Casanova by Mark Arundel Page B

forward. I leaned out and made a controlled body slam. We went over together. My arms pulling downwards like a rugby player making a tackle. The snow on the track was compacted and we slid right across and fell off the other side. I ended up on top, half buried in the deep, soft snow. Both my skis had come off. I felt struggling below me. It was small yet powerful. I felt strength and determination. I exerted my superior force and the struggling stopped. The head turned but I couldn’t see the face. I freed my hand and pulled the hood down. Black shiny hair fell out as if wet coal tipped from a scuttle. Her eyes and my eyes were only inches apart. My surprise was total. It was Xing.

 
     
    8
     
    MONDAY, 10:20—19:35
     
    Out of everyone I’d ever met, the one person I never thought I would ever see again was Xing. I felt the astonishment. It grabbed me and twisted me with huge inert force. It was so soon after Tenerife. How was it possible? What the hell was she doing in the Alps killing a Swiss banker?
    ‘I can’t breathe,’ she said.
    Her voice brought me back from my thoughts and I focused.
    ‘Shut up,’ I said.
    ‘This is pleasant,’ she said, ‘but we can’t stay like this forever.’
    My immediate thought was to kill her. Unfortunately, my next thought was to realise I needed answers; answers that only she could provide.
    ‘Please get off me.’
    ‘Shut up.’
    I found my phone and called Charlotte.
    ‘Where are you? What’s happened?’ Her voice sounded shaky but at least it was working again.
    ‘I’m a little way down the mountain. I have the assassin. Are you in the cabin?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said.
    ‘Is Casanova there?’
    ‘Yes, he’s here. The dead man is Ulrich, the Swiss banker.’
    ‘Yes, that’s what I figured. Is there anybody else there?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good. Stay there, I’m going to come to you, okay?’
    ‘Okay,’ she said.
    Getting back to the cabin was not simple. I had to consider Xing and the prospect she might not want to come with me.
    ‘I need answers,’ I said to her. She didn’t reply. ‘Who paid for the job,’ I said, ‘and why?’ She still didn’t reply. I breathed out deeply. ‘How’s your wound?’ I asked. ‘Did it mend okay?’
    She turned and looked at me. She nodded her head. ‘How’s your cut and your heart?’ she asked.
    My heart—what did she mean by that?
    ‘We’re going back to the cabin,’ I said. I didn’t have a weapon. I pulled her rucksack from her back and looked through it. Inside was the dismantled sniper rifle she had used. She had broken it down into five pieces. It was custom-built, just like the one in Tenerife. A purpose made case held the pieces neatly. The barrel was wound with white tape like an old tennis racket handle and the butt was crudely painted with white paint. I took it out and successfully managed to reassemble the parts while still holding Xing securely in the snow with my knees. I didn’t bother with the suppressor, which sat camouflaged inside two white, elastic wristbands, the type tennis players wear. The small magazine held four bullets. They too looked purpose made. Three bullets remained. I checked the rifle was ready to fire and then tucked it under my arm.
    ‘We’re going to climb back up to the cabin. You’ll be in front. You can try to make a run for it, but if you do, I’m going to try to shoot you in the leg. You might get away but I reckon odds are I’ll hit you before you do. I’m a good shot. So, what do you say?’
    Xing nodded her head.
    ‘Okay, I’ll go with you to the cabin,’ she said.
    ‘Good,’ I said.
    I got off her.
    We both stood up. I held the rifle against my hip.
    ‘You’re going to carry the skis and poles,’ I told her. ‘I’m wearing ski boots and I’m carrying the rifle. I’ll bring your rucksack.’
    I told Xing how to put the skis together and balance them on her shoulder. She held the poles in her other hand. I slung the rucksack over my back. ‘Okay,