was awkward. His first push managed to shift her a little, though, and as she turned I saw in one horrid moment the massive wound to her chest, the widening pool of blood, and the frozen eyes.
I placed my boot on Scarface’s arm and took the gun from him. I knocked him unconscious with one blow of the butt, then looked around at the dazed faces and the walls spinning around me.
There was no time to waste – even in a rabbit warren like this, the sound of the shot would travel, and more men would be on their way. I had to find a way out of here, now.