Something to Die For

by Will Jordan

  Music and light spilled from an old-fashioned-looking pub on the corner, small knots of men standing outside smoking and talking. Much as Drake could have murdered a pint, he had other business to attend to.

  And that business lay about halfway along the narrow street.

  ‘You sure this is the place?’ Jessica asked dubiously, staring up at the dreary edifice that stood before them. A product of nineteenth-century Victorian architecture, it was a narrow, two-storey building sandwiched uncomfortably between larger structures that loomed over it like domineering big brothers. The stonework was weathered and darkened by decades of pollution, the paint peeling, the windows dirty and covered by cheap net curtains. A casual passer-by would be forgiven for thinking the place was long-defunct, but electric lights were dimly visible behind the tatty curtains.

  ‘Pretty sure,’ Drake said, pointing to a tarnished brass plaque by the door: Fitzgibbons and Carter Legal Services.

  Their online searches had failed to yield anything substantive on this legal firm – no website or social media presence, no mentions in news articles, not even an entry in the local business directory. Whatever Fitzgibbons and Carter did for a living, they certainly didn’t shout about it.

  Drake ascended the worn steps and tried the door. Finding it locked, he pressed the intercom. There was no buzz, and no light indicating the unit was connected.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Jessica grumbled, stepping past and thumping the door hard.

  Seconds ticked by as the rain pattered down and the cold wind gusted along the narrow street, carrying empty crisp packets and other pieces of drifting trash. The warm, lively pub was looking more appealing by the minute.

  At last there came the crunch of a reluctant lock being turned, and the big door swung open to reveal what Drake assumed to be Mr Frederick Fitzgibbons.

  With a lined and sagging face, watery eyes that had spent a lifetime scrutinising tedious legal documents and only a few wisps of uncertain white hair over his bald pate, Fitzgibbons must have been well into his seventies if he was a day.

  He scrutinised Drake and his sister over the rims of his reading spectacles, eyeing them as if they might rob him at any moment. Which wasn’t an entirely unfair assessment, given their appearance.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, his voice clipped and terse.

  ‘The name’s Drake. Ryan Drake. I’m here to see Mr Fitzgibbons.’

  ‘Regarding?’

  Reaching into his jacket, Drake produced the key given to him by his mother. ‘I’m looking for something to stick this in, and I’m not too particular.’

  Fitzgibbons’ eyes opened wider. ‘I see. You’d better come in, then.’

  Stepping back, he allowed Drake and Jessica to enter before closing and locking the door behind them.

  Chapter 16

  GCHQ, Cheltenham

  Hager looked up briefly from his terminal as floor manager Oliver Pendleton hurried over. A brusque, efficient man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, he always seemed to run at 110 per cent, somehow making everyone around him feel inadequate no matter how hard they were working.

  ‘What do you have, Wilson?’ he asked, leaning forward to scrutinise his work.

  ‘I’ve got a confirmed visual match on two persons of interest. Subject One is Jessica Drake, a thirty-five-year-old British female. Subject Two is a Tier One Person of Interest, no name or nationality.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Hager brought up the traffic surveillance camera and scanned the image before pointing to two individuals walking side by side, heads down and hoods up. ‘There they are, heading west on Langham Street.’

  ‘Where are they going?’ Pendleton wondered aloud.

  His answer wasn’t long in presenting itself. The two figures turned left into a narrow side street.

  ‘There,’ Hager said, his excitement building. ‘Middleton Place. It’s a pedestrian street that runs between the two main roads.’

  ‘Any cameras in there?’

  ‘No public systems, but there may be private units we can access.’

  ‘Okay. Get on it,’ Pendleton said, turning away and quickly dialling a number on his cell phone: a direct line to the head of MI5.

  ‘It’s Pendleton, sir. We have him.’

