by Andy Maslen
“I tell you what, boys,” Gabriel said. “Why don’t you get him up. Here, you can have one leg each.”
When neither man moved, he barked at them in his best parade-ground tone. A tone that had brought hard-faced veterans of desert warfare and hand-to-hand jungle fighting into line.
“I said, one leg each! Now!”
They moved cautiously towards him, eyes watchful, lips closed tight. Then Gabriel jerked the man downwards as if to let go.
They rushed forward and grabbed for their friend’s ankles. Now, Gabriel did release his grip. He stepped past the two rescuers, who now looked as though they were the ones performing the gangland threat on their friend, picked up the bag on his way to the stairs then ran for the door to the stairwell, pushed through and was outside a few seconds later.
Above him he could see the struggling trio, a failed circus act, screaming at each other. The two on the deck hadn’t managed to retrieve their friend and in fact, appeared quite likely to drop him. He looked up to the next storey and saw a young black woman with a baby on her hip peering down over her own balcony to watch the scene unfolding beneath her flat.
“Call the police!” Gabriel shouted up at her. “They’re trying to kill him.”
Then he walked away at the double, not looking back. He doubted they’d follow him, but putting distance between yourself and the enemy once your objective is achieved is never a bad idea.
Gabriel found the Russian woman exactly where he’d left her on the corner of Richard Austin’s road. She was sitting on a low wall bordering a front garden, being comforted by two police community support officers: one male, a Sikh in a navy blue turban; one female and white, short where her partner was tall, thin where he was chunky. The male officer was speaking into his Airwave police radio when the woman saw Gabriel walking towards them, the rust-orange bag held against his chest.
“He is there!” she shouted, jumping up from her perch and waving frantically at Gabriel.
Gabriel arrived to be greeted by an all-enveloping hug that threatened to suffocate him, either through manual pressure or by means of her expensive-smelling, heavy perfume.
When she released him, he held the bag out to her. “Yours, I think,” was all he could manage, as the adrenaline from the chase and rescue of the bag kicked in.
“You are brave man.” She turned to the PCSOs. “Not like you. I tell you, go help man, but you are cowards with your radios and your ‘back-up’.” She put air quotes around this last word.
“Did you want to register a formal complaint, Madam?” the male officer asked, holding his hands out a little from his sides.
“Complaint, or no complaint, is no difference. You go now. I have bag and hero also,” she said, looking adoringly at Gabriel, who was sitting on the wall, enjoying the exchange.
The two PCSOs about-turned and walked off in lockstep, presumably agreeing that given a choice between scrawny muggers and blinged-up Russians, they knew who they’d rather deal with.
“Here,” the woman said to Gabriel, holding out a stiff, rose-pink, fifty-pound note. “For your trouble. Is reward.”
He shook his head. “There’s no need. I was just lending a hand.”
“You don’t need my money?” A smile on her scarlet lips, crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Is fine. Maybe you are rich man already.”
“No, not really. But please, your gratitude is more than enough.”
“Then take card instead. One day you need favour, maybe. You call me.”
He took the card, a thick rectangle of ridged stock with gold-blocked type declaring its bearer to be:
Tatyana Garin
CEO
Garin Group
The logo was two interlinked capital letter G’s. In addition to the usual contact details, the card bore a Russian phrase, transliterated into the English alphabet:
“V zolote my doveryayem”
Gabriel read it out, first in flawless Russian, which he’d learned to speak while training for the SAS, then again in English. “‘In gold we trust.’ That’s very good.”
She looked at him, eyes wide. “You speak Russian? Man of talent indeed.”
“Is that your business?” he asked. “Gold?”
“Is part, yes. Mining, refining. But also diamonds, emeralds, platinum. Also saffron. You know this word? Saffron?”
“More expensive than gold, pound for pound.”
“Exactly! Garin Group is world number three in precious metals and gemstones but number one producer of saffron.”
