Instantly Debbie’s gun was out and pointing at his forehead.
‘Stop, sir, because so help me I’ll fire if you don’t!’
Amiss was still, his hand only inches from his old Colt. It was tempting to grab it, and end the shame that would inevitably follow. But then, he considered, perhaps there wouldn’t be any. Let these dumbass fucks arrest him now. The Lodge wouldn’t allow the case to come to trial. It would be their words against his, and he was a decorated hero, a survivor.
‘Fuck you,’ he said, and slumped back in his chair with a sneering grin.
Frank Rand moved around the desk and saw the Colt in the drawer. He was aware of Jack at his side, and was about to tell Jack to move aside, not to attack Amiss, when he saw Jack’s hand go to the drawer.
He felt as though his tongue had stuck to his palate. He couldn’t move, far less speak, but only watch in horror as Jack’s hand reached in, and then Frank was spinning, his hand reaching for Jack’s, and he felt a swamping relief when he saw Jack pull out a battered and scuffed ledger.
‘Man, don’t do that to me,’ he muttered.
‘Eh?’ Jack said. He flicked through the pages. ‘What was so bloody important about this bleeding book, Amiss?’
‘Didn’t you realise? Nothing to do with me personally,’ Amiss smiled feebly. ‘You should ask your friends back at home about that.’
*
22.56 Langley; 03.56 London
Jack sat on Amiss’s desk and cradled the phone on his shoulder as he leafed through the ledger again.
‘Hello. Did I wake you?’
Starck’s voice on the other end was thick and fuddled with sleep as he demanded ‘What?’ Jesus, do you know what fucking time it is? Who is this?’ before dissolving into a hacking cough.
‘Light one and shut up,’ Jack said. ‘You know who this is? I know what’s been going on, Paul. I know who’s been ordering my execution.’
‘Don’t be melodramatic, Jacky. You were a player and it went horribly wrong. You fucked up. That’s all.’
‘How did I fuck up?’
‘When you killed Jimmy O’Neill.’
‘No, Paul. It went wrong because someone wanted to be rid of me. She wanted to keep things quiet,’ Jack said. He carried on turning the pages, and then he found the piece about his interrogation of Lewin, and read more slowly. It didn’t take long. Immediately after that was a short item about Karen. The piece he had noticed all those days ago when he first picked up this ledger: something about Karen and interrogation. ‘You still there?’
‘This had better be good.’
‘Good enough for you to stop trying to have me killed, Paul. I have the ledger. Lewin wrote that his first introduction to the group over here came from Karen. She was recruiting for them. And I think she was telling the Americans all about European suspects too. Which is why she wanted me out of the way.’
‘Because you had read the ledger?’
‘She thought I had. That’s why she raised Jimmy’s death again. Originally she put the finger on me about Jimmy so that I’d lose credibility in the Service. Now she’s done it again so the Americans would find me and kill me. Just to keep me silenced. Don’t you love loyalty?’
Starck gave a hacking cough and reached for a Rothman’s.
‘There’s not enough loyalty around.’
‘Don’t believe her propaganda, Paul. I didn’t kill Jimmy.’
‘Sure.’
‘Look, this is what Lewin’s ledger is all about. I have it and I’ll bring it back with me. I suggest you tell Karen at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it says she was asking Lewin to join a team of interrogators. She was part of this whole mess, Peter. She was working to bring suspects to America so they could be tortured,’ Jack said. ‘I have the proof.’
‘Give me names,’ Starck said.
Jack glanced at the list in his hand.
‘The English one here was a guy called Mohammed al Malik.’
Starck lay back on his pillow.
‘Now that name is interesting,’ he murmured.
*
23.01 Langley; 04.01 London
Outside the gates, Stilson watched in horror as the four cars rolled down the driveway and then took off at speed in the direction of Washington. It was a glimpse, no more, but it was enough. As the third car came out and accelerated away, he recognised Amiss’s white face in the window.
When the last of the cars had disappeared, Stilson crept back through the trees to his car, which was parked at the far edge of the woodland. He climbed inside and sat there a long while, deep in thought.
