by Rachel Lynch
‘I need you,’ she told the bodyguard. They sank down and cowered in the foot well.
‘Keep down,’ she screamed at the two men in the back.
‘I’ll take left, you, right,’ she said. Two vehicles in the PM’s entourage had driven towards them, under fire. Helen peered above the window level and saw Fawaz walking calmly towards the car as the other unidentified shooter was taken out. Fawaz kept walking. Helen could tell by his face that he knew that Sir Conrad and the prime minister were with her in this car. She cocked and fired, but missed because her aim was out at the last minute: a woman ran behind Fawaz and Helen knew she’d have killed her if she’d been on aim. She took cover again. The bodyguard got off a few rounds.
Fawaz returned fire and sprayed all around him for good measure with the AK-47.
‘Give me a fucking MP5,’ she said, gutted that she’d only been issued a few pistols. They were good at short range but not accurate at the distance Fawaz was currently. They’d expected close combat. She needed something destructive. The bodyguard crawled to the back seat, making sure the VIPs were keeping low, and produced two pristine Heckler & Koch submachine guns. She snatched one, ducking from bullets pinging off the body armour.
‘Drive!’ she shouted. The bodyguard crawled into the driver’s seat. Fawaz kept coming. Why wasn’t he dead? He was so close now; he fired again and again, and a shot from behind sliced through his arm. More rounds split his shoulder and hand on his left side. There was hush in between rounds as, no doubt, the PM’s bodyguards checked crossfire.
They were trapped by the other vehicles now, and Helen opened her door and got out, crouching behind the door. She brought the automatic up and took aim. She squeezed her left eye shut and aimed for his head, gently pressing the trigger, landing her first burst of ammunition. He went down, and she lowered her weapon.
But it wasn’t over. They created a barricade of armed guards around the principal’s car and waited. Distant screams and calls for help could be heard, as well as birds singing and an aeroplane up above.
Were there more attackers?
She wiped her brow as she waited, crouched behind the door of a support vehicle. The PM’s car remained static, gas seeping from the hood, with all the windows and doors locked, as she’d told them. She caught the bodyguard’s eye, and he nodded to her: they were okay.
It wasn’t for her to judge who was in the right. Sir Conrad could have made the connection way before she did, but he probably didn’t even remember signing the extradition form of an incidental Moroccan who he’d sent home to be electrocuted, beaten and probably sexually humiliated in some way.
She heard the familiar sirens of the gendarmes and emergency vehicles but kept watching the treeline, expecting more followers to emerge holding automatic weapons.
A helicopter buzzed overhead, and she looked up: it was the damn media. Ah well, if they got a close-up at least Grant would know she was alive. She heard a car door open and turned around angrily. It was Sir Conrad.
‘Shouldn’t you come back inside here?’ he asked. She smiled weakly.
‘Thank you, sir, but I think I prefer to be outside.’ She turned away and heard the door slam. Later, as the emergency services arrived and the park was made secure, Helen walked up to the body of Fawaz bin Nabil. She leant over and studied his face, realising that a photograph had fallen out his shirt pocket. It was of his son, Rafik.
Chapter 56
L’Aiguille du Midi cable car ascended through the clouds on its way to Mont Blanc. The sky seemed to shine a crisper blue up here at almost four thousand metres. They looked out of the window and seemed suspended above sheer rock as it scaled the peak up to the highest point reachable by transport. From there, one had to climb the final thousand metres to the glorious summit, but climbing wasn’t on the agenda today. They’d both done it before and they watched as climbers and walkers, eager to tackle Europe’s highest peak, gathered their thoughts excitedly and nervously at the same time. Mont Blanc wasn’t a hill walk, though many had died thinking it might be.
The hairiest part of the cable-car journey was the final push, hanging underneath ancient rock, expecting it to fall down over one’s head, bringing the tiny module with it. At the top, the clunking grew louder: enough to put anyone off trusting the rusty machinery that was covered in snow for half the year, and they filed out, thankful to have survived. There was a platform where tourists took photos that everyone flocked to: it was a cube of glass, suspended over the cliff edge high above Chamonix, and Helen had never done it. She supposed it was her army roots demanding control: Grant wouldn’t do it either. They had to be in charge of their destinies, and standing on a pane of glass over a four-thousand-foot drop didn’t cut it for either of them. Maybe why that’s why they’d fallen apart over Luke’s death.
They’d stayed in the Prince de Galle for three days after the events of the summit. After that, they’d both returned to London, agreeing to take a trip here, in the place where they’d skied as lovers and kept going back to. France had been the place they planned to settle once they were parents.
Grant soon returned to Algiers to sort out Khalil’s security, and Helen had attended her parents’ ruby wedding anniversary as guest of honour. Her parents’ friends had bombarded her with questions about the attack on Versailles, despite the fact Helen had specifically asked her parents not to divulge her involvement. Fat chance. She told Grant the stories of how she’d had to sit with an audience of oldies listening to her describe how she’d saved the prime minister.
‘Did he say thank you?’
‘Are you getting a damehood?’
‘Will you meet the Queen?’
‘Are you going to retire now?’
And so it went.
Grant told her about Hakim and his recovery. About the reaction of Farid and Samir when they saw their big brother. Helen had watched the funerals of the seven people who died at Versailles, on a TV in a London bar. The footage of her pointing her weapon at the treeline as Sir Conrad opened the car door to ask her to come in, had gone viral, but no one recognised her. She ate a club sandwich and walked along the river.
