by Mark Leggatt
“I’m impressed,” said Kirsty. She gently elbowed him in the side. “We must compare notes sometime. How is Mr. Pilgrim?”
Lockhart cleared his throat. “As well as can be expected. We’ve arranged for him to be transferred to a clinic on the Continent as soon as his condition is stable enough to allow travel. The United Kingdom is a little too hot for him right now.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Best not,” said Lockhart. “It’s essential that all communication is kept to an absolute minimum. Everything is being tracked. And I mean everything. Besides, your phone won’t work in here.” He tapped the roof. “Armor plating. Plays havoc with the signal.”
“Fair enough,” said Kirsty and switched off the phone.
Montrose eased down in the leather seats. “Tell me your story, Mr. Lockhart.”
Lockhart smiled. “What I can tell you would not be terribly illuminating, I’m afraid, though I’m sure you understand. There is, how can I say, a growing distrust between certain areas of British Intelligence and the actions of the US security services. The revelation of Edward Snowden showed the British, and, might I add, the Canadians, New Zealanders and Australians, that their own security organizations were at risk due to the actions of certain Cousins on the other side of the pond and that a lot of information that was supposed to be shared, was not. This is of great concern, especially to our Foreign Secretary. He has close ties with a number of people in the Security Services from his army days. Let’s just say we are members of a rather more independent division and Mr. Pilgrim has been a friend for many years.”
“Where is he?” said Kirsty.
“Whitechapel. Some of our old friends from the East End are looking after him.”
Kirsty grinned. “East End boys? I think I’d rather mess with your lot than those geezers.”
“Geezers?” said Montrose.
“Gangsters,” replied Kirsty.
Lockhart coughed. “Or rather, independent businessmen who have a very high regard for their country.” His smile vanished and he looked distraught for a moment, before he leaned over and spoke in a low voice. “If I may, and of course this is just my opinion, bearing in mind I am not totally au fait with both the situation and the facts of the matter, I…”
Jeez, spit it out. “Go for it,” said Montrose.
“I think it better if... whatever information you hold, if any, should be destroyed.”
Montrose nodded. “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard all day.”
“Thank you,” said Lockhart. “Miss Purley was a very dear friend of mine. I shall miss her enormously.” He cleared his throat and stuck his chin in the air. “Of course, if I can help in any way?”
Kirsty gently patted his thigh and Lockhart blushed. “I’ve got it covered. Trust me.”
*
Campbell pushed open the glass door. “We have a signal. Her phone.”
Kane jumped up and winced in pain. “Where?”
“Some place called Mount Pleasant. Near the main Post Office. It was only for a few seconds. But it was there.”
“When?”
“Two minutes ago.”
“Find them!”
“The signal’s gone. We’re tracking the whole area.”
“Close all the roads. All the containment sectors. Shut this fucking town down!”
Campbell’s iPad beeped and he looked out to the office where his team pointed to a technician. “I think I know why.” He gestured to the men and two of them lifted an MI5 technician from his chair and marched him over to the office. “In here,” said Campbell and shoved the technician in front of the desk. “Talk.”
The technician shuffled his feet. “Well, the signal disappeared near Paddington and then briefly reappeared near Mount Pleasant.”
“We know that. What else?”
“Both of them are old Post Office distribution centers. And the only thing that connects them is the secret railway.”
Kane edged around the desk. “The fucking what? You have a secret railway?”
“It’s a disused underground railway for the Post Office. It goes right across London. Hasn’t been used in years. But it’s still there. It still works, most of it.”
“So why the signal at Mount Pleasant?”
“Maybe they were nearer the surface. You know, when you sometimes get a signal on your phone in an underground station?”
“No, I don’t fucking know,” said Kane, advancing towards him. “Where does it go? After Mount Pleasant?”
“Liverpool Street, I think. And then Whitechapel. The East End.”
Kane jabbed a finger in the technician’s face. “Get the fuck out of here.” He turned to Campbell. “Get me a helicopter.”
