‘Your opinion on whether they are genuine?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mel saw Mestre move towards her. Had he recognised her? Mel turned her back to him and took the cloth case from Fennington. It felt the right weight, around three kilos. She laid it on the top crate, unwrapped all the protective layers, checked the parts and assembled the rifle. She hefted it to her shoulder and checked the sights, resisting the temptation to sight it on Gregory and frighten him. She laid it down, disassembled it and packed it back into the protective material. She felt sick to her core. These were just ordered from Germany, only a few thousand had arrived for general issue by the time she’d left her regiment. Some bastard was selling them on the black market and Fennington was involved. She swallowed.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘At least this one is.’
Mestre took a step towards her. Mel pulled back but was hampered by Fennington.
‘I know you,’ Mestre shouted, grabbing her arm. ‘You’re that woman from the embassy reception. You’re French Army. Is this a trap?’ He shook her arm viciously, but Mel jerked it away. He glowered at her; his eyes were stone-hard and every shred of charm had vanished. Gregory and Mario ran towards them but stopped just behind Mestre. Nobody spoke for several seconds. Gregory’s hand touched his coat pocket. So he was armed.
‘Calm down.’ Fennington’s voice ripped across the silence. ‘She was trained by them, but was dismissed. You have nothing to worry about.’
‘You’re joking, Fennington. Once army, always army. She’s probably running a sting on you.’ Mestre was breathing heavily, jabbing a finger at Mel with every word.
‘Do you think I didn’t run a full check on her? I’m hurt you think I’m so naive. Let’s get back to our business.’
‘No deal, no delivery. And don’t contact me again.’
‘Dear me, Niccolò, you seem to forget you’ve received a good faith deposit for this merchandise.’
Mestre laughed. ‘You can forget that. Call it my compensation for disappointment. Now take your spy bitch and get off my property.’
‘Not without my property.’
Mestre took a full swing at Fennington’s face, but Mel was faster. She blocked him inside his lower arm. In the next instant, she had her nightstick handle in her hand. The steel rod shot out across the front of Mestre’s neck.
‘Back off,’ she shouted in his face. He lunged at her, aiming for her eyes, but she whipped back the nightstick and drove her fist up under his jaw. He staggered back, clutching his face.
‘Get behind the cases, Mr Fennington,’ she said without turning. Gregory and Mario were shifting their weight and starting to circle in a pincer movement.
‘I’m not leaving you to face all three,’ he replied.
‘Just bloody go and leave me to do my job.’ He hesitated. ‘Go!’
Gregory’s hand went into his pocket. Mel threw her nightstick into her left hand and had her Glock out half a second later. A round flew by her head. She dropped to the ground and shot Gregory once in the chest, once in the arm. Another round flew past her, but wide. A grunt behind her. She heard Fennington drop to the floor but kept her eyes forward on Mario.
‘Just my shoulder,’ Fennington gasped. ‘Get that bastard.’
Mestre grabbed a piece of iron piping, many times heavier than her stick, and ran into the shadows. Mel dashed back to the stack of wooden crates, dropped her nightstick by Fennington’s hand, then sprinted straight for Mario. She slammed him to the ground, then pulled out a cable tie from her pocket and quickly slipped it over his wrists, yanking it tight. One soft target eliminated.
Over by the crates, Fennington had struggled up to sitting. One hand was pressed against a red bloom on his shoulder, the other folded under his leg. Mel spotted the tip of her extended nightstick. He was still holding it.
Now for Mestre. Where the hell was he? Surely he hadn’t fled. Not without his ‘merchandise’. She looked up to the gallery. Nobody. Gregory groaned, but she ignored him; he was still alive if he could make a noise. She was sure she’d hit nothing vital.
Using a zigzag pattern, she approached the stack of cases Fennington was slumped against. She was a couple of metres away when Mestre stepped out from just behind Fennington.
‘That’s near enough.’ He dropped the end of the heavy metal pipe down on Fennington’s head. The older man shouted out in pain.