Gabriel checked his watch. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a coffee with me, would you? I have to meet someone in Whitehall at one, but between then and now I’m at a loose end. My name is Gabriel, by the way. Gabriel Wolfe.”
“Why not?” she said. “Perhaps you tell me your story, Gabriel? How you become brave man.”
She linked her arm through his and, recovered Birkin swinging from her other hand, let Gabriel lead her to a small cafe on Upper Street. Once they were seated in a corner by the window overlooking the street, Tatyana swirled a spoonful of brown sugar into her latte and spoke.
“Many English men would not do what you did. Many Russian men, too. Was little strange, no? You were not scared?”
Gabriel took a sip of the flat white in front of him. It was excellent, deep and nutty, and not overwhelmed by hot milk.
“Most muggers are cowards as well as thieves. I just ran him down. It wasn’t hard.”
“You know what is Birkin? Why I screamed?”
He shook his head.
“Made by Hermès. Very rare. I wait three years for that one. Is saltwater crocodile. One hundred thousand sterling.”
Now it was Gabriel’s turn to widen his eyes.
“I think I would have screamed if I’d had a hundred-grand handbag taken away from me.”
“So, why no screaming?” Tatyana said, narrowing her eyes. She leaned across the table and squeezed Gabriel’s left bicep through his jacket. “Hmm. Hard muscles. Scar on face,” she said, looking at his left cheekbone.
“I was a soldier. For thirteen years. So muggers don’t bother me very much.”
“Thirteen. In England is unlucky, yes?”
“Supposedly. I’m not really superstitious.”
“In Russia, we think is very funny. No thirteenth floor in Western hotels.”
He laughed. “I know. But lots of people wouldn’t stay in a room with a thirteen in it, so the hotel would lose a lot of money.”
“I like you, Gabriel Wolfe,” she said. “You are funny as well as courageous. And you remind me of my son.”
Gabriel had to perform a rapid mental calculation. Yes, it would work. Easily in fact.
“Does he live in England, too?”
“He lives with God,” she said, eyes focusing on the tabletop. “Grigori is dead. He was soldier like you. Very brave boy. Fighting all over world. Came back from Afghanistan without scratch.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind my asking?”
Tatyana scooped the froth from the bottom of her cup and sucked it off the spoon. “He was killed in car crash. Mayfair. An Arab boy in Lamborghini also was killed. Grigori was driving Ferrari. You know these names?”
Gabriel nodded again.
“It was birthday present. Five days old. It burnt down to black shell. Grief nearly killed his father.”
“I’m sorry. To lose a son is terrible.” Or a brother.
“You have children?”
“No.”
“Then you do not know. Parent’s grief is worst pain on planet. Pain of birth is joy in comparison.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Again, I mean.”
Tatyana reached out to place her hand, bedecked in gold and diamond rings, over his.
“Do not worry. You are kind man. But now you must leave, I think. For your meeting?”
Gabriel glanced at the clock above the bar.
“I’m afraid I must.”
He stood and
offered her his hand to shake. Instead, she rose from her own chair and came round the small table to hug him once more, with less pressure this time, and more tenderness, and kissed him three times on alternating cheeks.
“Do svidaniya, Gabriel,” she said. “Remember. I owe you favour.”
“Do svidaniya, Tatyana. Until we meet again.”
6
Number Ten
AT the beginning of Downing Street, where Gabriel had pulled over, a group of schoolchildren were milling about in front of the outer set of gates, taking selfies under the watchful gaze of a couple of young female teachers. The boys seemed more interested in the weapons slung across the chests of the firearms officers grouped to the left of the gate. From his vantage point behind the wheel, Gabriel could make out the distinctive shape of the buttstocks that declared these to be SIG Sauer SG 516 semi-automatic rifles. The SCO19 officers also had Glock 17 semi-automatic pistols strapped to their thighs. Their bulky anti-stab vests and auxiliary equipment belts held Tasers and extendible batons, as well as handcuffs and black rubber torches.
