by Mark Leggatt
*
She looked over the head of the soldier, through the gap in the curtains and clasped her hands tightly together to stop them from shaking. Warrender wouldn’t hold out for long. She lifted a hand towards the window, then pulled it back. But there was no other way. If she got any closer, Kane would work it out.
The soldier looked up. “Binoculars, ma’am?”
Purley shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak. The photo in her bag was of a young man. But she knew what he looked like. She couldn’t look at his face. Not now. She let out a long, slow breath and closed her eyes. “Are they in the room?”
“Yes, ma’am. One target. Two others. All out of sight at the moment.”
She tried to think of another way. But she knew in her heart there was none.
“There’s movement, ma’am. Waiting for the target to appear. Do I take the shot?”
“No.” She held out a hand before she could stop herself. “Just give them a moment.”
“I’ll tell you when I have a target, ma’am.”
A radio crackled into life. “OP reports cars approaching at speed on Bayswater Road. It’s our Cousins.”
Her chest tightened so quickly she couldn’t speak. It was over.
*
Montrose stared down at the oil heater. “Well, we’d be much obliged if you let us leave first.”
“I still have a friend,” said Warrender. “I’ll disappear as I did before.”
“So they let you go? The Soviets?” said Montrose.
“My God, no. When I escaped from the British interrogation, the Americans worked out where I was headed. The only really safe place in London. They couldn’t get to me in time, so they told the Soviets that I was a double agent. Complete rubbish, of course, but it didn’t stop them. I knew I had been betrayed. And I knew whatever it was that Pilgrim had told me was going to get me killed. To the British, I was a traitor. To the Soviets, I was a British agent pretending to defect. Whether I talked or not, there would only be one ending to my story. An unmarked grave.”
“What happened?”
“I went from one nightmare to another. I had no choice. I escaped the British, but the Soviets were waiting for me. They took me to their Embassy in London. And when the sweet-talk failed, I knew what was coming next. Of course, I denied all knowledge but I heard the screams of the others. I escaped, with some help. People who still believed me.”
Shit, this is getting more complicated than a Le Carré novel. It’s way out of my league. Threats are not going to get anything out of this guy. He needs to feel safe. Let him talk. Then maybe he’ll tell us. But if torture wouldn’t make him talk, I haven’t got a chance. “And only you knew the password?”
Warrender laughed. “Well, only myself and Colonel Furstenberg. I told him in case they killed me. Carved in stone, for posterity, you see.” He smiled and took a sip of his tea. “And he died long before you were born.”
Who the hell is Furstenberg?
“Was he the one that helped you escape the British and the Soviets?” said Kirsty.
Warrender sipped his tea. “No, my dear. He was dead before even my time.”
This is bullshit. He’s protecting someone. If he didn’t betray Pilgrim, who did? Maybe the same people who helped him escape the Soviets and the British. And I bet my ass they’re still around today and still taking care of him. How else could he have survived for so long, hidden in plain sight, right in the middle of London? Montrose cleared his throat. “Who helped you, sir? Who got you away from the British and then the Soviets?”
Warrender stood up. “When I was young I betrayed Captain Wolff. I would never do such a thing again.”
“You got back to London and they thought you were a traitor. Who betrayed you?”
Warrender faced the window, gazing down into the street. “Have you ever read E.M. Forster? One of the pre-eminent English novelists of the twentieth century. He lived through two world wars, the fall of the British Empire and the rise of the superpowers.” He turned to face Montrose and Kirsty, silhouetted against the window. “He once said, ‘If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country’.”
Chapter 15
The blood atomized across the room in a cloud. Warrender toppled to the floor, a clean hole in the back of his head. The remainder of his face thumped onto the carpet.
Kirsty screamed and scrambled backwards from Warrender’s corpse.
“Get down!” Montrose dived towards her. He grabbed her by the waist and tried to drag her to the door.
She wriggled from his grasp and set off in a fast crawl. “Follow me!”
“Keep your head down.”
“Listen to me.” She wiped a film of blood from her face. “I checked the flat while making tea. There’s a rear exit. Move it.”
Montrose began to edge forward on his elbows. “Wait.”
She dropped to the floor and glanced back. “Are you crazy?”
He looked up at the walls. “Everything we need is here. If we can capture it, maybe we can work it out. Use your phone.” He pointed to the oil heater. “Then get clear.”
Kirsty rolled onto her back and brought up her iPhone.
Keeping close to the piles of blood-spattered newspapers, Montrose crawled through the pink scum on the carpet. On the front of the oil heater he saw a clockwork timer set to five minutes. He shoved in the plug and pushed the power button. The oil heater hummed into life and he heard the clockwork timer ticking. He rolled over, hit the stopwatch function on his watch then crawled to the door and set off down the hall on his knees.
Kirsty had the window open in a small kitchen and was sitting on the ledge. “It’s clear. Let’s go!”
He climbed up just as Kirsty jumped. Directly below, he could see the garden with an outhouse and clothes drying on a washing line. Kirsty was waiting when he dropped down onto the grass.
