He found the police radio and lifted it. He called in a sighting of the BMW heading in the opposite direction down the M20 towards Folkestone.
“Received,” the call room said.
He swung onto the M25 and eased it to one hundred. It took him back to his night-racing days. Gallows Corner, Pilgrims Hatch. His sirens split the darkness. The world itself seemed to divide to let him through. At Junction 27 he joined the M11 heading north. Now all he had to do was follow a straight course for the airport. It was perfect: total peace. And then the police arrived.
The first to give him attention was a Traffic Police Land Rover. They thought he was on a chase and wanted to help; Belsey could see them in his rearview mirror, radioing through. They were trying to make contact.
Belsey lifted the two-way. “It’s all fine. Back off. This is a Met operation. Please back off.”
He could outrun a Land Rover Discovery, and he accelerated away. That was a rush. He enjoyed it for all of twenty seconds. When he checked his mirrors, he saw two red pursuit vehicles with the swords of Essex Constabulary on their side doors. Mitsubishi Lancers. Belsey swore. That was all he needed: a pair of Essex boys up for a race. The front-runners pulled level and eyeballed him. Two young, gelled-up constables. They turned to each other and spoke. Then the officer in the passenger seat lifted a radio to his mouth and Belsey knew they were running a check on his plates. Next they’d be radioing a block.
Belsey took it to a hundred and thirty.
The response unit tried to box him. Belsey felt the force of a side slam. But Northwood’s BMW had weight advantage. He slammed back and they lost control for a moment. He weaved out between them.
They were close to the border with Cambridgeshire now. The clock said a hundred and thirty-five miles per hour. Reality doesn’t keep up at that speed. He felt calm. He could see his pursuers a few hundred yards behind him. On either side, Essex fields were preparing to become Cambridgeshire fields, level and grey, divided by pylons and hedgerow. Cambridgeshire Constabulary would provide the backup for a block. They also had their own air support. He knew he had to do something before they got the helicopter up.
Junction 7 passed in a blur. If they set up a block it wouldn’t be before Junction 9. He could see planes coming in, low, to the north, the lights of the runways reflecting off the underside of clouds. Then the Essex cars were joined by a Motorway Police bike. The three gained on him, appearing suddenly large in the rearview mirror. Belsey put his seat belt on and moved towards the hard shoulder. The car directly behind him nosed his bumper with a clang, and the LED signs above the road flashed across all six lanes: Stop Now. Block Ahead.
Belsey moved his passport from his breast pocket to inside his jacket. He slowed to ninety, then eighty, which confused them. The bike raced on ahead. The nearest car smashed his back bumper again. He could see a line of blue lights flashing in the near distance. Two hundred yards to go. Belsey wrenched the wheel to the left. The car scraped across the hard shoulder and was suddenly free of the ground. It came to earth a second later with an almighty crash. Then he was upside down and he thought he’d fucked it. Lean, he thought. He was still conscious. The car landed heavily back down on its wheels. Horns screamed above him, fading into the distance. He was alive.
He found the door handle, jumped out and plunged into a field of crop stubble. He checked himself as he ran; nothing was broken. He could see. He climbed over an electric fence onto a golf course, crossed the golf course, climbed a brick wall beyond the clubhouse, then stumbled past farm equipment and a barn. Now he could hear the helicopter. It had missed his evacuation though, which meant even with thermal imaging they were unlikely to have a lock on him. Walk calmly, he thought; he couldn’t be the only person on the ground, walking, although it felt like it amid the thin sprawl of countryside that Sunday night.
He followed a road with no pavement, walking in the storm drain, following signs to Bishop’s Stortford. A fleet of Dutch lorries passed him. Then there were just fields swaying beneath moonlight. I’ve made it out of London, he thought.
A few scattered cottages became a cluster of pale pre-fab houses. Bishop’s Stortford was locking up: tables upturned outside pubs and cafes, a group of youths by a war memorial, one man walking his dog. He’d lost the sound of sirens now. Even the helicopter was distant. Walking through the town was like entering another world, with smells of Sunday roast, white cider, fresh tarmac. And he knew he could make it then.
