by Chris Allen
He started toward the bathroom. Lundt stepped in front of him, screwing a silencer onto the barrel of the Glock. When he leveled the gun, it was pointing straight at Turner’s crotch.
“Wrap a sock around it; you’re not going to bleed to death. Not yet, anyway. Sit down!”
Turner balked at the command, then, with gritted teeth, slumped back into the nearest chair, beaten. Lundt took up a chair opposite him with his back to the wall, keeping the whole room in sight. The gun never shifted from its fixed aim. A strengthening breeze rattled against the windows.
Lundt lazily lit himself a cigarette.
Turner’s dark eyes remained transfixed, sizing up the man he barely knew, but who had figured so prominently in his life of late. Turner feared and detested him. He was abrupt, brash and arrogant – a loose cannon, prone to violence without provocation. At their first meeting, Turner had felt an immediate reluctance to proceed with the collaboration. He should have taken heed. But, back then, Victor Lundt had represented an opportunity too good to be true. He had the connections and the guns. He was a means to an end, nothing more. But the prospect of discovery had nagged Turner from the outset. He had gladly washed his hands of Lundt after Malfajiri. He thought it was all done – the coup had happened, the government was in ruins. And Turner had managed to ease out, having made his money with no one the wiser, except for Lundt and Cornell. Of course, they were outsiders. Not from the company.
But now Lundt had re-entered his life and Turner was back to square one.
“So,” said Lundt, blowing a cloud of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “University student prostitutes with huge fake tits! Now, what would the board of directors at Alga Creek say about that?”
“What do you want, Lundt? Money? There’s some in the safe. Take it all and leave me alone. I’m done with it. Done with you!”
“That’s tough talk for a man with a gun pointed at his bollocks.” Lundt smiled across the barrel. “Maybe you haven’t grasped the magnitude of the situation, Turner. I’m not here for your small change.”
“So, what are you here for then?” asked Turner. “Is the gun necessary?”
“I’m concerned that you’ve been letting the side down. It was too coincidental that I was tracked down by someone outside of my old firm.”
“This is outrageous!” Turner’s face was beetroot red. “Who tracked you down? All I remember is that you vanished when you launched the coup. I assumed that’s the way you wanted it to be. I’ve not breathed a word to anybody. I’ve a lot at stake too, you know.”
“I think you’re bullshitting. Are you bullshitting me, Turner?” Lundt didn’t wait for an answer. There was no emotion in his voice, or in his manner. “I think you’re just the type – when things get a bit rough you’ll sing like a canary if it’ll save your own miserable skin.”
“Why would I?” Turner protested. “I was sticking to the plan. I kept everything tight at head office, even when those new people arrived from London — Morgan and that woman. I told you straight away they were the law.”
“Yes, Morgan,” said Lundt. “He happened to walk straight in on me while I was concluding some business with our friends. How do you explain that? Or, maybe it’s your friend, Cornell? Perhaps you two are in this together, trying to get insurance by hanging me out to dry. I mean, you’ve got to admit, of all the places in the middle of all that hell, Morgan found me. It was like he’d had a premonition. Now me, I don’t believe in any of that shit. I do believe, however, that there are people in this world who would willingly sell out their business partners just as soon as shake their hands, if it means saving their own necks.”
Turner’s blood, conjured by a racing heart, was rising through the skin of his shoulders and chest like a creeping vine; his neck and round head looked ready to burst. “You can’t be serious!” he said. “I wouldn’t do that. There’s no point. It would ruin everything.”
“You’re doing alright, Turner. I’ve got half the world after me and you’re living down here in the lap of luxury. How much did you spend on this place?”
