CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

This time, the office Aramis found himself in was lined with shelves of cookery books. There was a desk, a swivel chair and a computer, still useless. And there, in the corner stood a tall, thin metal cabinet.

Aramis pulled the key from his pocket and reverently approached it. He laid a hand on the door and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool grey metal, whispering a prayer to the Gun God.

"Por favor Dios de las armas..."

Shaking the hair out of his eyes, he inserted the key and twisted it, his hand at the same time curling around the handle.

Holding his breath.

/

The goons had moved to the swimming pool. It was dark inside, only lit by whatever torches they had. Athos could see them through the windows as he crouched in the treeline. Inside, there were several black clad men, all masked up, like his dead assailant. They were standing in a circle and then they drew their guns from their shoulder holsters. The figure in apparent charge pointed and then waved an arm and the men begin to scatter.

"Game on," Athos breathed.

A few moments later, Athos was standing in the generator shed, staring at a row of large, yellow generators, aware several masked gunmen were prowling the house and grounds in earnest now that they had all their spoils.

He had a basic knowledge of how the generators worked on the principle of electromagnetic induction. Basically, just a couple of rotating wires near or inside a magnet or magnetic field that caused the electrical current with the added assistance of additional components, such as a cooling system, exhaust, fuel and lubrication. That was the extent of his knowledge. Fortunately, he didn't have to write a dissertation on them.

Some of the generators hummed, some were silent. Obviously, not all were needed, but he didn't care.

"Bugger it," he murmured and went along the line, shutting them all down, the clunk of the switches echoing around the room.

The ensuing silence was a little unnerving.

Satisfied, he emerged outside a few moments later and could see that the clinic building was now a dark shape against the trees. Only the stars gave any indication of life, and they were long dead. The moon was momentarily lost behind one long, dark cloud, but the night sky was otherwise clear.

He thought of Martina, making her way through the ravine as he stood in the shadows, his eyes flicking around the dark grounds. He flexed his hand and rubbed the thumb of his good hand into his sore palm, trying to ease the nagging discomfort from his struggle with the discarded bandage. Some of the new skin was now badly abraded but he'd had no desire to re-use the bandage and it was now stuffed behind one of the generators, out of sight. He fought off a sudden wave of exhaustion and steadied himself, listening intently for any unusual sounds.

All was still.

Now, to find Aramis.

/

Some minutes later, Athos let himself back into the main building, via an unobtrusive green wooden door set in a recess, which he hadn't noticed before. It looked as though it was part of the original building, before modernisation had been undertaken, a nod to nostalgia perhaps. There was a very small window in the door, set high, so he had no clear idea what was on the other side. Putting his ear to the door, he heard nothing and took a chance, his hand on the old-fashioned door knob.

He found himself in a small, dark vestibule, with another door ahead of him, this time, with a frosted glass pane. Opening that door, he was confronted by a set of steep stairs. On the wall to his left there was a small brass metal engraved plate proclaiming several Staff Flats on the above floor. He wondered if this was where Martina had her flat when she lived in. He considered for a moment but then decided it was probably safe up there and if he could find a window, it would give him an advantage and may allow him to track any of the gang currently at large in the grounds. He needed to locate Aramis now, if they were to have any chance of outwitting and outmanoeuvring them.

Climbing the stairs was not easy. They were dark and steep. They were also wooden and occasionally creaked, which slowed his progress more than his knee and lungs. Once at the top, he found a window and realised he was at the back of the building, overlooking the roof of the conservatory, which was partially glass and partially opaque, which made it difficult to see if there was anyone in there. Again, it was also dark, of his making; both a blessing and a curse. The gang of men had split up now, looking for their prey. They would know by now their room numbers from the register and would probably have searched their rooms. If they had browsed Kramer's computer before they had murdered him, they would have seen his medical notes on the two of them, courtesy of his password, which they would have no doubt forced from him. He had a sudden deep regret for what the Doctor had obviously suffered.

