Balthazar upended the cooking oil on the floor behind him, pouring from side to side to make sure all of the landing was covered, then dropped the empty bottle down the middle of the staircase. He stepped over the oil and took the stairs quickly, one hand on the rickety banister, almost slipping on the stairs’ worn, rounded edges.
In a few seconds he was on the fourth floor. A loud bang suddenly cracked the silence, followed by two more. By now he was on the third floor, moving as fast as he could in the dark, the ground hardly visible from the light seeping in through a filthy window.
Another bang sounded from behind the door, then another, the clamour echoing across the staircase. Sooner or later one of the neighbours would call the police.
He passed the second floor, then the first and jumped the last three steps to the ground floor, almost slipping as he landed by the back double door that opened onto the street. There was a wide space in front of the door, and a bricked-up tradesman’s lift shaft, long disused, protruded from the wall.
Balthazar pushed the double door to the street several times but it stayed in place. It was locked, he saw, although the wood was old and cracked. He stepped back and kicked the door edge by the lock as hard he could. That was the door’s weakest point. The lock shook and a loud cracking sounded.
A sharp snapping noise echoed down the staircase. The plasticuff on the double door on the sixth floor had finally broken. Balthazar waited for a second, then heard a crashing noise as one of the men fell to the ground, then another in rapid succession, followed by a furious string of oaths in what sounded like Serbian.
He could hear the two men coming down the stairs, but much slower now, their steps irregular and their breathing loud and harsh.
He pushed the back door onto the street again, felt the lock strain in its holding. The men’s voices were getting louder. They would reach the ground floor in a few seconds.
He kicked the door again. The wood cracked and splintered further. A final kick and it broke and flew open. The sound of the outside world flooded in – children playing in the distance, the buzz of traffic, a siren wailing somewhere far away.
He turned to see figures moving on the first-floor landing on top of the curved staircase. There were two of them, he saw, one tall and almost stooped, another shorter and stocky. Both were limping, their clothes torn and smeared with oil and dirt. The tall man had a gun in his hand; the other, he saw, was about to reach for his weapon.
Balthazar threw the light bulb at them. It exploded nearby with a sharp bang, triggering a further stream of swearing. ‘Jebacu ti mater,’ I will fuck your mother, one of the men yelled. ‘Jebi ga, fuck it,’ the other man shouted.
He was right. They were swearing in Serbian, Balthazar realised. He did not speak the language properly, but had spent enough time in Belgrade on international investigations to recognise a Serbian accent and pick up some street slang and swear-words.
It took the men a few seconds to realise that they had not been injured, giving Balthazar time to take cover behind the disused lift shaft and unholster his Glock. He swerved out for a second and fired twice, above the men’s heads. The sound of the gun boomed around the enclosed space. The bullets smashed into the underside of the staircase above the men, sending out small clouds of dust.
‘Drop your weapons, place them on the ground, then kneel down with your hands behind your head,’ Balthazar shouted. ‘I am a police officer. You are surrounded. Drop your weapons.’
The siren was getting louder.
The two men looked at each other. The stocky man, Balthazar saw, did as he ordered, and lowered himself to his knees, sliding his pistol in front of him. But the tall man ducked back.
‘Can you hear that? The police are coming. There is nowhere for you to escape,’ Balthazar shouted, his Glock still trained on them. ‘Do not shoot. Drop your weapons. Whatever they are paying you, it’s not worth going to prison for the attempted murder of an police officer.’
A burst of furious Serbian echoed down the staircase. The two men were arguing.
A bullet smashed into the wall high above Balthazar’s head. He ducked instinctively and fired back instantly, placing two shots a foot apart above the tall man’s head. ‘I told you. Do not shoot. Drop your weapon. The police are on their way. Next time I won’t miss.’
Balthazar fired once more, placing the shot in the centre of the underside of the staircase above the men, sending more dust and chips raining down. ‘Drop your weapons,’ he yelled.
The tall man shouted, ‘OK, OK.’
He dropped to his knees, next to his companion, and slid his weapon away, a foot from his companion’s pistol. Balthazar walked over to the bottom of the staircase, his gun still trained on the two men.
His right hand still holding his Glock, he took two plasticuffs from his jacket pocket. ‘Catch these,’ he said as he threw them up at the two Serbs. ‘Cuff each other, keep your hands in front of you, then get back down on your knees. Don’t be smartarses. You have opened fire on a police officer, so no fast moves.’
A second siren sounded in the distance.
The two men did as Balthazar ordered, scrabbling and almost falling over. A few seconds later they knelt on the ground, their hands bound in front of them. The guns lay on the ground a few feet away.
Balthazar walked up the stairs and kicked their weapons over the edge of the stairwell, under the metal banister, all the while keeping his Glock pointed at them. Two sharp cracks sounded as both pistols hit the hard concrete surface.
‘Stay there,’ said Balthazar.
He walked backwards downstairs, still aiming at the two men, making for the two men’s weapons. The guns, he saw, were Glock 34s, a more advanced version of his Glock 17, with a longer barrel and greater range and accuracy. Whoever was paying these guys had plenty of money. He kicked the guns further away, into the corner under the staircase.
The first siren sounded even louder now.
Balthazar turned to open the door and looked outside to see a black Toyota SUV with tinted windows coming down Nemet Street. It bumped up onto the kerb and parked on the pavement on the corner, by the back entrance of the apartment building. The vehicle had been repainted, but its contours were very familiar, right down to the metal grill over the windscreen and the windows. Balthazar looked hard at the side of the car. The outline of the word Csendorseg, Gendarmerie, was still just about visible under the new paint.
The door opened and Attila Ungar stepped out. He shook his head as he spoke. ‘Tazi, Tazi, I told you to be careful.’
‘What the hell are you doing here, Attila?’ Balthazar asked, although he was already starting to understand the answer.
Attila smiled. ‘Nothing that you need to worry about, Tazi. It’s all under control.’
Attila walked into the back entrance of the apartment building, looked at both men on their knees at the top of the stairs on the first floor, and shook his head. He turned to Balthazar. ‘Nice work, Tazi. Not a scratch on them and they both surrendered. Now don’t worry; we’ll take over from here.’
He looked at Balthazar’s pistol, still in his hand. ‘You can put that away. You’re quite safe now.’
Balthazar stepped forward. ‘These men need to be taken into custody. And not by you. You have no authority here.’
Attila smiled. ‘Tazi, you’re still a believer. It’s quite touching, in a way.’
Balthazar raised his gun hand and pointed it at Attila, who immediately stopped smiling. Balthazar said, ‘I told you. You have no authority here. These men will be taken into custody.’
Attila nodded. ‘Yes, they will. Our custody.’
He gestured at the black SUV. Two men came out, both burly with buzzcuts. Both carried long-barrelled pistols in their right hands. The weapons, Balthazar saw, were also Glock 34s. The two men stood still, waiting for Attila to give them their orders.
