Free The Accident Man by Tom Cain Page B

helmet and they walked together toward the Alma Bridge.
     
10
     
    Nobby Colclough had spent fifteen years as a Metropolitan Police detective before he decided to trade his skills in the private sector. He was used to stakeouts. So now he was sitting in an unmarked Renault Mégane, parked in the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile, watching the world go by. And waiting.
    It was after one o’clock in the morning when he got the word from Max telling him the Russians were on their way. He saw them a few minutes later, riding up on a flashy black bike. Jesus Christ! Max hadn’t mentioned that one of them was a bird. She was wearing her skirt pulled right up to her waist so that she could straddle the bike, leaving every inch of her thighs exposed to his gaze. She got off, giving him a quick flash of her panties, then pulled the skirt down over her backside, giving it a little wiggle on the way. Colclough swallowed hard. He wanted to know if the face was as good as the body. Pity the daft tart still had her helmet on.
    Now the bloke got off the bike, grabbed the girl’s hand, and hurried her toward the door. Filthy little monkeys couldn’t wait to get at it. Well, sod ’em. They were about to get a blow job all right.
    He watched them go in, then called in to base.
    “They’ve arrived,” he said.
    “Stay on the line,” came the voice from the other end. “I’m betting Carver set his explosives with short-delay fuses. He’ll want to get the targets into the apartment before detonation. Shouldn’t take long. Are the lights on yet?”
    Colclough looked up. “No. The dirty beggars probably stopped for a quick one on the stairs. Oh, hang on. The lights have just gone on. Shouldn’t be long now.”
    Colclough was half right. The place was about to blow, but Carver and Alix had not hung around on the stairs; they’d raced up. Just before they went into the apartment, Carver stopped. He took her black bag off his shoulder, felt inside it for any weapons, then, satisfied, gave it to her.
    “You may need this. Remember, we’ve got exactly sixty seconds, and you’ve got to look different when we leave. Go straight to the bedroom, get changed, grab what you need, and get out. Ready?”
    Carver opened the door, walked in, disabled the alarm, and turned on all the lights. As Alix ran into the bedroom, he went into the living room, drew the curtains, and took off his helmet, which he placed on the floor in the middle of the room.
    Twelve seconds gone.
    He strode across to the bookshelves, cut the speaker wires, and put the speakers in the fireplace. The Claymores would still go off, creating the explosion he wanted, but the solid brick and stonework of the chimney-breast would absorb the back blast and restrict the spread of ball bearings. The neighbors should survive okay.
    Twenty-six seconds.
    He retraced his steps back out into the hall, breaking into a run, and crossed into the bedroom. Alix was just slipping on the dress that had been in her case. She had nothing on but a pair of white panties slung low beneath a smooth, flat, pale brown stomach. Her breasts were small and neat with perfect rosy brown nipples. They rode up her chest as she raised her arms and let the ice blue dress slither down her body like mercury.
    Carver didn’t give her a second glance. He went around to the far side of the bed, took the Claymore from the wall, and shoved it down between the end of the bed and the mattress, with the rear of the mine facing into the mattress to dissipate its energy.
    Thirty-nine seconds.
    It took three more seconds to get into the bathroom and another five to rip the bomb out of the cistern, take out the detonator, and place both in one of his jacket’s side pockets. On the way out, he grabbed Alix’s makeup and wash bags, lobbing them toward her as he went back into the bedroom.
    Alix was bending down, slipping on the white sneakers.
    “Thought you might need these,” he said with a wry grin, as her startled face