He knew that he’d been right when seconds later Joshua Loughry and Trevor Rudkin strolled through the front door. When they entered the same room, followed by several men whose faces appeared on the TV news each week, Kyle’s finger itched for his gun. The corruption had penetrated the top levels of politics, celebrity and business! Could all these men really be so anti-Europe that they would collude in murder to get the UK out?
The D.I. shook his head; he wasn’t there to judge them, that was the job of the courts. He was there to get the photographs and recordings that would throw the lot in jail, and to do that he had to access where the group was meeting. He was just withdrawing to the veranda to check the floorplan he’d brought with him when Leonard Montgomery sidled up.
“Don’t bother with that room. It’s not the one.”
Kyle led the MLA further away from the house, reaching the veranda’s stone balustrade before he turned around.
“The one with the oak door? But I saw Basil Hartnell go in there.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not trying to tell me he’s not involved.”
Montgomery shook his head. “He’s up to his eyes in it, but they’re not meeting yet. That room’s just a gathering place for the VIPs. The real stuff goes down once the party’s in full swing.” He turned to leave. “Trust me. I’ll give you the nod.”
Kyle grabbed the politician’s arm, hissing at him. “I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could spit, Montgomery!”
A flash of arrogance lit the official’s eyes
“I don’t give a damn if you trust me, but you should at least trust your own man, Rudkin. He’s going to tell us where they’ll be. When the rest of the guests are too drunk or stoned or busy to notice, that’s when your little group will slip away.” Montgomery ripped his arm free. “Believe me or don’t believe me, I really don’t care, but nothing will happen for at least three hours.”
It proved an accurate prediction. At six-thirty Craig and Liam had been joined by Andy and Jake, dispatched to another vantage point at the back of the estate, and by nine-thirty even Bill McEwan had grudgingly contacted them to find out what was happening. Not a signal that he’d forgiven them for pointing out his men had missed Beatrix Hass’ hiding place but a sign that even a man with a capacity for silence such as his could eventually be worn down.
Meanwhile, Kyle had spent almost four hours resisting alcohol and trying to look like he was protecting the escorts, who by and large seemed to be more in control than their male guests.
Finally, at ten-thirty Trevor Rudkin appeared by his side.
“Loughrey’s sloped off.”
Kyle dropped his glare at a minor celebrity who was shoving Bolivian marching powder up his oversized nose and turned to face the civil servant.
“Where to and when?”
Rudkin answered him glassy-eyed, and Kyle had a fleeting thought that perhaps he should tell the informant to wipe his face. He thought better of it. It would serve the little bastard right if his upper lip was snow covered when Armed Response kicked down the door.
“Just now, to a different room upstairs. I don’t know where.”
Kyle was off on ‘upstairs’, slaloming through bodies in various stages of undress until he’d reached the bottom of the mansion’s elegant staircase, where a remarkably sober looking Leonard Montgomery was standing what appeared to be guard.
“I’m going up there, Montgomery. Don’t try to stop me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I volunteered to guard the stairs just for this reason.”
The MLA gave him access with a sweep of his hand, adding “Corridor on the right, the fourth room down” before he sauntered away.
When Kyle was halfway up the stairs he turned back, just in time to see the MLA lift his first drink of the evening. What he didn’t notice was a late-comer to the gathering, a silver-haired man who’d been approaching the stairs when he’d spotted Kyle, sussed exactly what he was and slipped out into the summer night via a side door. A call five minutes later to Beatrix Hass told her that they’d been blown and it was time to run.
Kyle took the final three stairs up to the landing in one stride and found himself standing in a wide space, empty apart from some plants and a chaise longue, with a corridor running off either side. He swerved quickly into the right hand one, following Montgomery’s instructions, and then slipped off his shoes and padded quietly the rest of the way, coming to a halt outside the fourth door and placing his ear gently against the wood. The voices he heard were unmistakable; all male, all cultured, but all speaking in a language he didn’t recognise.
