The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

panthenol. He stood back, looked up as Ryan Beard entered the room, clearly shocked by the sight of the man in the chair, the injuries he had sustained and the treatment he was receiving at the hands of the apparently bookish and rather forgettable looking man from MI5.

“Go and check on Marnie,” Rashid said to Beard. “See if she needs help searching, then go and stand guard at the front door.” He looked back at Ramsay. “How long does it take?”

Ramsay looked at his watch. “About five-minutes,” he said. “We can start now though, see where it goes.” He caught hold of Botha’s chin, looked him in the eyes. He was in and out, like he’d seen off two bottles of wine and was trying to appear sober. Ramsay clicked his fingers in front of the man’s face. Botha seemed oblivious. “I’m going to ask you about money in your offshore account,” he said. “We have your account number, have seen the dates of the deposits and the amounts… I want to know where the money came from.”

Botha’s head lolled. “The Russian…” he said slowly. His mouth didn’t seem to correspond with his words. The facial muscles were affected by the drug, the voice slurred. It looked like Botha was well into the third bottle now. “The woman…” he added. “Not the man…” he paused. “He was here last year… to shoot…”

“Viktor Bukov?”

“Victor…” Botha nodded.

“You met him?” Ramsay prompted.

Botha nodded.

“And the woman,” Ramsay paused, watching the man’s eyes. He caught hold of his wrist, checked for a pulse and glanced at his watch. The man’s pulse was over one-fifty. His heart couldn’t sustain the dose of sodium panthenol, nor the dramatic blood loss and whatever damage the 9mm bullets had done internally. “Who was the woman?”

“The… billionaire’s wife,” Botha said, but started to gasp for breath. “Snell…”

“Her name?”

“Helena…”

“What did she ask of you?”

He gasped again, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. “To… help the sniper in and out of the country,” he paused, his head lolling listlessly from side to side. Another gasp. “And to block the British agent investigating…”

“What do you mean by block?” Ramsay asked.

“I… I don’t feel well…”

“You’ll be fine,” Ramsay said curtly. “An ambulance has been called and is on its way. Now, what did Helena Snell mean by block?”

“Kill,” Botha paused. He seemed to have trouble swallowing now. “I was asked to arrange for someone to kill her. To buy her and Bukov time…”

Ramsay turned to Rashid and said, “Get him some water.”

Rashid did as he was asked and took a glass off the draining board, filled it and handed it to Ramsay, who was checking Botha’s forehead with the back of his hand. He took the glass and offered the man a drink.

“He’s burning up,” Ramsay said. “He’s about to go pop.”

Rashid shrugged like it was nothing. “Well, hurry up, then,” he urged. “We need a link to Helena. Not a back story…”

“I’m doing it!” Ramsay snapped. He tipped the remainder of the glass on the man’s head and the water cascaded over his face and neck. Botha appeared not to notice. He pulled the man’s eyelid up and could see they were dilated. They were also red, blood vessels had burst, most probably due to the man’s high pulse. He checked Botha’s wrist again, frowned. He monitored it for fifteen seconds, then looked up at Rashid. “Over two-hundred…”

“Can’t sustain that with the gunshot wounds…”

“Nor the temperature,” Ramsay paused. He snapped his fingers in front of Botha’s face, then gave his cheek a gentle tap. The man was dazed and appeared intoxicated to the point of passing out. Ramsay stood up. “I could give another shot of adrenalin…”

Rashid shrugged. “Not my area of expertise.”

Ramsay went back to the graphite box and drew a small amount into the syringe with the large needle. He checked for air, tapped the side and held it ready. “Hold him, would you?”

Rashid caught hold of the man’s shoulders and braced. Ramsay brought the needle down through the chest wall and into the heart. Botha went rigid and kicked out, catching Ramsay in the shin. The man cursed and hobbled on the spot for a moment. He put the syringe back in the box and crouched down to look the man in the eyes.

“The ambulance is near,” he lied. “You’re going to be alright. I need you to tell us where Helena is. Where the Russian woman is,” he said slowly. “I need to know how to contact her.”

“She called me… the man, Bukov, gave me a cell phone…”

“What do you mean?”

Botha gasped, clutched his chest. He grimaced, spoke through gritted teeth. He couldn’t resist the sodium panthenol, the urge to unburden and cooperate. “Bukov gave me a cell. It had her number on it…” He sucked air through his teeth. He was soaked in sweat, had started to shiver. “One number only… must keep it switched off… contact by text… turn it on at midnight, then every three hours for five minutes only… she will text back when she’s ready…”

“Where is the phone?” Ramsay asked. He could see Botha shutting down, breathing less, his eyes fading. “Tell me!”

Rashid pushed his fingers deep into the carotid artery, on the left side of the man’s throat. “Faint pulse,” he said. “He’s gone.”

“Damn it!” Ramsay snapped the graphite box shut and put it back in his pocket. He picked up the glass and walked it to the sink where he washed it with detergent and left it in the sink. He rubbed the taps with the tea towel. “Let’s try and find that phone,” he said.

45

 

Caroline had regained consciousness before The Beast had returned her to her room. She had lolled over his shoulder, his body odour rancid and