The Becket Approval

by Falconer, Duncan

  Another turn onto a less busy road and Gunnymede found himself with nothing between him and the Russian. He slowed down to put himself out of direct line of sight. The road was twisting and Gunnymede could only keep track of the Merc by its headlights reflecting off the countryside.

  As Gunnymede came out of a long bend he saw a vehicle turning off the road up ahead. He couldn’t be certain it was the Russian as it passed between trees and climbed a hill. As he drew level with the lane he caught sight of the tail lights a second before they disappeared over a rise. It was the Merc. What’s more, the lane was signposted as a dead end.

  Gunnymede drove on for another half mile before pulling off the road under a line of trees and turning off his lights and engine. The silence was abrupt as he removed his helmet. There were no other vehicles on the road. He accessed a 3D map on his phone. The lane Krilov had turned into went steeply up hill, down the other side and quarter of a mile later reached a small collection of structures.

  Gunnymede climbed off the bike and walked to a hedgerow to find a way through.

  The elevator doors opened on the third floor of Scotland Yard and Dillon stepped out reading his phone. A handful of officers were at work. He entered his office and closed the door behind him.

  Bethan sat in the shadows watching him. She took a deep breath and got to her feet. Time to face the firing squad.

  She knocked on Dillon’s door and walked in.

  ‘What are you doing here so late?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe I’ve added a few more links to my theory regarding British military related homicides.’

  ‘Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m leaving to meet my wife for dinner.’

  ‘It won’t take long,’ she said, aware she sounded anxious.

  He smiled. ‘Burning to tell me your theory. I can’t dampen your enthusiasm.’ He sat back. ‘I’m all ears.’

  She groaned inwardly, knowing the smile would soon be gone. ‘I think we’re looking at a British Special Forces and military intelligence organised reprisal.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A revenge squad.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Here’s how it works. If a member or former member of British Special Forces or military intelligence is murdered and the perpetrator escapes justice, the organisation will take revenge.’

  Dillon stared at her as if waiting for more.

  ‘That’s it in broad terms,’ she added.

  ‘Sounds quite serious.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are these avengers serving members or former?’

  ‘I’d say both ... I don’t think it’s a small group of people either. I think it’s structured.’

  ‘What do you mean, structured?’

  ‘Some of the killings appear to have benefited from sophisticated intelligence resources. Lamardi, for instance. He could’ve been killed in revenge for the deaths of two SAS operators and a Military Intelligence officer. Finding his home in Macedonia required state sponsored levels of intelligence. Another example is moving individuals and weapons across distant foreign borders without detection. There’s also access to current British ordnance, items only Special Forces use such as sophisticated mines. Financing is another factor. The Albanian and Lamardi operations must’ve been expensive. One might expect such incidences to have a financial justification but many of them appear to be purely revenge.’

  ‘You’re suggesting these avengers includes personnel within British military intelligence, the military and the Ministry of Defence?’

  ‘There is no other explanation.’

  ‘Are you also suggesting this is state sponsored?’ Dillon asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t make that accusation for the purpose of initiating an investigation. But I wouldn’t rule it out in some form or other. Lamardi’s death would’ve been privately applauded by certain members of the MoD. But then we have the two lawyers who were murdered because they were responsible for Peters’ son committing suicide and the Albanian border guards who were assassinated for killing a former SAS trooper eight months ago. They both sound like private vendettas. I suppose I would describe the avengers as a private clique with those involved having access to MoD assets.’

  Dillon mulled it over. ‘How do you think one gets access to this organisation?’ he eventually asked. ‘How did Peters know who to contact for instance? How does a qualifying individual get their case heard?’

  ‘The organisation has to be secret, obviously. It wouldn’t be if people knew how to contact it. But what if it’s the other way around? What if you don’t find it? It finds you. What if “they” decide which murders should be avenged? The relatives don’t need to know. Their permission isn’t required. The organisation can just go ahead and do it.’

