by James Hilton
Runaways were best. The homeless in London were everywhere yet virtually invisible to the general public. No one of worth missed them when they disappeared. Even if a bleeding-heart liberal at one of those rat-infested hostels reported them missing, the police did not have the time, resources, or inclination to do anything about it.
But the fact that the watcher had not only somehow identified Strathclyde but also had the audacity to try blackmail had ironically worked in his favour. The blackmailer had shown his hand, given Strathclyde a lead. The man was a known sex offender. Banks and two other officers from the newly formed Coalition and Homeland Security Service had intercepted him on the southern perimeter of Hyde Park. A quick jab with a Taser and his inert body was bundled into the back of a waiting van. Just one more unmarked white vehicle among thousands.
It had taken less than an hour to extract every morsel of information that the man had to give. In fact he’d begun blabbering and pleading even before Banks had inserted the first needle. Strathclyde had been rather disappointed. He had jumped at the chance to sit in on the interview. The rest of the time had been spent vigorously asking the same questions over and over again to ascertain that the answers given were consistent. During the last hour of his life, the man, Gerald Clocker, begged and cried. Pathetic.
It had become clear that Clocker had worked alone. He had acquired the original VHS from a fellow deviant in an underground swap several years previously, but it had not been to his taste. Re-watching it, he had identified Strathclyde from his scar. That damn scar. Strathclyde rubbed at his lower back, feeling the puckered skin through his shirt. He had fallen onto a fire grate as a child, damn near impaled himself.
Clocker had not been a natural blackmailer. His only backup plan was to send a digital copy of the video on a flash drive to a reporter. Just one. Clocker’s body was found in Hyde Park the next day. As he was a known sex offender, the investigating officers didn’t exactly break their backs to find his killers. Nor did they pay much attention to a report by one of Clocker’s neighbours that three men had entered the murdered man’s property only hours after his death, leaving an hour later with several bulging trash bags. Bags full of every scrap of technology the CHSS men could find, from VHS to iPad, just in case. Strathclyde smiled. He’d enjoyed watching those bags burn.
The reporter, Seeber, had proved a little more problematic. The man was clean, not a low-life like Clocker. The background checks by CHSS had uncovered very little: a couple of parking tickets and a caution while at university for the possession of cannabis. The Seebers’ interrogation had called for a more subtle approach.
Strathclyde had not been present at the event. It was a pity. He would have enjoyed watching another take the lead for a change. Especially with the man’s wife. But it would have been too risky. He had had to satisfy himself with the verbal report from Banks. There had been no need for much actual violence, just the threat of torture against Seeber’s wife. Seeber had kept Clocker’s original USB—the CHSS men had located it in the man’s home office and delivered it to Strathclyde that night for a date with the microwave—and had made one copy. He had sent the copy to a fellow journalist at her hotel in Nevada. A journalist called Andrea Chambers.
Andrea Chambers. Strathclyde sat up in his chair, pulled his computer keyboard close, and performed the same Internet search he had done at least a dozen times since first hearing that name. The woman was a nobody, a two-bit hack. He couldn’t imagine why Seeber had placed so much faith in her. He checked her Twitter feed. No activity for days. Was that a good sign? He scrolled through past Tweets. Irrelevant drivel about UFOs, for God’s sake.
Perhaps he would have a chance to meet Andrea Chambers face to face. Unlike the Seebers. Strathclyde let Banks’s report run through his mind. So little colour. But he could imagine… The three-man team moving the couple to the bedroom. First the wife, the makeshift noose cutting off any muffled attempts to scream for help. The nylon stockings strong enough to support her weight as they were fastened to the stout rail in the walk-in wardrobe. Seeber being carried in, seeing the lifeless body of his wife, beginning to kick and fight with a desperate fury, until his cries were cut short by the slashing edge of a stiffened hand across his throat. Strathclyde could almost see the man’s eyes bulging as he fought for one last breath, the noose fashioned from the belt of his own dressing gown tightening around his neck.
His chosen PMC unit, Trident Solutions International, had been recently used to remove an outspoken political activist in South Africa, although according to their official brief, they had only been providing personal security. Banks had been quick to clarify that the British government had not ordered that particular hit. But they had utilised TSI on other occasions, and the operatives could be trusted to terminate as required. While the agents of CHSS operated only on British soil, TSI had no such restriction. Their boundaries were dictated only by their fee. And Strathclyde knew even more about TSI than Banks had suspected. His own brother, Jensen, was a specialist operator for TSI, under a carefully assumed identity, of course. Stewart could not allow it to get out that he, bright-eyed boy of the Establishment, had a sibling in such a controversial outfit. Stewart envied Jensen the freedom to indulge the family proclivities in his official capacity.
With the woman out of the country and out of the reach of the CHSS, Banks had provided a name at TSI—Topcat—and a code: 004751. Private termination contract, unofficially government-sanctioned, using Banks’s name. A call to an unlisted number and the name and location of the target was given, and a terrorist dossier created. Strathclyde was rather proud of that. And the code had meant he had not had to give his name. After all, why would a junior environment minister be dealing with terrorism?
