by Adrian Wills
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Blake clambered into the rear of the Land Rover without waiting to be asked again. It had been a long day and he felt the fatigue behind his eyes. The next twenty-four hours were going to be critical. He needed to be on top of his game.
He lay on a narrow bench seat and pulled his knees up to his chest. With one arm wrapped over his body, he found he could balance precariously on the vinyl foam padding. He was that exhausted his eyes fluttered closed even before his head was horizontal. A lifetime operating undercover had programmed his body to be able to sleep anytime and in any place.
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ asked Fletcher, his voice cutting through the fog of Blake’s brain just as he’d drifted off.
‘In all honesty, I don’t know. But you’re doing the right thing.’
‘Soldiering is all I know.’
‘You’ll build a new life,’ said Blake.
‘You don’t understand. I have nothing outside of the army.’
Blake remembered the rage of injustice he’d felt when he’d been kicked out of the military, jettisoned like an empty 7.62 shell after a dedicated service putting his life on the line for Queen and country in all kinds of hellholes around the world. He wondered what he would have done if it wasn’t for Harry Patterson rescuing the remnants of Echo 17, and the belief of Sir Richard Howard, the MI5 counter-terrorism chief who’d brought them under civilian jurisdiction. He’d probably have ended up in some deadbeat job, like so many of his ex-service colleagues, knocking heads together outside a nightclub on a rainy Wednesday night, or patrolling empty factory buildings in the small hours of the morning.
Like Fletcher, Blake thought he had nothing to live for outside of the military. He had no family, nor any civilian friends. The army had been his life. And they took it all away without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ said Blake. ‘Things will work out. They always do.’
He tuned into the crash of waves, concentrating on slowing his heart rate and ignoring the discomfort of his bed. The last thing he heard before falling into a deep slumber was Fletcher’s lingering sigh of despair.
Blake woke with a start after what felt like only a matter of minutes, but according to his watch had been three hours. He was stiff and cold, and his shoulder was numb.
‘Blake! Wake up!’
Blake sat up too quickly and the blood rushed from his head to his feet. ‘What is it?’ He peered through the grimy windscreen, splattered with dead insects. A weak sun was rising over the headland. Movement amongst the ferns caught his attention. Three, no four heads, bobbing up and down. Coming closer.
‘Bowater?’ he asked.
Fletcher slumped low in his seat. ‘He likes to run first thing,’ he said.
As the men came closer following a winding path off the cliff, Blake recognised Bowater, even though his face was partially obscured by a baseball cap pulled low over his brow. Around him were three burly men with serious haircuts, square jaws and barrel chests. Ex-military types pulling in a half-decent wage to take the bullet to save the politician. Blake pitied them.
After they’d passed by, he counted to ten and let himself out of the Land Rover. He stretched his arms above his head. There was a chill in the air, and he tasted salt on his lips. He ambled down the lane and joined the footpath where it doubled back on itself above the beach. Blake took in a deep breath of sea air, relishing the restorative effect it had on his aching body.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Fletcher, as he pulled up at Blake’s shoulder.
The four runners emerged from behind a rock on the beach, their arms and legs pounding as they hit the smooth, wet sand at the water’s edge, heading west along the arcing shoreline towards a disparate group of surfers bobbing on the waves in the distance.
‘There must be another way into the house,’ said Blake, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cold.
‘Not unless you fancy a climb.’
‘I’m going to take a look. Stay here.’
Blake trotted down a flight of crumpling concrete steps and angled east towards a rocky outcrop at the foot of the cliff, directly below Bowater’s house. A receding tide left an easy path around the headland where deep pools had formed among the rocks, but when Blake looked up, the building was impossible to make out behind the towering cliffs. Fletcher was right. The only way up or down was with a decent set of climbing ropes and a head for heights, which meant realistically there was only one way in.
Blake hurried back to the Land Rover as Bowater and his security detail were heading back. He jumped into the passenger seat rubbing his hands together for warmth. ‘Where’s the nearest town? We’ll need a few supplies before tonight. But first, is there anywhere around here for a decent breakfast?’ he said.
Chapter Forty-Nine
They ate in a greasy spoon cafe in the nearby town of Helston before beginning preparations for the evening. First was a new set of clothes for Fletcher, who stood out like a whore at a tea dance in his army fatigues. He picked out a pair of Levis, a grey t-shirt, sweatshirt and Timberland boots in a department store and shoved his military clobber in a plastic bag.
The next step was to locate a drug dealer. Blake had no idea where to start but suspected the internet would be the best place to begin and was amazed at how easy it was to find people on social media willing to supply everything from cannabis to cocaine, Xanax to LSD. Blake’s requirements were a little more specialist, but it took him less than twenty minutes browsing on his phone to find someone willing to sell him what he needed. He made the deal via an anonymous messaging service, paid up front, and was promised delivery by the end of the afternoon at a location of his choice.
When he was done, Blake and Fletcher drove to Penryn on the outskirts of the busy harbour town of Falmouth. They located a hire car firm in an industrial estate, dumped the Land Rover, and picked up a dark-coloured SUV. Nothing flashy. Anonymous looking. Blake paid in cash and used a false licence and an alias for the paperwork. Standard procedure in his line of work.