‘Let him go,’ Mel said.
‘And have you shoot me? No. And no heroics, please.’
‘Not something I indulge in.’
‘You will put down your weapon and hand over your car keys. I will leave here with Fennington.’
Mel shifted on her feet and looked round as if she was considering her options. Bypassing the Merc’s ignition key was doable, but it would take time and Mestre would be long gone.
But she could play him at his own game. She spun round, crossed the three metres to Mario and heaved him to his feet before Mestre could react. She held her Glock to the young man’s head.
‘Now, you will step away from Mr Fennington and place that pipe over by the wall.’
‘Oh, and why would I do that?’
‘I will blow your little brother’s brains out. In five. And please don’t think I won’t. I have executed opponents before.’ She stared at him.
‘You bitch.’
‘Niccolò, per l’amor di Dio!’ Mario cried out. He was shaking. Poor kid, but Mel knew she had to convince Mestre she was serious.
‘Counting. Five, four, three…’ She flexed her index finger round the Glock trigger. ‘Two…’
Mestre dropped the pipe. Mario fell to his knees sobbing. As Mel let him fall, Mestre’s arm swung up, a pistol in his other hand, pointing it straight at Mel.
Oh, putain. He can’t miss.
But instinctively she rose on the balls of her feet to attempt to flee. Mestre narrowed his eyes to aim, but as he pulled the trigger, his knees buckled inexplicably. Mel threw herself sideways to avoid the stray bullet, then rolled and fired two shots back in quick succession. She scrambled up and advanced, Glock first. Mestre was on the floor, unmoving. Fennington’s fingers were locked round the nightstick, a smile on his pale face.
‘Got the bastard.’
Then he fainted.
35
‘You don’t do things by halves, do you?’ McCracken looked round the warehouse now teeming with paramedics and forensic officers.
After Fennington had passed out, Mel had run back to the car, grabbed the first aid kit and applied a tight field bandage to his wound. She’d given him a few sips of water and wrapped a blanket round him, then called in the EIRS. Mestre was dead, Gregory badly wounded, but now stabilised, and Mario in shock. Poor little sod had vented into his trousers, making him even more miserable.
She’d reckoned it would be a good hour before any of them got to her, but the whump-whump of a helicopter landing twenty minutes later pierced the silence. She left Fennington and stood in the centre of the warehouse, her arms outstretched, index finger through the trigger guard of her Glock. McCracken was first in, in a stab vest and toting an MP5, followed by Joanna and a couple of uniformed officers with the same. Mel knelt down before McCracken even opened his mouth to order her to do so.
One of the uniforms covered her while the other hooked the pistol off her finger into a bag.
‘May I stand now?’ she asked. She didn’t want a nervous officer thinking she was making any kind of unsanctioned move and shooting her.
‘Only if you don’t give us a bloody scare like that again,’ McCracken snapped.
Joanna handed her a white coverall and a smile.
‘It was all under control,’ Mel said. ‘I just needed a clean-up team really.’
Joanna chuckled, but McCracken gave her an incinerating look. Joanna hurried off to start making notes.
‘Right, walk me through this killing field.’
‘There’s only one dead body,’ she protested. ‘And he was trying to terminate
me.’
‘You’ll have to come back to the station and be processed. Just give me a quick verbal report for now.’
‘I’ll just phone Oliver saying we won’t be back tonight.’ She fished in her pocket for her phone.
‘What? No. And I’ll need your phone.’ He reached out, but she was quicker in snatching it away.
‘You can have it when I’ve made my call.’
‘No, now.’
‘Dieu. Don’t you ever let up, McCracken? Just try to be a human being for once.’ She pressed the speed dial for Fennington’s home number. ‘Oh, hi, Oliver. Things are going to take a bit longer than we thought so we won’t be back tonight. I’ll book Mr Fennington into somewhere comfortable for tonight.’ Pause. ‘Yes, see you tomorrow, later on. Bye.’
