appeared as if there was. ‘No, I’m sure there isn’t . . . I just have to make a call.’
Then he was gone. So the doc had his own problems to deal with, and so did Mac, one of which was dealing with this slipping in and out of reality – or shock, as the doctor called it. He refused to believe it was the same blackouts he’d suffered with a year back when Stevie had died, like Calum said. Mac jumped up and started searching for the pills that he needed to stay sane in the following hours. At first, he looked for the brand his therapist had prescribed him a year ago, but when he had no joy with that, he looked for anything that seemed right. He went through drawer after drawer, medicine cabinets and chests before rifling through the medical waste bin.
At the top of the bin was the strip of towelling that had once covered his wound, and below it piles of pill bottles – some empty, others not. He rummaged through, like a kid on a treasure hunt, until he came across three distinct purple bottles that contained what were known on the drugs circuit as ‘steady pills’. Popular with soldiers, criminals and others facing battle stress or extreme pressure, steady pills made you calm but alert and ready for business. Illegal in most Western countries because of their unpredictable side effects, they were still produced in the Far East and South America, but you had to know where to go and who to ask in order to get some. And Dr Mo Masri was obviously one of those people. Only when Mac tried to read the writing on the label did he realise that they were in Chinese, which meant he couldn’t be sure if they were ‘steady pills’ at all.
The door opened. Mac dropped two bottles and shoved one into his pocket. Casually he went back to the examination table as the doctor walked further into the room.
‘The gentlemen in the Mercedes are here on official business. No need for concern,’ the other man reassured him.
Instead of approaching Mac, the doctor moved to one of the filing cabinets. A slight creak sounded as he pulled open the second drawer. ‘You might want to take this so your scalp doesn’t attract any attention.’
He showed Mac a black baseball cap. Being a dedicated follower of Arsenal, Mac almost declined because it had ‘Man U’ scrawled on the front. But he took it. Settled it on his head. Pulled the peak low.
Then asked, ‘Do you remember a girl in my outfit called Elena?’
‘Do you mean Miss Romanov? I treated her for an injury she sustained at her gym once.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have her address in your records?’
The skin around the doctor’s mouth tightened. ‘Even if I did, which I don’t, I would not be able to give it to you, patient–doctor privilege . . .’
‘Playing the good citizen all of a sudden doesn’t become you, doc,’ Mac sneered.
If the doctor didn’t have her address, he was going to have to find it another way. But how?
Mac walked to the door. He turned to see the doctor studying the road from a window. He looked nervous. ‘Expecting trouble?’
The doctor turned away hurriedly and pretended to inspect some files. ‘No, why should there be any trouble?’
‘I don’t know – you tell me.’
The doctor whispered. ‘There’s no trouble.’
His words sounded like a prayer over a dead body.
‘We’ve waited too long.’
One of the two men in the Merc was getting impatient. The driver lit a cigarette.
‘It takes as long as it takes, you know that. We wait until the man in the hoodie comes outside.’
They waited five minutes more, but when Mac didn’t reappear, the driver decided he couldn’t wait any longer.
‘It’s time.’
They got out of the car, heads covered. Picked up speed as they approached the Sihaa Centre . Took the steps two at a time. Barged into the reception area, pulling snub-nosed .38 revolvers from their jackets.
Mac didn’t leave by the front. He walked down a corridor. Pushed down the emergency bar
Then he was gone. So the doc had his own problems to deal with, and so did Mac, one of which was dealing with this slipping in and out of reality – or shock, as the doctor called it. He refused to believe it was the same blackouts he’d suffered with a year back when Stevie had died, like Calum said. Mac jumped up and started searching for the pills that he needed to stay sane in the following hours. At first, he looked for the brand his therapist had prescribed him a year ago, but when he had no joy with that, he looked for anything that seemed right. He went through drawer after drawer, medicine cabinets and chests before rifling through the medical waste bin.
At the top of the bin was the strip of towelling that had once covered his wound, and below it piles of pill bottles – some empty, others not. He rummaged through, like a kid on a treasure hunt, until he came across three distinct purple bottles that contained what were known on the drugs circuit as ‘steady pills’. Popular with soldiers, criminals and others facing battle stress or extreme pressure, steady pills made you calm but alert and ready for business. Illegal in most Western countries because of their unpredictable side effects, they were still produced in the Far East and South America, but you had to know where to go and who to ask in order to get some. And Dr Mo Masri was obviously one of those people. Only when Mac tried to read the writing on the label did he realise that they were in Chinese, which meant he couldn’t be sure if they were ‘steady pills’ at all.
The door opened. Mac dropped two bottles and shoved one into his pocket. Casually he went back to the examination table as the doctor walked further into the room.
‘The gentlemen in the Mercedes are here on official business. No need for concern,’ the other man reassured him.
Instead of approaching Mac, the doctor moved to one of the filing cabinets. A slight creak sounded as he pulled open the second drawer. ‘You might want to take this so your scalp doesn’t attract any attention.’
He showed Mac a black baseball cap. Being a dedicated follower of Arsenal, Mac almost declined because it had ‘Man U’ scrawled on the front. But he took it. Settled it on his head. Pulled the peak low.
Then asked, ‘Do you remember a girl in my outfit called Elena?’
‘Do you mean Miss Romanov? I treated her for an injury she sustained at her gym once.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have her address in your records?’
The skin around the doctor’s mouth tightened. ‘Even if I did, which I don’t, I would not be able to give it to you, patient–doctor privilege . . .’
‘Playing the good citizen all of a sudden doesn’t become you, doc,’ Mac sneered.
If the doctor didn’t have her address, he was going to have to find it another way. But how?
Mac walked to the door. He turned to see the doctor studying the road from a window. He looked nervous. ‘Expecting trouble?’
The doctor turned away hurriedly and pretended to inspect some files. ‘No, why should there be any trouble?’
‘I don’t know – you tell me.’
The doctor whispered. ‘There’s no trouble.’
His words sounded like a prayer over a dead body.
‘We’ve waited too long.’
One of the two men in the Merc was getting impatient. The driver lit a cigarette.
‘It takes as long as it takes, you know that. We wait until the man in the hoodie comes outside.’
They waited five minutes more, but when Mac didn’t reappear, the driver decided he couldn’t wait any longer.
‘It’s time.’
They got out of the car, heads covered. Picked up speed as they approached the Sihaa Centre . Took the steps two at a time. Barged into the reception area, pulling snub-nosed .38 revolvers from their jackets.
Mac didn’t leave by the front. He walked down a corridor. Pushed down the emergency bar
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