On the way back to Helston, they stopped at a filling station where Blake stocked up on soft drinks, chocolate bars and a universal mobile phone charger. His phone was almost out of power and he was desperate to call Parkes. He owed it to her to explain everything, and besides, he felt responsible for her suspension and for dragging her into something that could have ended her career.
She answered on the first ring. ‘Blake? Where the hell are you?’
‘Sorry, I can’t tell you, but listen carefully. I don’t have much time.’
‘What is it?’
‘Kyle Hopkins is dead. Get a team together and tell Hubbard you’re following up a tip-off. I want you to get full credit for this. Do you have a pen?’
‘Blake, I’m under suspension. I can’t do anything.’
‘Then find someone you trust in the team. Give them the information.’ Blake told her about the potato cave and gave her directions, as best as he could remember them.
‘How did you find him?’
‘I don’t have time to explain.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
Blake bit his lip. ‘Yes, but I can’t give you that information right now.’
‘Blake, if you know —’
‘It’s really fucking complicated, okay,’ Blake snapped. He didn’t have time for an argument. ‘I’ll explain everything as soon as I can, but right now you have to get that body recovered, for the family’s sake.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Parkes. ‘I’ll get onto it.’
‘There’s something else. Find Sean van Dijk. He could be in danger. Take him into protective custody and don’t let anyone near him until you hear from me again.’
‘Van Dijk? Why? What’s going on, Blake?’
‘I’ll explain as soon as I can.’
Her sigh was audible even with the wind whistling in his ear. He wanted to tell her
everything, to fill in all the details and answer all the questions he knew she was burning to ask. But right now, Bowater was his priority and he didn’t want to put her in any further danger.
Fletcher had fallen asleep in the car while he waited for Blake to make his call. Blake decided not to wake him. The guy was exhausted, and they had a big night ahead. Best to let him recharge his batteries. He stayed asleep even when Blake pulled up at an outdoor suppliers’ where he picked up rope, leather gloves, carabiners, and a rucksack. In a sports shop next door, he bought a set of heavy-duty weightlifters’ wrist straps, and threw them in the rucksack with his other purchases.
He had to rely on the internet again for the last item on his shopping list, but it didn’t take him long to locate a suitable second-hand dinghy being offered at a reasonable price. He called the number listed and arranged with the seller to meet in Porthleven, a pretty harbour town less than ten minutes’ drive from Bowater’s house on the headland.
The guy was already waiting for them when they arrived. He was standing with his hands hooked in the pockets of his grubby jeans, outside a restaurant overlooking a quaint harbour where a fleet of leisure craft floated lazily on the incoming tide. The dinghy he had for sale, complete with a four-horsepower, two-stroke outboard engine, was tied up on the water. The man clambered down a ladder, hopped on board and tugged at the starter cord. The engine popped and belched, and after an adjustment on the throttle, settled down into a steady rhythm. Almost ideal for Blake’s needs. He paid the guy the full asking price in cash without haggling and took possession of two engine keys. Then he dispatched Fletcher to locate a marine merchants’ store to buy dark coloured paint, while he attempted to find a friendly fisherman willing to make a little extra cash that evening.
The town gave the impression it had once been a bustling, traditional fishing port, chocolate box pretty and a mecca for tourists seeking a touch of Cornish authenticism. Unfortunately, most of the boats in the harbour were leisure craft. The majority of the working fishing boats that would have once been the lifeblood of the town had vanished, apart from one that Blake could see. A lone figure was on board fixing his nets, dipping busily in and out of the wheelhouse. Blake jumped into the dinghy and paddled across the water to catch his attention.
The negotiation lasted only a couple of minutes after Blake produced the last of his cash and offered it as a down payment for the hire of the skipper and his boat, no questions asked. The enthusiasm with which he agreed to the job suggested he was about to make more than he usually did in a week.
With the arrangements confirmed, Blake hauled the dinghy onto a slipway on the far side of the harbour and left it to dry off in the sun while he sat on a grassy strip enjoying the weak heat on his face. Fletcher returned ten minutes later with two pots of dark blue paint and a pack of brushes. The men immediately set to work painting the dinghy, covering every inch of the light grey canvas, intending to make it less visible at night on the inky sea. The paint dried quickly, if not a little unevenly, and after three hastily applied coats Blake called time and dragged Fletcher away to find somewhere to eat.
They found a nearby pub serving food and ate outside on a wooden table overlooking the harbour.
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ asked Fletcher, between bites of a chicken sandwich.
‘You’ll get a new identity and we’ll find you somewhere safe to live until we can work out a long-term plan, just like I promised. You don’t have to worry about Bowater.’
‘Assuming you get him to confess.’
‘I will. Just worry about getting me close to him.’
‘I’m not going to court.’