‘How cosy. We’ll pick up lover boy tomorrow when we go through Fennington’s place. As for him, he’ll be in hospital tonight under guard. I’ll arrest him in the morning.’
‘You’re all heart.’
McCracken shrugged. An ambulance trolley rolled past them with Fennington. Mel hurried over to him.
‘Mélisende,’ he said, scanning her face. ‘What a pity.’ She blushed under his scornful look but was sure it didn’t show under the dim light.
‘I’ve told Oliver you won’t be back tonight, Mr Fennington. I’ll come and see you in the morning.’
‘How very kind,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘I feel I must thank you for saving my life.’
‘You saved mine in turn.’
‘Perhaps an error of judgement on my part, had I but known. However, I am not ungrateful.’ The paramedics wheeled him away.
* * *
Waiting in line for an English breakfast next morning, Mel yawned despite eight hours’ sleep on the camp bed in Joanna’s office. Post action it was always the same. The adrenaline had gone, and tension and muscle repair drained the system. She added an extra shot from the coffee machine. At the table, she scattered pepper over the thousand-calorie feast in front of her. She was almost looking forward to starting what would be a long report. But she was dreading the other two things in her day – the visits to Oliver and Fennington. Obviously, she couldn’t put them off; she’d promised both of them and Director Stevenson insisted she had to be present when McCracken went in.
‘May I join you?’ Patrick Stevenson, smiling, a paper cup of coffee from the machine in his hand.
‘Of course, sir,’ she started to get up, but he waved her down.
‘I wanted to go further than my last night’s text. You did an exemplary job under considerable strain. Roland Fennington is not an easy man to deceive. I gather from Jeff that you felt some sympathy for him last night.’ The words and voice were pleasant and mild, but his gaze was hard. ‘Will that be a problem as we take the case against him forward?’
‘No, I know where my moral compass points,’ she said. ‘But I want him treated fairly.’
‘Unlicensed arms trading is a major offence,’ Stevenson replied. ‘I understand he’s made a deposit on the deal. He’s gone beyond rogue financial trading and money laundering, Mélisende, and is likely to spend many years in prison. However, I don’t believe he’s connected to the bombing.’ Stevenson took a sip of his coffee. ‘If, of course, he can be persuaded to cooperate with us, there may be some flexibility.’
Mel said nothing. She knew what was coming before Stevenson looked up at her.
‘You saved his life and I understand he’s grateful. See what you can do when you visit him.’
* * *
‘No need to sulk,’ McCracken said as they walked the short distance from the station to St Mary’s Hospital. They crossed the canal and McCracken guided her through the maze of tall buildings.
‘I’m not sulking,’ Mel said. ‘I’m thinking.’
‘Anything special?’
‘Just the past twelve hours. I’ve been living a different life for the last two weeks, myself but not myself. Now the two lives have collided.’
‘Right.’
‘Let me talk to him first.’
‘Be my guest. I did the formal bit last night.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Arrested him and read him his rights, before he popped off in the ambulance. While you and Evans were starting your forensics.’
‘Was that necessary?’
‘He was fully conscious so I decided to get it out of the way. Problem?’
‘No, of course not,’ she retorted.
‘Not going all wobbly on me, are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Through the blue glazed doors, then at the reception, McCracken flashed his warrant card and they were directed to the major trauma ward. A uniformed policeman stood outside a side room. He nodded at McCracken and Mel’s cards and opened the door.
Fennington wore a round-necked speckled hospital gown. He was half propped up in bed squinting at a newspaper, awkward because of his right arm held in a sling. He looked up at Mel, but said nothing.
‘Hello, Mr Fennington,’ she said, and drew up the metal-framed visitor chair to the side of his bed. McCracken crossed his arms and leant against the wall opposite her. ‘How are you feeling?’
Fennington folded the paper.
‘You are a strange young woman, Mélisende. I suppose you were doing your job, but I feel rather let down. I congratulate you on your deception. Yet I am grateful to you to be alive. And here you are, a police officer, but still enquiring after my health as if you were still my employee.’
‘I’m not police but belong to an allied organisation.’