Logic said that it was probably Latin or Greek of some period, but any speech at all was his signal to record. He placed one cufflink against the door and held it there for what seemed like a life sentence, glancing over his shoulder at intervals for guards and praying that no-one opened the door and made him fall in. The spy’s heart was thudding in his chest and sweat was trickling down his back, but he felt exhilarated; alive in a way that he hadn’t done for months.
He just hoped that the recording would provide enough evidence for court, but either way, between the teams outside filming and what he’d captured with his links, they could prove that representatives of every parliament in the British Isles were in a house where drugs were being dealt. That scandal alone should stop their referendum plot in its tracks.
When he thought that he had enough conversation recorded, Kyle turned back the way he came, making it safely down the staircase and onto the veranda before a now alcohol-mellowed Leonard Montgomery reappeared. He went to say something but Kyle shushed him into silence, quickly retrieving the phone and Glock McEwan’s man had planted in the flower-bed the night before. The mobile only held one number and when the D.I. dialled it he was answered instantly by Craig.
“What have you got?”
Kyle dropped his voice to a whisper.
“They’re in a room upstairs. I can take you to it. I recorded a bit of what they’re saying, but I think they’re speaking ancient Greek.”
Montgomery’s eyes widened and he flopped down on a step, shaking his head. This was all beyond him. All he’d ever wanted was a good time to obviate the boredom of his marital bed.
Craig was nodding at the other end. “Makes sense. OK, good work.” He meant it. “Now, walk out the front door as if you need some air. Take Montgomery and Rudkin with you if you can, but get out now.”
Spence didn’t need to be told twice. He motioned the MLA to haul ass, but Trevor Rudkin was nowhere to be seen and he couldn’t afford the time to go looking for him. The civil servant would have to look after himself, snow nose and all.
Craig lifted his radio and made the call, and in a coordinated attack that saw the front, rear and both borders of the estate either abseiled over or crawled through in silence, within five minutes there were uniformed and plain clothes police officers swarming wordlessly all over Emmett Darrian’s grounds.
Craig left Andy and McEwan to clear the house, while he and Liam were led by Kyle up the carpeted stairs to the first floor. When they reached the indicated door, Craig drew his gun and nodded the ex-spook to step back, then he and Liam kicked hard in unison, breaking the door’s lock and shattering the wood. They dropped to their knees and covered both sides of the high-ceilinged room, scanning the hands and faces of its stunned occupants, and identifying the likelihood of two guns that weren’t theirs.
“POLICE! THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS.”
Ignoring the warning saw Emmet Darrian receive a shoulder shot. The second shooter dropped his handgun on the floor hastily and kicked it across to Craig.
“Liam, cuff Darrian.”
Craig did the same to the second man. When they were both anchored to chairs, Craig took his time surveying the scene, ignoring the now very vocal objections of the remaining guests. Liam found the noise harder to ignore and resorted to a deafening “SHUT UP!” that had the desired effect.
Kyle meanwhile was struggling to hide his shock; the group was
a who’s who of Northern Irish society, with a sprinkling from the Republic, London and further afield.
Craig wondered if the man who’d phoned Beatrix Hass was amongst them, but time would soon tell. He stood in the centre of the room, smiling.
“The Zeus Circle, I presume.”
The mixture of widened eyes and stunned expressions was as loud a yes as he required. He could see the men’s, and they were all men, minds racing with questions, top of the list ‘how the hell did they find out?’ Craig answered even though it hadn’t been asked out loud.
“We have very clever people working for us, gentlemen, as you’ll find out in the coming weeks.”
Just then a uniformed sergeant entered, looking very pleased with himself.
“All secure downstairs, sir. We’ve nicked quite a few on drug possession and the CSIs are on their way. I only wish I could un-see some of the anatomy on display down there.” It earned him a dirty laugh from Liam as he continued. “I’ve vans coming for that lot. Thought I’d send them to the nearest station, Bangor, to be processed and released, if that’s OK? What do you want me to do with this bunch?”
