Twenty Five
Tintin hunkered down behind a steel container and waited. He was in one of the few corridors that led off from the stairs and walkway. So far he'd had no problems, but the only person he'd encountered had been in a hurry and paying no attention to his surroundings, and it had been easy to duck into a corridor and hide until he'd passed by. But he'd been far more cautious since then, and had been taking the time to poke his head out over the rail in order to watch the stairs and walkway below him in case more people appeared. Now two more were coming – both men and both armed, and both paying more attention to what was going on around them.
Whether or not he'd been spotted was another story.
He held his breath as the sound of heavy boots on industrial metal got closer. Tintin stared at the wall opposite and held completely still as the footsteps stopped. A man said something, but it was too low to hear. Then silence for what seemed like an eternity, until the second man gave a scornful snort for an answer, and the footsteps moved off again.
Tintin closed his eyes and breathed a silent sigh of relief. He stayed where he was, only relaxing when he heard their boots starting up the stairs to the next level. Then his limbs finally unloosened themselves enough to let him stand up. Moving slowly, he made his way back to the walkway and peered out of the corridor. The two men were already walking along the walkway on the opposite side of the huge, open space. In a few strides, they would be able to see him as clear as day if they turned their heads. He darted back to the steel container and, watching carefully, waited until they were gone from sight completely before hurrying back to the walkway.
Keeping an ear out for their footsteps, he started to jog as quietly as possible. The rails of the walkway weren't closed: he could be plainly seen and the thin poles and strips of metal that made the safety rail would provide no cover at all. It was too open. He needed to get off the walkway.
He didn't stop when his foot scuffed loudly against the metal. He heard a voice raised in surprise, then a shout of warning before the gunfire started. They were using machine guns, the bastards, the staccato stutter of bullets whizzed by him. He put on a burst of speed and dove into the next corridor, taking himself out of the range of their guns.
He dashed to the end of the stunted corridor, but the door was locked. The only other way out was back onto the walkway. Cursing his luck, he started back towards it at a run. If I die here, he thought grimly, I'm dying on my terms. And I'm sure as hell not going down without a fight.
x
Keeping low, he took the walkway at a run and tore along it, practically falling down the thin stairs down to the next level. The bursts of gunfire were gone, replaced with the sound of boots running flat out. He could hear the shouts of more men, coming from above and below, and if he turned his head he could see a few shadows already starting up towards him. He was on the third floor now.
It was a long drop to the central room of the warehouse. He could do it if he had shoes on, but he was barefoot and liable to break something if he tried it from here, so he put his head down and kept going.
He reached the steps and dashed down them, coming out onto the second level of the walkway. Ahead of him were three grim-faced men. Their guns hung from their shoulders by straps as they put their arms out and advanced on him, intent on taking him alive.
Good luck with that!
He darted to the side and, bracing his left arm on top of the rail, bounded over it. He dropped like a stone, instinctively taking a deep breath as he sailed down. He hit the ground feet-first and let his legs buckle as he curled into a roll, hoping to absorb most of the blow. For half a second his ears rang, drowning the surprised yells from above, on the walkway, but as soon as everything flooded back Tintin was up and on his slightly-sore feet with a whoop of triumph.
I'm alive! Now run you fool!
He took a quick look around: to his left was a double iron door that was slowly opening with a grinding, mechanical noise. From under the heavy steel of the door he could already see many feet and the beginnings of many pairs of legs. The main room itself appeared to be some sort of a loading bay, and was mostly empty bar a few shipping crates, but at the far right end there were a series of tall, steel doors that were wide enough for lorries and trucks to enter and leave by. And if they were entering and leaving by those doors, it stood to reason that the way out lay beyond them.
He made up his mind, and headed towards the doors. He ran to the first one and, darting from side to side, tried to find the mechanism that opened them. Over his shoulder, men with guns had dropped to their bellies and were starting to crawl through the considerable slit between the opening door and the ground. With a whine of desperation Tintin forced himself to look back at the doors and search for a way out.
There!
At the side of each door were two buttons: one green and one red. The green one had a black arrow pointing Up printed on it, while the red one had a black arrow pointing Down. It seemed clear enough. He reached up and slapped the green button, and the door slid open.
x
Ahead of them, the steel door slid open. Müller felt his breath catch – none of them had touched it. Someone on the other side of it had opened it. Thomson signaled frantically and they all dodged to the side of the thin corridor for cover. They hunkered down, their guns ready – and in Ivan's case, eagerly waiting – as the door opened fully and a man – yawning widely, his gun safely holstered – walked into the corridor.