Chapter 30
The stained ochre brick walls closed in and the Jaguar rolled from side to side on the uneven cobbles. Through the windshield Montrose looked along a narrow, dingy alley lined with shuttered windows.
“We’ll get out my side of the car,” said Lockhart. “There are no cameras here. The proprietors are, shall we say, not too keen on surveillance.” The Jaguar pulled up beside rusting iron gates. Lockhart got out of the Jaguar and held the door for Kirsty.
Montrose shuffled across the seat behind Kirsty and stepped into a small courtyard, stacked with metal beer kegs and wire cages packed with flattened cardboard.
Lockhart leaned in towards the driver. “I’ve organized transport for our guests. Secure the exit, then report back.”
The driver nodded and the Jaguar rumbled down the lane.
Montrose whispered to Kirsty, “What is this place?”
“Deepest, darkest Whitechapel,” she replied.
He heard a bolt being thrown and looked down a path carved out between the beer kegs to see a fire exit door open and a huge, shaven-headed man in a long, dark coat fill the doorway. “Welcome to Whitechapel,” he grinned. “Home of Jack the Ripper and the best curry in the world.”
Lockhart nodded to the man. “This is our host, Mr. Kent.”
Kirsty walked towards the door. “He’s not here, is he?”
“Who?” said Kent.
“Old Jack.”
“Nah. He was, though.” Kent pointed to a corner of the yard. “That’s where they found one of his victims. She was a sorry mess.” He stepped aside and held out a hand. “Your friend is upstairs.”
“Jack?” said Montrose.
“The Ripper,” replied Kirsty.
“Lovely to see you again, Mr. Kent,” said Lockhart.
“And you, Mr. Lockhart, if only these were happier times.”
“Such is the way of the world.”
Kent slammed the fire door behind them. “Straight ahead. Lead the way, young lady.”
Montrose followed Kirsty through a heavy black curtain and down a narrow corridor, paint peeling off the walls and floorboards squeaking under his feet. They emerged into a long, wooden bar. He stared at the fading grandeur, sumptuously decorated mirrors, tiled walls and etched glass, lined with mirrors and bottles. But for all the Victorian opulence, the bar was pitted and stained and the air reeked of beer and sweat. In a corner, a steel pole was bolted into an unvarnished wooden dais, grimy metal stretching to the roof. This isn’t the Playboy mansion.
“End of the bar,” said Kent.
Kirsty turned into a low doorway, then up a steep staircase.
Montrose bowed his head and followed her through. He lost sight of Kirsty for a moment then heard her running.
“Kirsty?” It was Pilgrim.
Montrose looked up to the top of the stairs. At the end of the hall was a bedroom, where he could see Kirsty hugging Pilgrim on the bed. Half the room was filled with camera equipment and open bags of lingerie. He did a double-take when he spotted a woman by the bedside, squeezed into a latex nurse’s unif
orm. At the other side of the bed stood an Asian doctor in long white robes and a taqiyah skull cap.
Pilgrim slowly raised a hand as Montrose entered. “I hear you have had quite a day.” He nodded towards Lockhart, standing in the doorway. “Thank you for delivering them safely, Mr. Lockhart and give my regards to both your team and the Foreign Secretary.”
Kent appeared beside Lockhart, his head grazing the top of the doorframe. “The transport is here. When you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” said Lockhart. “I wonder if it would be wise to wait until things are a little quieter out there?”
Pilgrim tried to sit up on the bed. “I heard the helicopters. They’re a bit too close for comfort. What’s the latest?”
“They’re over the central Post Office,” said Kent. “That’s the final destination of the Mail Rail. They must have worked it out. The place has been sealed off. And I don’t think they are going away anytime soon.”
“I might be able to help with that,” said Kirsty and pulled a phone from her bag.
“I would strongly advise that all mobile phones are switched off,” said Lockhart.
“This has never been used,” she replied. “The number is untraceable.”