She tore off her blood-stained cardigan and pulled a T-shirt from the line, throwing it to him when he caught up with her. “You’re covered in shit. Put that on.” She ran towards the wall beside the van.
“No, this way,” said Montrose. “If they have someone on the corner, they’ll see us.” He ran to the end of the garden and pulled open a gate into a cobbled mews lane. He could almost hear the oil heater’s timer ticking in his head. “Run!” He looked up at the open window, then followed her along the lane. “Wait,” he said as Kirsty neared the end and pulled her close to the wall. He checked his watch and peeked out into the road. “Clear. Just walk.” He could see the hood of the van as they emerged onto the road.
Kirsty jumped into the driver’s seat and Montrose ran around to the passenger side.
“Go.” he said. “Turn left.”
She sat for a moment and shoved the van into gear. “No. We’ve got to know.”
“Kirsty,” Montrose shook his head. “Just go. Drive normally and then turn left.”
“No.” She held the wheel tight in her hands. “You saw what was in that apartment. And whatever the hell that means, they’ll work it out.” She slowly swung the van out into the road and checked her phone. “Nothing.” She switched it off and shoved it in her bag.
“Jesus, Kirsty, I think we’ll hear it.” He checked the stopwatch on his phone. “Go left. Now.”
She turned right, past the mews lane, just as the muted thump of an explosion shook the van.
In the mirror, he saw long tongues of flame erupting from the shattered windows.
*
Kane sat back in the Mercedes, staring down the road towards the apartment. The street was blocked by fire trucks and the sidewalk was awash with water where the fire crews had extinguished the flames before entering the building. Residents wrapped in survival foil were being guided to the end of the road by the police. “How
did you find them?” said Kane.
“Phone signal, sir. The one that was closest to Montrose when his signal cut. It must be his companion. We came as fast as we could.”
“Not fast enough, asshole.”
“Sir, I spoke to the team. The explosion happened just as they kicked the door in.”
Kane sat silent for a moment. “Don’t tell me. Suicide?”
“No, sir, we had a look at the body. He was shot through the back of the head with a large caliber round. He was face down and the window was broken from the outside. It was a shooter. Then someone set off an incendiary device.” Campbell pointed to the terraced buildings across from Warrender’s apartment. “It had to be from there. Judging by the position of the body, they couldn’t have hit Warrender from the street.”
Kane pressed his face against the glass and looked up at the opposite side of the road. “That isn’t random. That’s a planned hit. Who knew where he was?”
“We don’t know, sir, but someone is one step ahead of us.”
“You don’t fucking say. Where’s Purley?”
“That’s the issue, sir.”
Kane turned to stare at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“She had an unregistered phone. But we found the signal from her movements through Lambeth. It’s a very secure device, but we’ve found a way to track it.”
“Yeah? Show me.”
Campbell brought up his iPad and showed a map of London with a red line tracing through the streets. “Here are the positions of the cell phone masts that her phone polled when she left Thames House. We’ve triangulated all the signals and calculated proximity and distance from the signal response times. She was here ten minutes ago.”
“That fucking bitch!” He pounded the headrest in front of him, then grabbed Campbell by the lapels. “Find Montrose. Kill that prick.”
“Yes, sir. And Elizabeth Purley?”
“She’s not your concern. Leave her to me.”
*
Through the rear windshield Montrose could see a long column of smoke rising into the clear blue sky and gently drifting east.
Kirsty pulled the van into the side of the road.
“Not here,” said Montrose. “Keep going.”
“No, Connor.” She pointed along the tree-lined avenue of grand villas, bordered on both sides by high railings and walls. “Look down there.”
He ducked his head to see past the hanging branches of the trees.
“That’s Lancaster Gate, a major junction and a meeting point of three containment sectors. If they have coppers waiting there, we have to be very careful. It’s only a matter of time before they search CCTV and find the van. After the fireworks at Warrender’s place, false license plates are not going to do it for us. They’ll haul over every white van north of the river. Maybe they won’t spot us, but we can’t take that chance.”
“So what if they’re waiting for us?”
“Then we walk out and find a safe place.” She brought out the phone from her bag and thumbed the power button.
“I’d keep that switched off, Kirsty. You never know.”
“They’d have to be a genius to find my phone,” she smiled.
“Yeah, well, the CIA has got buildings full of them and they’re only looking for one thing. Me.” I hope to God it’s only me. No. It’s too late for that.
“Good point.” She pulled a new SIM card from her purse and slotted it into the phone, then reset the software. “Stay here.” Kirsty stepped from the van.
He opened the door. “I’ll come too.”
“No, they’re looking for two people. Chill out, keep an eye on the mirrors. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Montrose watched her head down the street. Where’s her bag? He turned and saw it lying on the passenger seat. Last chance. Do it now. Bring this madness to an end. Kane will give me whatever I want. This time, I’ll make sure. And make sure she’s safe. He looked along the street and saw her sitting on a wooden bench outside a pub. She can disappear. Get out of London. Grabbing the bag, he pulled it over. You won’t get another chance. He gripped the door handle. She’s a tough chick. He opened the door.