"Hands up." Thompson was on his feet at once, his gun pointing straight at the man, who looked up in surprise, took one look at Thompson's gun and instantly put his hands up. Thomson appeared from the shadows and deftly patted the man down, removing a small pistol and a hidden knife secreted into a boot, before securely cuffing his hands behind his back.
"How many men ahead?" Thompson asked in a low voice as he hustled the man out of the corridor and upstairs to the main part of the barn.
"None," the man admitted hesitantly. His accent was English: west-end London if Thompson was any judge. "Where's everyone else?"
They came out of the trapdoor and he found everyone else: they were all sitting against one wall (except for one, long shape which was wrapped in a very bloody table cloth and lay near the back wall), with their hands firmly cuffed behind them.
"Here we are, sir," Thompson said blandly, ignoring the dark looks that were being sent his way. He led the man over to the wall and pushed him down into a sitting position. "If you'd like to wait here."
"Hey!" the man called as Thompson started to walk away. "What are we waiting for? Who are you with?"
Thompson ignored the question and started back down through the trapdoor. The others were gone from the corridor, so he made his way to the newly opened door and quickly found them again.
They were standing in a new room. All around them were doors with thin slits set into the wood at eye and foot level. Müller was opening up the eye-level slits and checking each cell.
"Not Georgie," he murmured as Thompson passed him by to reach Thomson.
"All secured?" Thomson asked.
"Of course. What's Müller doing?"
"Those are cells. He's looking for Tintin and the girl." They waited as Müller checked and rechecked each one, until he finally gave up with a frustrated grunt.
"We must ask the men," he declared.
"We've finished here," Thompson said at once, stepping forward towards Müller. The Captain and Frankie eyed them cautiously while Ivan wandered around looking through the slits to the doors and commenting on the occupants within.
"Too skinny," he decided, and moved on to the next one. "Too dark."
"We're not finished here," Müller said. "We haven't found Georgie. Or Tintin."
"We have secured the building and the prisoners: we're finished here. I'm sorry we didn't get the result you wanted, but there's nothing more we can do here."
"Yes there is: we can go up and put a gun to the heads of those men and force them to do what we want," Müller said in a reasonable tone of voice.
"This is a police investigation," Thompson replied.
"And I made it very clear I don't want a police investigation."
"And we did everything to make sure your name doesn't get out, sir, but this is still a police investigation. You and your… friend" – he gestured to Ivan – "can leave and we will do our best to make sure your name is never released to the public – although in Ivan's case it's still best that he doesn't leave the country or make travel plans for the next few months. But this is where the police take over." He unhooked his walkie-talkie from his belt.
Müller snatched it off him. "No, it isn't," he insisted. He held the button and spoke into the device. "Everyone can go home!" he said, before turning on his heel and making for the prisoners.
"Sir, that won't work: my colleague also has a walkie-talkie." Thompson hurried after him, followed by the others.
Thomson took his out walkie-talkie and spoke into it hurriedly. "Nobody go home: I repeat, nobody go home! Disregard last transmission: someone just lost their temper, that's all. Over."
The radio crackled into life as the sarge of the S.W.A.T. team radioed back: "Bit unprofessional there, lads. Over."
"Sorry sir, won't happen again. Building is secure: all units free to move in. Over."
"Roger."
"Thomson, sir, without a 'p'. As in trousers."
x
The door slid up, and Tintin found himself outside, under a muggy, stormy summer night's sky, in what had been the warehouses loading bay.
Had been. Now it was a dump. Skip after skip, after skip, after skip, after skip - too many to count - each filled to the brim with... Clothes? Yes, clothes. Shoes of all kinds, from high-heels to running shoes to slippers and flip-flops; jumpers; t-shirts; jackets; trousers and jeans and skirts... Hundreds, no, thousands of outfits stripped from the youths and children Van Sant stole and sold, dumped and left to fester in giant, industrial sized skips. The sheer scale of the operation took Tintin's breath away and he made a promise there and then that no matter what happened he would end this: he would smash this organization. By hook or by crook, he would take Van Sant down and cripple the flow of evil that was glutting Europe.
But first, he had to get away.
