by Mark Leggatt
Montrose shifted around on the unyielding taxi seat and ran a finger round his tight collar. The morning heat was building. Sweat soaked his back and he wound down the window. They had reckoned about an hour from Tehran airport. It couldn’t be far.
Lookin’ good. Suit from Old England in Paris. Shirt from Pinks of London. Montrose held out the arms of his suit. The shirt cuffs protruded just enough to show off his silver cufflinks. Let’s hope they don’t have to bury me in it. The collar rubbed against his freshly shaven skin and the goatee he’d grown was damn itchy. The dark, tightly curly wig was hot on his scalp, but it had to be done. Man, I look like an Eighties porn star.
The briefcase and paper bag slid across the seat as the taxi turned into a wide road and pulled up at a gated compound. Ugly, grey concrete walls surrounded the building. He closed his eyes for a moment, then wiped his damp hands on his pants. There was no going back.
If I don’t do this, she’ll never be safe. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought of the last time he had seen her. Her sleeping body, half-covered in a thin sheet. He ran his fingers around the elastic band on his wrist. It had been the only trace left of her when he had returned to the apartment in Casablanca, lying on the ground where she had dropped it.
He grabbed the briefcase and paper bag then shoved open the taxi door.
Play the music. Bring on the dancing girls. It’s showtime.
“Wait here,” Montrose told the driver, “I’ll be five minutes.” He stepped onto the street. He stood for a moment, adjusting his tie, and risked a glance at the roof. He wouldn’t hear the shooter. Even the most high-powered paintball gun wouldn’t need a silencer.
Torn and defaced revolutionary posters hung in tatters along the wall, scrawled with pro-democracy graffiti. Through a thickly-barred turnstile gate, he could see an empty courtyard, stretching around thirty feet to a two-storey building. Car bombs. No one would get near enough. If the plan worked, there was no need. Except the last part. That was always going to be personal.
He pictured the surveillance photo in his mind. The satellite communications dish on the roof was about six feet in diameter. Any moment now, a shooter from a neighboring roof would empty a magazine of paint balls on to the dish. It didn’t have to knock it out. The silver metallic paint would dry to a sheen in moments and concentrate all the sunlight onto the receiver in the middle of the dish. In this heat it would fry in seconds. Like a bug under a magnifying glass. Comms down. Then the shooter would disappear, leaving behind a cell phone disrupter.
Montrose checked his cell phone. Three bars. Hurry up, dammit!
He dabbed his face with a silk handkerchief and stood before the turnstile. The freshly painted bars stretched to a height of six feet. He looked up to the second floor window. It had the green sheen of reinforced glass. No openings. And no escape. The others seemed normal. It had to be that room. He checked the signal strength once more. No signal. Game on. He pressed the unnamed buzzer on the wall.
“Speak.”
“This is Monsieur Jekyll of FranzGas. I am expected.” A loud clang of bolts came from the turnstile.
“Enter.”
Montrose pushed up against the bars and emerged into the courtyard. In the corner was a fuel inlet pipe, surrounded by a dark diesel stain. Mossad intel was right about the generator. Cutting the power would have been useless, and too suspicious. Especially since they had cut the phone lines a few hours earlier. Which was the easiest part of the plan, since all the utility cables were strung between the buildings like spaghetti. Not an unusual occurrence in this part of town.
A whirring noise came from above. He looked up to the roof. Two cameras tracked him as he walked. In front, thick glass doors barred the way. They didn’t open. There was no button to press. They’re still checking me out. He stood for a moment, gazing at his reflection. I was right about the wig.
The door whooshed quickly aside. He stepped into a long, cool hall and felt an icy blast from above. At least somewhere in Tehran the aircon was working. Three guards stood before a desk. Tall, Teutonic. Bulges under the arms of their coats. So, right address.
A guard moved forward and lifted his hands, signaling a search. Montrose laid his briefcase and the paper bag on a desk and extended his arms. The guard ran his fingers under his suit lapels, around the collar of his shirt, then patted his coat before pushing a hand up into his crotch and smoothing down his legs.
A bead of sweat ran over Montrose’s moustache and dripped to the floor.
“All metal objects in the tray,” said the guard. “And the watch.”
He emptied his pockets and undid the strap of his old Omega. The guard ran a hand-held metal detector across his body. Turning his head, Montrose caught the bank of video screens behind the desk. The whole building was monitored. No surprise. Looks like I’ll have an audience.
Another guard picked up his passport from the tray. It had the obligatory stamps for a traveling businessman and some for Tehran. If they checked the HQ of FranzGas in Paris, they would be told that Monsieur Jekyll was out of the country on business. That’s what his secretary would always say when Jekyll went off for a weekend with his mistress.
“Look at me,” said the guard, holding up a digital camera. He hit the button and then connected the camera to a laptop on the desk.
