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Authors: James Patterson
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much, but when you’re talking hundreds of millions of pounds a year the fractions add up.’
Guilder set his tumbler of scotch on the bar, doing his best to appear composed. But Knight could have sworn that he saw a slight tremor in the man’s hand as it returned to rest on Guilder’s thigh. ‘Is that all the killer of my best friend claims?’
‘No,’ Knight replied. ‘He says that the money was moved to offshore accounts and funnelled ultimately to members of the Olympic Site Selection Committee before their decision in 2007. He says that your partner bribed London’s way into the Games.’
The weight of the allegation seemed to throw Guilder. He looked both befuddled and wary, as if he’d suddenly realised he was far too drunk to be having this conversation.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, that’s not … Please, Joe, make them go.’
Mascolo looked torn but said, ‘Leave him be until tomorrow. I’m sure that if we call Jack he’s going to tell you the same thing.’
Before Knight could reply there was a noise like a fine crystal wine glass breaking. The first bullet pierced a window on the west side of the bar. It just missed Guilder and shattered the huge mirror behind the bar.
Knight and Mascolo both realised what had happened. ‘Get down!’ Knight yelled, going for his gun, and scanning the windows for any sign of the shooter.
Too late. A second round was fired through the window. The slug hit Guilder just below his sternum with a sound like a pillow being plumped.
Bright red blood bloomed on the hedge fund manager’s starched white shirt and he collapsed forward, upsetting a champagne bucket as he fell and crashed to the pale marble floor.
Chapter 25
IN THE STUNNED silence that now briefly seized the fabled Lobby Bar, the shooter, an agile figure in black motorcycle leathers and visor helmet, spun away and jumped off the window ledge to flee.
‘Someone call an ambulance,’ Pope yelled. ‘He’s been shot!’
The bar erupted into pandemonium as Joe Mascolo vaulted over his prone client and bulled forward, ignoring the patrons screaming and diving for cover.
Knight was two feet behind the Private New York operator when Mascolo jumped over a glass cocktail table and up onto the back of a plush grey sofa set against the bar’s west wall. As Knight tried to climb up beside Mascolo, he saw to his surprise that the American was armed.
Gun laws in the UK were very strict. Knight had had to jump through two years of hoops in order to get his licence to carry a firearm.
Before he could think any more about it, Mascolo shot through the window. The gun sounded like a cannon in that marble and glass room. Real hysteria swept the bar now. Knight spotted the shooter in the middle of the cul-de-sac on Harding Street, face obscured but plainly a woman. At the sound of Mascolo’s shot she twisted, dropped and aimed in one motion, an ultra-professional.
She fired before Knight could and before Mascolo could get off another round. The bullet caught the Private New York agent through the throat, killing him instantly. Mascolo dropped back off the sofa and fell violently through the glass cocktail table.
The shooter was aiming at Knight now. He ducked, raised his pistol above the sill and pulled the trigger. He was about to rise when two more rounds shattered the window above him.
Glass rained down on Knight. He thought of his children and hesitated a moment before returning fire. Then he heard tyres squealing.
Knight rose up to see the shooter on a jet-black motorcycle, its rear tyre smoking and laying rubber in a power drift that shot her around the corner onto the Strand, heading west and disappearing before Knight could shoot.
He cursed, turned and looked in shock at Mascolo, for whom there was no hope. But he heard Pope cry: ‘Guilder’s alive, Knight! Where’s that ambulance?’
Knight jumped off the couch and ran back through the shouting and the gathering crowd towards the crumpled form of
Guilder set his tumbler of scotch on the bar, doing his best to appear composed. But Knight could have sworn that he saw a slight tremor in the man’s hand as it returned to rest on Guilder’s thigh. ‘Is that all the killer of my best friend claims?’
‘No,’ Knight replied. ‘He says that the money was moved to offshore accounts and funnelled ultimately to members of the Olympic Site Selection Committee before their decision in 2007. He says that your partner bribed London’s way into the Games.’
The weight of the allegation seemed to throw Guilder. He looked both befuddled and wary, as if he’d suddenly realised he was far too drunk to be having this conversation.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, that’s not … Please, Joe, make them go.’
Mascolo looked torn but said, ‘Leave him be until tomorrow. I’m sure that if we call Jack he’s going to tell you the same thing.’
Before Knight could reply there was a noise like a fine crystal wine glass breaking. The first bullet pierced a window on the west side of the bar. It just missed Guilder and shattered the huge mirror behind the bar.
Knight and Mascolo both realised what had happened. ‘Get down!’ Knight yelled, going for his gun, and scanning the windows for any sign of the shooter.
Too late. A second round was fired through the window. The slug hit Guilder just below his sternum with a sound like a pillow being plumped.
Bright red blood bloomed on the hedge fund manager’s starched white shirt and he collapsed forward, upsetting a champagne bucket as he fell and crashed to the pale marble floor.
Chapter 25
IN THE STUNNED silence that now briefly seized the fabled Lobby Bar, the shooter, an agile figure in black motorcycle leathers and visor helmet, spun away and jumped off the window ledge to flee.
‘Someone call an ambulance,’ Pope yelled. ‘He’s been shot!’
The bar erupted into pandemonium as Joe Mascolo vaulted over his prone client and bulled forward, ignoring the patrons screaming and diving for cover.
Knight was two feet behind the Private New York operator when Mascolo jumped over a glass cocktail table and up onto the back of a plush grey sofa set against the bar’s west wall. As Knight tried to climb up beside Mascolo, he saw to his surprise that the American was armed.
Gun laws in the UK were very strict. Knight had had to jump through two years of hoops in order to get his licence to carry a firearm.
Before he could think any more about it, Mascolo shot through the window. The gun sounded like a cannon in that marble and glass room. Real hysteria swept the bar now. Knight spotted the shooter in the middle of the cul-de-sac on Harding Street, face obscured but plainly a woman. At the sound of Mascolo’s shot she twisted, dropped and aimed in one motion, an ultra-professional.
She fired before Knight could and before Mascolo could get off another round. The bullet caught the Private New York agent through the throat, killing him instantly. Mascolo dropped back off the sofa and fell violently through the glass cocktail table.
The shooter was aiming at Knight now. He ducked, raised his pistol above the sill and pulled the trigger. He was about to rise when two more rounds shattered the window above him.
Glass rained down on Knight. He thought of his children and hesitated a moment before returning fire. Then he heard tyres squealing.
Knight rose up to see the shooter on a jet-black motorcycle, its rear tyre smoking and laying rubber in a power drift that shot her around the corner onto the Strand, heading west and disappearing before Knight could shoot.
He cursed, turned and looked in shock at Mascolo, for whom there was no hope. But he heard Pope cry: ‘Guilder’s alive, Knight! Where’s that ambulance?’
Knight jumped off the couch and ran back through the shouting and the gathering crowd towards the crumpled form of
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