Steve stepped out towards the lobby, his gun concealed inside his loose-fitting shirt. As he did so, he checked behind him, noting that both Ian and Nick were ready to spring into action.
If it was one of Wallace’s or Sharratt’s men, they’d gun him down on the spot.
But the lobby was empty.
‘She’s waiting for you in the garden,’ said the receptionist.
‘She?’ The surprise was evident in his tone.
The receptionist was looking at him suspiciously. She hadn’t liked the look of the three men much when they checked in yesterday, and it was clear from her expression that she was regretting having taken their money.
‘That way,’ she said sharply. Her tone suggested she couldn’t wait to be rid of them.
Steve stepped out into the garden. He looked around, glancing through the flowers and the shrubs that filled the lawn running towards the lake. There was an eerie silence, with just a light breeze rustling through the flowers, and that made him uncomfortable. He sensed he might be drawn into a killing ground.
Drawing the Uzi from his belt, he placed his finger on the trigger, ready to unleash a blast of automatic fire.
Then he saw her.
She was standing with her back to him, looking out into the lake, but he’d recognise her flowing blond hair and the subtle curve of her hips anywhere.
Samantha.
Hearing him approach, she turned. Her eyes looked towards the gun, then up into Steve’s face.
‘You can put that away,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to shoot me. I’m not the enemy.’
Thirty-Three
THE AIR INSIDE THE CELL was warm and sticky, like being stuck inside windowless toilet that hadn’t been cleaned for years. Ollie turned on his side. When he glanced at his watch, he saw that it was only just after five in the morning. He’d slept fitfully through the night, never for more than a few minutes at a time, and he could feel the exhaustion in every bone in his body. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath for the thousandth time in a row. Whatever the plot was, how could we possibly have fallen for it?
There were six of them, all locked in a cell that measured just twelve foot by eight. The basement was plunged into near total darkness, and there was a film of sweaty, dirty damp on the walls. Across the floor were strewn a few old rags, but no straw, and nothing you could use as a bed. There was a bucket in the corner to use as a lavatory, but it was already full, and the smell from it mixed with the sweat and the stench of the men to create a punching, ugly aroma that ripped up your lungs with every breath. On the wall, Ollie noted a single word had been scratched into the old stone. Hell.
‘Why the understatement?’ quipped Dan when he read it.
True enough, thought Ollie to himself as he looked at it again. Hell itself must surely be better than this place. They had been led down here last night, and offered neither food nor water. Nor had anyone said how long they’d be kept locked up. They had been given nothing to drink during the long drive down to Ibera, and most of them were starting to get dehydrated even then. They were in an even worse state now.
Ollie tried to close his eyes. They were lying three abreast on the hard stone, and even though most of them had learned early during their military careers to kip down anywhere, it wasn’t easy. Even Maksim was finding it hard, and they had never heard the Russian complain about the conditions before. In the end, Ollie just lay still in the darkness, gnawing away at the only issue that now mattered.
How are we going to get out of here?
A torchlight flashed suddenly through the dark space. All of the men sat up, rubbing some of the sweat and grime out of their eyes. A guard was approaching them, an elderly man, with hair turning white, a slight stoop to his back, and two buckets in his hand. Stopping by the first cell, he unlocked the door, pushed one of the buckets through an opening in its bars, then moved silently towards the next cell. He flashed the torchlight on the men, and for a brief second Ollie’s eyes recoiled from the glare. The man then pushed the bucket into their cell, along with a single tin cup.
‘Food,’ he said, his tone harsh and rasping. ‘There will be nothing else until that’s finished.’
Ollie watched as the man turned away, and climbed back up the stairs. They’re trying to break us, he decided. But why?
They’ve already said they’re planning to execute us. What more can they want?
‘Grub’s up, boys,’ said Dan cheerfully, reaching across to the bucket.
‘Let me guess,’ said David. ‘Some lightly smoked salmon with scrambled eggs and a plate of hot buttered toast.’
‘No - I think it’s caviar on black bread, with a vodka shot to chase it down,’ said Maksim, grinning.