Doesn’t matter what deal I do. He let the handle of the bag slip from his grasp. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but they’ll kill her. They’ll never stop looking. The same death sentence as me.
Kirsty sat on the bench, swinging her leg and watching the traffic.
He jerked his head back to stretch his neck and curled his fists into a ball. Fucking man up, you asshole. The security of your country is at risk. Any fundamentalist or just plain crazy who gets access to that satellite will cause mayhem on an international scale. The whole defense of the US relies on satellites. It’s your country. And you’re staring at a chick? He rubbed his face. Warrender’s last words sounded in his head. If I had a choice between betraying my friends and betraying my country… He kicked open the door, grabbed the bag and held it tight in his hand, keeping to the cover of the trees as he strode down the road. The sound of sirens came closer. I’m sick of this shit.
She looked up as he approached.
“Kirsty, we’ve been here too long. We need to move. Fast.” He handed her the bag.
“That’s not a bad idea because, as a matter of fact, there’s a fat bloke sitting over there in his car and the traffic wardens are ignoring him. I smell bacon.”
“Which way?”
They turned back at the sound of screeching tires and saw a Range Rover slide to a halt beside the van. A black-suited figure stuck a machine pistol out of the window and emptied it through the window of the van.
Montrose felt his legs go weak. “Fuck.”
She slung the bag over her shoulder. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“Your town, Kirsty, which way?”
“Fancy a cup of coffee?”
He wanted to run, but could only stare at her.
“Any moment now this place is going to be cop central. So let’s not do anything that would attract attention, yeah?” She pointed to a Costa Coffee at the opposite junction. “They found the van far too quickly. We need wi-fi.”
*
The hum of traffic faded as she took a sharp right into a lane. High brick walls lined the sides, set with tradesmen’s entrances to the grand villas beyond. At her feet were the cobbled stones where she had played in her childhood. She stopped and brought out the faded photograph, then ducked into a doorway as the first deep sobs racked her body and her trembling hands became wet with tears. She crouched down before she fell and slumped against the door, holding the photo hard to her lips.
She opened her eyes and saw, through the mist of her tears, two boots in front of her. A hand grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up. The photo slipped from her grasp when she saw the long thin knife and a huge hand reached behind her head. She lunged to the side, but was like a rag doll in his hands and he pulled her head hard towards him, her nose flattening against his chest. The thrust of the knife lifted her feet from the ground. The blade burst up through her chest and her ribs popped as cartilage gave way.
Her arms hung limp as he held her whole body for a moment, then threw her into the doorway.
Her face hit the cobblestones. She felt cold, but there was no pain. She tried to lift her head and saw a pool of blood moving slowly towards the gutter. The photograph lay beside her. She opened her mouth to say his name, but only a red froth bubbled from her pale lips. Her eyelids flickered, then closed.
Chapter 16
Oh, fuck. Montrose watched a police van pull up outside the coffee shop. The rear doors flew open and eight cops in bulletproof vests carrying machine pistols jumped down and fanned out around the junction. Montrose slid down in his chair and squinted between the other customers. This was a shit idea. He noticed a stairway to his right, leading to a b
asement. That goes nowhere. He traced a path between the tables to the front door. There’s only one exit. And I’m looking at it.
Kirsty leaned over the table and handed him an earpiece. “I see them. If they knew we were here we’d be face down on the floor, so cheer up.” She held the microphone between their lips. “Come closer or it won’t work. We’re on. I’m waiting for the line to encrypt.”
Montrose heard static and then Pilgrim’s voice.
“Kirsty?”
She pulled Montrose closer until their cheeks almost touched and whispered into the microphone. “Yeah, we’re here. Where does it hurt?”
They heard him stifle a laugh. “Everywhere. What’s happening?”
Montrose was about to speak when Kirsty placed a finger on his lips. “We found him. Roger Warrender.”
“The traitor,” said Pilgrim. “I need to–”
“He’s dead,” Montrose interrupted. “Someone put a bullet through his brain while we were talking to him.”
There was silence on the line for a moment. “And I hope you managed to escape unharmed?”
“Yeah, we’re cool,” said Kirsty.
Montrose shook his head. “We’re trapped in a coffee shop with the police crawling all over the place, that’s not cool.”
“They think we’re running,” said Kirsty. “We’re safer in here.”
“Listen...”
“I’m sure Kirsty has it covered,” said Pilgrim. “We need to concentrate on who wanted to silence Warrender.”
“No. What’s really pissing me off right now,” said Montrose, “is that someone is supposed to be helping us, yeah? That someone gives us the information that leads us to Captain Wolff and then leads us to Warrender and then someone shoots the old man just as he’s about to spill the beans. What the hell is going on?”
“Montrose, you’re not the only one in the dark. Certain information has been given to me in confidence, the source of which I can never reveal. It is an excellent source, but has its dangers. I have to ensure that we are not being played for fools. Now, I have some information from the people who are looking after me. An address in Holland Park was gutted by fire, just as it was being raided by the security services. I assume that’s the address you last visited. The Press have the story that it was a terrorist cell.”
