Page 50 of Savage Obsession

The transfer from chopper to taxi goes smoothly. Within ten minutes of touching down, I’m on my way to the bus station. My driver is a woman of about thirty, who handles the seething city centre traffic effortlessly.

“Vous avez un bus à prendre, monsieur?” she calls over her shoulder, by way of making conversation.

I’m glad of my schoolboy French. “Tu pourrais dire ça. Je devrai faire le voyage de retour à l’héliport immédiatement, donc j’aurai besoin que vous attendiez.”

She nods and adjusts the meter. I suspect I’ll be paying through the nose for this trip, and for her to wait and drive me back to the heliport, but that’s Bartosz’s problem. I check my watch. A few minutes to spare, but I urge her to put her foot down.

She does, and I trot into the bus station six minutes ahead of the bus from Innsbruck. I scan the arrivals board to learn which stand she’s due in at and get myself in position to intercept her.

This isn’t going to be easy. The girl doesn’t know me, and there’s no reason whatsoever that she’d agree to hop into a car with me. If she has any sense, she’ll more likely run a mile, screaming. And my driver has been accommodating enough, but I doubt she’d take kindly to me manhandling a child into her cab and telling her to step on it.

I don’t have the luxury of time, so there’s nothing else for it. I check the gun in my pocket and hope it’s enough to subdue one twelve-year-old. If not, things could get messy.

What the hell am I thinking? She’s twelve, a child, for fuck’s sake. And I’m seriously contemplating threatening her with a gun? I’ve been out of the field too long. I dig out my phone instead and dial Bartosz’s number.

Lily Bartosz is easy to spot. A lone child, wandering around, obviously trying to get her bearings and work out her next step. I watch from my vantage point beside the ticket office while she hefts her backpack on her shoulder and stands to scrutinise the departures board.

I approach silently, my phone in my hand, until I’m right behind her. I lean in to murmur in her ear.

“Lily? Lily Bartosz?”

She whirls, open-mouthed.

I flash her a smile and trot out the Polish phrase taught to me a few minutes ago by Bas Bartosz. “It’s for you. Your mom.” I shove the phone to her ear.

Julia Bartosz’s voice is tinny, but she knows her role in this and says something in rapid-fire Polish that gets the girl’s attention.

“Mama? Czy to ty? Ale jak…?”

Apart from my opening phrase, I don’t understand a word of Polish, but I can guess.

Is it really you? How did you track me down?

Julia replies, her tone level, soothing. Whatever she’s saying, it seems to be working. The girl hasn’t bolted. She’s glowering at me, then to the ground, then back again, clearly thinking through whatever’s being said. After a few moments, she hands the phone back to me.

Baz is on the line now. “Julia has explained that Lily is to come with you.”

“Okay?”

“She knows you are a friend of mine and can be trusted. She’ll come with you quietly.”

I look up and meet the girl’s eyes. She’s still wary but seems more bewildered than alarmed now. “Good. Thank you. Do you have a rendezvous point in mind?”

“Magda suggests Kittyhawk Aerodrome, near Brighton.”

“Sounds perfect.” I don’t know the place but I daresay we’ll find it.

“We can be there in a couple of hours, maybe three.”

“Same. We’d need to refuel, probably in Paris.”

“Keep me posted. See you there.” He ends the call, leaving me alone with his twelve-year-old daughter in the middle of a crowded bus station and no common language between us.

She bends to pick up the backpack from the ground, but I take it from her.

“Let me.” I heft it over my shoulder and with my free hand gesture towards the exit.

She takes the hint and ambles along beside me as far as the doors. Then she stops, hanging back.

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