A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [3]
“Holy Mother of God,” he said softly. “Whatever’s going on here, there can’t be money in it.”
He opened the far door, discovered a corridor dimly lit by a single lightbulb, and heard voices somewhere ahead. He started forward, still grasping the nightstick in his right hand, his left clutching a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer in the capacious pocket of his storm coat.
The voices were raised now as if in argument and someone said, “Well, I think you’re a damn liar, so you’d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won’t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I’m afraid.”
There was no door, just an archway leading to a platform with iron stairs dropping down, and Dillon, peering out, saw a desk and two men confronting Holley, who was glancing wildly about him, or so it seemed. Dillon eased the Walther out of his pocket, stepped out, and started down the stairs.
When Holley had entered the warehouse he had found it dark and gloomy, a sad sort of place and crammed with a lot of rusting machinery. The roof seemed to be leaking, there were chain hoists here and there, and two old vans that had obviously seen better days were parked to one side. There was a light on farther ahead, suspended from the ceiling over a desk with a couple of chairs, no sign of people, iron stairs descending from the platform above.
He called out, “Hello, is anyone there? I’ve got an appointment with Patrick Murphy.”
“Would that be Mr. Grimshaw?” a voice called—Irish, not American.
The man who stepped into the light was middle-aged, with silver hair, and wore a dark suit over a turtleneck sweater. He produced a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it with an old lighter.
“Yes, I’m Daniel Grimshaw,” Holley said.
“Then come away in.”
“Thank you.” Holley took a step forward, the rear door of the van on his right opened, and a man stepped out, a Makarov in his hand. He was badly in need of a shave, his dark unruly hair was at almost shoulder length, and he wore a bomber jacket. He moved in behind Holley and rammed the Makarov into his back.
“Do you want me to kill him now?” he asked in Russian, a language Holley understood.
“Let’s hear what his game is first,” Murphy told him in the same language.
“Now, that’s what I like to hear,” Holley said in Russian. “A sensible man.”
“So you speak the lingo?” Murphy was suddenly wary. “Arms for the Kosovans? Are the Serbs turning nasty again this year? Ivan here’s on their side, being Russian, but I’ll hear what you’ve got to say.” This was said in English, but now he added in Russian, “Make sure he’s clean.”
Ivan’s hands explored Holley thoroughly, particularly between the legs, and Holley said, “It must be a big one you’re looking for.”
Ivan gave him a shove so violent that Holley went staggering, and his Burberry rain hat fell to the floor, disclosing the Colt, which the Russian picked up at once, throwing the hat across to the desk.
“Now can I shoot him?”
Murphy pulled the Colt from the clip in the rain hat and examined it. “Very nice. I like it.” He left the cap on the desk and slipped the Colt into his pocket.
Ivan said, “Only a pro would use a shooter like that.”
“I know that, I’m not a fool. Show him where he’s going to end up if he doesn’t answer a few questions.”
Ivan leaned down, grasped a ring in the floor, and heaved back a trapdoor. There was the sound of running water, the smell of sewage.
Where the hell are you, Dillon? That was the only thought running through Holley’s mind. He glanced about him wildly, trying to act like a man in panic.
He said to Murphy, “What is this? What are you doing? I told you my name is Daniel Grimshaw.”
“Well, I think you’re a damn liar, so you’d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won’t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I’m afraid.”
“You’re making a big mistake.”
“It’s not my mistake, my friend.” Murphy shook his head and said to Ivan in Russian, “Break his arm.”
Dillon called in the same language,