Amiss was gone, that was certain. The man who had served as Stilson’s patron and protector had been arrested. So from now on, he would have to look to his own safety. He must now assume that the men who had stood over him were gone. Peachfield he had killed, Sorensen too. Gutterson was still there, as were Keen, Tullman and Barbard, but since Amiss was under arrest there was a good bet that the others would soon be blown too.
He turned on the engine. In the days when the recession had started to hit really hard, whole districts which had relied on the same savings and loans companies had suddenly found that their mortgages were called in. He knew a little suburb of McLean which had almost an entire street repossessed, and there was a little house there he had bought for a few thousand. It also had the attraction that it was close to the Chapel.
It would be a good safe house for now.
Tuesday 27th September
07.22 London
Starck was in his office at Vauxhall Cross before seven that morning, and he sat typing at his desk for two hours, revising and editing, until he was happy.
Taking a pencil with him, he went down to the rear of the building, where he sat on a concrete bench, sipped a cup of strong tea, and read all six pages. Setting his cup down, he inhaled deeply with a sense of deep satisfaction. He lit a Rothman’s and enjoyed the clean, sweet aromatic flavour at the back of his throat, catching his breath momentarily, and let out a long feather of smoke.
Life was good, he thought.
Finishing his cigarette, he took his papers back indoors and made his way to the sixth floor.
‘I need to see the deputy DG.’
Jessica Stewart looked at him without enthusiasm.
‘He is busy.’
‘He will want to see me.’
She sighed, shaking her head, and picked up the telephone. A few moments later there was a buzz and Starck was allowed into the office.
‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve had disturbing news.’
‘What sort of news?’
‘Karen Skoyles has compromised the Service and colluded with a small group of disaffected American CIA and NSA officers to kidnap British and other nationalities for the purposes of torture. She has provided these individuals with assistance in Britain and abroad so that the Americans could conduct operations. She has also provided them with the details of British subjects who could be captured and rendered to foreign locations, and conspired to prevent us from knowing about their fates. Finally, I have evidence that she concocted false evidence against one of our own agents in order to discredit him so she could take his job.’
Richard Gorman gave him a shrewd glance.
‘I suppose you have proof of at least some of this?’
‘Jack Case is alive and well. He was captured as a result of Karen’s schemes and tortured by this group. He has shown what the group was involved in, and is being debriefed. He has the ledger that Lewin took with him to Alaska.’
‘I see,’ the DDG said and waved his hand. ‘Tell me the worst.’
‘Karen herself put him back on the active list,’ Paul said, and as the DDG leaned back, he began to tell the whole story of Lewin’s death, the ledger, and the Deputies of East and West.
When he left the room two hours later, he had the warm feeling that his career was about to move upwards again. He smiled, and as he reached his
desk he gave a wolfish smile, took his packet of Rothman’s, and went out to the terrace to smoke a victory cigarette.
*
07.17 Langley; 12.17 London
Stilson walked in through the doors in his suit, carrying a laptop bag over his shoulder, same as he would any other day. Langley was a huge site, and the reception area was always full, even this early in the morning. He was counting on the fact.
As he lifted his card to swipe it at the turnstile, he felt a frisson of anxiety but, to his relief, there was only the soft click of the mechanism operating, and he was inside. No one had yet told Human Resources to cancel his cards or passes. Good.
He crossed the marble floor to the elevator lobby, where he waited with thirty or more agents, all of them staring up at the floor indicators or murmuring in low, early morning tones. It was reassuring. No one remarked upon him standing there, no one spoke to him or even appeared to look at him over-long. It was just an ordinary morning.
Except it was a vitally important morning for him. He had to clear out the safe in Amiss’s room. Amiss had too much information on him and on the Deputies for him to be safe. His personnel files in HR would hold very little, but his files in Amiss’s safe could break him. He knew that. He had to clear out Amiss’s room of everything to do with the Deputies.
