“Hello again, Mr Potzner.” DCI Moran smiled broadly and gestured to the woman beside him. “This is Chief Constable Françoise Duraison from Interpol headquarters. We’d like a word in private, if that’s all right with you?” He nodded genially at the American and waved briefly in Dracup’s direction. “Be with you in a moment, Professor Dracup.”
Potzner squared up to the duo. “We’re running a military operation here. You’re out of your depth, Moran. I’ll give you thirty seconds to leave before I have the Military Police escort you out of here.”
The woman spoke up, a trim brunette of around forty-three, Dracup estimated. She had a sharp, intelligent face complemented by the typical dark, Gallic pigmentation that enhanced many a French model’s natural good looks and was doing a pretty good job with her own. “Mr Potzner: I have reason to suspect that international law has been violated by virtue of the fact that you removed – by force – a man helping the British police with their enquiries concerning a kidnapping and a related murder. DCI Moran and I have been working on an operation to trace the kidnappers. This is police business and you have no authority to detain Professor Dracup. I have a warrant for his repatriation.” Duraison’s accent was discernable but her manner was businesslike and confident. She held out the paperwork with a superior flourish.
For a moment Potzner seemed uncertain. The Major he had spoken to had unshouldered his weapon and was holding it loosely, his tanned arms cradling the stock. Around a quarter of the personnel in the operations room – those nearest the exit – were watching the scene while the remainder continued with their tasks, apparently unconcerned by the new arrivals. Dracup watched a small trickle of sweat run down Duraison’s temple and disappear beneath her collar. From the corner of his eye he saw the refuelling tanker move slowly away from the Chinook, and the helicopter’s engines roared into life. The sound penetrated the operations room and heads turned automatically to look. The rotors began to turn, slowly at first, then gathering speed until they became a spinning blur.
Potzner turned back to address Duraison. “You smug bitch. This is my territory.” He pointed a stained finger at her chest. “I’ll tell you what’s going to hap–”
At that moment there came a whooshing sound, like a high wind, then the room lit up with a blast of incandescent orange. He heard someone shout out – was it Farrell? – “Rockets! Get down!” The window imploded with a splintering crack that sent shards of glass spinning into the room like jagged spears. The soldier next to Dracup dropped silently to the floor, his neck a torn gash of red. Dracup was lying flat, arms pinned beneath him by some dead weight. He struggled to free himself from the body that was crushing the breath out of him. He saw blood on his hand.
Duraison was lying beside him, her mouth moving in silent agony. Dracup saw the protrusion of shrapnel in her bicep. He crawled towards her, dimly aware of the lacerations on his exposed forearms. Should have kept your jacket on, Dracup my boy. His knees crunched painfully against the minutiae of mangled debris cluttering the room. For what seemed a long time there was a stunned silence, then, as the room began to fill with acrid smoke from the burning tanker, he heard the low, persistent moaning of the injured.
The Chinook’s engine noise intensified as the pilot opened the throttle. They weren’t hit? He blinked and tried to see through the smog. There! The spinning blades of the chopper cutting through the pall of white and black smoke. Dracup’s hand brushed against the fallen soldier’s machine pistol. A lunatic thought came to him. With one hand over his mouth, he picked it up and ran towards the space where the window had been. He stumbled over something – a body? – fell, picked himself up and crashed against the desk where Farrell had been sitting. He scooped up the box in his free hand. It was heavy and he almost dropped it. The chopper was a roaring shape in front of him. He ducked his head instinctively and made for the pilot’s hatch. He was up on the step – the machine was moving, beginning to lift. He pulled the handle. It flew open and he hauled himself into the cockpit.
Jamming the pistol in the shocked pilot’s face he fell into the cabin and yelled “Keep going! Take it up!” The clattering noise of the engine was overwhelming. He couldn’t hear his own voice, but the pilot got the message. The Chinook was snatched into the sky and the airport fell away beneath him.
Chapter 35
“It’s late. The child is ready to sleep.” Ruth was tired, but the unexpected nature of the visit was compensation enough. “Please. Have a seat.” She indicated a carved, wooden bench with a soft quilted cushion. It was a family heirloom, made by her mother in the early days of her childhood. She sometimes imagined she could smell her mother’s scent on its fading fabric.