Montrose felt the sweat chill on his neck. Face recognition software. They must be dialed into Iranian intelligence. And if the satellite dish was still working, they would find out that Monsieur Jekyll was Mr. Hyde. He watched the guard hit the keyboard a few times before his pulse slowed.
The guard murmured to the others as they crowded around the laptop.
Time to ramp it up. “Will this take long?’ said Montrose. “Do I have to tell Director Kessler that I’m late because you can’t use your security systems?”
The guard popped the locks of Montrose’s briefcase and flicked through a folder of notes, then opened the paper bag. He lifted out a small cardboard box, embossed in gold and tied in an intricate bow.
“Chocolates,” said Montrose, “from the Rue de l’Opera in Paris. The finest chocolatier in the world.”
The guard didn’t rise to the bait. Not a smile. He held the box in his hand for a moment. It barely covered his palm as he swept it with the metal detector. “Leave the briefcase here,” said the guard. “Second floor.”
Montrose slipped on his Omega and grabbed his keys and change.
“Wait,” said a guard and came out from behind the desk. He stood before Montrose and examined him closely. “Don’t I know you?”
Montrose looked him straight in the eyes. “Oh, perhaps you are a member of the Club de Tennis in the Bois de Boulougne? Or you frequent the literary salon of Madame Derioz in Avenue Foch? No?” He gave a shrug. “Then I do not think I know you, monsieur.” Montrose pulled a folder from the briefcase, picked up the chocolates and headed for the stairs. Behind him he heard the click of a phone. The low murmur of a voice. Then the footsteps of a guard.
Shit. Company is not what I need. He glanced around the reception area. The guards were holding their phones in the air, searching for a signal. The dish was out. The phone lines were out. The cell phone interrupter was on the closest roof, but there was no way it would work 100%. If they found 3G this could be over in seconds.
He came to a corridor at the top of the steps. A receptionist opened a door. “This way, sir,” she said and beckoned him inside.
He followed her into a small office. The guard sat down on a chair at the side of the room and Montrose caught the butt of an automatic pistol as he unbuttoned his jacket. It was holstered, but the restraining strap had been cut away. These guys were ready. Probably had a round up the spout. If the shit hits the fan, I’ll have to get close.
The secretary walked over to two high wooden doors. “The Director will see you now.”
Montrose held up the paper bag. “A gift for the Director. Don’t worry, Security has checked it.”
Th
e secretary pushed open the doors. Montrose tucked the folder under his arm and stepped into a long office. He fixed a smug banker’s smile on his face and crossed the room to a tall, white-haired figure hunched over a desk. The doors closed behind him.
With his left hand, Montrose reached behind his neck and pulled a small glass phial from under the edge of the wig, then flicked off the end with his thumbnail. It only held 10ml under pressure, but it would be enough. He brushed his thumb across the needle.
The bag of chocolates swung in his other hand. Let’s hope he’s not a greedy bastard or he might get a surprise. “Herr Kessler! A delight to meet you!” Montrose placed the chocolates on the desk.
Kessler grunted and stood up behind his desk, offering his hand. “Monsieur Jekyll,” he said, “I hope the journey was not too tiring.”
“Herr Kessler, you wouldn’t believe the journey that led me here today.” He took Kessler’s hand and held it tight then quickly brought up the phial in his left hand and jabbed it into Kessler’s wrist.
“Scheisse!” Kessler tried to pull his hand away, but Montrose covered it in a two-handed shake and held on tight as the drug kicked in. Kessler began to stagger. Montrose relaxed his grip and let Kessler drop back into his chair.
“This won’t take long,” said Montrose. He made himself comfortable in the chair. “You’re a big man, but your heart is pounding. It makes it easier for the drug to take effect. Do you feel it?”
Kessler sat open-mouthed, his chest heaving. He tried to get up, then slumped further down in the chair. “What . . .?”
“Don’t worry. It won’t knock you out, but by now you’ll have lost the power in your arms, and probably your legs.”
Kessler’s hands sat limp in his lap. “You’ll never make it out of here alive. You’re on video.”
“I thought I would be. So, what did they see? A warm handshake between two businessmen and you relaxing in your chair. Then they see me smiling and laughing and waving my hands around in a typically Gallic manner, and you, talking and moving your head. If they look closely, they might see you’ve pissed your pants.”
Kessler eyes dropped to a dark stain spreading across his crotch.
“It’s the muscle relaxant. I’m told it’s the most powerful on the market. Every muscle south of your scalp is about to shut down. Except your heart. Don’t worry, there’s not enough to kill you.”
Kessler’s fingers twitched. “Who are you?”
“You don’t recognize me? Well, I suppose we’ve never actually met.”
“What do you want?”
Montrose leaned back. “Work it out. When I heard you were here, I just couldn’t miss the opportunity. I might never find you again.”
