Caramarin knew if he was caught in this office he'd be looking at life. No alternative. The law had everything; motive and opportunity. Even the murder weapon. Once the police prosecutors went through his past, they'd throw away the key. With his history there must be a thick file on him at Interpol. Cursing his stupidity, Caramarin ran back to Pojer's body.
"Sorry, comrade," he whispered. Taking a firm hold of the handle Caramarin wrenched the knife free. A twenty centimetre long hunting knife with a serrated edge pulled out with a horrible sucking sound. Feeling disgusted, he went through Pojer's pockets. He took the man's money clip and cell. As well as a small zip-lock bag of powder. Pojer wouldn't be needing them any more.
Giving the blade a quick wipe with a tissue from a box on the next desk, Caramarin then ran out of this place of horror. Caramarin flew down the corridor, slammed open the fire escape door and took the steps down two at a time. A broken neck was the least of his worries now.
His foot skidded out from under him, he grabbed the handrail and nearly wrenched his arm out staying on his feet. Racing down, he swung around the last stair return and fetched up against the fire door opening to the reception lobby. Drawing a deep breath Caramarin pulled the door ajar, just enough to see into the lobby itself.
Dark blue uniforms. Bulky under their stab vests. Radios. Three cops were standing by the receptionist's desk. More blue light pulsating in through the plate glass windows. The girl receptionist was now standing up, looking frightened while the security guard, pulling himself together was pointing to the lifts. There was no way out this way.
Caramarin turned and ran back up the stairs. He saw a red fire alarm with a little metal hammer dangling from its chain. Ignoring the hammer, Caramarin shattered the glass with the knife hilt. Instantly, the stairs filled with deafening sound. He ran up to the second floor landing. The corridor was identical with the third, except for some neutral abstract prints on the wall. Caramarin charged along the corridor to its end. Another glass topped office door blocked his way.
Hardly pausing in his headlong rush, Caramarin kicked out at the door. The wood round the lock splintered but held. He booted it again, even harder this time. The lock shattered and the door slammed open, bouncing back into his face.
Caramarin charged into the second floor office. After the fluorescent glare of the stairs, his night vision was gone. All he could make out was the dim outline of desks to his left and the blue flashes from the cop cars outside. He ran over to the plate windows.
His foot caught something, he tripped up, falling flat on his face. He threw out his arms and crashed to the floor. A jolt of agony shot up his left arm. His cheek scraped over the carpet tiles. To one side, Caramarin heard a waste paper bin clattering away. Picking himself up again, he paused for breath.
Underneath the office window were two cop cars, their blue lights flashing, illuminating the street. Standing next to their cars was another couple of cops. Caramarin sucked in air, panting like a dog, waiting for his heart to slow a little. In the dim, flashing half light, he examined the window. Being an older refurbished office, he was in luck.
This office hadn't been fitted with toughened plate glass windows which couldn't be opened and an air-con system. This was an older sash window. So he could open the window easily. He wrenched the latch down and then pushed the frame up. Only made a slight noise, the cops down below wouldn't notice. Peering outside, Caramarin saw a narrow ledge, maybe twenty centimetres wide running along the side of the building.
Caramarin levered himself up and stepped out onto the ledge then pushed the window closed behind him. If the stone shelf extended around the business centre, he could maybe shuffle round to the other side to the back alley and drop down out of sight of the cops. He'd have to be quick, though, before more of the bastards showed up. Slipping off the latex gloves he stuffed them deep in his pocket.
He sucked in cold, damp air. Clinging on with his fingertips to the frame, Caramarin edged out along the worn, corroded ledge, shuffling his feet along the stone. Risking a glance down, he saw no response from the cops in the side street below. Behind him, the electronic din from the fire alarm drowned out any sounds of the cops in the building. And more importantly it stopped them hearing him.
Now Caramarin had to let go of the partial security of the frame. Back to the wall, he edged along. Left foot, a slide, now right foot. Left foot, slide, now right. Take it easy. A couple of metres ahead, the next window, its wider sill giving him a little more space than the mere twenty centimetres. His goal. Keep breathing, just concentrate on his footing. Don't worry about the fall or the cops. Left foot, slide, now right.