“It’s not mine. I’ve leased it. Lying low till things cool down. That’s what we agreed—”
“Lying low! You call this lying low? You’ve got a brand new Bentley sitting down there in the courtyard. You’ve got servants waiting on you hand and foot. You’ve got whores on tap. You stupid git, you’ve got everything but the Goodyear blimp overhead flashing: TURNER IS HERE! You couldn’t throw any more money around if you wanted to. Are you trying to advertise your ill-gotten gains? I’ve made you a very wealthy man, Turner. But whether you’ve deliberately sold me out or not, you’re leaving a trail ten miles wide. Eventually people like your friend Morgan, if he’s still alive, are going to follow you all the way to me.”
“Why would I sell you out? All this work, all the hell you’ve put me through. I didn’t put up with that for nothing! It’s Cornell. Of course! He must have broken, talked. Been caught by the police. Has to be him.” Turner babbled, his words not making a scintilla of difference to Lundt. “God, come on! If I’ve been careless, I’ll move. Another country. Anything. Just tell me what to do.”
“It’s too late for that, Turner,” Lundt snapped. “My personal security has sprung a leak that’d sink a battleship, and you and a couple of others are going to patch it up for me.”
“OK. Tell me.” Turner’s face was creased with stress. His breathing labored through tightly clenched teeth. “What do I need to do?”
“You’ve done enough. I made my decision before I arrived tonight. But don’t worry. I don’t expect you to shoulder all the blame.” Lundt’s eyes were cold, level. “Cornell’s going to get a visit, too.”
The discussion was over. Turner’s heart raced.
“How much, Lundt?” he spat. Visibly shaking, he leant forward. “How much? Just tell me what it will take to make you walk away and I’ll make it happen. Money? That’s all you’re interested in anyway. I can disappear. No one needs to know.”
Without warning, Lundt stood, took one deliberate pace forward, and swung his right hand in a violent backhanded swoop. Still carrying the Glock, Lundt’s right hand was a block of iron and it caught Turner directly under his right cheek, the blow forcing him over the armrest of the chair.
Turner’s face pounded from the force of the sudden impact and his vision became a tunnel of stars. He clawed at his throbbing cheek, and another crushing blow, this time from a booted foot, hit him squarely over the heart. The force toppled his chair, sending him into a heap on the floor.
Lundt was upon him in a flash, slamming his foot down hard on Turner’s neck, pinning him to the floor. Lundt held his gun arm straight, the line of the barrel and silencer tracing a direct line to Turner’s exposed right temple.
“Any last requests?” Lundt sneered.
“No!” Turner tried to cry out, but his voice garbled as Lundt’s foot pushed his face harder into the floor.
“Fair enough.” Lundt squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER 43
LONDON
Arena Halls sat anxiously across from Abraham Johnson. His manner had been decidedly cold ever since she’d arrived outside his office at 8am sharp. He’d left her sitting in the waiting area near his secretary’s station for forty minutes. A cheap tactic, she thought, designed to intimidate. As his secretary came in and out of his office without any hint that Johnson was ready to see her, Ari remained outwardly impassive.
Now opposite him, she conjured all the revulsion that she harbored for the man, and felt strangely empowered by it. She watched his head, bent over a file, his ridiculously dyed purple-black hair thinning at the crown, his disregard palpable.
What was it that Mr. Evans had said yesterday when she had raised her concerns about Johnson? Oh yes, Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. It was true. Johnson was a dangerous man and she knew he would bite the hand that fed him without compunction. Of course, she could never admit to visiting her ailing chief at his home o
n her day off. That would make things even worse, if that were possible. Johnson was obviously rattled by the avuncular nature of Evans’s relationship with her.
“So, Miss Halls,” Johnson began finally. He raised his eyes from the file and fixed his empty stare upon her. “The recent task I set you after your return from Africa, to keep a discreet eye on that deplorable creature from our International Security and Institutions branch, did you mention it to anybody?”
“Well no,” she replied indignantly. “Of course not. I—”
“When I brought you into my confidence and bestowed upon you a great opportunity to do some field time and build some much-needed credibility, I made it clear that you were not to mention it to another soul. To do so would put the entire Interpol operation and potentially thousands of lives at risk. You do recall that conversation?”
