‘He was five days in the Albania sniper hide.’
‘There you go. Two days to get there. Ample time.’ Dillon held up another, older-looking file. ‘I also have this for you which I know you’ll find particularly interesting. It was prepared by an analyst just like you, now retired.’ He placed the file in front of her. ‘It’s a reference guide to a profile pool.’
She read the title page. ‘Unsolved British military related homicides.’
‘Created in 2007. If we assume the Albanian sniper was British and that he’s connected to Mustafa Lamardi’s killing in Macedonia, both cases would fall into this profile pool.’
‘How did you know about this?’
‘I didn’t until this morning. I sent a summary of your report upstairs at the request of those who are all-knowing and this came down in response.’
She read the file’s introduction. ‘Twenty-four cases – it goes back as far as the seventies.’
‘The first three are unsolved killings of IRA members.’
‘Mysterious IRA killings. Sounds like military intelligence assassinations to me,’ she said.
‘Analysts aren’t allowed to be conspiracy theorists.’
‘Which I’m not.’
‘The MoD would be shocked to hear such a thing. Take a look through them anyway. Something might jump out at you.’ Just as he was about to leave he had a thought. ‘And how was your spy?’
She glanced at him and quickly looked away. ‘Fine.’
Dillon tried to get a closer look at her eyes, suspicious about her.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I was on the streets for fifteen years before they parked me in here.’
‘They probably parked you because you weren’t very good at reading people’s eyes.’
‘Quite the opposite in fact. And you are a billboard, my girl.’
She accepted the bust. ‘He was a knight in shining armour. How many girls get to have one of those in a lifetime?’
‘Seeing him again?’
‘We are worlds apart.’
‘Good thing too.’
‘Why do you say that?’ She looked at him with a frown.
‘I was warned about him.’
‘In what way?’
Dillon lowered his voice. ‘When I was given his name for the Albanian trip I naturally wanted to know more about who I was sending you off into hostile environments with. I asked a friend at the club who’s in the MoD and has something to do with military intelligence. He only got back to me this morning. What he said was a little disturbing. Mr Gunnymede has done time.’
‘As in jail?’
‘Yes.’
‘You confirmed that?’
‘I didn’t want to go digging around in case I set any alarms off.’
‘If that was true how could he be working for MI6?’
‘Very strange indeed. Did he say why he was assigned to the case?’
‘No. If I were to guess, I’d say he wasn’t sure either.’
‘Well, don’t expect any help from his department,’ Dillon said as he walked away.
Gunnymede sat waiting in the ante-room to Harlow’s office. The secretary opened the door and served Gunnymede her usual accusing stare as he past her.
Harlow was stirring teabags in a pot. ‘Gunnymede,’ he announced. ‘Can I pour you a cup of tea? One sugar, right?’
How does he remember such details? ‘I won’t, thank you.’
‘Has Jervis been in touch?’ he asked, pouring a cup.
Odd question. ‘No – I met Simons though.’
‘Simons? You not met him before?’ Harlow sat back and sipped his tea.
‘No.’
‘Of course not. He arrived after you left for the Americas. Strange fish that one. What did he want?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hmmm. So. Interesting time in Syria. What was your impression of Saleem?’
‘He’s the serious type.’
‘Capable?’
‘Probably. Likes his theatrics.’
‘He went to a technical college in Battersea. Quite bright. Not creative but good at replicating. This plan to attack London. It won’t be his idea but he’ll be capable of following instructions. He’ll need help of course. He won’t be able to murder the numbers he’s talking about on his own. He’s not driving a lorry through a crowded market. He’ll need support. Logistics.’
‘We came under attack when I escaped,’ Gunnymede said. ‘He may not have survived.’
‘He did survive.’
Gunnymede looked at him.
‘We had someone in that compound,’ Harlow said.
‘An operator?’
‘One of Jervis’s people.’
‘A British Muslim?’
‘Recruited in London. He was the trigger for Saleem’s desert excursions. Very useful chap.’
Gunnymede could see the young Arab’s face. ‘He must’ve been the one who helped me.’
‘How did he help you?’
‘Saved my life.’
Harlow nodded interest. ‘He missed his last proof of life. Not a good sign.’
Gunnymede was disappointed to hear that.
‘We think Saleem has left Syria anyway,’ Harlow said. ‘We’ve had a sighting in Turkey. We haven’t pinned him down but we think we can. As soon as we find him we’ll pull him.’
‘But he’s our lead to Spangle.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. He might’ve been while he was exchanging calls in Syria. We can’t risk him coming to the UK with his dastardly plan.’
Gunnymede looked sceptical. ‘I don’t buy this whole Spangle and ISIS connection. Why is Spangle talking to a bunch of Islamic fanatics?’
‘You mean why would a Russian, possibly FSB or former, have anything to do with a major ISIS terrorist attack on London?’
‘Yes, if he was working with FSB interests at heart. But Spangle isn’t. He’s a drug tsar.’
‘Who knows what drives Spangle or what palms he has to grease to get what he wants. Assume the ISIS attack is important to his interests. His greater plan.’
‘What about the Russian planes that attacked us?’
