The London Cage

by Mark Leggatt

  The old man’s eyes opened slowly to reveal piercing blue pupils in a sea of red. He studied her for a moment and the crow’s feet around his eyes cracked into a smile. “I don’t know what I’ve been drinking, but you’re the loveliest thing I have seen in many a year.” His refined accent was at odds with a voice that sounded like a corpse being dragged across gravel.

  “Thank you,” said Kirsty. “You’re very kind.”

  Montrose squatted down beside her. The stench was overwhelming, but Kirsty seemed not to notice.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Captain Wolff. We’re looking for some information.”

  He pulled the blankets down past his face and a full beard sprang out. He began to talk, before a bronchial cough stopped him in his tracks. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been of any use to anyone, but fire away, my dear. Although, I must say, a little quid pro quo wouldn’t go amiss. I have an extensive wine cellar that needs to be replenished.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “What did you have in mind?” said Kirsty.

  “Well, a contribution to the Mess Fund would be most appreciated.”

  Kirsty took out her purse. “I’m sure we can stretch to a few bottles of claret and something hot from the galley.”

  “How very kind,” said Wolff. He grasped the money she offered. “I admit it’s been some time since the nectar of Bordeaux passed my lips, but we shall see.”

  Montrose looked left and right. A faint sound of footsteps came out of the darkness, but he couldn’t tell how far away. “My name is Montrose. You’re Army, sir?”

  “Good Lord, no. Navy. Pusser’s Rum and several wives left me high and dry, amongst other things. Talking of which…” He pulled a plastic bottle of cider from below the blankets. “To wives and sweethearts,” he said and took a long pull on the bottle. “May they never meet.”

  “Your good health,” said Kirsty.

  “Sincere apologies, my dear,” said Wolff. “But have we met before?”

  Her Welsh accent became deep and lilting. “I didn’t think you’d remember, but you chased me out of here. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I don’t remember much, but there was something in your voice. And your name? Let me think.”

  “That was then. For the moment, it’s Kirsty.”

  “Of course it is,” he grinned. “What can I do for you, Kirsty?”

  “I’m looking for some information.”

  “Fire away.” He tucked the bottle back beneath the blankets.

  “We’re looking for a man.”

  The old sailor was already flicking through the banknotes. “Hmm?”

  “Roger Warrender.”

  Wolff’s hands froze. His teeth clenched together. “That bastard! May he rot in hell.”

  “Are you saying he’s dead?” said Montrose.

  “He was still very much alive the last time I saw him, the sanctimonious little shit.” He pushed the money back towards Kirsty. “Take it. I will accept nothing from him.”

  “No,” said Kirsty. “That’s not from him. It’s from me. We need to find Warrender.”

  Wolff’s features relaxed and he tucked the cash under his blankets. “Is he in trouble?” he said with a smirk.

  Kirsty nodded. “He may be.”

  “Good. That’s made my day. Well, that and a fistful of beer vouchers.”

  “It’s a matter of life and death,” said Montrose and instantly regretted it.

  “How very dramatic. His, I hope,” said Wolff.

  “So you’ve seen him?”

  “If you tramp the streets of London as I do, you see him now and again. Though he’s changed his appearance. Several times in the past few years. But you can’t mistake his walk, the fucking weasel. Pardon my French, young lady.”

  “His walk?” said Montrose.

  “He has the gait of a French Legionnaire, you know. Long slow strides that eat up miles of desert. Well, it did in the old movies.”

  Kirsty edged closer. “Does he know that you…? I heard that you were once a friend of his.”

  “A long time ago. In a different world.”

  Save us the saga, old man. “Can you tell−?” began Montrose, but Kirsty put a hand on his knee.

  “What happened?” she said.

  The old man shrugged. “It was different in those days.” Wolff scratched his beard. “It concerned a romantic liaison I had with a young chap. Turned out he was Russian. Bugger me, I thought he was Swedish.” He grinned at Kirsty. “Honeytrap, you see? Warrender squealed on me. I was drummed out of the service. No job, no pension. Then my dear wife spent what money I had and then took off with what money she had. The rest is history. And not very pleasant.”

