Grasmere #3
“We need to use this time. Take my phone and call the number on the card Leblanc gave you.”
I stare at him for a moment. He is right. We can still do things even if we cannot leave the lodge. I pick up his phone, dial the number and put the phone on speaker. The call is answered almost immediately.
“Who is it?” comes a deep, brusque voice with faint traces of a French accent.
“Can I speak to Dr Maurice Leblanc?”
“Who is calling?”
“My name is…Aksel. Aksel Larsen.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Are you Dr Leblanc—?”
“How did you get this number?”
“From Sylvie.”
“She— I do not know any person called Sylvie.”
“Sylvie Leblanc. Isn’t she a relative?”
“I told you already. I do not know anyone by that name. Do not call here again.”
The line goes dead.
“I think he knows who she is,” I say after a pause. “He just doesn’t want to speak to us.”
“How far is Beaumont from here?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Around an hour’s drive.”
“Then we shall visit him.”
“Today?”
“Tomorrow. After breakfast.”
The following day, we wake to gentle rain tapping a rhythm on the window ledge. Lorenzo curses the weather, which seems to plague us during bike rides. He suggests we postpone our morning swim, but I argue that we will be wet anyway. Eventually, he agrees, and we brave the day.
After our swim, wearing swimming shorts and each covered from the weather with a towel held over our heads, we trace our steps back to the lodge. Light rains sizzle around us and daylight barely filters through the clouds. Lorenzo trudges in front with his head down.
I spot the danger too late.
Three figures in dark hats and raincoats appear from behind trees.
Each holds a gun at chest height. One is a woman who shelters beneath a black umbrella held in her free hand.
She barks orders to the men that I cannot quite hear.
Lorenzo stands frozen to the spot, and I do the same.
We have been caught in open ground. I look around, but there is nothing to dodge behind and nowhere to run without being shot.
The taller man stands several feet away, his gun trained on us, while the squat but muscled one approaches.
“On your knees,” he says. “Both of you.”
We obey. My mouth is dry as the man ties Lorenzo’s hands behind his back.
All the time, the other man keeps me in his line of sight.
Once Lorenzo is restrained, the shorter man does the same to me.
Were we alone, I am sure I could take him, but not with weapons trained on me.
When we are both secured, they step away.
The woman addresses the taller of the men. She speaks Russian.
“Is it him?”
“Yes. He is the one.”
“Does he understand Russian?”
“No. His partner, the old woman, does. But not him.”
“And the other?”
“I do not know who he is.”
“You,” she shouts at me in Russian. “Do you understand me?”
I continue to stare down at the dirt track.
“You, koyzol,” she shouts again, and the squat man yanks my head up by my hair. I look puzzled at him, then at her and shrug my shoulders. I seem to remember that koyzol means ‘goat’ in Russian, and that using it for a person is generally considered impolite.
“Take the target into the hut. I need to interrogate him before he is dispatched,” she says to the shorter man, before addressing the tall man. “Take care of the other one.”
My heart wrenches when Lorenzo is dragged to his feet and pushed stumbling towards the lodge.
The woman and the shorter man go with him.
I am left with the remaining assailant, who waits for them to disappear before approaching me.
He takes no chances and keeps the gun levelled at my head.
I breathe evenly and keep my wits sharp, ready to take advantage of any opportunity.
He stops three yards in front as though he wants a better look at my face.
Without saying a word, he moves behind me while slowly screwing a suppressor onto his gun.
I feel him prod a boot at my tied hands.
“We are on holiday. You have the wrong people,” I say.
Still unspeaking, he walks back and stands a few feet in front. He looks over my head to the lodge for a few seconds before removing his hat. When he peers down at me, I scramble to find more things to say to stall him, but he speaks first.
“I cannot believe it’s you.”
The accent is Scottish. He’s a few years younger than me, but something about him seems familiar.
“I’m sorry?”
“I know you. And I’m not gonna shoot you. I’m here to help.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We need to act fast. I’m gonna fire off a couple of shots.
They’ll hear from the hut and think you’ve been neutralised.
Then I’m gonna cut your ties ’cause we need to get your pal out of there.
Now, are you gonna let me help you and not try to take my gun?
Cause it’s gonna take both of us to free him. ”
I nod my head. What choice do I have? “Why are you helping?”
“You may not remember me, but I remember you, Five,” he says as he turns the gun away and fires three successive shots into the ground. “We trained together.”