The seven fatalities were three Afghan interpreters, when one of the drones fixed on the face of the new president of Afghanistan, there to discuss his country’s future; and four security operators from Germany, who’d been checking last-minute details when the other drone detonated, when it successfully digitalised the face of the German chancellor, who’d had a suit jacket shoved over her head as she was forced to the ground in the moments of the carnage: that bodyguard died.
The news saw a seismic shift in counter terrorism, but Helen and Grant knew that it was just another piece in the hate puzzle. Attacks like it wouldn’t stop because someone was horrified and people died. Would Sir Conrad have sought vengeance if his son had died the same way as Rafik did?
But they weren’t here to weigh up political rights and wrongs.
They wore shorts and thin layers and applied plenty of sunscreen to combat the deceiving wind. Helen used a headband to keep her hair off her face. They wore sunglasses and strode away to the beginning of a rare walk on Mont Blanc that was relatively quiet. Few people knew about it. They were only made aware of it on an adventure training exercise they’d shared. The instructors scaled the peaks around here like mountain goats, but they also passed on their extraordinary knowledge.
No one would follow them where they were going.
Fawaz had had been pronounced dead at the scene in the Bois de Boulogne. Nabil Tradings was seized in name and assets by Operation Lionfish and the investigation was ongoing. Jean-Luc was rotting in a French prison somewhere near Calais, awaiting trial, and his mother was incarcerated in a female prison on the Swiss border. Ahmad Azzine had been shot by combined French and US security forces in the grounds of Versailles, along with six others, posing as caterers. The drones were constructed at night, in the great kitchen where she’d grabbed a sandwich. The catering company was fak
e and created by Nabil Tradings four years previously. Sniffer dogs hadn’t picked up the scent of C4 explosives because the material was stable for days as it sat inside boxes of dried spices. New training methods were now being tested on bomb-detecting dogs for scenarios when filaments of explosive are not directly released into the air.
Mustafa cooperated with Interpol and was spared prison for his information on how the drones were armed with facial-recognition technology, which was already being developed into weapons by the US military. He and his wife entered the witness-protection programme over there and were given a new life in LA.
Sir Conrad Temple-Cray retired and was replaced by a woman. Colonel Palmer moved to a desk job at the MOD. Helen had been asked to join a new mission at Interpol, and Whitehall was considering it. Sylvia Drogan was promoted to chief commissioner back home in Ireland, and Peter Knowles accepted the post of head of SO15, Counter Terrorism Command, in London.
The vetting of the driver of the prime minister’s car flagged up glaring anomalies: he’d been groomed by a cell on an estate in Wandsworth, then funded through college by money traced back to Morocco. He’d been the prime minister’s driver for four years: the amount of time investigators reckoned Fawaz had taken to plot the attack. During the autopsy, the driver was found to have a tracking device in his rectum.
After two hours of walking, they stopped to listen to the wind and eat chocolate bars.
‘Ready?’ Grant asked her. She nodded. She opened her bag and took out a box. They’d been asked to donate Luke’s body to medical science, but the thought of some scientist poking around their baby was too much, and they’d declined. The guilt was keen, but not as much as the pain. Their baby could have given valuable insight into one of the rarest diseases in foetuses, but they couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Instead, they’d had a private service for him in the hospital chapel, which only she and Grant attended, and he’d been cremated. Now it was time to let go.
They stood as close to the cliff edge as they dared and opened the box together.
They looked out across the valley below and a carpet of cloud covered their view. The sun shone above them and glinted off the glass of the cable car descending beneath them. It disappeared and then the clouds parted, revealing blue sky to the north. They turned to one another and held the box between them, tipping it slightly, then more and more, until the contents caught the wind and floated away.
They held the box tightly and moved closer together. Helen turned to him and closed the box gently. She put her hand up to his face and wiped away his tears.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank two people in particular whose input was invaluable for me in inspiring this book. Firstly, Andrew Fleming for his incredible knowledge and vast experience. Secondly, to Vickie Long for her expertise and for sharing her fascinating background with me, despite being crazy busy.
I’d also like to thank Samantha Clynchard for her unfailing encouragement and support, especially over a small beer. I want to pay special honour to the military community, of which I was proudly part for sixteen years. It remains a unique inspiration for me and I value your continued friendship and approval.
Thanks to the whole Canelo team, especially my editors Louise and Siân, who push me to do my best. Also my agent Peter Buckman for his faith and tenacity. To my husband Mike for his tireless commitment to what I do, and my amazing children, Tilly and Freddie for making me so proud.
Do you love crime fiction and are always on the lookout for brilliant authors?
Canelo Crime is home to some of the most exciting novels around. Thousands of readers are already enjoying our compulsive stories. Are you ready to find your new favourite writer?
Find out more and sign up to our newsletter at canelocrime.com
About the Author
Rachel Lynch grew up in Cumbria and the lakes and fells are never far away from her. London pulled her away to teach History and marry an Army Officer, whom she followed around the globe for thirteen years. A change of career after children led to personal training and sports therapy, but writing was always the overwhelming force driving the future. The human capacity for compassion as well as its descent into the brutal and murky world of crime are fundamental to her work.
Also by Rachel Lynch
The Rift
Detective Kelly Porter
Dark Game
Deep Fear
Dead End
Bitter Edge
Bold Lies
Blood Rites
Little Doubt
Lost Cause
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
31 Helen Road
Oxford OX2 0DF
United Kingdom
Copyright © Rachel Lynch, 2021
The moral right of Rachel Lynch to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN 9781800321052
Print ISBN 9781800324053
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Look for more great books at www.canelo.co