Unconsciously, Strathclyde palmed his mobile phone as if willing an update from Banks to materialise. One more loose end to be tied off. Thoughts of opening up Andrea Chambers with a blade made him tingle momentarily. He checked his watch. Time enough to indulge such daydreams later. He rose, ran a hand through his thick hair—perfectly trimmed for £100 every six weeks—and straightened his tie.
Bianca Sage met him at the door to his outer office, drawing an envious appraisal from Sonia. And no wonder; his fiancée was stunning. Their journey in an unmarked government saloon car was a short one, and they were soon outside one of the most famous addresses in the country.
The flash of the reporters’ cameras didn’t faze him one bit. Although a relatively new face in politics, he was an old hand at masking his true emotions. Strathclyde never let his public face falter. Never reveal the beast. Hours of self-examination in the mirror had allowed him to cultivate a genial look in his eyes; this lent him a boy-next-door appeal that was beginning to pay dividends. People liked Stewart Strathclyde. He was charming and witty and had a talent for building instant rapport. The perfect politician.
Holding the car door open for her, Strathclyde admired how Bianca was able to work it perfectly for the cameras. As they walked from the car to the door of No. 10 Downing Street, she looked back over her shoulder as if responding to the cries of the photographers. She gave a mix of sexy, smart and respectable all in one look. The tabloids loved the new couple. It was Cool Britannia all over again. He made sure to look intent, a man with purpose, his leather portmanteau clutched in his hand as if it contained the nuclear launch codes for the free world. In reality it contained nothing more controversial than projected agricultural yields. But image was everything. If you projected gravitas the public—and eventually your employers—would believe the spin.
He gave a final nod and a smile to the small gathering of paparazzi and a peck on the cheek to Bianca. He turned to watch as she took her time returning to the car. She exposed just enough leg as she slid into the back seat to be tantalising then spoke a single word to the driver. Strathclyde couldn’t hear the word but he knew what it would be. “Harrods.”
Inside No. 10, Strathclyde was led into one of the smaller rooms at the rear of t
he building. There were to be no tea and scones with the Prime Minister this evening, only a monthly handover to the assistants to the Deputy PM. Yet Stewart was well aware that the PM liked him. The very fact that he was allowed into the Downing Street spotlight testified to that. Stewart was young, handsome and carried himself with the grace and confidence of an athlete. The PM was desperate to make his party look as trendy and relevant as possible to today’s voters, and Strathclyde knew he was a valuable asset.
One of the house secretaries appeared in the doorway. “We’re running about twenty minutes behind schedule but the Deputy PM asked if you would wait. He’ll be seeing you in person.”
“That’s absolutely fine,” replied Strathclyde. He smoothed out the small crease in the left leg of his trousers.
“Can I bring you a tea or coffee while you wait?”
He glanced at the woman’s cleavage, which was perfectly displayed by the deep cut of her Donna Karan dress. “That would be very kind of you Celia. Tea, please.” He made a point of knowing the names of all the service staff he regularly encountered. A little thing like remembering and using someone’s name could garner a favour when required further on down the road.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back ASAP.” She emphasised the final consonant of the abbreviation with a playful widening of her eyes.
Strathclyde smiled. As he sat alone, he again found himself holding his mobile phone. He wondered silently if the woman was dead yet.
35
Lincoln spat. The trail had gone cold. The time wasted at the Gurkha’s ranch house had cost them dearly. A good man dead and no workable information to show for it. The transponder in the last team’s sat-phone had brought them to a fleabag motel but their quarry was long gone. Their room—the number of which had been extracted from the desk clerk with a single whispered threat—was empty, with only stale smells and discarded food wrappers as evidence it had been occupied.
Bush was kneeling next to a trash bin in a corner of the motel room. He dug around and pulled out several pieces of plastic and metal. The remains of the satellite phone. He turned to Lincoln. “They must have got wise to the signal. That or they’re just damn destructive.”
Lincoln remained in the doorway. The sat-phone was now an official dead end. He was snapped out of his brooding calculations by the vibration of his cell phone. A monotone voice droned through the handset. Lincoln clicked then wound his fingers in a tight circle: they were on the move again.
“Don’t worry Jake; you’ll be rewarded well for this information.” Lincoln ended the call. He spat out another glob of spittle. “We just caught a break. One of the grease monkeys over at Flyways spotted our target boarding a private jet bound for Key West. I guess we’re going to the sunshine state.”
Lincoln hit the speed dial for Topcat. After a brief conversation the flight was authorised. Turning to his team with renewed resolve Lincoln said, “There’ll be a plane ready for us within the hour. Saddle up. We’re heading back to the airport.”
As Washington climbed into the driver’s seat, he asked Lincoln, “How did the guy at Flyways know who our target was?”
“I sent out a message to my contacts when we first landed, along with a photograph. You know I like to cover my bases. Guy says he’d just walked over to the hangar next door to his, a place called Unco Services. He borrows tools from the mechanic he’s friends with there. Some guy called Gerry. He said the woman gave him the stink eye when he smiled at her. When he checked up later, there was no record of her or the two men she was with on the flight manifest.”
“This guy provided information before? You trust him?” asked Washington.