‘Coincidence perhaps. Bad luck. No one is powerful enough to protect all their interests in every theatre. Not even Spangle. At least he knows you’re back in the game.’
‘How?’
‘There’s a leak in the Baghdad embassy. Low level. Administrative stuff. We’ve known about it for some time now. It’s been quite useful really. We were going to use it to release your arrival anyway but even better that you turned up there in person.’
‘What will Spangle know?’
‘That you’re back on the payroll. He’ll put two-and-two together, match the incident in Syria with your arrival in Baghdad.’
‘Yes, but, he knows I was in jail. He’ll want to know why I’m back on the payroll.’
‘There, you got there in the end.’
Gunnymede sighed. ‘So what now?’
‘We wait and see.’
Gunnymede stared at Harlow.
‘What is it?’ Harlow asked.
‘You rarely look me in the eye anymore. You don’t trust me at all, do you?’
‘It’s disappointment, Gunnymede. I used to rate you. Now you’re just a thief. It makes no difference you didn’t steal from the Crown. Which is the constant, the thief or his principles? Surely it’s the thief. This return to work isn’t an opportunity to redeem yourself. You’re not doing us any favours. You’re saving yourself from a long stretch behind bars. You may or may not succeed.’
Gunnymede could only stare at him.
‘Mustafa Lamardi mean anything to you?’ Harlow asked.
‘Afghan National Security Director. Former. He compromised an operation and sold us out to the Taliban.’
‘How many people did we lose? One of ours and one SAS trooper?’
‘Two SAS. One of the wounded died a few months later. We could never prov
e it was Lamardi.’
‘But everyone knew. It was the heroin. He could be relied on when it came to tactical operations. We should’ve known he couldn’t be trusted when it came to money. You’ll be pleased to know Lamardi has paid his debt. Shot dead outside his home last week.’
‘What’s Lamardi got to do with Spangle, apart from heroin?’
‘Isn’t that enough? How was Albania?’
‘Why’d you send me there?’
‘Didn’t Aristotle tell you?’
‘I couldn’t find even a remote connection to Spangle.’
‘Keep looking. You have a good day, Gunnymede,’ Harlow said abruptly, getting back to his work.
Gunnymede got to his feet and opened the door. ‘The undercover operator in Saleem’s compound. Who was he?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Oh, I meant to ask you. How’s Grace?’
That stopped Gunnymede.
‘Dear Grace,’ Harlow said with a little too much drama.
‘I haven’t spoken to her. Not since I got out.’
‘She doesn’t know?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she did.’
‘Yes, she was always well connected. Do send her my very best regards.’
Gunnymede left the room.
Chapter 13
The law offices of Birch and Allenby were situated on the eighth floor of the Stanley building in Fenchurch Street in the City of London. The firm hadn’t always occupied such prestigious premises. The original office, when the pair first set up the business, was in Tooting, South London. There was only one room, shared by the two partners and a secretary.
Birch and Allenby always had high hopes for the business, as one might expect of young entrepreneurs. Their ambitions were pinned to a particularly fruitful category of law, a subject they’d both gravitated towards during tenures at Nottingham University where they first met. Birch specialised in Business and Human Rights and Allenby in International Human Rights Law. Between them they wrote dissertations on a selection of modules including Religion and International Human Rights and the Protection of Refugees and Displaced Persons in International Law. Both men had recognised, in the light of current geopolitical events, the potential for a financial killing to be made in the defence of an individual’s human rights, particularly when a government could be called to foot the legal bills.
They raised start-up funds with a business plan presented to an investor who specialised in litigation that focused on the Iraq and Afghan conflicts, which were coming to an end, and where cases of human rights abuses could be identified and, in many cases, even created. None of the victims were British subjects. All plaintiffs were Iraqis or Afghans. And all defendants were members or former members of the British military. It was a goldmine.
Birch and Allenby left their office at 8pm, pretty much the same time as every other evening of the week. It had been a busy month for them. A busy year in fact. But the last quarter had been exceptional. And MoD cheques had been plentiful.
They were a happy pair. Chipper. Basking in success. They walked out of the elevators, through the security gates with a nod to the guard and across the lobby to the front doors.
‘After you,’ Birch said.
‘No. After you,’ Allenby replied.
Birch gracefully accepted and stepped onto the street and towards the underground car park. A skinny, malnourished dog was at the entrance rummaging through a dustbin. The animal paused on seeing the two men, partly out of curiosity, partly wary should the men be a threat, but mostly in the hope they might be the source of a morsel or two.
As soon as Birch was within range he kicked out at the dog, connecting his foot with its behind. The dog yelped and scampered away. ‘Hate strays,’ he shouted. ‘They make the streets a mess with their crapping and rummaging.
‘I find that surprising,’ Allenby said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you married one.’
‘How droll, Allenby. That was below the belt.’
‘No. That’s where you keep your girlfriends.’
‘My, we are on form tonight,’ Birch said, laughing as he led the way down a slope towards the first parking level.
‘What can I say,’ Allenby said. ‘Money makes me funny.’
‘Then you should be a complete riot this month!’
Both men burst out laughing as Allenby did a little skip as part of his routine.
