by Matt Johnson
‘Did it work?’ Toni called, as she threw her coat towards the rack. It missed its target and fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.
‘Would you mind telling us what’s going on?’ said Nell, her face glued to her screen.
‘Did Mrs Bickerton explain?’
‘Not a bloomin’ word … and she left right after you called.’
‘What happened when she was here with you?’
‘We sat in silence, mostly,’ said Stuart. ‘Longest hour I’ve ever experienced. She only really spoke when I tried to leave.’
‘To say what?’ Toni asked.
‘To tell us both that we had to stay here until she was authorised to release us.’
‘I see.’ Toni turned her attention back to Nell. ‘Did the GPS work?’
‘Yes. I have a grid reference for you. It’s on the pad on your desk.’
‘So where is he?’
‘Wales. Near the Brecon Beacons.’
‘Wales? Jesus. Is he stationary or on the move?’
‘Stationary since I activated the phone’s tracker.’
‘OK.’ Toni glanced at the six-figure number on her pad and then joined Nell at her desk. She beckoned Stuart across from where he stood looking out through the gaps in the blinds that covered the large window. She took a deep breath. This was going to be complicated.
Once Toni had finished summarising what she had read in the report Dyer had handed her, both Nell and Stuart sat quietly for several seconds.
‘So … any thoughts?’ she asked.
‘Does this kind of thing happen often?’ asked Stuart. ‘Different departments within the Service working on the same thing and our Director knowing about it but not telling us.’
Toni screwed up her face and forced a smile. ‘Quite probably. Point is, there now seems to be an officer gone rogue and we need to find him.’
‘This Howard Green character?’ Stuart asked.
‘Yes. According to Assistant Director Dyer, Howard has been turning a blind eye to the traffickers in exchange for information on who they launder money for and where they send it.’
‘Like I said,’ chipped in Nell.
‘And he’s dipped his finger in the pie?’ said Stuart.
‘So it seems. It looks like it started with sexual favours and progressed onto financial stuff.’ She smiled at Nell, a look intended to acknowledge that her assistant had been right in her suspicions. ‘Last year when we had him in that taxi and threatened to go looking into his bank accounts, he must have shit a brick.’
‘Literally,’ said Stuart. ‘If the look on his face was anything to go by.’
‘And the Director’s convinced Howard is going after Jones and Finlay?’ asked Nell.
‘And that the agent he had undercover has been compromised.’ Toni replied.
‘Miles Chadbourne?’ said Nell.
‘Yes,’ said Toni. ‘And now it seems the best hope we have of tracing them is through the burner phone I gave Finlay.’
‘They’re a good four hours away,’ said Stuart, thoughtfully. ‘We won’t be able to do anything from here and you’d need to do some kind of a recce to try and find out what was going on.’
Toni paused, although her mind was racing. ‘How far is the signal from Credenhill Army Base, Nell?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. An hour or so, maybe two hours?’
‘No, I mean flight time, or as the crow flies. How long would it take a helicopter to get from Hereford and then overfly that grid reference?’
‘Once they were in the air … maybe ten to fifteen minutes?’
‘And where is it, a village, out in the open, what?’
Nell tapped her keyboard. A map appeared on her screen showing a mountainous area covered in fir trees. ‘Isolated and not easy to make a covert approach, if I might suggest—’
Toni held up her hand to kill any further conversation as she fished in her pocket for a small card the Director had given her not fifteen minutes previously. She picked up the phone and dialled the number. It was answered on the second ring.
‘Sir, it’s Fellowes here,’ she said, her chest tight, her breathing shallow. ‘We have a location for Finlay in Wales. I wonder if you might be prepared to put in a call to DSF, Director Special Forces?’
Chapter 64
On my knees, looking up at the screen on the bonnet of the car, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the irony.
In return for saving the life of his daughter, Gheorghe Cristea – publisher, slave trafficker, arms smuggler and murderer – was planning to grant me a quick and easy death.
