Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,125

my arms out.

‘Money, of course.’ He smiled. He seemed not to realize the trouble he was in, or the danger.

‘But I pay you good money,’ I said to him.

‘Not that good,’ he said. ‘And you don’t provide the extras.’

‘Extras?’ I asked.

‘Stuff,’ he said. I looked at him quizzically. ‘Coke.’

I hadn’t figured him as an addict. Drugs and kitchen heat don’t normally go together. I supposed that it did explain some of his mood swings, as well as his current actions. A drug habit can be very demanding; cravings and addiction usually dispel all logic and reason. Given certain circumstances, Gary would undoubtedly do anything for his next fix and George must have had quite a hold over him.

He took a roll of brown parcel tape from the holdall and used some of it to bind my left wrist to the arm of the chair. Komarov moved to the side to make sure that Gary never came between me and the gun, but I was in no doubt that Komarov would shoot Gary as easily as sneeze if he thought it was necessary to his plans.

Gary moved to my right wrist.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘he’s got a plaster cast under his tunic.’

‘Kurt claimed that Walter must have broken his wrist,’ said Komarov. He came close to me. ‘You broke Walter’s arm,’ he said into my face. Good, I thought. I wish I’d broken his bloody neck. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ he said. Then he stood up and smiled. ‘But Walter always was such an impetuous boy. He probably tried to bash in your brains with a polo mallet.’ He smiled at me again. ‘You might grow to wish he had.’ I felt cold and clammy, but I smiled back at him nevertheless.

Gary taped the cast to the other arm of the chair. Then he bound my ankles to the chair legs in the same manner. I was trussed up like a turkey waiting for the knife to cut my throat. Then Gary took some more stuff from his bag. It looked like putty, soft white putty. It was in a long plastic bag and looked like a white salami. If possible, I felt even colder and more clammy. Gary had removed a couple of pounds of plastic explosive from his bag.

He taped the white sausage to the chair between my legs. Oh God. Not my legs. MaryLou’s legs, and the awful lack of them, haunted me still. Now, it seemed, I was to live my nightmare. Next Gary delicately took a cigarette-sized metal tube from the bag and very carefully pushed it deep into the soft white explosive, like pushing a chocolate flake into an ice-cream cone. The tube had two short wires coming out of the top that were connected to a small black box. The remote-detonator system, I concluded. I sweated more and Komarov clearly enjoyed it. For the first time, I became really terrified, absolutely certain that I would die, hopeful that it would be quick and easy, and frightened to the point of despair that it would not. Would I be able to not tell him where the balls were? Would I be able to die without giving up that information? Would I be able to keep those I loved safe, no matter what was done to me? The same questions that every Gestapo-tortured spy or resistance fighter had asked themselves more than fifty years ago. Neither I, nor they, would know the answer, not until the unthinkable actually happened.

‘Where is it?’ Komarov asked.

‘Where is what?’ I replied.

‘Mr Moreton,’ he said, as if addressing me in a company board meeting, ‘let us not play games. We both know what I am talking about.’

‘I left it with Mrs Schumann,’ I said.

George appeared slightly uneasy.

‘I am informed,’ said Komarov, ‘that that is not the case. Mrs Schumann gave two of the items to you. One has been recovered but the other has not.’ He walked around behind me. ‘Mrs Schumann should not have had any of the items in the first place. They have all now been recovered other than the one you still possess.’ He came around in front of me again. ‘You will tell me where it is, sooner or later.’ He smiled again. He was obviously enjoying himself. I wasn’t.

There was a noise from the kitchen. It wasn’t particularly loud but it was clear, like a metal spoon falling on to the tile floor. It must be Caroline, I thought.

‘Can’t you do anything right?’ Komarov said cuttingly