The London Cage

by Mark Leggatt

  “There’s also a gun,” said Kirsty. She pointed to the photo.

  “Probably a Browning,” said Montrose.

  Pilgrim cleared his throat and sat up straight. “It may be. And given the nature of the wound, it seems my brother took his own life. I suspect as a last resort to foil our enemies.”

  “So where,” said Montrose, “does Arkangel fit into this?”

  Pilgrim tore his gaze from the iPad. “In his youth, Sylvester Arkangel was a Chechen Soviet specialist working in military satellites. He was a genius. He rose quickly in the party ranks. And since the break up of the Soviet Union he is now CEO of a ten billion dollar Russian communications company.”

  So what is he doing in London buying old photos? Spit it out.

  “My brother was a spy, sent to infiltrate Soviet satellite installations during the Cold War. That’s all I know. But I think that whatever information he found was valuable enough for him to kill himself to keep it from his enemies and valuable enough for Arkangel to bribe a police officer for over thirty years to deliver this information.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Kirsty, “how did Arkangel know that your brother would be found?”

  “I don’t know. But glaciers are melting faster than ever before. Thirty years ago, the slower rate of warming would have ensured that his body was buried for a hundred years. Things are different now.”

  But Arkangel still waited. For what?

  “I suspect that my brother killed himself in the knowledge that he would never be found in our lifetime. His body must have travelled down the valley with the glacier, being buried further under the snow each winter.”

  “What was he hiding?” said Montrose.

  “I have my suspicions,” replied Pilgrim.

  I’ll bet you do. “One thing I don’t understand,” said Montrose. “Your brother was a spy and maybe running from the Soviets, right? All the way from Russia. But the gun found in the glacier was a Browning. I’m sure of it. If he was a spy, he wasn’t going to last very long in Soviet Russia carrying an American weapon, so where did he get the gun?”

  “I don’t know,” said Pilgrim. “It is a mystery.” He nodded towards the iPad. “Let us continue.”

  Kirsty highlighted a photo and expanded the detail. “We think this is important. There’s writing on his arm. It says Ekland and maybe pichaq followed by a bunch of numbers. Too long for a phone number. Who’s Ekland?”

  “Ignore the numbers for a moment,” said Pilgrim. “Show me the first part.”

  Kirsty traced the writing and read out loud. “DOBDD TT+14 THE PICHAQ TWO EKLAND.”

  Pilgrim’s mouth dropped open. “Pee-shack,” he murmured. “That’s how the word is said phonetically. It is how we were taught. But it’s not how it is correctly spelled.” His face twitched. “This message is for me.”

  “For you?” said Kirsty. “How would he...?”

  “I can only assume that when my brother killed himself he hoped it would be the Western security services who found his body. Then they would come to me.” He held out his left hand to show a signet ring, adorned with a crest.

  “That’s the same ring as in the photo,” said Kirsty.

  “The word is correctly spelled piseag. It’s Scottish Gaelic.” He pointed to the ring. “This is the crest of the clan MacPherson, my mother’s family. She gave us these rings on graduation. The motto is Na bean d’on chat gun lamhainu. In English it means ‘Touch not the cat without a glove’.”

  “And the numbers?”

  Pilgrim nodded. “I think I know what they mean.”

  “Yeah,” said Kirsty. “The groupings. It makes sense. They’re coordinates, right?”

  “Very perceptive of you,” said Pilgrim.

  Kirsty grabbed the iPad. “That’ll be for the location of the Soviet communications base. I’ll find out…”

  Pilgrim placed his hand on her arm. “No. Not here. Give Zac those numbers, then set up an audio meeting. Use an encrypted connection.”

  “I can work them out,” said Kirsty. “I’m sure they...”

  “This is Zac’s expertise,” said Pilgrim. “Encryption is yours. Teamwork, my dear.”

  She smiled and turned back to her iPad, then stopped as it beeped three times. “Oh, shit.”

  Pilgrim’s face tightened. “What is it?”

  “Someone’s taken over the wi-fi.”

  Montrose felt his back muscles tighten. They’ve found me.