The airport appeared as a box of light on the horizon. He’d lost precious time. He thought about the hour, about the security on the gates. Who walked into Stansted airport with no luggage and a nice, new passport in the middle of the night? He knew the anti-terrorist precautions. Now he was on the edge of the village, almost on the last stretch of road. A train released a long mournful note, slowing as it passed through Bishop’s Stortford station. The Stansted Express. Belsey crashed through a back garden to a field, and down the muddy slope of the field towards the tracks.
The train rattled by, throwing sparks, lighting the branches behind it. Belsey eased himself down the embankment. Something caught his leg and tore through the trouser fabric. He kept going. He pushed through the brambles and rubbish to the gravel of the railway sidings and felt the force of the train. He reached a hand out, tried to grab a handle at the back of a carriage. The metal was torn out of his hand. He’d have to make a clean jump. He prepared himself. Three more carriages passed. As the last arrived he grabbed the handrails of the rear cab and leapt.
Suddenly he was clear of the ground. Belsey felt a wave of agony as his entire body hung from his fingers. His feet kicked frantically for support, then found the buffer bolts. He wedged himself flat against the metal as they roared into a tunnel. The sound was deafening. The back of the cab slammed against his face and knees but the pain was trivial beside the fear of falling. After another minute the train began to slow again. Then, like a dream, the concrete shell of the airport’s train station appeared. Families stood waiting beneath neon lights. Belsey stepped clean from the back of the train onto the platform and walked to the escalators, checking for security, brushing himself down.
Welcome to London Stansted. The low-rise labyrinth of retail outlets and food concessions stretched towards passport control. Some travellers already lay prostrate on the bench seats. Two airport police were getting money out of cash machines, Heckler & Koch submachine guns loose at their sides. All was peaceful. Belsey checked the departure boards.
11:30 Thessaloniki YK954—Proceed to Gate 16.
He had ten minutes to check in, five before the local police force arrived. He ran to the front of the terminal. Signs said “No Stopping” but cars were stopping, families hugging and throwing suitcases into boots before the airport security approached. The glass terminal leaked a cold, synthetic light over the scene. Where was Kovar? Belsey checked the road and listened for sirens. And then he saw Kovar moving towards him and his heart kicked.
“Max,” Belsey said.
62
Kovar grinned, hand outstretched. The floodlights lit his teeth. Two members of his own security hung back beside their vehicles, stalling the airport staff in yellow vests who were trying to move them on.
“Jack,” Kovar said.
Behind the security guards were two long trailers, each attached to the back of a jeep. They blocked the road. Belsey moved towards Kovar, his own hand extended, looking past him to the trailers and the men guarding them. It wasn’t a cash truck.
“Here they are,” Kovar said. And then the hand Belsey was about to shake wasn’t there and he was walking through a fine spray of blood.
Belsey saw Kovar pirouette before he heard the shot. Then he processed the sound: it wasn’t a police Heckler or airport security. It was the sniper.
Kovar’s guards took a second to react. Then they ran, covering him, moving Kovar back towards the jeep.
“The money,” Belsey shouted.
A second shot brushed B
elsey’s arm and clipped the trailer. He was the target, it seemed. He dived for cover, behind the concrete anti-terrorist slabs. There was a sudden commotion as the trailer seemed to shake and a new noise filled the air. It sounded awful—bestial and terrified. One of the guards angled a handgun uncertainly at Belsey but a third shot came between them, from the roof of the terminal, and the guard swung wildly in that direction.
The first jeep roared into gear and tried to pull away as a shot punctured its side. Sirens started now, police coming in from the motorway and airport security closing in, one vehicle speeding towards the back of Kovar’s convoy. The jeep reversed suddenly and its trailer slammed into the airport security van. The trailer toppled over. Horses spilled out.
There was a blur of panicked muscle, glinting hooves and eyes. One horse freed itself from the tangled mass, rose up and ran wild. The rest followed. They galloped across the tarmac in all directions, five horses, colts and yearlings, black and grey. A second police car swerved to avoid them, then a third crashed into that one.