  * * *

  The interior of Fitzgibbons and Carter was pretty much what Drake had expected. The main hallway had likely been an impressive foyer when this place was first constructed, with high ceilings, wood panelled walls, tiled floors and intricately carved cornice work. But time and neglect had rendered it a bleak, depressing place, the floor tiles cracked and missing in places, the carved woodwork obscured behind countless layers of paint. Cheap strip lighting provided illumination. The damp, musty smell peculiar to old buildings hung in the air.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us at short notice, Mr Fitzgibbons,’ Jessica ventured. ‘I imagine you’re… erm, a busy man.’

  ‘Not at all, Ms Drake. For an account like yours, there’s always time.’

  To their surprise, a curious change had come over Fitzgibbons. The bent back straightened out as he drew himself up, the frail and diminished body grew sprightly and firm, the wizened and careworn face relaxed. It was as if the man was growing younger before their very eyes.

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, removing the reading spectacles before thrusting out a hand to Drake. ‘Frederick Fitzgibbons at your service.’

  Drake shook hands warily, surprised by the vigour of his grip. All was, apparently, not what it seemed with this man.

  ‘Forgive the amateur theatrics, but one has to maintain appearances,’ Fitzgibbons explained.

  ‘Why, exactly?’ Jessica asked.

  The old lawyer gave her a patient smile. ‘Anonymity, of course. It’s one of the main reasons our clients use my organisation.’ Sensing his words had done little to illuminate them, he beckoned for them to follow. ‘I imagine you have a lot of questions. Please, follow me and I’ll explain everything.’

  With that, he hurried off with fast and purposeful strides. Left with little alternative, Drake and Jessica followed in his wake.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ Jessica whispered.

  ‘I don’t know, but stick close,’ Drake advised, watching their host warily.

  Turning a corner, Fitzgibbons opened what looked like an old storage cupboard. Leaning in, he pulled on some hidden catch or lever, and suddenly the rear wall slid back, revealing an old-fashioned cage-style elevator. He pressed the button beside it, and there was a hum as the lift machinery went to work.

  ‘I must say, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m just sorry it couldn’t have been under happier circumstances.’ He paused, nodding to Jessica. ‘My condolences for the loss of your mother.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jessica said, hesitating before adding, ‘You mentioned something about “an account like yours”. What did you mean?’

  The elevator arrived with the crisp ping of a bell. Opening the cage, the old man gestured for them to enter. Warily they stepped inside, Jessica swallowing down an unpleasant feeling of claustrophobia. After pulling the cage shut, Fitzgibbons pressed the descend button.

  ‘Your mother Freya was one of our most valued clients, Ms Drake,’ he explained as the elevator slowly moved down its shaft. ‘Her account included our full range of services.’

  The elevator shuddered to a halt, allowing Fitzgibbons to open the cage once more. The plush, tastefully decorated and well-lit hallway stretching before them was a world away from the drab, cold and neglected building above.

  They weren’t alone here, either. A pair of men in suits, much younger and more heavily built than Fitzgibbons, flanked a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. Drake had been in enough secret facilities to recognise security men when he saw them.

  ‘What is this place?’ Jessica asked, staring around in awe.

  ‘Consider it a… storage facility,’ the old man said, escorting them towards the doub
le doors. ‘Our clients value two things – security and discretion. My organisation exists to provide both.’

  His words might not have meant much to Jessica, but for Drake it was entirely different. Over the years he’d heard rumours about places like this, almost urban legends in his line of work. Safety deposit vaults for the world’s richest and most notorious personalities. The kind of places that would store and handle just about anything (or anyone) for the right price, no questions asked.

  ‘This is a shielded structure. Your mobile phones won’t function down here,’ he explained apologetically. ‘A security precaution that I’m afraid we must insist upon.’

  ‘For you, or us?’ Drake asked.

  ‘For all of us,’ Fitzgibbons replied. ‘As I said, discretion is a priority here.’