His thumb jerking towards the Classics group indicated just how far the mighty could fall and made Craig laugh. The gesture had said it better than he ever could.
“Call an ambulance for our host, please, Sergeant. He’s to be kept under guard the whole time. And ask D.C.I. Angel to come up here, please.”
Between them the detectives split the circle’s members between High Street and Stranmillis and after three hours of booking and arguing with expensive briefs everyone was held.
It was one a.m. when Craig suddenly realised that Annette and Rhonda were still outside Terry Harrison’s flat.
“Oh, God! I’m a dead man! I left Annette still watching Harrison and he hasn’t moved all night.”
Liam was unsympathetic. “You think you’re in trouble? Danni was cooking me a flipping steak!”
****
Demmin, North Germany.
The two officers had been watching the house for hours, feeling useless. They could see the lamp shining in the ground-floor front room, so they knew that their target was there. Beatrix Hass had made no attempt to hide the fact, parading past the window several times in the previous hour, once even standing right in front of it as if she was looking out into the night.
They’d thought it was defiance, knowing that she was a quarry but certain that she couldn’t be touched. One had even speculated that she could see them, crouched down in their cold surveillance car, with nothing to heat them but the dying steam from their vacuum flasks.
But that that was nonsense; there were no overhead lights in the small side-street and she was too far away to see. It was only after midnight when the light should have moved to the woman’s bedroom and closed curtains signalled that she was settling down to sleep, that Beatrix Hass’ blank-eyed gazing at the street suddenly began to make sense.
The low, black car that passed them only inches away had windows that hid the faces inside, so when a man emerged and tapped the front door of the house, smiling towards the window where Hass was standing, the surveillance officers’ shock at the car’s appearance was compounded by astonishment at who they were staring at. Gleb Solokov, the right hand of the Eugenov Mafia. Rarely seen outside Berlin, they hadn’t believed the rumour that he was Beatrix Hass’ lover, but now here he was.
The younger officer whispered nervously.
“What do we do, Lukas? He’s got a gun. I saw the bulge. And you can bet that his driver is armed as well.”
His companion nodded curtly, his mind racing as he made his choice. He was the senior officer and it was his choice now whether they lived or died. After only a second spent considering he answered by sliding well down in his seat.
“We watch for now, and later we have them tailed to see where they go.”
He said ‘they’ because the one thing he was sure of as the upstairs light came on and the curtains were quickly drawn, was that after Solokov and Hass had had their sordid reunion, they would be leaving together in the sleek, black car.
****
The C.C.U. 2 a.m.
“Aw shit.”
Andy Angel rubbed his eyes hard and peered at the camera again, his hope that the action might somehow have eradicated the image in front of him dying in his chest. There was no two ways about it, the chief wasn’t going to be a happy boy. The D.C.I. glanced at his watch, wondering if Craig would be unhappier if he found out about the photograph now or tomorrow morning. He plumped for tomorrow; if the chief knew tonight he could at least begin the pursuit.
It meant rousing other people who sensibly would have been in their beds for hours, so Andy nodded Jake to start the round of calls and prepared to summon Craig himself. Thirty minutes later the analysts had joined them in the squad-room, and a yawning Davy was already hard at work when Craig appeared.
“OK, Andy, what’s the bad news?”
It was a sensible conclusion; no-one in their right mind would insist their boss returned to work at two a.m. just to shout ‘surprise’.
The D.C.I. reached for the digital camera on Davy’s desk.
“You finished with this, Davy?”
On the analyst’s nod he passed it to Craig, who had a bed head that would have made Ash proud. If Ash had been awake enough to notice that was; at that moment the junior analyst was drooling on his desk. When Jake went to waken him Davy shook his head.