“Find me? Mossad?”
“No. Although they’ve been very helpful.”
Kessler’s face turned bright red and his words began to slur. “You’re a dead man.”
“We’ll see about that. So, have you worked it out yet?” He stared into Kessler’s eyes and watched the pupils dilate as the shock slammed home.
“Montrose.”
“Yeah. Quite the bad penny, huh?”
Kessler breathed hard and fast through his nose, trying to fight the drug. “You got them. The ones who killed the psychiatrist. They were out of control.”
“Out of control?” Montrose leaned forward. “Those bastards were professional. They wouldn’t piss without permission. You told them to kill Richmond and his secretary. And then you told them to kill Charlotte.”
Kessler’s head jerked from side to side.
“Don’t fuck with me. I know. They told me what they were going to do to her. Charlotte.”
“No, it . . . was Fleet . . .” Kessler could barely turn his head.
“And now there’s only you.” Montrose pushed the box of chocolates across the desk.
Kessler’s jaw began to sag.
Montrose sniffed the air. “Jeez, that didn’t take long, did it?” He pulled a Mont Blanc pen from his pocket and twisted the cap around. It clicked five times. “Clockwork. Might even be Swiss.” He leaned forward and punched the pen into the side of the box of chocolates. “A little gift for you. Truffles and champagne bon-bons. Well, there would be if I hadn’t eaten them all. I gotta say, they were fucking delicious.”
Kessler’s mouth dropped open.
Montrose slowly got to his feet. “I watched your son burn. I heard him screaming as he tried to claw his way out of the flames. Then I watched him die.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d let you know.” Keeping one eye on the camera, Montrose clapped his hands together and gave a short bow. “Anyway, I’m out of here. When I think of you, I’ll remember this. You sitting there helpless, in your own filth.”
Montrose crossed the office and pulled open the doors. He looked back towards the room. “Thank you for your time, Herr Kessler. I do hope you enjoy the chocolates. No, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.”
Closing the doors behind him, Montrose smiled at the secretary. The guard stood up. “Herr Kessler asked not to be disturbed while he’s considering my proposal. Au revoir, madame.”
Twenty seconds to the hall. Montrose stepped into the corridor and moved smartly down the stairs. The guard followed. One minute to the gate. He felt the wig becoming detached where the phial had been hidden and smoothed it down, but his skin was wet with sweat. Shit, it’s not sticking. He tugged down the hair to cover the edge of the wig, but it sprang back into place.
The guards at the front desk had the laptop connected to a cell phone. Montrose calmly slotted the folder into the briefcase. “Goodbye, gentlemen,” he said as he turned and strode across the hall. He stood in front of the doors.
In their reflection he could see the guards tapping at the keyboard of the laptop. Mother of God, just let me out of here. After a moment the thick glass swept aside. He stepped into the yard, resisting the temptation to look up at the window.
No rush. Walk like a man on business. The barred turnstile buzzed and clicked as he approached and he pushed his way through onto the street.
The taxi started up. Montrose pulled open the door and stepped in. “Just a moment,” he said, “I’ve got to check something.” He felt his breath coming short and fast. Relax. Breathe. Just one more step.
He placed the briefcase on the seat. Hidden in the liner was a passport and airline tickets for Mr. Hyde, a British businessman. Montrose had chosen the name. It was perfect. The Texan got the joke. The man had style. It had gone straight over the heads of Mossad. Monsieur Jekyll would be checking in for his flight, but he’d never make it airside. Mr. Hyde would be emerging from the washrooms, sans fancy suit, wig and beard.
He ripped back the liner and pulled out two tickets. The first was a flight to London, with a connection to JFK. The other, stamped with the Air France logo, was for Paris. Your choice. Pilgrim had said. If it’s something you gotta do, do it now.
But she wouldn’t be there. And wherever she was, he knew she wasn’t waiting for him. He ripped the Air France ticket in two, then checked his Omega. Five minutes on the timer. The old watch always ran a little slow. He looked up at the second floor window. He could make out the back of Kessler’s chair. The startled face of a guard appeared at the window before there was a bright flash and a muffled detonation. The curtains ignited as blood and gore splattered the glass.
He closed the briefcase and settled back in the seat.
“Airport.”
I want to go home.
ACKOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Eric Nelson for his invaluable guidance and advice. It made all the difference.
Coming in 2016
The London Cage
Another international thriller
featuring Connor Montrose
Names of the Dead
Mark Leggatt
© Mark Leggatt 2015
The author asserts the moral right to be identified
as the author of the work in accordance with the
Copyrig
ht, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd, 7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB
Published by:
Fledgling Press Ltd,
7 Lennox St.,
Edinburgh,
EH4 1QB
www.fledglingpress.co.uk
Print ISBN 9781905916979
eBook ISBN 9781905916023