Ari was bristling with rage. How dare this pompous Iago accuse her of mouthing off like some giggly schoolgirl desperate to broadcast her first secret.
“Mr. Johnson,” she started, “at no time have I betrayed your confidence. I admit that I was initially puzzled by your direction that I follow one of our own people, despite the apparent boost to my professional experience. I have not discussed those duties or any of the issues associated with my duties in Malfajiri with any person outside this office.” Ari had chosen her words carefully, for she still considered William Evans to be very much “this office”.
Johnson glowered. How much did she know? Did she come across anything in Malfajiri about his association with Lundt or Cornell, or even Turner?
The assassination attempt on Namakobo had been an unmitigated disaster. The man had lived and was now a hero in exile. There was even talk of an intervention force being raised by neighbouring African nations to throw out Baptiste, followed by a full complement of UN troops and administrators to maintain the peace. Peace!
The plan was in tatters and time was of the essence. Johnson’s masters, his real masters, were not happy. He could feel the noose about his neck growing tighter with every second. They were expecting action, and Johnson was expected to deliver. To make matters worse, the first breath of a scandal had already whispered its way from the Palace of Westminster. It was clear that the “what” was already widely known, the “who” was yet to be established, but the “when” was inevitable.
He had to distance himself from all of it, establish an out clause shielding him from suspicion, but still he had to ensure that the plan to install an appropriately aligned president in Malfajiri got back on course before the UN stepped in. Baptiste would have to go. A new face was required.
But now there was the more immediate problem of this meddling little bitch whom, he realized, he had seriously underestimated. If there was to be any hope of keeping things on track in Malfajiri, there were things that needed to be done to contain the fallout from the coup and the assassination attempt against Namakobo. And those were things that Mr. Lundt would have to do. Since the coup, it had been agreed that Lundt would remain invisible to enable him the freedom to move as and when required. Turner had already been dispatched, and arrangements had been made to squirrel the hapless Cornell out of the country. Perhaps Lundt could kill two birds with one stone.
“You are certain?” Johnson asked absently, not ready to believe her, but now not caring either way.
“Absolutely certain, sir.” Cur, she thought.
“Very well.” Johnson stood and sauntered over to his window. “Mr. Cornell has left on an unauthorized absence,” he lied. “He boarded a flight for Australia this morning. Do what you need to do, but get after him. I want to know about every move he makes and every person he speaks to. We will communicate in the usual way. Your detailed instructions will be available by the time you arrive. I want you Sydney-bound tonight.”
“But—”
“Not a word, Miss Halls. Not a word to another soul. If you mess this up, you can consider yourself finished. Permanently.”
Ari stiffened. She stood in silence and straightened her jacket, her eyes racing across the assortment of things strewn across Johnson’s desk. There was something familiar, yet out of place. Something she had seen before, nestled among the scattered papers and files. What was it?
There was just enough showing for her to make out the letterhead with its distinctive logo tucked away beneath some official documents. Something she wasn’t supposed to see.
Arena Halls walked out without another word.
CHAPTER 44
LONDON
“With all this business associated with the attempt on President Namakobo, the coup and so on—”
“Well, you didn’t expect me to sit on my bloody hands, did you?”
“I gave you a direct lead to assist you in your investigations in Africa, Nobby. Not in England!”
Davenport was on his feet, pacing. Violet Ashcroft-James stood defiantly across from him, arms crossed, anger and regret blazing in her eyes.
“In the absence of formal identification, I was forced to initiate my own inquiries.” Davenport noticed Ashcroft-James stiffen, and he held up a conciliatory hand. “In fairness, my dear, I could hardly afford to be idle, waiting for you to offer a name. Now, I’m aware of Mr. Cornell. Sadly, however, it’s all too late. You see, as a result of his identity remaining undisclosed, Cornell – by virtue of his role within the Foreign Office – received a personal security briefing from MI5 and the Special Branch regarding the exact details of President Namakobo’s arrival and movements while in this country.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“And, with respect to recent events,” Davenport continued, “Cornell has emerged as the person most likely to have leaked the information that resulted in the assassination attempt against the president. So, perhaps now you’ll be good enough to tell me exactly how much you do know about him?”