They walked on into the dark, cavernous car park almost empty of vehicles.
‘The lighting is pretty poor tonight,’ Allenby noted.
Birch inspected one of the non-functioning ceiling lights. The plastic cover was shattered. ‘The lights have been vandalised.’
‘There are just too many low-lifes these days?’ Allenby said.
‘Where did I put my car this morning?’ Birch asked himself as he took his smart key from a pocket and clicked it.
The lights on a shining new BMW flashed at the far end. ‘There she is,’ Birch said, heading towards it.
They stopped in front of it, shocked by what they saw. The windshield had been smashed in.
‘What the bloody hell ...!’ Birch exclaimed.
‘Someone’s deliberately done that. They’ve taken a club to it.’
Birch looked around at the handful of cars nearby. ‘None of the others have been touched.’
A burly man stepped from a dark corner wearing a black boiler suit, boots, gloves, a black ski mask and wielding a long metal rod. He stood between the two men and the route back to the ramp and tapped the concrete floor with the end of the pipe. The sound echoed throughout the parking level.
Birch and Allenby turned around to see the man, legs splayed, calmly watching them. The lawyers exchanged looks, wondering what was going on.
‘Are you responsible for this?’ Birch called out.
The man tapped the concrete with the end of the rod again.
Allenby was first to recognise the potential danger and rummaged inside his coat pockets to produce a small plastic device. ‘You see this,’ he said. ‘It’s a panic button. A close friend who also happens to be a police superintendent gave it to me. All I have to do is push this button and the nearest police officer will be straight here.’
The hooded man didn’t appear to be remotely phased by the threat. ‘There’s an envelope on your car,’ he said, his accent northern.
Birch saw there was indeed an envelope tucked into the air intake.
‘Take a look,’ the man said.
Birch plucked out the envelope and removed a single page. Allenby joined him to read it.
‘What is this?’ Birch asked the man.
‘What does it look like?’ the man said.
‘It’s a death certificate,’ Allenby said.
‘Recognise the name?’
‘Roland Peters,’ Birch said as he recognised it.
‘And the cause of death?’ the man asked.
They read the cause, but neither wanted to say it out loud.
‘I asked you what the cause of death was,’ the hooded man said, taking a step closer.
‘Suicide,’ Birch said.
‘A suicide you caused.’
‘That’s utter rubbish,’ Allenby cried.
‘You created false evidence which caused him to take his own life,’ the man said coldly, taking another step closer. He gripped the rod in both hands and raised the end up.
‘We work for the Ministry of Defence,’ Birch argued, somewhat desperately, taking a step back. ‘We’re public servants.’
‘You paid Iraqis to falsely accuse British soldiers of murder and torture.’
‘That’s not true,’ Allenby said, swallowing. ‘The men were convicted by the courts.’
‘And you got paid a lot of money for your part in it. You’re worse than any terrorist.’
‘What do you want?’ Allenby asked.
‘Have a guess,’ the man said.
‘We have money.’ Allenby was desperate. ‘We’l
l pay you.’
The man mimicked the ‘wrong answer’ sound of a TV game show and took a step to within striking distance.
Allenby dropped his panic button.
Birch raised his briefcase in sudden fear-inspired anger. ‘Get him!’ he shouted.
Birch threw his case at the man as he lunged forward. The man neatly sidestepped, swung hard and struck Birch on the back of his neck breaking the base of his skull and snapping his cerebral cortex. Birch was dead before he actually hit the ground.
Allenby went on the charge too but the man displayed the elusiveness of a professional fighter and swung at Allenby’s leg, smashing the kneecap. The lawyer went down with a piercing scream. As he hit the concrete, his eyes met Birch’s a few feet away. He could see his partner was dead and that he was in a most dire situation.
He rolled onto his back, breathing rapidly, filled with such terror he could hardly feel the pain of his broken knee. The man leaned over him. Allenby could see his pitiless eyes through the woollen slits.
‘Whatever you want, I can give you,’ Allenby said in desperation.
‘I want you to apologise to the soldier who killed himself because you destroyed his life,’ the man said.
‘How can I?’ Allenby said, starting to cry. ‘I can’t bring him back.’
‘I know,’ the man said. ‘That’s why I’m sending you to him.’
The man raised the rod and brought it crashing down onto the lawyer’s skull.
Chapter 14
Gunnymede stood on his apartment balcony in the boxer shorts and t-shirt he had slept in sipping a cup of hot, weak tea. The sight of the old Thames barge in full red sail cruising past was a pleasant but minor distraction. He needed to try and clear his mind.
He stepped back into the living room where a pair of trainers and workout gear, their labels still attached, lay on a couch. Ten minutes later, he was pounding the riverbank at a comfortable pace. He came across a patch of green with an outdoor workout stance and dived into it, punishing himself with various exercises until he felt the pain. He was breathing hard and glistening with sweat but it wasn’t quite enough. Heading back along the footpath he aimed for a distant lamppost and sprinted as fast as he could towards it, determined not to slow down until he reached it. He only just managed it and, dizzy and exhausted headed back towards the apartment building entrance as a powerful motorbike pulled up.
The Becket Approval Page 11