  ‘But Peters knew how it happened. He probably knew who did it.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s old enough and well connected enough to know someone in the organisation. That would explain why he got revenge for his son who wasn’t Special Forces.’

  Dillon went into thought again.

  ‘British Special Forces is sending out a message,’ she pressed. ‘If you mess with us, then if the law doesn’t punish you, we will.’

  ‘Any proof?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve just been looking for the right direction in which to focus.’

  ‘It must sound a bit fantastic even to you.’

  ‘Fantastic?’

  ‘Remote from reality.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary but not impossible.’

  ‘Possible is not probable. What’s your next step?’

  ‘I need help. This could be enormous. It needs a dedicated investigation team.’

  ‘I can’t go upstairs without evidence. Not something on the scale you’re proposing.’ Dillon made ready to get back to work. ‘If we’re going to implicate the Ministry of Defence, the Army and Navy we’d better have a damn sight more to show than an unsupported theory. Get me some evidence, and I mean serious evidence, and we’ll take another look at it.’

  She sighed and leaned back against the wall.

  ‘Was there something else?’ he asked.

  ‘Gunnymede found out about Milo Krilov.’

  Dillon stopped dead. ‘What?!’

  ‘The man who raped Megan Henderson, Gunnymede’s former girlfriend.’

  Dillon’s eyes darkened. ‘And how, pray tell, did Gunnymede find out?’

  ‘I screwed up.’

  ‘How exactly did you screw up?’

  ‘He went into the wrong room in my house looking for the bathroom and found my matrix.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! I gave you Milo Krilov in the strictest of confidence!!! The implications for the classified operation surrounding Krilov could be catastrophic. And catastrophic for me and therefore for you!’

  ‘Only if he acts upon it.’

  ‘Acts upon it! For God’s sake! He’s not some ordinary Joe in the street. He’s an MI6 operator, a dysfunctional one at that and of dubious background! Are we to wait until he does do something?’

  ‘Give me time to fix this,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Fix what? Remove it from his memory?’

  ‘Ensure he doesn’t act on the information.’

  ‘The fact is, he knows. What if he’s doing something right now? What if the police operation is in progress right now? A senior officer in S C & O 19 gave me Krilov’s name as long as I assured him I’d give it to no one. I now have to tell him the boyfriend of the woman Krilov raped has that information, and that he works for MI6. Thank you very much! Now get out of my office.’

  She walked out of the room close to tears, went back to her desk, grabbed her bag and left the office.

  Gunnymede made his way up a grassy slope heading for a line of trees. At the crest he could see the lights of the only collection of structures in sight in a valley running across his front. There was a main house and a couple of long, windowless buildings. Woodland folded around the far side and beyond. It begged a closer inspection and
Gunnymede made his way down a large field towards it.

  He reached a wooden fence fifty metres from the first long building and paused to take a look at everything now that he was closer. Krilov’s Merc was parked outside the house alongside two other 4x4s. The ground floor lights were on. Several exterior lights illuminated the complex but there were plenty of dark corners and shadows to hide in. What Gunnymede didn’t notice was a 360 CCTV dome on the end of a long pole that reached above the haze of lights rendering it near invisible at night time.

  The place looked like a farm but not a lot of farming went on anymore, if any. There was an absence of machinery and accessories, no barn, no hay, no fertiliser or animal feed. It didn’t even smell like a farm.

  Gunnymede climbed over the fence and made his way to the nearest storage building, a white painted concrete block, single storey, windowless construction with a metal corrugated roof. He walked to one end and looked around the corner. No door suggested it was the back end of the building and he continued to the next corner to look across a yard where he could see the other similar building. To the left was the small hut surrounded by fencing. A large dog stepped out to look about as if it had heard or smelt something. A Rottweiler. Another one joined it and they stared in Gunnymede’s direction. A moment later they lost interest and went back inside.