One of the men marched over to the Maserati, right hand held loosely around his rifle’s pistol grip, index finger covering the trigger guard.
“You’ll have to turn round, sir,” he said. “Right away, please.”
He didn’t sound unfriendly, but there was no mistaking the edge in his voice. His three colleagues were staring over and Gabriel noticed approvingly the way they’d asked the two teachers to move their class along.
Gabriel smiled back at the officer. “I have an appointment. With the Prime Minister.”
“Really?” the officer said. “Turn off your engine, please.” He beckoned one of his colleagues over. “Gentleman says he has an appointment with the PM.”
The second officer, a sergeant, leaned down, his left hand on the roof, right resting on the butt of his Glock. “And you would be?”
“Gabriel Wolfe. I’m sure it’s in your system. Perhaps you could have a look?”
“Could you step out of the car, please, sir?” The sergeant had a short-cropped grey beard and the red cheeks of a department store Santa. He wants to know if I’m naughty or nice. Gabriel turned off the ignition, undid his seatbelt and slid out of the seat’s cushioning embrace. He was aware that the group of schoolchildren had stopped just a few yards up from the gates and were now filming and photographing his encounter. His overcoat was in the boot and a cold wind was blowing off the river just a few hundred yards to the south. A stray fast food wrapper blew along the pavement and swirled around his legs for a moment before sailing up in an eddy of cold air and whirling away over the rooftops.
“Is there a problem, officer? I really do have an appointment.”
“Could you remove your jacket, please, sir?”
Gabriel shrugged the jacket off and handed it over. The sergeant squeezed it over the pockets and ran the sleeves through his hands. He seemed to be enjoying keeping Gabriel standing in front of him, in the cold. Just as he was about to ask for it back, the first police officer emerged from a small hut to the right of the inner gates and called over.
“It’s there, Sarge. Look.”
The sergeant handed the jacket back to Gabriel. “Do you have some photo ID, sir?”
“Of course.” Gabriel dug his driving licence out of his wallet and held it out.
The sergeant examined the plastic card, squinting at the photo and comparing it to Gabriel’s face.
“Very good, sir,” he said. “Drive through the gates and then park in the marked bays at the far end of the street. You’ll have to undergo a search by one of our officers as well, but we can do that inside. Don’t want you catching cold, now, do we?”
“Sure. But I wasn’t searched last time I was here. Have you uprated your security or something?”
“I can’t say, sir. Now, in you go, please.”
Gabriel climbed back into the still-warm interior of the Maserati, started the engine and, once both sets of wrought iron gates had opened, eased the car into Downing Street, past the famous black front door, to the visitor parking. Climbing out a second time, he made sure to collect his overcoat from the boot in case the sergeant was thinking of conducting the search outside. In fact, he was met by a member of the Prime Minister’s staff, a bespectacled young man of maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, wearing a slim-cut navy suit and a tie in an acidic shade of yellow-green.
“Gabriel? Follow me, please. The Prime Minister is expecting you.”
Gabriel bit back the remark forming in his head, that she had a funny way of showing it. He followed the aide, or assistant, or private secretary, or whatever he called himself, into a security building set back from the road between two of the grand townhouses invisible to the public confined outside the gates. There, he was frisked, extremely professionally, by another uniformed police officer. The man was neither rough nor hurried. He treated Gabriel’s figure more as a technical exercise in where a potential assailant might conceal a weapon.
Having been deemed no threat to the Prime Minister’s person, Gabriel was shown into an office where Barbara Sutherland was waiting for him, along with Don Webster. The room was lined with bookshelves. Gabriel scanned the spines. Political biographies and memoirs. Reference books. Some history. A lot of military titles. The walls were painted a forest green below a dado rail about waist-height, and white above it.
Once the aide had closed the whisper-quiet door behind him on the way out, Barbara Sutherland turned to Gabriel.
“Hello again, Gabriel. Good to see you. How’s my favourite action man keeping?”