  Pilgrim glanced around. “Here? No, that’s impossible, they would never…”

  What is this place? A retirement home for gay spooks?

  The barman strode towards them. “Kirsty, I just heard there are hundreds of cops in Soho. They’re kicking in every door.”

  She typed quickly into the iPad. “Holy shit, someone is sending data packets to this router from every other wi-fi in Soho.”

  “Why?”

  She looked up. “Triangulation. It’s got to be.”

  Pilgrim looked up to the neighboring rooftops. “Why would they do that?”

  “To pinpoint our exact location.”

  Pilgrim stood up. “How long, Kirsty?”

  She didn’t respond for a moment and tapped on the screen. “Okay, the wi-fi is down. No more signals. But I don’t think that’s enough. They’ll work it out from what they’ve got. I’m sorry, they should never have been able to...”

  “Tell me, Kirsty, how long?”

  She pushed her fingers through her hair. “Ten seconds. Tops.”

  *

  “There’s no answer,” said the policeman. He stepped back from the metal gate. “We can’t break that down.” He leant on the buzzer again. Behind him, more policemen pushed back half-naked showgirls as they crowded around the cramped courtyard and blocked the entrance to the alley.

  “Get those goddamn whores out of the way.” The big man pushed his way through and grabbed hold of the gate, jabbing at the buzzer. He turned to the cops. “This is a US security matter. You stay behind us at all times. But first you tell them to open this gate. Right now.” Several men in suits and sunglasses moved to the front.

  A voice came from the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Do it,” said the big man.

  The policeman leaned in. “This is the police. We need immediate access to your property.”

  There was a pause before a refined, elderly voice came over the speaker. “Hello there! The police, eh? How very interesting. And you require access, you say? Well, I think you need a warrant for that, officer. Do you have one? Perhaps you would be so kind as to hold it up to the camera. And let me know the name of the High Court Judge who signed it. I’ll check with him personally.”

  The big man hauled the policeman back, thrust his face into the camera and held up a gray plastic packet. “This is C4 explosive. It’s all the warrant I need, so open the fucking gate.”

  Chapter 6

  A florid-faced gentleman sporting a red carnation in his lapel and a drink in his hand approached the table. “Had to happen someday, Pilgrim. Bloody technology.”

  “Lord Jackson, I…”

  “Never mind,” said Jackson, “all they are going to find is some old duffers drinking too much gin. Unless of course you’re still here, so I would recommend you and your chums bugger off sharpish. No offence, of course.”

  The barman swept the strap of his handbag aside and placed his massive hands on his hips. “Every club is being raided. They’re emptying Soho. It’s madness out there. There’s no way out.” A phone rang and he pulled a small cellphone from his bag and lifted it to his ear. “Too late. They’re here.”

  The bent figure of an old man hobbled over, waving his stick. “It must be the bloody Yanks. MI5 would never let anyone near this place. Nor would the Russians. I must say, they’ll be bloody furious when they find out.”

>   Jackson stuck out his chin and turned to the barman. “Tell those flatfoot coppers to fuck off. They can’t get in without a warrant.” He nodded towards Kirsty. “Excuse my language, young lady.” He held out his hand to the barman. “Give me that phone. I’m going to call the Prime Minister and tell him he’s a spineless little twat.”

  The barman shook his head. “Lord Jackson, there’s a gang of coppers out there with an American in front. He’s threatening to blow the gate with explosives.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Jackson. “Fucking colonials. Sorry, Pilgrim, but you need a long spoon to sup with the devil. There’s only one thing to do. Start stacking the tables. I’ll phone Madame Raymonde.”

  Montrose tried to lift the iPad from table, but Kirsty slipped it into her bag.

  “I’ve sent the information to Zac,” she said. “Unregistered SIM. Let’s go.”

  “Wait. I’ve got a crazy idea.” Montrose leaned in towards Pilgrim.

  Kirsty stepped in between them. “Yeah?”