‘You won’t have to.’ Blake glanced over Fletcher’s shoulder at the rows of houses peppering the hillside. He was no lawyer, but he thought the chances of a recorded confession being enough to secure a conviction in its own right was unlikely. They’d need more, specifically the testimony of all of the surviving soldiers who’d witnessed Bowater’s actions. It was regrettable, but inevitable. The least Blake could do was protect them from prosecution. If nothing else, he was determined to do right by Fletcher. They’d all been young men, put in an impossible situation and under unfair pressure by an officer who should have known better. Five people had died unnecessarily in the house in Iraq on that day. Hopkins and Stone had lost their lives later, and Jamie Dobson was facing the prospect of life behind bars. It was already a tragedy that had destroyed too many lives.
‘If you can’t get his confession, you know he’ll hunt me down, don’t you?’
‘This is the right thing to do,’ said Blake. ‘It’s your one chance at a clean start.’
‘I always wondered if there was something I could have done differently on that day, something that would have prevented all those deaths.’
‘You can’t blame yourself. Bowater killed the girl for no reason. Everything else that followed was a domino effect.’
‘Just don’t underestimate him. He’s a dangerous man,’ said Fletcher.
‘I don’t. But he has to pay for what he’s done. I promise I won’t let you down.’
Chapter Fifty
The journey to Bowater’s cliff-top house was mercifully short as Blake was clinging to the underside of the rental car with his feet hooked over the front anti-roll bars and his wrists attached to the rear axle with the weightlifters’ straps. It was dirty and dangerous with the heat from the exhaust pipe perilously near his chest and groin. To compound matters, the last hundred metres were over a rutted track laced with jagged rocks that skimmed Blake’s back as the car hobbled across an uneven, potholed surface.
Fletcher had arranged the meeting with Bowater over the phone a few hours earlier, putting on an Oscar-winning performance to persuade him that Blake had discovered Kyle Hopkins’ body and was closing in on truth about Iraq. Bowater had been incandescent with rage, shouting and swearing, calling Fletcher all sorts of names, but crucially agreed to meet Fletcher at his home in Cornwall, although initially reluctant.
It was past ten when the car rolled to a halt in front of a set of electric gates at the top of the drive. Blake heard the buzz of Fletcher’s window and the lieutenant announce his name into an intercom. A second or two later, the gates wheeled open and they were on the move again, pitching and rolling with the muscles in Blake’s arms and legs burning from the effort of hanging on.
The car came to a halt near the house, directly below a security camera on the front wall of the property, just as they had planned. Blake remained motionless as a figure emerged from the house and hurried towards the car. The driver’s door opened. Fletcher stepped out.
‘Lieutenant Fletcher?’ queried a male voice.
‘That’s right. Mr Bowater is expecting me.’
There was a hesitant pause as Blake guessed the man, one of Bowater’s security detail, gave the car the once over.
‘Can you pop open the boot, please.’
As the two men moved to the rear of the vehicle, Blake silently lowered himself to the ground. He pulled up both sleeves and detached a syringe taped to his right bicep. He removed the cap with his teeth, tapped the barrel to dislodge any air bubbles and squirted a small quantity of liquid out of the needle.
The boot clicked open. Blake rolled onto his stomach and crawled towards the back of the car. Holding the syringe in his fist like he was clutching a hunting knife, he reached out and plunged it into the security officer’s calf, through his trousers and into the thick muscle, emptying the contents into his leg.
The guy dropped like a stone screaming, but importantly out of view of the main camera. The effect of the Ketamine Blake had acquired online rendered the guard virtually immobile within seconds. So far, so good.
From his left bicep, Blake removed a second syringe filled with Propofol, a fast-acting sedative used widely as a general surgical anaesthetic, which had been the more difficult drug to obtain. It had to be injected directly into a vein, unlike the Ketamine which was effective st
raight into muscle, and so required a little more precision. Blake located the pulsing jugular in the guy’s neck and with Fletcher holding his head steady, pumped five millilitres straight into his bloodstream. The guy’s eyes fluttered closed.
Fletcher jumped up, slammed the boot shut, and waved frantically at the CCTV camera, yelling for help.
Blake waited under the car as a second member of Bowater’s security team came running from the house. ‘What happened?’
‘I think he’s having a heart attack,’ said Fletcher.
The second guy rushed over, knelt and reached for a pulse in his colleague’s neck.
‘We should get him inside and call an ambulance,’ Fletcher suggested.
Between them, they carried the first guy into the house with Fletcher leading the way, crabbing backwards. Blake rolled out from under the vehicle, retrieved his Browning from the small of his back and snuck up behind the protection officer as he was about to step over the threshold. Blake rammed the barrel of his gun into the man’s neck. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he hissed. The man tensed, but at least he didn’t try anything heroic.
Fletcher discovered a laundry room off the hall, where they hogtied the two men with sheets, laid them on their stomachs, and stuffed their mouths with socks. They pulled the door silently closed on the men and crept deeper into the house hunting for Bowater.
When Tony Okeke burst out of one of the doors along the hall, he looked as surprised to see Fletcher and Blake as they were to see him. ‘Ryan?’ he said, his eyes opening wide.
‘Tony, good to see you.’ Fletcher’s voice was warm with bonhomie. ‘Where’s the boss? We’ve got a meeting.’
Okeke glanced uncertainly at Blake. He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut again when Fletcher pulled out his gun. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Sorry, Tony. Some unfinished business. I’ll need your weapon.’