  Gunnymede went back the way he’d come, around to the opposite end and peered around that corner to find the building entrance. A large metal door secured by a sophisticated keypad system. Such an expensive lock looked out of place on such an ordinary farm building.

  He stepped back and studied the roof construction, a common security weakness. An oil drum against the building provided a perfect platform. He found a short length of iron piping, climbed onto the drum, pushed the pipe under the roof corner and levered it up. A couple of nails popped loudly and Gunnymede paused, worried about alerting the dogs. They didn’t make a sound and he eased the edge up further. When the corner was high enough he jammed the pipe in the gap so that it held up the corner like a tent pole and he took a look inside. There were electrical devices like battery chargers throughout giving off enough light to show the building was one large space. It was filled with shelving and tables randomly arranged with boxes large and small, stacked and opened with items everywhere like a poorly managed storeroom. Gunnymede used his phone light to illuminate the contents of an open box directly beneath him. Interesting. It was filled with assault rifle magazines. A closer look was indeed required.

  Gunnymede eased himself beneath the ceiling, reaching for a beam that took his weight and swung inside landing lightly on a concrete surface.

  He moved about the room inspecting as he went. There was a variety of military paraphernalia; weapons cases, magazine pouches, chest harnesses, pistol holsters and fighting knives. On a stack of shelving, he found blocks of plastic explosive, sheets of Semtex, rolls of detonation cord and fuse wire. A stack of small black boxes with red warning symbols caught his eye and he unwrapped one to find a dozen detonators. There were cartons of hand grenades, a shelf dedicated to claymore mines and crates of M4 assault rifles. This was a serious arsenal.

  The central part of the room was dedicated to a large table covered with files, paperwork, a couple of laptops and a box of mobile phones. Taped to a wall was a photograph of a ship, a map and a sea chart. The map was cut to include Southampton and Winchester while the chart focused on the Port, Southampton Water and the Solent. There was Cyrillic hand writing on the chart which he couldn’t read. The ship in the photograph was a medium sized cargo carrier. Sketching on the chart showed its track past Cowes on the Isle of Wight, along the estuary and into Southampton port. The map had a road route highlighted from Southampton to Winchester and this location.

  One thing seemed obvious. He was looking at a plan of some sort. The ship was to sail into Southampton Docks where, it had to be assumed, its cargo would be unloaded and driven to this farm. Looking at his surroundings one had to wonder what the cargo consisted of.

  Gunnymede examined the chart more closely to find a circle drawn around a large oil refinery south of Southampton on the west coastline of the estuary. There was nothing to suggest its significance. The refinery was also circled on the map. He examined the papers on the table. On top of one pile was a photograph of a bearded Arab with his name and date of birth in English. There were six more head-shots and details, all Arabs. The last page froze him. It was Saleem. The name was different but it was him without doubt.

  Krilov was bringing in more than drugs.

  Gunnymede took photographs of everything and searched through the rest of the papers in case there was anything else. The door to the building suddenly flew open and Gunnymede saw a big man wearing thick goggles holding what looked like a large flashlight. It emitted an incredibly intense strobe light. Gunnymede immediately began to lose control of his body. He struggled to turn away but the light came at him from every angle. He closed his eyes. Bumped into a shelf. Opened them and was hit again by the strobing light. He started to suffer an epileptic fit as his knees gave way and his body convulsed violently. The man with the strobe walked over, struck Gunnymede’s head with a cosh and he dropped to the floor near unconscious.

  The man switched off the powerful strobe, leaned over him and removed the heavy goggles. It was Krilov. ‘You like that? It’s British. We stole it in the seventies. Works even better underwater.’

  A couple of thugs came in and dragged Gunnymede along the floor to the far end where there was a small workshop and a single metal bed without a mattress which they unceremoniously dumped him onto.

  Krilov inspected him. ‘Now we have some fun.’