  “Why… Why don’t we just tell them? Hand over the info, leave them the iPad and then run like hell. They’ll stop at nothing to get this. Do we really want to be caught in the crossfire? Or these guys?” He jerked a thumb towards the old men standing around, their rheumy eyes keen for action. “This could be vital to national security. And probably goes all the way to the top at Langley and the White House. We’re supposed to be on the same side.”

  “No offence, Mr. P,” said Kirsty, “but fuck the White House.”

  “None taken,” replied Pilgrim.

  Kirsty slapped the wall. “They had a chance to be nice, Connor. They used a sniper. If this is a matter of national security they’ll kill you anyway. You really are an innocent. Grow some balls and get over the wall.”

  Montrose turned to Pilgrim. “Look…”

  Pilgrim pushed his glasses back hard onto his head. “I concur with the sentiment of Kirsty’s assessment, if not the actual phrasing. I know the identity of the Americans you met in the restaurant. Suffice to say that this is the best course of action. Let’s go.”

  Jackson clapped Montrose on the shoulder. “Shift your arse, old boy, they’ll be over the barricades in seconds.”

  An old man shuffled towards them and stuck out his chin. “Let them come. We’ll use the old method of dealing with angry colonials. Fix bayonets and advance by rank.”

  Several wheezing laughs came from the old men. “They don’t like it up ‘em!” shouted one, thrusting his cane into the air and almost toppling backwards onto the grass.

  Montrose looked up at the wall. Jesus, get me out of here.

  The barman lifted the cast iron table as if it was cardboard and placed it lengthways against the wall. Several old men came shuffling over to help.

  “Everyone over the age of eighty, just stay out of the bloody way,” said Jackson and helped the barman place a second table alongside, then lifted another on top. “The last time this happened,” said Jackson, “it was Oscar bloody Wilde escaping from the Bow Street Runners with his trousers around his ankles and his spotty arse gleaming in the moonlight.” He held out a hand to Kirsty. “Ladies first,” he said as he helped her up onto the first table and pushed her firmly on the bottom as she clambered onto the wall.

  “You cheeky bugger,” said Kirsty. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d rip your arm off.”

  Jackson grinned. “Apologies, my dear, I dreamt for one moment you were Oscar.”

  She looked back at Montrose. “See you on the other side!” She slipped from sight.

  “Mind you,” said Jackson, “last time I did this, it was in Berlin before the wall came down. Trousers up, of course, but with the East Germans on my tail. Happy days.” He and the barman lifted Pilgrim bodily onto the second table and pushed him up onto the wall.

  Montrose was looking at the shaky pyramid of tables when several hands grabbed him and lifted him into the air. They held the tables as he found his feet.

  “Go for it, laddie!” shouted Jackson.

  Montrose gripped the edge of the wall and hauled himself up. It was a good twelve foot drop to the bottom.

  “Drop and roll,” said Kirsty.

  He looked out over a patchwork of small back gardens and hedges. There were around twenty doors, but only one was open. At the far end, around a hundred yards away, an old lady stood in a doorway, clutching a long shawl around her and staring directly at them.

  “There’s no time to lose,” said Pilgrim.

  “Get over, you bloody chicken!” said Jackson.

  Montrose pushed himself over the edge. He tried to roll before his feet hit the grass, but gravity took over and he dropped onto his ass. Pilgrim and Kirsty had already run across the garden and disappeared through a gap in a hedge. He scrambled to his feet and followed them through, just in time to see them clambering over a low stone wall. He sprinted across an immaculate lawn, vaulted the wall and caught up with them as they slipped between two high hedges. He pushed his way through the hedges and stepped into a graveled yard, moving towards the old lady and the open door. He ran, weaving between stone plant pots; he managed to avoid the first few then cracked his shin against the next. He slowed down and shuffled the rest of the way to the door. The old woman smiled as he approached, rubbing his leg.

  “That is what they are there for, monsieur.” Her face was severe but her eyes twinkled.

  Pilgrim held out a hand. “Madame Raymonde, it is indeed a pleasure.”

  She ignored his hand and leaned forward to kiss him on both cheeks. “Ça va?”

  Pilgrim shrugged. “Ça va. I see you had a phone call.”