He limped on, his bare feet stumbling on cracks and hidden stones, dodging into the maze of huge dumpsters. Most had over-flowed so he was mainly walking on a thick layer of uneven cloth and discarded undergarments. He could hear the shouts of men as his pursuers spread out behind him to search more efficiently. He needed to find somewhere safe to hide. If he could get into one of the skips, perhaps he could bury himself until they gave up searching here and expanded outside the warehouse's perimeter.
If they gave up searching...
He put more distance between himself and his hunters and did his best to hide. The only real problem was that the skips were too bloody tall. He couldn't reach the top of any of them, couldn't jump high enough to reach the lip and pull himself into one. With the noise of the men growing closer and closer behind him he suppressed a frustrated growl and jogged on, now also searching for a pair of jeans and jogging shoes that looked like they could fit him.
There!
Not clothes that would fit, but a pile of clothes left leaning beside a skip. He picked up his pace and practically skittered up the pile like a monkey in his haste to reach safety. Half the pile slithered underfoot but he was too quick: with a desperate jump he seized the lip of the metal skip and hauled himself up and over the side. He tumbled headfirst into it, and landed on the dead girl.
The scream - he would later claim it was a manly shout - was pulled from his throat in complete surprise, fear and, he was ashamed to admit to himself, disgust. Her thin brown hair was plastered to her skull, her skin stretched tightly over her features, distorting them. Her lips were almost gone, a ghastly grin frozen on her face, and her eyes were already taken by the crows. He landed on her chest and something squelched and squirmed underneath his body. She was already decomposing - she'd been dead a few weeks at least - and the natural sacs holding her organs and vitals together had long since burst. The smell was rancid.
His second scream - he would never admit to this one; at least, not out-loud anyway. It still haunted him sometimes, in the dead of night - was one of pure fear. He had scrambled to right himself and to get away from her; to get the hell out of there, and perhaps his feet or hands had hit her a certain way, or maybe all of the sudden movement caused the pile of beneath them to shift, but somehow she turned her ruined face and stared at him with empty eye sockets.
He was out of the skip in a matter of seconds. He moved so swiftly, half-expecting her withered hand to reach up and drag him back, that he didn't spot the two men until it was too late. He dropped back onto the pile of clothes under the skip and rolled forlornly to a halt at their feet.
They grabbed him at once, dragging him up and twisting his arm behind his back until his shoulder ached sharply. One of them took a running jump at the skip and pulled himself up so he could see what had scared the fearless Tintin.
He burst out laughing.
"Looks like he found the one from last month," he said off-handedly as he dropped back down. "That's good: the boss was sure she'd managed to get away." He reached out and ruffled Tintin's hair teasingly, ignoring the teen when he recoiled from the touch. "Still, our record is intact: zero escapees. That might cheer the boss up, at least."
"And let's face it, he needs to be cheered up," the other agreed as he pushed Tintin on ahead of them, forcing him back to the warehouse. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, kid: Van Sant is bloody annoyed..."
x
Tintin stayed curled in a ball, his body aching. The kicks and punches had stopped for the minute and that was all he cared about. He could vaguelly hear a man's voice somewhere under the loud ringing in his ears, but he had taken a few bad blows to the face and head and he felt groggy and tired now. A small warning floated around his head - something about not falling asleep with a concussion - but he didn't care any more. If it gave him respite from this pain, he would take it. Even if it meant death.
Van Sant eyed the boy with malicious pleasure. He'd paid the insolent little shit back, with interest. An eye for an eye, he thought, satisfied, as he gently fingered his own aching jaw. But enough was enough. Doctor Genezersen was right: it would take too long to break the boy, and Van Sant knew that he couldn't devote his time to it. It would be too challenging and time meant money. No, the best thing would be to kill the brat; remove him and the threat he posed and move on.
Van Sant felt a pang. With more time he could have earned millions just by pulling the trigger on the boy, but even the few days it would take to track down a few of Tintin's wealthier enemies and conclude negotiations were a luxury he couldn't afford.
He snapped his fingers and pointed to Tintin. "Take him upstairs and get him ready. I have a buyer in mind."
One of his men nodded and man-handled the boy to his feet.
"And give me your cell-phone," Van Sant added. The man handed over a plain, nondescript disposable mobile cell-phone before dragging Tintin away. Van Sant dialed a number from memory and assessed the boy's condition critically as it rang.