There were four doors along the corridor. He tried three of the doors, but they were locked. The third door was unlocked and felt his way inside. A window offered some light and he skirted the single bed and stood to the side of it, looking down. It only took a few moments before he saw movement in the trees. They were searching for them. The only blessing was that it was a big building, and it was obviously taking them time to search. He counted two. Martina had killed the one in the kitchen and he had despatched one by the hot tubs. Aramis had killed one prior to finding he and Martina in the kitchen. Body count so far, three. Not enough. There could be perhaps another four, considering the van they had arrived in.

Having got his bearings and caught his breath, he pulled out the gun he had taken from the man in the kitchen. The bullet clip was almost full. He had five bullets. Perhaps one for each of the remaining thugs but he had no way of knowing how many in total there were. He had seen the figure that had commanded them, and if armed and active, that person was another to add to their number.

He took the opportunity to drink some water from a bottle on the dresser and washed his face with a handful, wary of using the tap in the sink in the bathroom in case the pipes were noisy and alerted his pursuers. His eyes were used to the dim light now and he saw there were some bottles and jars on the dressing table, and after a quick check, he opened one and sniffed it. It smelled similar to the stuff Aramis had applied to his hand in the toilet and so he dipped a finger in and decided it had the same consistency. He smeared some of it on his damaged palm, making a mental note to tell Aramis, as brownie points were always useful. Feeling his way around, he found a headband hanging over the corner of a mirror and slipped it over his hand, twisting it to make a makeshift bandage. It was a garish shade of pink though, visible in the dim light. He gazed at it for a moment. Pink. Really? He grimaced before deciding that beggars couldn't be choosers.

There was a fruit bowl on the window sill with two bananas and an apple in it. A pair of hiking boots, female, size six, next to a single wardrobe, a few books and a framed photograph of a young, blonde woman with an eyebrow piercing on the dresser. Was this Martina's room? It seemed it was the only occupied room on the corridor. And if so, was this Lena, he wondered, as he brought the photograph closer in the dim light. Looking at the makeshift bandage on his hand, he had his doubts. Martina didn't look like a pink sort of girl, he thought, before berating himself for being sexist. He replaced the photo frame back where he had found it and pulled open the bedside cabinet drawer. There was a diary, which he left alone, and then his breath caught as he saw a mobile phone.

He snatched it up and thumbed the on button expectantly. Once, twice, three times. It was dead. The battery charger was still plugged into the socket above the skirting board. She hadn't plugged it in. He could have happily thrown the phone across the room and kicked the charger for good measure. He ran a hand through his unruly hair and took a deep breath. He couldn't blame her. How was she to know what the day held? Otherwise, she travelled light. One small hold-all in the single wardrobe which had a make-up bag and a pair of lightweight trainers. Her off-duty clothes hung from three hangers.

He took a banana from the bowl and sat on the edge of the bed to peel it. The adrenaline that had flowed freely through him during the last half hour was dissipating and he was hungry. His chest was tight, but his breathing was easier than it had been in days, perhaps due in part to the exercise he had taken over the last three days. For once, he did not curse Treville. His captain may have been right, he thought grudgingly, although they would not be in this predicament if not for his insistence on them coming here, when he had a perfectly decent apartment he could have rested up in. Their debrief would be interesting.

Ready to go, he ensured the laces on his trainers were tied firmly and, flexing his shoulder muscles, he closed his eyes and pulled up his knowledge of the building once more. The lift shaft they had used must be around here somewhere. It really was a disorienting building.

He let himself out, thinking he should berate Martina for leaving her door unlocked before dismissing it as churlish under the circumstances, when he heard the rapid pop of gunfire from the floor below. Wrapping his hand around his gun, he stood for a moment to be sure of the direction and then, with one hand on the wall for guidance, he retraced his steps back toward the stairway to investigate the commotion below.

"Hold on Aramis," he whispered to himself.

If they were to die, they would die together.

/