  “Exactement. No more time for pleasantries. Come inside and I will check the street is clear. Then you can go.”

  Montrose followed them inside. Who the hell is she?

  Madame Raymonde closed the door behind them and pulled the thick woolen shawl closer around her shoulders. “I am never warm in London.” She squeezed past them to the front of the house. “Follow me.”

  Facing them was a long corridor lined with framed photographs. He studied them as he walked past: a succession of faded black and white shots of British and French soldiers and groups of civilians in front of the Arc De Triomphe. The last was a larger photo of a young woman with Churchill and De Gaulle, standing in front of Buckingham Palace.

  She didn’t turn around as she talked. “SOE, young man. Not what you are thinking.”

  I was thinking you’ve had a hell of a life, lady. But Special Operations Executive? Yeah, the rivals of MI6 during the war. Churchill had them at each other’s throats. Lives were lost in the fight between them. And bad blood still runs cold. In the corner of his eye he saw a line of bronze stars on the far wall, underlined with ornate Cyrillic script. Soviet? Hey, hold on lady…

  “Over here,” said Madame Raymonde.

  He took a few quick steps and caught up with Pilgrim and Kirsty as they stood behind Madame Raymonde who was now hunched over several small monitors lined up inside the front door.

  She glanced up and saw the look on Montrose’s face. “Security, monsieur. There are still people out there who would do me harm. C’est la vie. C’est la guerre.”

  I know the feeling, lady.

  “I can’t outlive them all.” She turned back to the screen. “The traffic at the end of the street should move soon. If it does not, I shall be concerned.” She pulled her long shawl tightly around her.

  Montrose glanced back to the rear door. Those CIA psychos could be over the wall in seconds if they work it out. But the flowerpots and gravel won’t help, they won’t be creeping up. “Yeah, we’ve got to move.” He moved towards the monitor.

  “Ah, a young man in a hurry. It was always the way.” She touched Kirsty’s arm. “Look after this one, my dear, he has kind eyes.” Madame Raymonde gave him a lopsided smile.

&nbs
p; “I’ll do my best. If he behaves himself.” Kirsty patted him on the butt.

  Jesus, this isn’t a romantic movie. The CIA will tear you apart.

  “Behave himself?” said Madame Raymonde. “Then there would be no joy in life.” She turned back to the monitors. “The road is clear. Go quickly. Cross the road and take the alley between the houses. That will take you to Oxford Street. Stick to the crowds. It’s more difficult for the cameras.” She opened the door and stepped out before Montrose could stop her.

  “Let me…” said Montrose and pushed his way to the door. He spotted two figures on the monitor, turning into the street. They pulled out pistols and began to run. “We’ve got company.”

  Madame Raymonde looked down the narrow sidewalk and saw them coming. “Merde!”

  Montrose lunged forward and grabbed her shawl to pull her back. She wriggled free and he fell back into the doorway with the shawl in his hand, revealing a Sten gun hanging at her side.

  She gripped the magazine and brought up the stubby barrel then let off a burst towards the men. The bolt in the Sten slammed home and stayed there. She rattled it in her hand. “Stupid British weapon! Why do you always jam?” She tried to tug the cocking handle back to clear the breach, but it was stuck fast.

  Montrose saw the figures on the monitor get to their feet, keeping low and bringing up their weapons. Three rounds slammed into the door frame as Pilgrim stumbled forward into the doorway to grab Madam Raymonde. He dropped to his knees and Kirsty leapt over Pilgrim and grabbed the Sten, hauled back the cocking handle, then emptied the magazine down the street in two controlled bursts.

  The men lay sprawled on the sidewalk. Madame Raymonde took the Sten from Kirsty. “Go! I am safe here. Once the door is closed, an army could not get in. I shall call for help from my people. They will deal with the Americans.”

  Montrose checked both sides of the road then turned back and saw Kirsty kneeling beside Pilgrim.

  Her face was white as she looked up. “It’s bad.” She pulled back Pilgrim’s jacket revealing his torso drenched in blood.

  Pilgrim tried to control his breathing but his gasps came short and fast. “Leave me here.”