Now at the next window; its sill letting him stand free for a moment before carrying on. Can only take a short rest. A few deep breaths, drawing oxygen deep into his lungs. His heart rate telling him time still important. Clinging on with fingertips again, edging back out along the narrow stone shelf. Another couple of windows coming up in a few metres. No problems. If you're a mountain goat.
Below, shouting. Orders. An increased flurry of radio traffic from the cops. Don't look down. Take no notice. More blue lights and a different siren joining the squalling below. Caramarin took a chance and glanced. A large van with a number on its roof joined the two squad cars. Guessed that was the ambulance.
Shuffle along, only a couple of metres to go to the next set of windows. Ankle tendons starting to ache with strain. Glad he wore a decent pair of walking boots with a deep tread and grip. Left foot sliding along, following with right. And again. And again. Slow and easy. Made the window sills. Relax. Pause for just a moment. Time important. But just as important was not falling off to the street down under.
That's enough rest. C'mon. Oh, Fuck-shit. At the end of the sill, just where it narrowed was a plastic milk container. Someone too lazy to take the fucking thing to the fridge. Left it outside in the cold. Careful, can't afford to knock it off the ledge. No way would the cops miss a two litre bottle three quarters full of milk smashing to the ground, milk splashing in a white explosion every which way just a few metres from where they're standing.
Edge up to the carton. Left leg high. Step over it. Slide the left leg along a few centimetres. A little more. That's better. Now, right leg high. Shit. Clipped the top of the bottle. A wobble. Not enough. The container rocked, teetered then rested back on its base.
Ignore it. Safe. Carry on. Next set of windows only a few more metres on. After that, could turn the corner and be out of immediate sight of any cops chancing to look up. Unless there were more now posted at the rear of the building. Worry about that if that happens.
Suddenly his left foot shooting out from under him. Swaying forward, the street below rearing into view. The squad cars, the ambulance looming before him. Blue light pulsing in his eyes. Arms flailing back, banging his wrist on the stone wall. Painful. Using all the strength in his ankles, tendons stretched to the max. Pushing his body flat against the wall. Fingers gripping the tiniest cracks between the blocks. A grunt escaping his lips.
Caramarin stood there trembling, shaking like a leaf. His breath ragged and hoarse. Glancing down, saw a mess of pigeon shit. Couldn't carry on with this. No way. But what's the alternative? Life with a minimum of twenty to twenty-five? No mercy shown after they checked his past with Interpol. They'd throw away the fucking key. Might as well be dead as do a stretch like that. He'd be an old man when he come out. His breathing gradually slowing, becoming normal. Looked along the shelf.
The drizzle started up again, sleet mixed in with the rain. That fine rain that soaked you anyway. Can live with that but the worn stone ledge now greasy and slick. Treacherous. Just like that bastard Timur Ozgan. Want to escape. Want to live. Want to get even. Want to come out ahead.
Keep shuffling along. Don't think of revenge now. A luxury. Just concentrate on this narrow, worn ledge. That's what's important now. Nothing else. Fingers getting numb with cold and the effort of clinging onto tiny crevices in the stonework. No, don't hurry, just go carefully. The third set of windows gradually coming closer. Temporary safety getting larger with every small step.
The fire alarm louder now with every centimetre closer to the window sill. The radioed orders echoing up from below, the sound bouncing off the opposite building. A quick look up at the building over the way.
The windows the other side of the road all lit up. Another office, people working late at their desks. Most on their phones. Some manageress walking about, a file in her hand. Caramarin standing on this ledge, still with this fuckin' hi-viz on. Bright as Vegas. No way could those workers not have noticed the police outside. Must be wondering what's going on.
Fuck-shit. One of the girls looking out her window, looking down at the cop cars and ambulance, headset clamped to her ear. Just maybe might not see him; he out in the dark, she in a bright lit office. Maybe concentrating on making her sale. But he should have ditched the hi-viz earlier. Pick up the pace. Shuffle a little faster. Nearly at the next window sill now. Only a few centimetres to go. Made it. Has that girl said anything?
Suddenly, the silence as loud as the blare, the fire alarm fell silent.