The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,64

kind of load. Its wooden frame flexed as the small, vulcanised rubber wheels caught on the carpets, dug into the floor boards, ground against their metal axles. It sounded like a freight train coming round a long bend, screaming on its rails. Some freight.

He kept pushing, past one door, then another, praying the other guests were sound sleepers. Finally he reached the service lift, pressed the call button and pushed the trolley into the car. Halfway down the lift stopped and the doors opened.

A young night porter was standing in the corridor, finger on the lift call button. ‘May I help you, Beyfendi?’ he said.

Clay flipped down the edge of the table cloth. ‘No, thank you,’ he said in Turkish, trying a smile.

The boy made to step onto the lift, but the trolley was blocking the entrance. ‘Please, Beyfendi, no need for you to do that. Allow me.’ He reached in, took hold of the edge of the trolley and pulled.

Clay held firm. ‘Thank you,’ he said in Turkish. ‘No need. I wanted to speak to the chef anyway.’

The porter didn’t budge. ‘The kitchen is closed, sir.’

‘No matter. I’ll take this down, then perhaps go for a walk.’

‘Please, sir. I will take it for you.’

Clay breathed deep, fixed the boy with a parade ground stare. ‘Stand back, son.’

The porter stood a moment, unsure. Then he shrugged his shoulders, stepped away. The doors closed.

Seconds later, Clay pushed the trolley out into a dimly lit basement service area, concrete floors, stacks of crates and boxes, steel-framed laundry hampers, a forklift truck parked against the far wall. Just ahead was a ramp leading up to the loading bay with a wind-down metal door, closed up. Clay started pushing the trolley towards the ramp, double time. He was half-way there when something gave way. The trolley collapsed with a crack. The bodies spilled half onto the floor. Clay ran to the service door, cracked it open, looked outside. Crowbar was there with the car, a battered old Mercedes. The laneway was empty. Clay found the chain for the main door and cranked it up plate by plate.

Crowbar backed the car in, jumped out, and stared. Bodies, splintered wood, blood. ‘Kak, Straker. What a mess.’

They manhandled the bodies into the trunk of the Merc. Clay stripped the linen from the trolley, bundled it up with the towels and dropped it all on top of the corpses. Crowbar closed the trunk.

In the car, neither spoke. They both knew they’d left behind a hell of a mess.

Crowbar kept to Istanbul’s labyrinth of backstreets. Once clear of the city, they found the motorway and struck east into Asia Minor, then south towards the Turkish Aegean coast.

Three hours and three hundred kilometres later, Crowbar brought the Mercedes to a stop at the quayside of a small seaside village. Clay got out, stretched his legs, felt the night air cool on his skin, heard the gentle lap of waves against the seawall. A dozen fishing boats bobbed in the starlit keyhole harbour.

‘Wait here,’ said Crowbar, disappearing up a stone stairway.

Clay walked to the edge of the quay, stared up at the stars strobing in black emptiness. Ever since leaving the hotel, the last sentence of Rania’s note had been puzzling him: Hope you’ll understand. She hoped he’d understand. Of course he didn’t bloody well understand. How could she have walked away like that and have expected him to understand? It made no sense. None at all.

Because that wasn’t what she’d meant. She hoped he’d understand the message itself. Hope. It was obvious. Hope Bachmann. Rania was telling him to go to Cyprus. It is no good, she’d written. So she hadn’t left willingly. She’d been forced, coerced. Whoever had done it had probably sat there and watched her write it. But why would her assailants allow her such a courtesy, when they would have known they only had a matter of minutes? Did they need her acquiescence? Or was it to mollify her, reassure her, keep her docile while they spirited her out of the hotel. He had indulged his anger and self-pity on the streets of Istanbul when he should have been there, protecting her. Go home. She knew he didn’t have one. But she did, one that had been destroyed only days before. Another reference? Do not try to find me. That part was clear. She was in trouble. She needed him. Find me. That’s what it meant.

Clay stood looking out across the harbour, the Beretta’s grip jabbing