“I’ve got some clothes for you next door, young lady,” said Kent.
Kirsty jumped off the bed. “Cheers, mate. Any knock-off designer gear?” She looked down at the bags. “You have a nice line in lingerie.”
Kent laughed and stepped aside for Kirsty.
“How are you?” said Montrose.
“Hurts like hell,” said Pilgrim. “But I’ll live.”
“He needs specialist care,” said the doctor. “There’s always a risk of secondary infection. We need proper facilities and he’s not to be moved, if at all possible.”
Lockhart raised an eyebrow. “Unless they stop re-enacting Apocalypse Now outside, I think that’s going to be unavoidable.”
“I understand,” replied the doctor. “I must go. Please call me if I can be of any help.” The doctor closed his bag then laid a hand on Pilgrim’s head. “Ma’a as-salaama, my friend.”
Pilgrim closed his eyes for a moment. “Ila-liqaa.”
The tiles on the roof rattled as a helicopter swooped overhead.
“That’s too bloody close for comfort,” said Lockhart.
“Kirsty’s phone,” said Montrose. He rushed from the room and shoved open the first door he saw.
Kirsty spun around, holding a T-shirt to cover her naked body. “Well, at least close the bloody door.”
“Your phone!” He grabbed it from the bed and thumbed the power button. The windows rattled as the helicopter hovered over the building and then moved away.
Kirsty looked down at the phone. “But I’ve never made a call with it. It’s totally untraceable.”
“Did you have it switched on next to mine? Or in the Russian Embassy? Or one you had used previously?”
“Maybe, I don’t know...”
“Get some clothes on. We’ve got to move.”
Kirsty turned away from him and pulled on the T-shirt.
From the corner of his eye, Montrose saw the bright red Welsh dragon tattooed on her ass.
She pulled on her panties. “Hey, no peeping. You’ve seen enough for today. And get me a clean phone. If we’re going away for the weekend, I need to phone a friend.”
Montrose opened the door. Lockhart and Kent shuffled along the corridor with Pilgrim on a stretcher.
“There’s an ambulance waiting,” said Lockhart. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“London City Airport. Six miles from here. We have to take off before the net closes.”
*
“We’ve lost it. We had a good signal, but it dropped before we could complete triangulation.” The technician adjusted her glasses and leaned into the screen, drawing her finger across a map.
“Where?” Kane leaned into the screen.
“Somewhere in Whitechapel. It was only for a few seconds, so it didn’t triangulate with all the transmission posts.”
“Find it, you asshole.”
The technician’s fingers froze on the keyboard. “What did you say?” She turned the chair around to face him.
“Hey, less of the drama, sweetcheeks. Just do your job.”
She nodded slowly. “Sweetcheeks, eh?” She looked directly at him. “Do you want any more broken ribs, you fat, Yankee arsehole?”
Kane leaned over towards her and stuck a finger in her face. “Hey, I don’t need your shit. Find that fucking phone.”
“Yeah? Or what? What you gonna do?”
“What the hell? Just do your...”
Campbell leaned into the keyboard. “I’ll do it.”
The technician spun around in her chair and brought up her elbow hard, powering into the bridge of Campbell’s nose. His head snapped backward and blood splattered across his shirt.
Two black-suited guards reached for their guns.
The technician logged off and stood up, facing the guards. “What are you gonna do? Shoot me? Yeah? Well, why don’t you just do it, so I won’t have to put up with your shite anymore.” Other technicians rose from their desks.
“What is this?” said Kane. “A fucking revolution?”
Several of the technicians leaned down to their keyboards and logged off.
The technician grinned as she looked around. “What if it is?” she said and leaned in towards him. “Sweetcheeks.” She held out a finger, pointed at his ribs.
“Get the hell away from me! You fucking assholes, you fucking second-rate Limey jerk-offs!” He turned to the guards. “Get everyone to Whitechapel. Seal all the roads. Go!”