The doors opened and he stepped into it, pressing the button for Amiss’s floor. He knew he had to move fast, before Amiss’s arrest became common knowledge and his passes and clearances were revoked. The elevator stopped, he stepped out and walked along the corridor. Two people passed by in the other direction, talking about ‘Poor Roy’, and he realised they were talking about Sandford. It made him wonder whether the agent had died. Certainly should have, after the crash. Everyone had heard about that, presumably. That was the day that the Deputies had begun to collapse.
He was at Amiss’s door, and he used his card to validate the sequence of keys, sliding his ID card into the slot after pressing the buttons. Amiss had always had a pathological dislike of the use of more modern technology. He preferred the systems that were known and proven. A fingerprint was fine, but could be copied. There were too many cases of migrants in the Far East who were forging fingerprints for him to trust them, and iris scanners could be thrown by a cleverly designed and etched contact lens. Amiss liked key codes and proof of ID. The lock snapped back and he was in.
Knowing Amiss’s reluctance to use a computer for any data that was intended to be kept secret, he ignored it. The safe was where Amiss would keep the important files, and it was easy to open. He knew Amiss’s codes and, in a moment, he was in and leafing through all the files relating to his own work. He was pleased to see that Amiss had kept them all together, and soon he had the papers stored in his laptop case. Picking it up, he slung it over his shoulder, and was on his way. He had reached the corner that led out to the elevators, when the lift opened, and he saw Jack and Frank Rand being led by a pair of CIA operatives, all making their way towards him.
He faltered, then turned on his heels and strode back the way he’d come. There was a staircase at the far end of this level, which would take him down to the reception area. He’d take that.
*
07.43 Langley; 12.43 London
Jack reacted first.
‘That was him,’ he blurted, and sprinted for the corner of the corridor.
Debbie blinked. She hadn’t been looking up the corridor when Stilson appeared.
‘Who?’ she demanded before setting off after Jack, the two CIA agents hurrying after them both.
‘Sir, you cannot run off here,’ one bellowed at Frank.
‘It was the man we saw at Sandford’s house,’ Jack explained.
‘Sir, you cannot run off,’ the agent said again. ‘This is a restricted zone!’
‘It’s not restricted well enough!’ Debbie shouted over his shoulder. ‘You have a rogue agent in here. He should have had his clearances shut down!’
‘He went up there,’ Jack said, not stopping.
Debbie could see the door closing.
‘Stairwell,’ she said. She took her phone and punched the speed dial for Frank Rand, who had agreed to fetch coffee and doughnuts from the canteen.
‘Yeah?’ he responded.
‘Stilson’s here,’ Debbie said.
She was at the door now, her hand on her Glock.
She looked at Jack, pocketing her phone, and Jack kicked the door wide, fearing shots. Nothing happened. He darted in, low, looking to keep to the wall so that no shots could come at him from the lower stairwell. It was an open, concrete construction, and he could see down to the next level of stairs. No sign of Stilson. Had he gone up or down? Guessing, Jack reckoned down. He listened, and could hear steps pattering off down the stairs in a hurry.
‘Come on!’
He took the first flight in a single leap, and then hurtled off down the next and a third. It was only there that he felt the soft puff of air as a bullet passed by his face. He threw himself down. Stilson had a silencer. An explosion of dust from the wall threw gritty plaster in his face, and he heard steps moving again, but now he was more circumspect. He glanced around and saw Debbie and the two agents, who looked shocked while Debbie looked merely resolute. She put a hand out as though to stop Jack, but he ignored her and took the steps quickly, rushing down, and keeping an eye on the open space that gave him a view of the lower section.
A second puff of wind felt like the kiss of death, and this time he felt a sharp burn on his left cheek as it went past his cheekbone. Jack carried on as the wall shattered behind him, a bullet punching a neat dimple.
He saw Stilson now, a blue-suited figure at a doorway. Jack sprang down the last steps and as he did Stilson fired. Jack felt it in his flank, but then there was a shot from above, a crashingly loud report, and he saw Stilson’s shoulder jerk as he reached him, but then Stilson moved forward, so Jack was blocking Debbie’s sight picture, and Stilson took Jack by the throat, his stubby silencer at Jack’s throat, behind his jaw.
