World Will Fall

1. Deep Waters

1

Deep Waters

Philippe wrapped one bloodstained finger after another around the chunky leather steering wheel of the Range Rover. I squeezed the padded door handle with one hand, the velour cushion of the passenger seat with the other. At both ends of the bridge, a stack of Berlin police cars flashed emergency blue. Yet, except for the heavy-metal beat of a chopper overhead and the faint echo of a police megaphone, all was quiet. The traffic had been diverted away from the area by the Berlin PD, who’d tricked us onto a stretch of road from which there was no escape. I breathed in the new-car smell of the Range Rover. Philippe’s right hand moved over to the gearstick. I heard the deep honk of a large white tour boat approaching the bridge from our left.

Philippe raised an eyebrow at me. “So what do you think?”

I looked at the boat. Long. Wide. Rows of blue plastic seats on the top deck, but empty of passengers.

“What the hell,” I said. “I’ve done stupider.”

Philippe put the Range Rover in reverse. He backed it up fast, gears whining. He slammed on the brakes. The boat glided under the bridge, not far ahead of us.

“Brace yourself,” Philippe said, slipping the gearstick into first.

I clenched everything there was to clench. Teeth. Bladder. Bum hole. You name it. The bridge squatted wide and low over the water, with a pavement either side. A large, rusty blue water pipe sat elevated above the road to the left – one of the many old pipes that seemed to run through the city like waterpark tube slides. A five-foot-high steel lattice barrier ran along the edge of the bridge. I hoped it had some give.

I was just watching the boat disappear underneath, weighing up the odds of survival, when Philippe stamped hard on the accelerator. The stolen black Range Rover revved and squealed out of the blocks. Philippe jammed the stick into second and spun the wheel to the right at the last nanosecond. We veered across the road and hit the kerb with a whump!

The Range Rover bumped up off the pavement, the front grille smashing through the barrier with a bang and flying off the bridge.

The impact knocked us forward in our seats, belts locking tight. The bonnet dipped as the boat emerged from the other side. We came down nose over wheels. Wrong angle; wrong timing; the sight of the tour boat replaced by a windscreen full of the frothing white water kicked out by its propellers.

Ah, fucknuts, we’d only gone and missed.

The Range Rover splashed heavily into the water. Another bone-jarring impact as the front grille plunged in. This time, I got a smack in the face from an airbag. The Range Rover began sinking without delay at a sixty-degree angle, water rising fast over the windscreen, flooding in through the footwells and air vents.

“Um, weren’t we supposed to land, like, I dunno … on the boat?” I asked, as we ejected our belts and scrambled onto the back seat.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Philippe said. “I’ve never tried that before.”

We opened a door each and climbed out onto the rear end of the roof. Onlookers videoed the whole thing from the back of the tour boat and either side of the river. Police assembled on the centre of the bridge, the chopper pulling over to where we’d splashed down, hovering low, blowing circles in the water and my hair into my face. As we fast ran out of dry, rooftop-shaped land, I started to think of the icy water. Would I freeze to death instantly? Would I drown?

“Get ready to jump,” Philippe said.

“I’m not going in that,” I said. “Not until I have to.”

“No,” he said, grabbing me by the arm. “Look.”

A motorboat powered our way. White and navy blue. An outboard engine and a small German flag on the back. The owner was a man in his sixties wearing an orange life jacket, white hair under a grey baseball cap.

He brought the boat in close alongside us. “My God, are you okay?” he asked in German. “What the hell happened?”

“Satnav sent us the wrong way,” Philippe said, hopping onto the back of the boat as if it was easy.

He turned and reached out a hand, only a foot or so of rooftop left above water. I made the jump and Philippe caught me, easing me safely on deck. The Range Rover slipped quietly beneath the water, bubbles bloating and popping on the surface.

“Thanks,” I said to the owner of the boat, as we joined him behind the wheel.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, steering us away from the scene of the splash. “Good job I came along when I did. I’ll drop you off a little further down so the police can help you.”

“Oh no, don’t do that,” I said.

“It’s no trouble. Besides, your friend is hurt.”

“No, she means don’t do that,” Philippe said, digging his gun discreetly in the man’s side.

“The blood isn’t his,” I explained.

“Oh,” the owner said, the smile dropping from his face.

“Turn the boat around,” Philippe said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just do as I say.”

We chugged around in a circle and cruised away, the police chopper following, patrol-car sirens blaring off the bridge as they tried to keep pace on the surrounding roads. How long before the river cops came our way? I wondered. Turns out we had bigger problems. A crack of gunfire. A hole in the windshield of the boat. Behind us, a grey speedboat fast approaching under the bridge. Bouncing over the water. Inge behind the wheel. Her JPAC BFF from the U-Bahn tunnel by her side. Never a shitting break.