“Wait till I have a clear enough image for him to search. It’ll be another ten minutes at least.”
Craig said nothing. He was too busy squinting at the camera though exhaustion reddened eyes. Andy filled the silence nervously.
“We had men all over the perimeter, chief, but it was four miles around, and some of the estate backed on to a wood, so-”
Craig cut him off without looking up.
“This man escaped.”
It wasn’t a question but Andy answered anyway.
“Yes. I’m sorry, boss.”
Craig still didn’t look at him.
“Who was watching that stretch of the perimeter?”
His tone said that he already knew, making Andy’s immediate instinct to protect another officer redundant. Even so, the D.C.I. answered reluctantly.
“Three of… Commander McEwan’s men. They’d offered to help guard the south side.”
Craig did look up this time, accompanying the movement with a roll of his eyes.
“It would seem that our Commander has a problem with basic search and surveillance tactics. They missed Beatrix Hass at the Travis and now they’ve missed this man.”
Just then Davy pressed save and nodded Jake to wake up Ash. The analyst’s Mohican hadn’t survived his desk and his head popped up with a horizontal wedge of hair jutting out.
“What?” He gazed around him, alarmed. “Why am I at work? What time is it?”
Jake handed him a hanky. “Time you wiped your mouth and got back to business. Davy’s got something for you.”
As the image started to process Craig beckoned the two detectives across.
“OK, whoever this guy is he wanted out of there fast. That could mean he was just a local trying to save his reputation, or it could mean something else. Jake, work with Davy to get this image to ports and airports. He has a head start, but we might be lucky. Andy, bring the camera. You and I are going to pay a call.”
He turned towards the exit and then turned back, remembering something.
“Anything at all on him, call me. I might have more information for you in an hour’s time.”
It seemed that no-one was sleeping after the raid. When the two detectives reached Veronica Lewis’ apartment they found her wide awake and cleaning up.
“Makes me feel better having a tidy place.” She stripped off her rubber gloves and headed for the kitchen. “Tea or coffee?”
It was a very different attitude to when Craig had met her in Tobermore and he said as much.
She waved them to a low sofa and brought in a tray.
“Because you kept your word. None of my girls were arrested and you took all that lot in. I hope you throw away the key on the bunch of them! Bloody parties. All that drugs and kinky stuff was no good. It was never what I wanted.”
She poured out the drinks and took a seat. “They forced me into it, you know. I used to run my own parties, just on a small scale and no drugs or kinks, then one evening one of my regulars, an MLA, and no, I won’t give you his name, asked if he could bring a visiting friend.”
The madam shuddered so hard that she almost spilt her tea.
“Nasty bastard, I knew it right from the off. But once he heard about my clientele he forced me to keep running the parties and made them even bigger, then he added all that sordid stuff.” She took a sip of tea. “I refused to run them any more, but, well, you saw what happened to me when I tried that.” She glanced meaningfully at her still bruised wrists. “So-.”
Craig interrupted the speech, the instinct that had brought him there practically shouting at him now.
“Can you describe this man, please, Mrs Lewis.”
The request seemed to frighten her. “Didn’t you arrest him?”
“So he was definitely at tonight’s party?”
Her eyes widened at what the question meant. “Yes, he was there! You mean you didn’t catch him? He could still come for me?” She jumped to her feet and started to pace. “He’ll kill me if he knows I helped you!”
Craig spotted her impending meltdown and rose as well, gripping her shoulders firmly to calm her down.
“Show her the photo, Andy.”
As the D.C.I. obliged Veronica Lewis gasped and tried to pull away.
“Is that the man, Mrs Lewis?”
As she struggled Craig could feel her fear in every tightened sinew. His voice grew more insistent.
“Is it him?”
Her answer emerged as a shout. “YES! Yes, that’s him. Oh God help me, he’ll kill me! He’ll kill Rupert! He said he would.”
The Cabal Page 34