  Chapter 21

  Bethan walked through the underground car park to her car, climbed in behind the wheel and sat in thought. She brought up Gunnymede’s number on her phone and hit the call button. It went straight to an electronic voice.

  She took another moment to consider things then keyed in another number. This one picked up.

  ‘Bethan,’ a man answered.

  ‘Hi, Jordan.’

  Jordan was pure geek, a junk-food specialist, sunshine averse and in dire need of professional wardrobe advice from any nation. He was sitting in a swivel chair inside his usual and most preferred habitat which was a windowless, air-conditioned room filled with ultra-modern technology that only the most advanced of nations could afford. He didn’t use a phone, he was way beyond them. Bethan’s voice, which filled the room, brought a smile to his pasty face.

  ‘You’re finally calling to ask me to dinner. How nice.’

  ‘I’m still considering your marriage proposal. Please don’t think I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Don’t take too long or someone else is going to snap me up. What do you need?’

  ‘A track.’

  He glanced at a spreadsheet on a monitor. ‘When did you put in the request?’

  ‘I didn’t. There’s no paperwork with this one.’

  ‘I didn’t know you did naughty.’

  ‘It’s a friend. I’m worried about him.’

  ‘Competition?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Send me the number.’

  Bethan messaged it to him and he copied it to a tracking system.

  ‘You want history or current?’ he asked.

  ‘Current.’

  ‘History’s interesting.’

  ‘What’s interesting?’

  ‘The SIM began life a few weeks ago in London. A visit to Russia. Starts in the middle of nowhere before departing Volgograd airport. Currently static north west of Winchester for fifty-seven minutes.’

  He touched a key and pulled on his headphones. ‘You want to hear the audio? It’s more interesting than the history?’

  ‘Okay.’

  A series of male screams followed by shouting.

  ‘Sounds Russian,’ Jordan said.

  ‘Shit! He’s killing him.’

  ‘Who’s killing who?’

  B
ethan started the engine and screeched out of her parking spot towards the exit. ‘Can you send me a fix?’

  ‘On its way.’

  Within seconds she was on a main road and heading towards the M3. Gunnymede’s coordinates came up and a tap transferred them to her GPS. The congestion frustrated her. She hit the emergency switch and the emergency lights came to life.

  Gunnymede screamed as his body went rigid on the springs of the metal bed, his hands and feet secured by plasticuffs, his shirt removed and trousers pulled up to his knees. One of Krilov’s thugs, Ashio, a large fellow wearing a gas-mask and thick rubber gloves, stood over Gunnymede holding a sophisticated, modified liquid dispenser, a fine green florescent fluid not unlike anti-freeze dripping from a nozzle.

  Krilov watched from the comfort of a tattered armchair a few feet away while he played with Gunnymede’s phone. ‘Choba,’ he said, ordering Ashio to repeat the treatment.

  Ashio sprayed Gunnymede’s shins with the liquid that seemed to glow momentarily on contact with air. It immediately bubbled and Gunnymede screamed uncontrollably once again as his entire body tensed, his veins bulging under his skin. As the bubbling reduced, so did the pain and Gunnymede’s body gradually relaxed leaving him panting for air.

  ‘Explain to me something,’ Krilov said. ‘You have no identification and your credit card is assigned to anonymous.’

  Gunnymede could do little else but breathe hard, his body drenched in sweat.

  ‘That doesn’t look like the credit card of a cop or anyone normal in fact. Open your phone for me.’

  Gunnymede ignored him.

  ‘Please. Open it.’ Krilov sighed and gave his man a nod who responded by generously spraying Gunnymede’s legs again.

  Gunnymede screamed, even louder than the previous time, the veins on his throat close to bursting.

  ‘We can do this all night if you want,’ Krilov said. ‘Open the phone and I’ll give you a break.’

  Gunnymede held up a shaking forth finger on his right hand. Krilov leaned forward and let the finger touch the phone, activating it and then sat back to explored the various apps.