  Montrose glanced around, but he couldn’t see shit. Okay, story over. Spit it out.

  “Why do you want him?” Wolff pushed himself up from the blankets.

  “Well,” began Kirsty, “he has information we need.”

  Wolff grinned. “I’m sure he does.”

  “Where can we find him?” said Montrose. “Do you know roughly where he’s living?”

  “Roughly? Oh, I can do better than that. He’s currently shacked up at number 42 Spey Gardens, Kensington. He changes address whenever he spots me. I have a habit of finding him, following him home and then standing outside his window, just to let him know. If he sees me, he moves house. But I always find him again. I’ll give him another few weeks and I’ll find a comfy spot outside his window. Frankly, I’ve got nothing better to do. I haunt the bastard. And I hope it eats his soul.”

  “And you’ve never spoken to him?”

  “Not a chance. He has the most powerful of friends. I’d be dead within hours if I ever tried to talk to him. I’m surprised he hasn’t had me killed already. They’re probably waiting for the cider to do that. Besides, I have nothing to say to him. He’s not exactly on my Christmas card list.”

  Kirsty pulled more notes from her purse. “Thank you, Captain Wolff. You have been of more help than you could possibly imagine. I hear the year two thousand was a good year for Bordeaux.”

  The old sailor grinned. His teeth were like a row of mossy tombstones. “It may well have been, but I can’t remember much about it. Still, as long as Somerset is growing apples, I’ll be all right.” He pulled down the brow of his trilby. “Be careful, my dear. He really does have friends that you don’t want to trifle with.”

  “I will. I’ve met them already. They’re not on my Christmas card list either.”

  “I suspect you are one step ahead of me.”

  She smiled and touched his arm. “Goodbye, Captain Wolff.” She moved the torch back along the tunnel.

  Montrose spotted two figures silhouetted against the entrance. So, you went to find some friends. He flexed his hands and quickly scanned the floor for a weapon.

  Kirsty quickened her pace and moved to walk around them.

  Another figure appeared out of the darkness and stepped forward. “You leaving so soon? We haven’t had tea.” His friends laughed.

  Montrose saw that their hands were hidden. Go for the tallest. Then run.

  Kirsty moved closer to the wall to get around them. “Yeah, knock yourself out. Just move.”

  The tallest of them held out an arm, blocking her way. “Maybe you’d like to pay a little tax before you leave. You know, to help with the bill for the fancy cakes.”

  Kirsty stopped and held the torch under her chin. Montrose was about to step forward when she held him back. “Looking for a little cut, are you?”

  Montrose heard her accent deepen once more.

  “You remember Shitty Ferguson?” she said. “Used to live here. Woke up one morning with his balls missing. You remember that?”

  The men said nothing, then one piped up. “Yeah, I heard about that. So what?”

&nb
sp; “Well, I’ve still got them. I keep them in a jar at home.”

  The big man stepped back. “Fucking hell, you’re that mad Welsh bint.”

  “Less of the bint, matey. Shitty got what was coming. And if you want to keep your shriveled nuts, you better get out of my fucking way.”

  The man dropped his arm and Kirsty stepped out into the light.

  Montrose took a deep breath of fresh air. A train clattered above their heads.

  “Relax, Connor. I lied.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I haven’t really got his balls in a jar,” she said as she found the path that led back towards the fence. “That would just be weird.”

  He kept his eyes on the ground, picking his way through the rubbish.

  “I fed them to the dogs.”

  *

  Lockhart pushed the door closed and hurried over to her desk. “They’re in Southwark, ma’am. We have a man in the area. They were seen in the railway arches near to London Bridge station. The Americans are not far behind.”

  Purley nodded. “How did they find them? Cameras?”