Belsey crawled forward. There was violent whinnying from the second trailer. He could see it rocking with the panic inside. At the sound of another shot, the cargo burst the doors and leapt out, dragging ropes. The flat glare of the lights shimmered blue on their coats. They bolted across the runway towards the fence and then circled back to charge the airport security. The sound of hooves on tarmac filled the air.
The sniper shot again.
Two horses ran inside the terminal. Then a third and fourth. Belsey watched someone climb down the outside of the building and move calmly inside, pulling on the yellow jacket of a baggage handler. A fire crew crashed onto the scene—three engines, blocking up the terminal entrance but not enough to stop horses stumbling past. Belsey moved under cover of the horses, past the fire engines and inside.
Screams filled the air, along with the shrill stench of perfume and alcohol. Bottles of duty-free vodka and aftershave lay smashed across the floor, abandoned as passengers ran for cover. There was a horse jammed in the revolving doors and another charging at the Krispy Kreme stand, spilling aluminium tables and chairs. Families piled into the airport pub and the Burger King, trying to barricade whatever doors they could find. People had rushed to the sides and there was suddenly a void in the centre, a no-man’s-land in which the horses circled frantically.
The man in baggage-handler uniform swung himself up onto the roof of the Burger King concession. Belsey watched, considering his options. A shot breezed past from outside. It came from the airport police. He reached for his badge, then thought better of it and ran for the back of the terminal.
Now a shot came from up high, aimed at the front entrance where the security were taking up positions. I’ve brought him an army, Belsey thought. Through the glass walls he could see Cambridgeshire police clattering in, and the Met behind them: riot vans and area cars, men and women from SOCA screeching to a halt, spreading a wall of vehicles across the front concourse.
The terminal had begun to smell of the horses now. They’d urinated as they ran and scattered manure across the ground. When the sniper released another barrage of rifle fire, one horse jumped the passport control barriers and one kicked through the windows of a souvenir shop. A third careered into the Ryanair desk, slipping on perfume, its hooves tapping madly for a second. Then it was on its side, slamming into a bank of plastic seats. One of the horses had been hit. It splashed blood, looking for an escape route. The horse sounds were unearthly. Somewhere someone was still making announcements: This is a final call. Could passengers for flight YK954 to Thessaloniki please proceed to Gate 16.
Belsey took one of the spilled tables from outside a coffee shop and used it to climb onto the top of a retail unit. He pulled himself up slowly in time to see the sniper fifty yards in front of him, skipping across the top of the concessions to a bureau de change where he had cover behind one of the structural support pillars.
Belsey pulled the Sig and took the safety off.
He checked again. There were three stores between them, a jumble of roofs, vents and structural supports. Beyond the sniper he could see the entire scene at the front: plain-clothed officers running, airport security taking up positions, SOCA led by Northwood. The borough commander looked lost. None of them could see the gunman.
Belsey had one advantage: he was behind the action. He had been the last officer to dare attempt a run through the terminal before the sniper began laying down fire. Now he watched the gunman’s back, up on the roof of the bureau de change, wedged in behind his roof truss, sliding another magazine into the rifle. The gunman was focused on the ground.
He hadn’t seen Belsey. He locked the catch, then slung the rifle over his shoulder and jumped to the roof of the check-in desks. He secured himself again, aimed, let off another burst.
Ten-round box magazine, Belsey thought. He counted five shots, now six. He hauled himself up to the roof, keeping low, using vents for cover as he crawled forward. The police returned fire, shattering a panel of the terminal’s glass roof, and Belsey ducked. Splinters rained down. The sniper brushed the glass off. He was taking his time: sighting, firing, still protected by the support columns. The idea was clearly to keep the police at a distance, and so buy himself an occasion to escape. The smashed roof offered one possibility.