‘How is Marica, Gheorghe?’ I asked, enquiring after his daughter in an attempt to remind him I had saved her life. I sensed we were fast approaching the moment when the talking would be over. My fate could prove to be Kevin’s good fortune though. With me now the focus of attention, I figured he had a much better chance of making it to the tree line. If I could delay, maybe even create a distraction, some empathy or some doubt, a chance for an escape might happen yet.
On the laptop screen, the face sneered. Sound and vision were out of sync so the heavily accented and angry voice that followed wasn’t matched by the lip movements. ‘She wishes you dead, as I do, police spy.’
‘You’ll be a marked man, Gheorghe. If Petre here has told you the truth, you’ll know that friends of mine will come after you for this.’
‘I doubt that very much Finlay,’ called Howard as he stepped closer to me.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Petre smile as he pulled a small pistol from the paper bag he now held.
Gheorghe replied, but I didn’t hear it. My ears focussed on the sound of the slide of a small calibre pistol being cocked and the soft click of a round sliding into the breech. My thoughts were elsewhere, a very long way off, in another place, another time.
Then another noise caught my attention. Not close, but familiar. The whump-like beat of helicopter rotor blades slicing through air. And not just any helicopter. The twin rotors of a Chinook.
‘Rescue on its way,’ I muttered, more in prayer than hope.
Petre glanced skyward as the volume increased. The aircraft was close, but travelling at speed. They were passing through, not landing. But the distraction might provide the opportunity we needed.
Perhaps two or three hundred feet above, the Chinook flew right over us. It didn’t deviate course or speed and, within a few seconds, the beat began to fade into the distance as it continued on its journey.
‘Seven Squadron from Credenhill,’ said Howard, his voice now close. ‘Best get this over with in case they’re on exercise nearby.’
He was talking to Petre. I figured he was right about the aircraft. 7 Squadron RAF were part of the Special Forces support arm and they often flew routes over the Beacons supporting training exercises and transporting troops here and there.
‘Do thy worse for I have lived today,’ I said quietly, intended solely for my own ears but overheard by Howard.
From behind me, he misquoted another line from Dryden’s poem. ‘What has been, has been, and you have had your hour, Finlay.’
I closed my eyes and remembered. ‘The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine,’ I said, as I waited. And as the seconds ticked passed I enjoyed them. I could smell the pine scent of the trees, the dampness of the grass, even the aroma of Petre’s sweat. I heard the wind, felt it gently stroking my skin and I revelled in the sensation. I thought of Jenny, Becky and Charlie and I felt the warmth of my love for them.
And for the first time in longer than I could recall, I felt at peace.
My ear exploded to the sound of the first shot.
Then there was a second, then more. Rapid firing such that I lost track. Around me I heard cries, the sound of a round hitting the car and, near me, the thud of something heavy hitting the ground.
No pain, I realised. No pain. Either I was dead and was now experiencing my personal answer to a mystery nobody living had ever known an answer to,
or I was very much alive and something major had happened. I flung myself to my left, away from Petre and rolled as best I could around towards the driver side of the Range Rover.
Concealed near the wheel arch, I listened for a clue as to what was going on. I was alive, very much so. But what had happened?
Nobody came for me. A second passed, then two, still nothing. The smell of cordite hit my nostrils. I strained at the plastic cuffs around my wrists, ignoring the pain as I pulled on them with every ounce of strength my arms could muster. I rolled onto my side, pulled up my knees and tried to stand. As I struggled, a shadow appeared beside me on the grass. I looked up.
And saw the face of Brian McNeil staring down at me. ‘Lie still,’ he ordered.
From somewhere nearby the sound of a shot was met by an explosion of glass above us as a window of the Range Rover shattered.
‘One x-ray down, three active,’ hissed McNeil as he pinned me down.
I felt my arms spring apart and caught a glimpse of a blade in his left hand.
‘Take this,’ he added, as he shoved a pistol into my hand. ‘Mag’s full.’
