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hit him in the throat, and this time he saw him stagger, and a look of shock was etched over the other man’s face as his strength gave way and he went crashing down to the floor, losing his grip on the scythe, which sliced straight through his chest as he landed on it, until the blade burst out of his back.

Pieter jumped away and stared down at Bart.

He watched him draw in two deep breaths, which sounded more like a wheezing death rattle, and turn his face to stare up at Pieter, his eyes twin holes of smouldering hate.

Then with one last grunt his body sagged.

Shortly after a heavy and cloying stench of burning drifted up the staircase, and within minutes the upper landing was filling with dense, black clouds of smoke. A hurried conversation took place between Dyatlov and his other team leaders, who were positioned at different locations throughout the huge building. News soon spread. There was a fire down in the catacombs, probably started accidentally during the gun and grenade battle, and it was spreading fast.

So it was time to get out.

Grabbing their dead and wounded, the various members of each assault team started to evacuate the building. Nobody bothered about removing the corpses of the robed and masked gunmen and gunwomen: they could burn in hell for all anybody cared. Anyway, speed was of the essence.

On the way down Pieter came across Famke’s body.

He’d lost track of her amidst all of the mayhem, and it was impossible to tell one masked person from another anyway. As it was, he only spotted her now by chance.

He and other men from Dyatlov’s unit were hurrying down the stairs when they passed by a small room just off one short hallway, and Pieter just happened to glance into the doorway. He stopped dead and then doubled back, letting the others squeeze by, then he ducked inside.

Her body lay with a group of three other corpses. The room was riddled with bullet holes and the floor covered with brass cartridge cases, and a heavy smell of cordite permeated the air. Their robes and skin had been torn and ripped in a grenade blast, but Famke’s face was untouched, and her eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. In her hand she held her mask, having removed it in her final moments.

Pieter stood there, remembering her cruel words as she had gloated over killing his dad, and something sharp stabbed his heart, a mixture of pity, anger and betrayal. There was also a sense of guilt, which he knew was unjustifiable. Nevertheless, he wondered yet again if he had been stupid and naïve to fall for all of Famke’s and Lotte’s lies and deceptions.

There would be time to answer these doubts later. Time to face up to and work through his anguish.

He turned away and shut the door.

Let them burn. Let them all burn.

The fire consumed the whole building, and it soon became a raging inferno that lit up the city skyline for miles around.

Out on the market square dozens of onlookers gathered to watch the famous landmark burn to the ground. All of Dyatlov’s men had been accounted for, all of their deceased and injured carried out, and those that could be saved were whisked away by ambulance. Fire crews arrived but it was deemed too dangerous for them to approach and tackle the blaze because of all of the unexploded ordnance still inside. Besides, it felt fitting just to leave it to burn itself out.

Standing there with the others, Pieter watched the flames soar into the night sky, and his eyes followed the multitude of burning embers drift up towards the bright moon overhead.

He thought about Lotte.

Reduced to ashes with the rest.

Pieter nodded silently to himself.

CHAPTER 21

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Leaving the small guest house, Pieter crossed over the main promenade road and started walking along the coastal path through the sand dunes.

A stiff breeze blew in off the North Sea, and he stood at the top of one grassy hummock looking out at the waves rolling in to the shore. It was early, a little before seven in the morning, and the air had that early-autumn chill, but it looked set to be a crisp but cloudy day. The kind of day that blew away the cobwebs and invigorated him.

He set off along the sandy beach.

Back in the spring Pieter had been ordered to take a long sabbatical, by his bosses in the Amsterdam Police and also by his shrink. They’d told him he needed time to readjust, to touch base with life again, and all of that crap. What they’d really meant was that he should go away and let himself heal, and not to return until he was ready.

So he had done as they suggested. He had escaped from the city for a while, and come here, to the pretty town of Katwijk aan Zee, to enjoy the sea air and admire the views, to soak up some healthy ozone amidst the quaint little houses with their red-tiled roofs and the fancy cobbled streets.

He’d booked into a small guest house run by two middle-aged men and payed in cash on a week-by-week basis, and he had easily slipped into a new routine.

Each morning he would rise early and go for a brisk walk along the beach or through the sand dunes, and then double back to the main coast road and circle back to the guest house, perhaps buying a daily newspaper along the way. Then he would enjoy breakfast – toast with marmalade followed by two hard-boiled-eggs – and then sit in one of the wicker chairs in the glass-roofed veranda and watch the world go by. After lunch, weather permitting, he might take an amble along to the yacht marina or maybe down to Katwijk Lighthouse where he would admire the views from the top, or if he fancied a longer hike he would set off southwards along the beach where