His face brightened when a familiar voice answered.
"Good evening, my old friend! How are you? ... Good, good. Listen to me: I have something you may be very interested in..."
x
Thomson hurried after the others, and caught up to them in the middle of a storming argument. Müller had dragged the young English henchman into the centre of the room and had him kneeling on the ground. In turn, Müller had placed his gun to the man's head, and the man had apparently wet himself and was in the middle of confessing to all the crimes the world had ever seen, including the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and Who Shot Phil Mitchell.
"You can't just shoot him!" the Captain was saying.
"Why not?" Müller asked, genuinely puzzled. "It will send a message to the others that I'm not in the mood for fooling around, and will encourage them to talk quickly. It saves time: it's economical." He looked around at them proudly.
"You're such a bell-end," the Captain marveled.
"Please don't kill me! Please don't let him kill me!"
"Blistering barnacles, you can shut up and all. Müller, put the gun down for heaven's sake!"
"I'm telling you, Captain, it would be much, much quicker this way."
"If you want, I can shoot him?" Ivan offered.
"I don't want anybody to shoot him!" the Captain cried.
"Oh, dear God, listen to him! Don't shoot me!"
"Quiet, you," Thomson snapped as he strode in. "Nobody's shooting anybody."
"Thank you God! Thank you!"
"The rest of the team are on their way here. I suggest you make good your escape, Herr Müller."
Müller cursed and turned away sharply. He was furious, and the urge to pull the trigger was almost overwhelming. "You called them in?" he demanded. "I told you not to!"
"And we told you this was a police investigation." Thomson cocked his head to one side and regarded Müller innocently. Behind him, subconsciously, Thompson mirrored the stance. "Were we not clear?"
"As clear as muddy water," Müller muttered quietly. He glared daggers at them. "I'll be at my club," he continued stiffly. "You can find me there if you have any answers."
"Don't get any ideas," the Captain warned him sternly. "Don't start thinking that you and the philistinistic philosopher there can take that warehouse in Eindhoven by yourselves."
"What did you call me?" Ivan asked suspiciously.
"Relax, it was a compliment," Müller lied. "Don't worry, Captain: I'm not as suicidal as you think. Besides, once the police arrive here and Van Sant realizes it wasn't a hit by a rival gang, he'll get rid of everything."
"What do you mean, 'get rid of'?" the Captain asked.
Müller shrugged. "Who knows what he'll do? He may sell everything off for quick cash, or he may dump them somewhere they'll never be found. I don't ask questions when the subject is raised: it's not anything I've ever had to do. Not yet, anyway. I mean, how does one make such a choice?"
The Captain stared at him, open-mouthed. "You awful… disgusting… Blistering barnacles! What a terrible, evil, nasty little man you really are!"
Müller raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?" he inquired.
"Seriously, how do you even sleep at night?" the Captain asked. "Thundering typhoons, I've met some nasty sods in my time but you well-and-truly take the biscuit! Are you genuinely asking us what's more important: the lives of people or money?"
"Captain, calm down," Thompson murmured.
"No! I have to give him a piece of my mind, by thunder, or I'll explode!"
At that moment, Müller's phone rang. It was in the pocket of his trousers. He looked down at his pocket and back up to the Captain. Slowly and deliberately, he took his phone out and held it up so he could see who was calling.
Both eyebrows shot up.
"I'm sorry to stop you in full-flow, Captain, but I must answer this call."
"You're kidding! If you answer that phone I'll shoot you myself!" the Captain snapped.
"I wonder, gentleman, if Mr Van Sant is as greedy as I believe him to be?" Müller asked innocently as he answered the call. "Van Sant," he said into the receiver as he eyed the Captain gloatingly, "how lovely to hear from you. How are you, my friend? ... Me? Oh, I'm fine."
Seething, the Captain yanked his hat off his head and stuffed the cap into his mouth to muffle his scream of frustration and anger. Müller gestured to him to be quiet. His smug face turned to one of amused surprise. "You have an interesting piece of merchandise for me? How pleasant. Can you tell me - … No, I see … I see. I'll be there as soon as I can … No, I'm in Amsterdam, in my club … Yes, of course, of course. I look forward to seeing you. Goodbye." He hung up and smirked at the phone. "What a truly greedy, stupid man. Gentlemen, I have to leave. I'm pretty sure I'm going to buy Tintin…"