  The security operatives opened the doors as they approached, permitting entry to a large, luxuriously appointed conference room beyond. A long table with rows of chairs along both sides occupied the central part of the room, facing a wall-mounted TV at the far end. A couple of additional couches and chairs had been positioned in various places around the room. The place reminded Drake of an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club.

  As the doors swung closed, Fitzgibbons let out a breath and clapped his hands.

  ‘Well, thank you for indulging us. This can be an unusual place for first-time clients. Please don’t take this as an insult, but we had begun to wonder if you would ever find us.’

  ‘I get that a lot these days,’ Drake said, giving his sister a look.

  ‘Indeed. Well, your package is being retrieved from our vault as we speak.’

  ‘Package?’ Jessica chipped in.

  ‘Your mother left the contents of her safety deposit box for you, to be presented on your arrival. You will of course need her personal security key to open it.’

  ‘What do you know about her?’ Drake asked.

  ‘As I say, Ms Shaw was one of our most valued clients. Her account services included full access to any of our facilities worldwide, Asylum and Safe Passage agreements, and document and equipment procurement.’

  ‘There are more places like this?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Many more. Not all of them are as charming as our little establishment here in London, of course.’

  Drake, however, was less interested in Fitzgibbons’ international empire than he was in the woman who had led them here.

  ‘Can you tell us what Freya was involved in? Who might have wanted her dead?’

  At this, the old man shook his head sadly. ‘Mr Drake, my organisation’s policy is one of strict neutrality. We are… somewhat removed from matters of international politics, including our clients’ occupations.’

  Their brief discussion was interrupted by a polite knock at the door.

  ‘But given that she left specific instructions for you to be granted entry, I daresay her safety deposit box might shed some light on things.’

  The doors opened, and another man entered bearing a locked metal box. It was bulky, about the size of a large briefcase, with folded handles set into the sides to aid with carrying. Resting on top was a laptop computer.

  Setting the box and the laptop down on the conference table, the man gave Fitzgibbons a curt nod and promptly departed.

  ‘Most clients prefer to access their boxes in private, so unless you need anything else, I’ll leave the two of you alone,’ the facility manager announced. ‘The door will be locked and guarded at all times. This room is soundproofed and free from electronic monitoring, so you can be assured of absolute privacy.’ He pointed to an intercom set into the conference table. ‘Please call if you need assistance, or you’re ready to leave. Otherwise, the room is yours for as long as you need.’

  Fitzgibbons excused himself, moving with the same brisk, efficient strides as before. The doors swung closed behind him, followed by a muted click as the locks were engaged.

  No sooner had they been left alone than Jessica let out her breath and practically fell into one of the high-backed chairs.

  ‘This may be the most surreal experience of my life. Coded letters, conspiracies, secret underground vaults…’ she said, rubbing her temples. ‘Seriously, is this the kind of thing you get up to when I’m not around?’

  ‘Not really,’ Drake admitted. He was in uncharted waters now, with no past knowledge he could make use of. All he had was the box in front of him.

  ‘Well?’ Jessica prompted. ‘Are you going to open it?’

  Drake looked down at the key that had so mystified him these past few years, so close now to fulfilling its purpose. It was a substantial weight in his hand, the significance of this moment somehow adding to its feeling of ominous weight.

  ‘We’re going to learn things about her today,’ he warned his sister quietly. ‘Things we won’t be able to forget. You sure you want to do this?’

  Rising slowly to her feet, Jessica looked at him. ‘I didn’t come all this way to turn back now.’ Taking a deep breath, she gave a firm nod. ‘I’m ready.’

  Stepping forward, Drake inserted the distinctive three-bladed key into the armoured box, gripped it firmly and gave it a turn.

  There was a muted click as the internal locking mechanism disengaged, and the top sprang open slightly. Drake swung the lid upwards, surprised both by its thickness and weight, at last revealing the contents.