A moment later, he was gone, diving away to my left, away from where I had last seen Kevin. I rolled onto my knees and glanced around me in the hope of finding better protection than the car afforded. The door to the bothy was within a few metres, as was the log store, but both required crossing open ground – exposing myself to unknown threats.
A burning sensation ran up both arms, stinging and raw as the blood started to flow again and feeling returned to my hands. I flexed my fingers as I checked the weapon McNeil had handed me. It was a Browning.
To my right, someone squeezed off two rounds. This time, whoever it was wasn’t aiming at me.
I took the chance to take a quick look over the top of the car. In the fraction of a second I allowed myself to be exposed, I saw all that I needed to. Petre was down, face in the dirt near the front bumper, Kevin was away to my right behind a large tree. In front of us, Grady and the woman who’d arrived with him were taking cover behind Grady’s car. Of Howard Green, there was no sign. To my left, behind another tree, I caught a glimpse of McNeil.
The only target available to me was Petre. He was lying face down, injured but still alive. Slowly, his right hand was moving towards the pistol he had been intending to use on me. I kept the largest part of me behind the engine bay of the Range Rover and leaned towards him. I could see enough. I raised the pistol, lined the metal sight up with the back of his head and squeezed off two rounds. A scarlet spray of blood and brain tissue flew into the air and his whole body jerked as if a powerful electric surge was passing through it. End game, Petre, I said to myself.
I looked across at Kevin, who returned my glance and gave me a thumbs-up. He quickly followed this with a series of hand signals. Two x-rays – suppressing fire – five seconds. I gave him an ‘OK’ to show that I understood and then began my countdown.
‘What happened?’ I asked McNeil.
‘You didn’t know I was coming, did you?’ he replied.
I hadn’t remembered, but now, as I thought back to the fight in the car park, I recalled the phone conversation with Kevin, and the arrangement they’d made.
I was looking down at Petre. The laptop screen was now dark. Whatever had happened to the connection, I couldn’t tell. And I wondered if Gheorghe had been able to witness what had happened before he had disconnected. I hoped he had seen and recognised the prophetic nature of my warning.
Kevin appeared from behind Grady’s car. ‘The woman’s dead,’ he said.
‘Where’s Howard?’ I asked.
‘He’s fine.’ Kevin turned away from me and appeared to kick out at something on the floor. A thud followed by a groan caught my ear and, as I approached, I saw Howard Green, uninjured and on the ground. Chris Grady was next to him but looked to be in a poor state. He was on his back, chest heaving, skin pale, and with a mixture of blood and spit spraying from his mouth as he struggled to breathe. In Kevin’s hand, I saw he was holding a black bin liner and, as he leaned over Grady, I guessed what he was intending to do.
I was about to say something when McNeil grabbed my arm. I looked at him and saw the warning in his eyes – mind my own business.
By the time I returned my gaze towards Kevin, it was too late. He was on his knees, his lips pressed hard against Grady’s left ear as he hissed some form of message. The bag was tight over Grady’s face. The hitman’s left arm could move, but he was weak from loss of blood and Kevin was strong. Within a few seconds, he abandoned his futile attempt to pull the plastic away from his face and his arm fell away limp by his side. Very soon after that his chest stopped moving as he took his last breath.
I turned to McNeil. ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.
‘Half an hour or so, while I waited for the right moment. I saw the cars and figured something was up, so I came through the forest on foot. Good job I did, it seems.’
As I listened, I surveyed the scene around us. Miles, the MI5 officer, was still tied to the planks where he had been tortured, the ground around him wet. His face was covered by a grey cloth but I could see he was still breathing.
‘We’d best untie him,’ I said.
‘Leave it to me,’ McNeil said. ‘I think you and Kevin will be wanting a little chat with Howard over there.’
‘You remember him, then?’ I said.
‘Ach aye, of course. It was him we first handed the Arabic script to. He was the MI6 liaison officer in Afghan back in the eighties.’
