The Half Truth(76)

‘Apology accepted. Shame I can’t return the favour.’

‘I wanted to say goodbye to my son.’

John nodded and looked up towards Tina. She was holding Dimitri’s hand, gazing down at them both. She looked tired and dejected, yet strong and beautiful all at the same time. All he wanted to do was to take her home, wrap her in his arms and look after her, to take her away from all this grief and heartbreak. He also knew it was impossible, for he was just as much a cause of her distress as anyone else was. If not more.

The sound of a motorbike’s engine revving somewhere behind him brought John back from his thoughts. Something wasn’t right.

‘John.’ Sasha’s voice was urgent, his face one of alarm as he looked beyond John’s shoulder. John looked round. The motorbike clearly wasn’t just passing along in the traffic. It was here on the concourse. A rider and a pillion. The passenger was getting off the bike, his crash helmet still on, the visor down. John could tell from the cupped hand, held at the passenger’s side, that he was concealing something. John had momentarily allowed himself to be distracted and had missed the warning signal by a second. And it was in that second that their advantage had been dented.

Sasha must have realised too. ‘Look after Tina and Dimitri. You owe me.’ With that he was half-running, half-walking away to the north side of the cathedral.

‘Sasha!’ John shouted, but his voice was lost amongst the tourists. He looked back at the advancing motorcyclist, then up at Tina and Dimitri. His gut contorted at the sight that met his eyes.

Tina was staring at him intently, fear transmitting from her eyes. Her bottom lip trembled and she was visibly shaking as her hand held tightly onto Dimitri’s. Behind her stood another leather-clad motorcyclist. This time an open-faced crash helmet, but with a bandana pulled up over his nose, covering all but his eyes. His hand was at Dimitri’s neck, John couldn’t be sure, but he thought a knife lay behind the leather gloved fingers.

John’s blood ran ice-cold. He couldn’t risk chasing Sasha and there was no way he could attempt to get anywhere near the guy to try and disarm him. It was too risky.

Where the fuck was Martin?

The pillion passenger was now at John’s side.

‘You chose well,’ he said in a heavy Russian accent. ‘You will do well to remain where you are for a little longer.’

John had no choice. He toyed with the idea of reaching for his gun, but dismissed it almost instantly. He couldn’t fire it through the crowds of people. He wouldn’t be able to fire it at the man standing behind Dimitri, not with the split-second advantage he would have to aim and be sure of hitting his target and no one else. No, the knife would be in Dimitri before he could even take aim. He looked back at the motorcyclist, who had now turned the bike to face the way he had come, the engine silent.

John’s only hope was Martin. The reality was he had no hope, not unless Martin suddenly materialised out of nowhere at that exact moment. He looked up at Tina, held her gaze and although he knew she couldn’t hear him, he said the words out loud to reassure her.

‘Stay calm. You’re doing great.’

It felt like he had been standing there for an eternity, when in fact he knew it was only a matter of minutes. The starting of the motorbike engine behind him caught his attention. The pillion passenger jumped on the back and the bike sped off across the paved courtyard and into the London traffic, heading towards New Bridge Street.

John span round and looked up at Tina. She was crouched down, cuddling Dimitri in her arms. No sign of the other motorcyclist. John took the steps two at a time, skidding to a halt in front of Tina and her son.

‘You okay? Promise? Just stay here. Don’t move. Martin will be along soon.’

John raced down and across the steps of the cathedral and round the north side where Sasha had gone. He ran through the gates and into St Paul’s churchyard itself.

There, sitting on the bench was Sasha. John slowed to catch his breath. Relief that he had found Sasha, though, was quickly replaced by an unnerving sensation that something wasn’t right. Sasha didn’t move.

John crouched down in front of Sasha. The Russian raised his eyes but not his head. His hand was round the handle of a blade, which protruded from his chest. He went to speak but it was a gurgle of air bubbling in blood. John could hear a sucking noise coming from the wound; a sure sign that the blade had punctured the lung.

John grabbed his mobile and called for an ambulance.

‘Lean back against the bench, Sasha,’ said John, leaving his phone on the bench, the operator still on the end of the line. John ripped off his jacket and padded it around the blade. He knew any attempt to remove it could prove fatal, if it wasn’t already.