‘Don’t shoot, Deborah,’ he shouted sarcastically. ‘You might hit me!’
‘Put the gun down. You can’t escape from here,’ Debbie called. ‘Christ, man, there are a thousand agents in shouting distance!’
Stilson was breathing heavily, and Jack only prayed that his gun didn’t have a hair trigger. He had a sickly feeling in his belly that this could all end unpleasantly, and his flank was stinging like someone had stabbed him.
‘I think I’m going to fall soon,’ he said.
‘Do that, Case, and I’ll put a bullet in your fucking head,’ Stilson snarled. ‘Right, Deborah, this is what we’re going to do. I’m walking out of here by this door, and you’re waiting here while I go. You come out, or I get stopped, and first thing that happens is, you have yourself a nice diplomatic incident. You get me?’
‘Stilson, you aren’t going to get out of here,’ Debbie said. Her finger was on the trigger, Jack saw. Vaguely he recalled Frank telling him that she was a marksman, but Jack didn’t like the thought of her testing her skills by trying to shoot around him.
‘We’re walking now,’ Stilson said. ‘You shoot if you want to, but just remember this Brit could be an embarrassment if you hit him.’
Jack had no idea how to escape from Stilson’s iron grip, especially since he felt as though he was losing his strength by the minute.
But then he thought about Mohammed, and he thought about Claire, and he thought about all the people who had been hurt by this man and his associates, and he resolved that he would not be another man injured by the Deputies. He stumbled along crabways with Stilson hiding behind him, wondering how to break free. The door was at Stilson’s right shoulder now, and Jack and Stilson stood still a moment, while Stilson tried to work out how best to open it.
‘Pull the door open,’ Stilson snarled in Jack’s ear.
Jack cocked his eyebrow as he tried to see where the door handle was. Stilson’s silencer cut into his neck as he reached o
ver with his left hand across his body to grab the handle and tug on it. The door opened, Stilson edged to it and, as his shoulder and Jack’s were through the door, Jack moved.
He jerked his head forward, turning slightly, and rammed the door back hard. The door’s edge caught Stilson’s gun hand, and the barrel was knocked back. There was a waft of gun smoke, a phutt that sounded oddly loud in the still air, and a bullet washed past Jack’s ear. He kneed Stilson in the balls and slammed the door hard, catching Stilson’s chin and nose, before grabbing the gun and wrestling it from Stilson’s fist. He felt a slamming blow on his brow as Stilson punched him, and then he head-butted him, feeling Stilson’s nose crunch against his forehead. Grabbing the silencer and the gun, Jack shoved them against Stilson’s throat to throttle him, but Stilson was stronger, and the gun was pushed away, and began to turn to face Jack again.
Jack turned, twisted, and threw Stilson over his shoulder, still holding the gun. Stilson’s back was hurled against the concrete edge of the lowest step. The shock made him give a roar of pain, and the gun went off again, with that strange, peaceful sound of a bullet ricocheting off concrete. Jack jumped and, using all the weight in his body, came down on one knee on Stilson’s belly, twisting his hands as he did.
Stilson convulsed as Jack’s weight landed on his stomach, his body jackknifing, and as he moved up, Jack’s twisting pushed the barrel of the gun down towards him again. Jack felt the gun jump in his hands as it fired once more, and a spray of blood misted up before him as Stilson’s face exploded.
Monday 3rd October
06.43 London
Jack was jetlagged, sore from gunshot wounds, and miserable when he landed at Heathrow Airport. The flight had been bumpy, and he was not a good passenger at the best of times. A friend, Clive, had once told him that he found aeroplanes terrifying, because when he looked out the window, he couldn’t see any strings. It was a thought that had never occurred to Jack before, but now every time he flew, that throw-away comment came back to haunt him with renewed vigour.
Act of Vengeance Page 45