Chapter 31
The ambulance cut the sirens. Montrose looked out the rear window and saw the signs to the private jet terminal. “Is this secure?”
Lockhart pulled a pistol from his jacket. “Yes. My two men in the Jaguar are waiting for us. Any more would attract too much attention.” High steel security gates closed behind the ambulance. Lockhart stood ready at the doors. “The airport have been alerted that we have a passenger being transferred for urgent medical treatment, so we have priority. The jet will be waiting. No pack drill, no tickets, we just go.” The ambulance pulled up at the terminal building. Lockhart held his gun low and threw open the doors.
The Jaguar came around to the side and two soldiers jumped out, machine pistols raised, scanning the tarmac. A Learjet stood twenty feet away. A flight attendant emerged from the door, beckoning them over. Another rushed down the steps of the jet to help Lockhart as he pulled the stretcher from the back of the ambulance.
Montrose looked up. He could smell the River Thames close by and hear the faint noise of helicopters, but they were blocked from sight by the skyscrapers in the financial district of Canary Wharf. He looked down the runway. The old Victorian sea dock stretched directly in front of him, about a hundred feet wide, with dark water on either side.
Two businessmen carrying suitcases emerged from the terminal. “Hey!” said the first, pointing to the ambulance. “How long’s this going to take? We’ve been delayed long enough. How come that guy’s taking off and we’re stuck here?” He pointed to a Learjet emblazoned with the livery of an oil company, edging past them, heading for the runway.
A young woman in a flight uniform appeared from the terminal doors. “Gentlemen, please, I asked you to stay in the terminal. This is a medical emergency and has priority. We’ll ensure you take off as quickly as possible.”
The two soldiers glanced around and then returned to scanning the runway. One ran over and stood guard at the door as Lockhart and Kirsty lifted Pilgrim into the jet. The other headed for the runway.
Another member of the terminal staff appeared at the doors with a telephone in her hand. “Major Salter?”
The soldier turned around. “Yes?”
“I have a call for you. They say it’s extremely urgent.”
Salter looked quizzically at her and then took the phone. “Major Salter here.” He listened for a moment and then barked into the receiver. “I am a British soldier and I do not take orders from Washington.” He cut the call and handed her the phone.
“Who was that?” shouted Lockhart.
“I didn’t wait to find out. Some bloody Yank shouting his mouth off.”
Kirsty screamed. “Connor!”
Montrose turned and saw the businessmen drop their open suitcases and pull out compact machine pistols.
They opened fire and Salter crumpled to the tarmac. He rolled onto his back and tried to get to his knees, firing his weapon in short bursts, taking down one man, but flew backwards as several rounds caught him in the face. He lay motionless on the ground.
Montrose hit the deck and scrambled towards the jet.
The second soldier ran over, weapon raised, but was cut down as a burst of automatic fire tore through his legs. Bullets pinged around the tarmac and caught him in the neck. A spray of arterial blood spewed out. Lockhart came running from the jet, pistol raised and slotted two rounds into the second man’s chest. The man twisted backwards and slammed into the ground. Lockhart ran over and placed two more rounds into the man’s head, then turned to the jet and pointed to Kirsty. “Go!”
The sound of helicopters became louder, echoing off the buildings. Montrose could hear the flight attendant shouting from the open door of the Learjet.
Kirsty knelt behind the steps of the jet, looking at the sky, and brought out her phone.
Montrose grabbed Salter’s gun and raced over to her. “Kirsty, get on the fucking plane.”
She didn’t look up, but stared at the screen as the phone booted up. “Not yet.”
The sound of helicopters filled the air. The flight attendant began to pull up the steps to the jet. Montrose stamped on the bottom step to hold them down. He gripped Kirsty’s arm. “They’re not going to wait, we need to get the hell out of here!”
She thumbed a number on the phone. “It’s too late, Connor, they’ll be on us in seconds. I have to do this.” She lifted her phone to her ear and shouted, “Do it!”, then scrambled to her feet and ran up the steps of the jet.