  Chapter 17

  Secret Intelligence Service Headquarters – London, UK

  Standing by the window of the corner office that he’d requisitioned, Jason Hawkins took a sip of his coffee as he stared out across the London skyline. He’d never cared much for England. Shit weather, shit food and, if the burnt and bitter contents of his cup were anything to go by, shit coffee, too.

  But here he was, on the top floor of the bizarre, pyramid-like fortress that served as the headquarters of MI6, situated at Vauxhall Cross on the south bank of the Thames. Cain had already seen to it that he was afforded every bit of clearance and cooperation he needed to go about his business.

  The Brits clearly resented his presence here, not that he cared much. They were paper tigers, capable of doing little more than pissing and moaning about things they didn’t like. The Agency owned them, and now Cain effectively owned the Agency. Which gave Hawkins all the authority he needed.

  And what he wanted most of all was to find Ryan Drake and kill the son of a bitch. They’d played a long game of cat and mouse, and though Hawkins had come frustratingly close to ending it on several occasions, somehow Drake had eluded him.

  But not for much longer. He couldn’t explain it, but deep down he felt it. The pieces moving into their final positions.

  The endgame.

  His thoughts were intruded upon when the door to the office flew open and a young intelligence officer hurried in.

  ‘I assume you never learned to knock?’ Hawkins asked pointedly.

  ‘Sorry, sir. But you said you wanted to be notified right away if we got a lead.’ He held out a printed report. ‘We have a confirmed sighting.’

  Abandoning his coffee, Hawkins snatched the printed report and quickly scanned it, his excitement growing with each line. Drake had been sighted, right here in London. And even better, his sister was with him.

  One thing he had to commend the Brits on was their surveillance capabilities. In many of the countries in which he’d operated, a man could disappear without difficulty. But not here. Here there were almost as many cameras as people; something Drake himself was doubtless aware of.

  So why was he here? Why take the risk?

  ‘How accurate is the facial match?’

  ‘Accurate enough for GCHQ to flag it.’

  ‘And how long ago was this taken?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  Hawkins turned away, looking out across the city as if his vision could somehow penetrate the hundreds of buildings that stood between them. If this match was accurate, then Drake was just a few miles away from him at this very moment.

  ‘P
ut my team on alert. Tell them to be ready to deploy,’ he instructed. ‘You also have your own field teams, I assume?’

  ‘We do, sir. Two rapid response teams on permanent standby. They can be anywhere in the city in under thirty minutes. Plus local armed police units.’

  Hawkins smiled. ‘Get them ready to move.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘All of them. Go now.’

  As the young officer hurried away, Hawkins consulted the address where Drake was suspected of making entry. Fitzgibbons and Carter Legal Services. The name was familiar to him, though it took him a few seconds to recall why.

  When he did, a slow smile began to form.

  ‘Ryan, you clever son of a bitch,’ he whispered. Now he knew why Drake had come here, why he’d taken the risk. Why he thought himself safe.

  Vaults were considered the safest of safe houses, protected not only by physical security measures but also by a more subtle, yet far more formidable series of agreements and treaties amongst the major players in the intelligence world. They were like the Switzerland of the covert espionage game, their neutrality almost inviolable.

  Breaking such an agreement could have serious consequences, but that wasn’t his concern any longer. Cain had told him to use any and all measures to take down Drake, no matter the cost.

  No matter the cost.

  Chapter 18

  ‘My God,’ Jessica gasped as her eyes alighted on the contents of the box.

  Drake didn’t blame her. He was by now quite familiar with ‘security blankets’, as they were known, and recognised the contents right away. His sister, however, came from a different world.

  The first and most obvious items were the stacks of money, wrapped and secured inside plastic Ziploc bags, each holding a significant quantity of different currencies, from US dollars to pounds and euros. Opening one, Drake guessed he was holding forty, maybe fifty thousand pounds.

  He set the bundle aside. The money might prove useful in due course, but Freya hadn’t brought him all this way just to pad out his bank account.