“Yeah. He let me know which plane my ex-wife and her new squeeze had fucked off in.”
“Didn’t your first wife get mugged and beaten up in Acapulco just after she left you for that car salesman?”
“Yeah, funny how things work out. What are the chances? Still, couldn’t have happened to a nicer pair.” Lincoln smiled, an expression more commonly sported by mako sharks.
“Isn’t that the guy who got his balls kicked so bad he ended up losing one?”
The shark smile never wavered. “Could have been worse; he could have lost both.”
The rest of the team had settled in the vehicle, with the exception of Bush, who still straddled the Harley.
“It gives new meaning to ‘loco in Acapulco’,” offered Washington.
Lincoln pointed to the steering wheel. “Thank you, Levi Stubbs. Now when you’re ready, we have a flight to catch.”
36
Charles Banks paced up and down in his office, his phone clamped to his ear. After ten rings it went to voicemail. He swore and hit redial. On the third ring the call was answered.
“Strathclyde.”
“It’s Banks.”
“Is it done? Have TSI confirmed?”
“No.” Banks rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Things aren’t going as smoothly as we might have hoped. I just got a call…”
“It’s late, Banks. What’s going on?”
“I just got a call from the boss at TSI. He was asking if I knew anything about you.”
There was a pause. Then Strathclyde spoke. “How did he come to hear my name?”
Banks remembered Topcat’s voice, steely with suspicion. “He didn’t give any specifics, just that your name had been flagged in connection with the target. Naturally, I denied all knowledge apart from generalities, confirmed that the operation was government-sanctioned but had nothing to do with you. But I’m concerned that they may go off-brief. Try to interrogate the woman rather than just terminate. And that would be very bad for us.”
“No shit.”
“How shall we proceed?”
Another pause. “Do nothing. I’m going to handle this.”
“How—” The call ended. Banks stared at the phone, then threw it down on his desk. He had no idea how Strathclyde thought he could possibly deal with this situation. Just a pissant minister in a low-profile department.
Fine. Not his problem.
37
The sun had set by the time the Gunns and Andrea landed in Key West, reducing the horizon to a golden vista. The pilot had come in low, giving them a great view of the coast on their descent, pointing out the hundreds of spectators gathered on the island’s piers and beaches to bear witness to the natural spectacle. Locals stood shoulder-to-shoulder with day visitors from the cruise ships that stopped by the island to or from the Caribbean.
The twin Pratt & Whitney engines of the Hawker 400 slowed to a complete stop as the light jet was guided into its allotted space.
“All ashore that’s coming ashore.” The pilot’s voice echoed through the plane’s sound system.
Danny Gunn paused on the set of steps that had been positioned by the plane. The evening heat and humidity was a stark contrast to the desert climate of Nevada, where the temperature dropped to near freezing at night. Within a minute of leaving the air-conditioned confines of the jet, his clothes were pasted to his body by a layer of perspiration. Large bushes with long dagger-like leaves poked through every available gap in the airport’s chain-link perimeter fence, and there were palm trees in the distance. He had visited Florida several times, and he remembered a taxi driver telling him that the trademark palms were in fact not native, but had been transplanted and carefully cultivated.
Danny pulled his shirt away from his chest and shook it a couple of times, creating a brief but welcome draught. He’d visited Disney World and Miami a few years back but had never ventured down to the Keys. Like most, he had seen the long interconnecting bridges that linked the chain of islands to the mainland but had never traversed them.
Andrea joined him on the steps. “What are you smiling about?”
“Last time I was in Florida I had my picture taken with Donald Duck.”
Opening her eyes wide in mock surprise she asked, “What? The real one?”
“I knew that would impress you.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine you at Disney World.”
Danny crossed his fingers and held them in the air. “Hey, Mickey an’ me are tight.”
Clay appeared behind them. “Looney Tunes are better. More fun, more mischief. Can’t beat Bugs and Daffy.”
“I’ll see your Bugs and Daffy and raise you a Tom and Jerry.”
“Tom and Jerry weren’t Disney.”
“Didn’t say they were. Just more violent than Bugs and Daffy.”
Clay muscled past them down the steps and strode towards a tall black man approaching from the service hangar. The two men shook hands and slapped one another on the back.
Andrea leaned in. “Who’s that?”
“Must be the guy Clay called to get us here. Garnett, I think he said.” By the time Andrea and Danny reached them, Clay and Garnett had finished their elaborate greeting and were laughing at some private joke. Clay made the introductions. Danny noticed that Andrea seemed immediately comfortable in their new acquaintance’s presence.
It was a short walk from the jet to the reception area next to the service hangar. While his guests sweated freely, Garnett seemed immune to the cloying heat. He moved with a relaxed grace, never seeming to exert himself even when striding across the asphalt to the large corrugated-iron building.
Most of the doors were shut along the row of surrounding hangars, and there was only a solitary worker to greet Garnett and his party. He was short and portly; Danny immediately thought of Cheech Marin.
“You still here, Hector?” asked Garnett. He turned to his companions. “One of my mechanics.”
Hector nodded, a rueful expression on his face.
“You fighting with your Señorita again?”