The sniper crawled to the edge of the check-in roof to angle another shot. The recoil almost knocked him off his perch. Belsey waited. His tenth shot hit a security guard in the arm. Now came the reload. The sniper fumbled with the bolt, let the empty magazine fall and reached into his jacket for new ammunition. Belsey jumped across.
“Milan,” Belsey said, moving in fast. He crouched to avoid any crossfire. The gunman looked over his shoulder, still searching for ammunition. He seemed startled, as if he hadn’t heard the name in a while and had to think what it meant. He was younger than Belsey expected. The gunman must have underestimated the distance between them. Belsey put a boot in his face and watched him fall.
63
Milan Balic was still alive when Belsey reached the ground, sprawled in the centre of ten armed officers with his rifle lying a few yards away. Belsey had enough time to see that the man was moving. Then a group of officers turned in his direction.
“I’m OK,” Belsey said. Someone pepper-sprayed him. He was thrown to the ground and cuffs closed around his wrists. “Hey . . .”
They hauled him into a secure room, eyes streaming.
“Take the cuffs off,” he said. No one did. “Get some fucking water on my face.”
Someone threw water on him. Eventually he could breathe. A little after that he could see. They were in an immigration custody suite, with maps of Africa and Central Asia on the wall. A select crowd had gathered: Northwood, the head of the Armed Ops Unit, the acting airport superintendent. In the background he saw Chief Superintendent Barry Marsh, head of SOCA, Commander Ashfield from Anti-Terrorism. They closed the doors.
“I know him,” Northwood said.
“Sir,” Belsey said.
“Talk.”
Belsey took a moment to gather his thoughts. He had a captive audience. He had quite a story to tell.
“The man you’ve got is a Croatian, probably born Milan Balic. Most recently he was travelling on a Canadian passport in the name of Antoine Pelletier. International Crime know him. So do Paris, Geneva and Rome. Balic carried out the hits on Jessica Holden and Pierce Buckingham. He was hired by a group called the Hong Kong Gaming Consortium after they got roped into a con game and wound up handing over thirty-eight million pounds to someone who wasn’t a Russian oligarch called Alexei Devereux.”
Belsey let them digest this. Finally Chief Superintendent Marsh spoke.
“How was Jessica Holden involved?”
“Jessica met the con man through an escort agency. They fell in love and she helped him. The money was tied to Project Boudicca. It was meant to be a casino and racetrack on Hampstead Heath. The con man set the scene to perfection. He
did everything you’d expect from a new oligarch in town, including getting friendly with the wrong people. He used Pierce Buckingham to rope the investors in, because that was Buckingham’s mission in life. There was a meeting at the Guildhall last Saturday in which Buckingham gave Project Boudicca the hard sell and a lot of money transferred before the day was done. Then it disappeared. Not surprising as the real Devereux is on an island somewhere and doesn’t know the first thing about any of this.
“As a result, the gaming consortium hired an investigations firm—PS Security. On Sunday, the man posing as Devereux killed a PS Security operative named Graham Dougsdale. I found his body at The Bishops Avenue address. It was left so that anyone coming across it would assume he was the Russian and he’d taken his own life. The con man bought a dog and cut its throat and the mess contributed to the overall effect. Dougsdale had caught him off guard. That was where the problems started.”
Belsey took a moment to savour the scene. The handcuffs bit into his flesh, but his audience was hanging on every word.
“The con man made two mistakes,” Belsey said. “He got blood on his hands and he fell in love. Both slowed him down. He missed the right moment to die. The fact that he got Jessica to ID the body as Devereux suggests he wanted to buy a day or so to get away. When he found he had a body on his hands he thought he could use it to his advantage, to distract the victims of his sting. But the consortium were already busy with revenge.”
“Who is he?” Commander Ashfield said.
“The con man?” Belsey looked around the flushed faces of the senior officers, then at the maps on the wall. “I don’t know.” He shook his head wistfully. There were a lot of sighs and a few curses.
“Any ideas where we’d find him?” Ashfield asked.
“Where would you go to disappear forever?”
Silence. Apparently none of them had ever considered it.
Hollow Man Page 34