A long silence followed.
“He was an SIS aspirant,” Violet began with a sigh, her head resting in her long, slender, immaculately manicured fingers. “Deluded, of course. Never had a hope. Now he’s one of those civil service lifers who’s hung on at the Foreign Office, and sadly, despite a complete lack of talent or redeeming features of any kind, has finally weaseled his way up into a responsible position. His kind know if they hang around long enough they’ll eventually float to the surface. The civil service is littered with them, even my own service. And Cornell has the all-too-familiar victim mentality. Continues to be overlooked on the honors list. The world owes him. Perfect fodder for anyone with a mind to stroke his ego and make him feel that he’s important. I couldn’t disclose his identity for fear of compromising another investigation. Clearly, that was a mistake.”
“I see,” Davenport said simply. “Where have these other inquiries led you, Violet? And please, don’t waste my time with any more two-stepping. The assassination attempt has taken us beyond that.”
“I felt that I had given you enough last time,” she snapped. “You’re not working for the British Government any more, Nobby. I’m not obliged to provide you with any information, and it’s unreasonable to expect me to.”
There was silence for some time until Davenport said: “How about I tell you what I know and you fill in the blanks or correct the mistakes or whatever?” She nodded. “I’m onto something, Violet, with old-fashioned, sleeves rolled up, flat-foot detective work. And the only way we’re going to get anywhere is if we start laying our cards on the table.”
Davenport turned to a laptop on the coffee table, tapped its keys and beckoned her to join him. He swiveled the laptop around so that Ashcroft-James had a clear view of the screen.
“Here’s Mr. Cornell out and about in London. You’ll note there are a number of places he tends to frequent, in and around Westminster, the Strand, near his home in Richmond, et cetera.” She nodded. “Unbeknownst to him, Cornell has had company these past few weeks. If you look carefully, you’ll see a number of faces appearing with reasonable regularity in the background of some
shots. Evidently, someone else is keeping an eye on Cornell.”
Ashcroft-James remained glued to the screen as Davenport guided her through the images, pointing out certain faces and profiles as they appeared. Her expression changed. It was the reaction Davenport had expected.
“Recognize anybody?”
“They’re mine, Nobby. SIS agents. But, of course, it seems you knew that already.” Her eyes turned to him. “Christ!”
“Whatever problem you’ve got, Violet, tell me all of it. You have my word that I’ll work day and night with you to sort this bloody mess out. But if you don’t play it straight with me, by God, I’ll bring you down for using me to sort out your mess and risking the reputation of this organization and the lives of my people.”
“Before I go on,” she began, “how did you get these images? Who took them? Your people?” Her voice, her words and manner, were calm and measured.
“I’m afraid not. It was Hutton’s people.”
“Coppers!” Her eyes closed in embarrassment at it all. “Why is Scotland Yard following Cornell if you and Sinclair bloody Hutton knew we were onto him?”
“You were only concerned about your own backyard. After the attempt on Namakobo, it was clear that Cornell was the most probable source of the leak,” Davenport stated, matter-of-fact. “My only interest in Cornell is in getting to his associates. I was with Hutton when we received word that the faces in these photographs were your people. You weren’t aware of this?”
“No, of course not. I certainly hadn’t authorized physical surveillance of him. As far as I was concerned, we were following his bank accounts and got nowhere with the telephone and email intercepts. We were working on the basis that Cornell was somehow connected to a missing agent suspected of going private.”
Davenport ran a hand tiredly through his beard. “I expect you’re referring to Mr. Lundt?”