‘You didn’t shoot him? After what he’s supposed to have done to all the others on that operation?’
McNeil shrugged, as if what I was suggesting hadn’t occurred to him. ‘He was nae armed. I took the big guy near you first as he had a weapon drawn.’
‘Calm as that?’
‘Like we were taught, boss. We’re not exactly playing games here, yer ken?’
I understood. McNeil hadn’t given our three captors a chance and he’d never intended to. Petre would have been shot before he even realised what had happened to him. Grady and the woman, pinned down by fire from me and Kevin, had been unable to prevent McNeil outflanking them. They hadn’t stood a chance, but like McNeil had said, this wasn’t a game where you could press a button for a new life. This was kill or be killed.
Kevin was now kneeling beside Howard, whispering something in his ear. The MI6 officer was face down, his arms by his sides, his legs stretched out. As I closed on them I saw his hands, and for the first time I saw the state of his fingertips, chewed and raw, just as Shabat had described.
‘There’s a phone in the Citroen, Kev,’ I said. ‘I’ll call for help. I think Toni is best to handle this rather than the local cops?’
‘Go ahead. Probably best you don’t see what I’m going to do to this bastard.’
I thought for a moment. ‘What you did to Grady was wrong, Kev,’ I said.
‘I wanted him to feel what it was like – to go through the same pain as Sandi.’
‘OK.’ I glanced across at McNeil, who had started to release the MI5 officer from the board he was tied to. McNeil only half acknowledged me. It was clear I’d get no support from him. ‘Death is the wrong way to deal with people like Howard, Kev; he needs the humiliation of a public trial…’
‘Which we both know won’t fuckin’ happen,’ he hissed. ‘If he walks away from here he’ll do a deal.’
I was struggling to find the right words. Both morally and professionally I knew the revenge Kevin was intending to inflict was wrong. But at the same time I understood. Like me, though, Kevin was still a serving police officer. I knew the anger he was feeling, I even sympathised with him, but what he was talking about was retribution, not justice.
Then an idea came to me, a way that might get through to him. ‘This isn’t just about Sandi though, is it Kev?’ I asked.
‘It’s all about Sandi,’ he screamed suddenly. Then paused, taking a deep breath before continu
ing more calmly. ‘What Howard did to the others was his job. Everyone who tried to make money out of that document knew they were taking a risk. They just didn’t know it was Howard running the show.’
‘And what about before that? Toni and I agreed not to tell you about Howard’s role because we knew you’d go after him.’
Kevin paused again, as if thinking – or possibly remembering, playing something back in his mind. ‘And I understand why,’ he said.
‘Because of what happened in Afghanistan?’ I asked.
‘Yes, because of that. He was prepared to let me and the Mujahideen lads die just to get his hands on some Russian kit.’
‘And that’s why you want to punish him?’
‘Summary justice, boss … and in this case, the only way he’s ever going to really pay.’
At Kevin’s feet, I could see Howard listening as I negotiated for his life. He was keeping very quiet, just as I might have done in his position. I wondered what the instructors on the negotiator course would make of the situation I now found myself in – how they might advise me, what conversation track they might suggest I try. And I realised then that I was losing; for if there is one thing a negotiator has to have as he talks to a perpetrator, it is a determination to succeed and a belief that he can. Without that drive, that will to overcome any issue, he will not prevail. Deep down, I didn’t have the will to save Howard. As I had with Petre, I could have put a bullet into the MI6 officer’s brain at that very moment and not felt the slightest tinge of sympathy or regret. And Kevin knew it too.
‘Make the call, boss,’ he said. ‘And tell her to hurry up.’
‘Tell me you won’t touch him.’
‘OK, I won’t hurt him.’
I returned to my Citroen and made the call. I’d only just connected when I heard a commotion behind me, near the bothy.
I looked across. The MI5 officer was on his knees, slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. He looked done in. In his place on the wooden planks, Howard Green was struggling to resist Kevin and McNeil as they attempted to restrain him, but he was losing.