  “No, they had a tracker on Montrose’s phone. They lost the signal on the river, but they worked out he was heading to Southwark. They tracked and triangulated all the phone signals that were closest to him and found one of interest. They were following that, but the signal has gone too, although not before it was tracked to the railway arches. I assume that’s his female companion, ma’am.”

  “No doubt. Anything else?”

  “They’re going through the CCTV and they have police and Special Branch on the way to the area.”

  “That will be all. Keep me informed.”

  “It’s only a matter of time, ma’am.”

  She didn’t look up. “I said, that will be all. Carry on.”

  Lockhart nodded and headed for the door.

  Madame Raymonde shifted in her chair. “Elizabeth, they’re too close. If they find Wolff then they will find Warrender. You understand what you may have to do?”

  Purley leaned forward and held her head in her hands. “I understand.”

  “I cannot help you, but if Warrender is taken alive, the Americans will show no mercy. And I know this may seem insensitive, but think of yourself. Clear down the threat. And Mr. Pilgrim.”

  Purley jerked upright and grabbed the phone. “Bring my car to the rear entrance.” She took her mobile phone from her purse and typed in a text.

  It may be necessary for your patient to die of his injuries. Wait for my command.

  Chapter 13

  Pilgrim opened his eyes and saw the nurse standing over the bed.

  “I have to say goodbye,” she said, her bright red lips squeezed into a thin line.

  “That is a shame. It has been an unusual pleasure.” Pilgrim smiled as she gently lifted him by the shoulder, placed his pillows flat, then laid him back down.

  “Some men are coming to move you, which is a bloody stupid idea.” She touched him gently on the hand. “Good luck. Be safe.”

  The door opened and two burly men approached the bed.

  The nurse whispered. “Your phone is under the blankets.”

  One of the men spoke in an East London drawl. “Leave it, nursey. We have to move. And you’re coming too.”

  Pilgrim caught the look in her eyes. She said nothing and turned away.

  The two men stood either side of the bed. One blew out a breath and nodded to Pilgrim. “I don’t know who you are, guv’nor, and it’s none of my business, but we have to move you. And it’s going to hurt. There was no time to get the proper equipment, it’s gonna be lift and shift.”

  “Where are we going?” said Pilgrim.

  The man shrugged. “We’ll find out when we get there.”

  For a moment, Pilgrim regretted discarding the morphine trigger. “This isn’t a very good idea, gentlemen, perhaps you could make other arrangements?”

  The man pushed the stand carrying the fluids closer to the bed. “You know, you aren’t happy, we aren’t happy, but c’est la vie, as the Frenchies say.” They grabbed the edge of the bed.

  “Where are my other friends?”

  “No idea. And to be honest, I’m not sure you have any friends left.”

  “And you?”

  “Just following orders, guv’nor.”

  *

  “Where is she?” Kane stepped out of the Mercedes and stood in front of the boarded-up video store.

  Campbell didn’t look up. “Elizabeth Purley, sir?”

  “Yeah, the fucking Virgin Queen of MI5.”

  Campbell continued to tap the screen of his iPad. “We don’t know, sir. She left the building.”

  “Listen, asshole, you’re supposed to find her. What about her phone?”

  “Sir?” Campbell ignored him and held up the screen. “We have the information from the archives in Langley. All the operatives in MI5 and MI6 who were involved in Operation Red Star are now dead or retired. Everyone can be accounted for, except two.”

  “Spit it out.”

  Campbell read from the screen. “Roger Warrender was MI6. Defected to the Soviets in 1982 and then there’s no trace of him. It is strongly suspected that the Soviets lost track of him and have no idea where he is. We have no reports from our sources in Moscow or London. He dropped off the face of the planet.”

  “Yeah?” Kane gnawed on his fingernails. “Another British traitor. No surprise. But Montrose came here for a reason. And now he’s moved on. And you’ve lost him.”

  Campbell said nothing for a moment, then continued. “Every camera in London is looking for him. Every policeman, every taxi driver, even the traffic wardens. We’ll find him.” He focused on the information on his screen.