She held out her hand. No embrace like the last time they’d met. No lipstick print on the right cheek. Just a professional politician’s grip, through her eye contact was lasting and warm.
“Hello, Prime Minister. Very well, thank you.”
“Oh, come on, Gabriel. No need for titles. You can call me Barbara. You did before.”
But you hugged me like a friend before.
“Sorry. Barbara. Hi, Don.”
“Hello, Old Sport,” Don said, extending a dry-palmed hand. His grey eyes looked tired and there was a tension round them that Gabriel had never seen before.
Once the three of them were seated at a circular table, Barbara spoke.
“I said last time we met that you had my permission to go into Mozambique to recover the remains of your former colleague, Michael Smith.”
“Smudge, yes.”
“And you still do.” Barbara looked down at her hands and twisted her plain gold wedding band around her finger before speaking again. “We will lay on any logistical support you need and I think I can safely say you’ll get some decent support from the Governments in Mozambique and in Zambia next door. We’re one of their biggest aid donors, so we’re owed.”
She paused again and Gabriel could sense that she was keeping something back.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. “With my wanting to go?”
“No. Not at all. However, I need you to complete a separate assignment for me. It will be under the auspices of The Department again, like your last little jaunt to Brazil.”
She was referring to an undercover mission Gabriel had undertaken that involved his infiltrating a quasi-religious cult run by a French national. Christophe Jardin had brainwashed Gabriel and had almost succeeded in having him assassinate two prominent South American politicians with a suicide bomb.
“What kind of mission?” You should have known it would come with strings attached. She’s a politician, after all.
“The Zimbabwean Finance Minister, one Philip Agambe, is out of control. He’s funnelling United Nations aid to an Islamic terrorist group controlled by one of his cousins. They killed nineteen British nurses working in a children’s hospital in Kenya a couple of months ago, and three of your former comrades the month before that. It was hushed up – bad for morale – but now we believe he’s planning to overthrow the Government there.”
“Believe?” Gabriel
shot a glance at Don. But the older man’s face was impassive.
Barbara Sutherland gave Gabriel a look cooler than the weather outside.
“You’re not questioning my intelligence sources are you, love?” she asked, her Yorkshire accent sharpening like a blade. “Because as a private citizen you don’t have quite the insight I do.”
Gabriel ran a hand through his short, black hair, raising an uneven row of spiky tufts from forehead to crown.
“Of course not. I just remember you telling me before that The Department works under the highest burden of proof.”
“And so it does, Gabriel. So it does. If it makes you more comfortable, we know that Philip Agambe is plotting a coup. Even though he’s a Shona like the man he wants to overthrow. And although it’s fair to say there’s no love lost between the current President of Zimbabwe and the United Kingdom, he looks like a Sun-reading British patriot compared to Agambe and his poisonous friends in the Freedom Party of Zimbabwe. He has to go. And I want you to do it.”
Gabriel turned to look at Don properly. He did look tired. His posture was far from the straight-backed military bearing that no amount of desk work could soften. His shoulders were rounded and there was a slackness in his face that drew his mouth down at the corners.
“What’s your view, Don?” Gabriel asked.
“Don’s view is that Philip Agambe is a dangerous enemy and needs removing from the picture,” Barbara interrupted before the older man could even open his mouth.
“The PM’s right, Old Sport. He turned a convoy of nurses into a funeral cortège. The PM showed me a dossier. Man’s a bad ’un.”
While Gabriel was pondering the disconnect between his former and sometime-current boss’s demeanour and his words, there was a soft knock at the door and a young man dressed as a waiter appeared carrying a tray of tea and coffee things.
“Ah, thank you, Will, my love,” Barbara said, all trace of the edge in her voice erased, replaced by that warm tone that she’d made her trademark in media appearances. Even journalists weren’t immune, soft-pedalling on questions as Barbara Sutherland treated them with respect and folksy good humour. “Now, boys, shall I be Mother?”