‘Good heavens, you’re not a spy or something similar?’ Fennington raised an eyebrow.
‘Something similar.’ She smiled at him and received a wry look in return. He glanced at McCracken, then back to Mel. ‘Your colleague said I would be questioned then formally remanded pending trial. Is this starting now? If so, I require my solicitor.’
‘No, I just came to see how you were, and to ask you something.’
‘Off the record, as they say in police dramas?’
McCracken shifted his weight as if the wall was uncomfortable.
‘More a hypothetical case study.’
‘Ha! Now you are becoming very French.’
She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Do you know the concept of do ut des?
‘Ah! And what will you give that I might give?’
‘Flexibility.’ She waited.
‘You should play poker, Mélisende.’
‘What makes you think I don’t, Mr Fennington?’ She smiled again.
‘I suppose it would be very Anglo-Saxon of me to mention the word guarantee?’
‘It would, but I will ask my principal.’ She glanced at McCracken, then back to Fennington. ‘When you are medically fit, you will be discharged into police custody. You are under formal arrest. We’ll talk further then.’ She stood. ‘I’m going to see Oliver now. He’ll be worried. Your premises will be searched, but I will ensure it will be done with a measure of respect.’
‘I’m glad I’m not there to see Oliver’s great disappointment in you,’ Fennington said. He picked up his newspaper and proceeded to ignore her.
Walking back between the high glass fronted office buildings to Friars Green, Mel couldn’t throw off her misery. She’d worked so hard to integrate herself into Fennington’s life that she’d never given a thought to wrenching herself back out of it. Give her a rifle and a jungle full of insurgents wanting nothing more complex than to blow your head off. At least you knew who your enemy was and who your friend.
‘Don’t let that bastard wind you up,’ McCracken said in a surprisingly gentle tone. ‘He’s a villain. A manipulative one. If you let them, he and his brief will squash you to the ground and bury you six feet under.’ He took her elbow as they crossed the canal. ‘Stop a minute, Mel. Take a couple of breaths.’
Mel stared at him. He’d never used her name to her face, not her English name. He leant over the railin
g, his forearms resting on the curved top.
‘It’s bloody hard coming off undercover. I’d been doing it for a week just before Rohlbert was murdered. The best thing is to focus forward and get on with the investigation in hand. You’ll have to face Fennington at his trial, but if you want a break, tell Stevenson. He’ll give you some back office stuff to do for a while.’
She bent her head and stared at the dark green water, then up at the stark lines of the modern metal and glass skyscrapers surrounding the old canal basin.
‘No, it’s okay, thanks.’ Running away would be cowardly and no des Pittones did such things.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get ourselves togged up and go and see lover boy.’
36
‘I don’t need a stab vest to go and see Oliver.’
‘You put it on or you won’t be going.’
‘But if I’m going up first, it’ll look very suspicious.’
‘True.’ McCracken had hated her plan for the raid, but Stevenson had approved it. ‘You keep your comms line open all the time.’
‘Yes, I know the basics of a covert raid.’ McCracken was back to annoying mode. Andreas Holzmann and Joanna had been taken off analysis temporarily; she would lead on the ASG offices and lock down communications while Andreas’s team would secure the financial side.
Mel pulled out of the service entrance of Friars Green in Fennington’s Mercedes which one of the police team had recovered early that morning from Tottenham Hale. She was dressed in a trouser suit similar to the one she wore for driving Fennington. With her ASG pass clipped on her lapel, she’d have no trouble getting in. Besides, the security team all knew her.
She drove south towards ASG’s headquarters on Buckingham Palace Road followed by half a dozen unmarked police cars with the raiding party. Uniforms and a squad of additional troops would be waiting nearby. The local station had been advised and would provide traffic support.
As she waited for the red lights at the end of Grosvenor Place to change, she focused on Oliver, that kind, urbane man whose life she was about to wreck. Collateral damage, Stevenson called it, but it didn’t make it any less devastating.
Double Identity Page 21