  Kane slammed his hand on the roof of the Mercedes. “Do it! We need to find out the reason he was here. Then you’ll know where to send your army of little helpers. This Warrender guy makes my Spidey-sense go fucking crazy. No one disappears unless someone makes it happen. If it wasn’t the Russians then it must have been the British. They’re the only other people that would have wanted him dead. And you say there’s nothing?”

  “We’ve trawled the British files, sir. The records only show his defection to the Soviets and then the history stops.”

  “You see, that’s what’s wrong. They should have been searching for him and leaving a trail. Goddamn Brits. Probably his Commie pals in MI5 looked after him. I swear that when this is over, I will go through MI5 like shit through a goose.” Kane rubbed his face, then looked up. “You said two people. Who’s the other?”

  “It’s not confirmed, but the archives say that the only connection between Red Star, Warrender and the time frame is Purley, sir. Elizabeth Purley.”

  “That bitch!”

  “It’s a tenuous link, but the records say she was a junior officer at the time of his disappearance. She knew Warrender. They were at university together.”

  “Right, leave her to me. If this Warrender guy is alive, he is your immediate priority. Find out what he knows and then deal with him. And the others, for Chrissake. Get it over with.” Kane turned his back and headed down the alley where an operative was waiting. “Give me the good news.”

  “Montrose was here about twenty minutes ago, sir.”

  Kane glanced back at Campbell. “Why are you still here?”

  “We are trying to identify the phone signal that was next to Montrose’s when it cut. We find that, we’ll find him.”

  “Good. Fuck off.”

  Campbell walked slowly back to the car.

  Kane watched him for a moment then pointed to the operative. “Walk and talk.”

  The operative led the way past the dumpster and through the fence. “Montrose was in one of the arches, sir. He was with the girl. They talked to an old hobo. We’ve identified him a
s Captain Wolff. Ex-Royal Navy. The records say he was an old friend of Warrender.”

  “What is this place?” Kane looked around at the broken down huts and the smoldering braziers.

  “Illegals, sir. They cleared out when the cops approached. That’s the archway over there.”

  “He’s alone? This hobo?”

  “There are still a few people around. Junkies. Too comatose to move. They won’t be an issue.”

  Kane could smell the occupants as he approached the entrance to the arch. The Nokia buzzed in his pocket. He took a few steps inside and checked the screen.

  Estimate two hours until password cracked.

  He began to take a deep breath, but thought better of it. “Let’s do this. Follow me.” He checked left and right; there was no one around. “Sure he’s alone?”

  “Affirmative,” said the operative. “The others are too far gone to notice. You asked for these, sir.” He handed Kane an unmarked whisky bottle and a smartphone.

  “Cask strength?”

  “Yes, sir.” The operative shone his torch and Kane followed the beam. “Ten yards down.”

  Kane scanned the notes on the smartphone and took the torch. “Wait outside.” He brought up the beam and saw a bearded figure sitting amongst a pile of blankets. A trilby was pushed back on his head as he chewed on a burger. “Good afternoon, Captain Wolff. I’m from American Intelligence.”

  Wolff grinned as he chewed, then took a swig of cider. “Good afternoon, whoever you are. I shall do you the courtesy of not referring to the oxymoron in your first statement.”

  “Yeah, right.” Kane checked the notes on the smartphone. “Helluva story, Captain Wolff. Decorated veteran of the Falklands war. Conspicuous gallantry.”

  “Conspicuous stupidity more like. Anyway, cut to the chase, old boy. I’ve got a new bottle of cider that needs my urgent attention and I’d hate to disappoint it.”

  “Understood, Captain. Two people visited you earlier.”

  “Did they? Well, perhaps they did. It’s all a bit of a blur, frankly. Buggered if I know. Today, you say? Well, I believe you. My calendar is such a riot of activity.”

  “You spoke to two people. And you gave them information. I’d like to know exactly what that information was.”