Trigger Point (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 1)

by Andy Maslen

  “Don’t you worry about that, Gabriel. When the time comes, there will be men of power and influence ready to stand shoulder to shoulder with me.”

  After this exchange the conversation died. Gabriel piloted the Lincoln along US-131 in silence, the big SUV swallowing mile after mile of highway. The traffic was light and he could maintain a steady sixty with only an occasional lane-change to overtake a truck lumbering up an incline or an RV with a family eager to begin their vacation. He turned Maitland’s last speech over in his head, looking at it from a variety of angles, trying to decide what he was dealing with.

  Was Maitland insane? It depended on your definition. An Army psychiatrist had once explained to him that “mad” as used by the general public and the average soldier encompassed a huge range of conditions that he and his colleagues would exclude from a clinical definition of insanity. For them, it applied to a few conditions, including bipolar disorder, which used to be called manic depression, and schizophrenia. The acid test for insanity, the psychiatrist explained, was whether a person could tell fantasy from reality.

  Could Maitland tell? Did he pass the test? It all depended on your viewpoint. From inside his head, Maitland no doubt believed in what he was doing. Judging by the pages of the notebook Gabriel had seen, it was clear that a substantial body of powerful people believed it too. From where Gabriel sat, the man was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. His fantasy of some unspoilt Albion inhabited by descendants of King Arthur was about as far from reality as it was possible to imagine.

  No. The insanity question was irrelevant. The real question was, could Maitland do it? At this point, Gabriel didn’t have a clear answer. As far as he could tell, the forces disposed on the battlefield looked like this: for Maitland, a clutch of high-ranking spooks and Army officers, senior police officers and Russian oligarchs; plus some ex-soldiers on his estate in Wiltshire. Might, money and muscle. Against him: an ex-SAS soldier masquerading as a politician’s handmaiden; an agent from some unnamed US intelligence agency within the Department of Defense; and a section of MI5, including a Swedish Special Forces soldier, rally driver and would-be biathlete.

  They stopped for coffee at a diner outside Grand Rapids and were back on the road within twenty minutes, heading southwest along I-196 towards Lake Michigan. The road surface was scrappy, the pale brown concrete surface cracked and patched. Nothing to see on either side of the interstate but medium-height trees in alternating copper and sage. Mile after mile of unchanging scenery. Gabriel even gave up on his favourite car counting game after an hour passed and the nearest thing to a desirable vehicle he saw was a gold 1980s Camaro, its rear bumper held on with silver duct tape.

  Maitland spoke. “You seem pensive, Gabriel. Is everything OK?”

  The man’s solicitousness caught Gabriel by surprise.

  “Oh, yes. I was just thinking about a mission I ran once.”

  “Successful, I take it?”

  “Not completely. We hit the target but I lost a man. Had to leave him behind.”

  “That must have been tough for you. Isn’t it part of a soldier’s code? That you collect your dead?”

  “Yes. It is. When you can. We,” he sighed, “we just couldn’t.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Smith. Mickey Smith. We called him Smudge. He was twenty-eight. A tough black kid from the East End who’d pulled himself out of there by sheer force of will. Aced basic training, joined the Paras same time as me, applied for the Regiment, passed the training for that too.”

  “And?”

  “And he was killed in a stinking jungle in Africa taking out a warlord for the Americans.”

  “But you did eliminate Abel N’Tolo.”

  Gabriel flicked his gaze from the road to Maitland.

  “How did you know about that? It was off the books. We weren’t even reporting to the British Army. It was a CIA thing.” Apart from the fact you were bankrolling N’Tolo, you crooked bastard.

  “Gabriel, you were a soldier. And a very good one. A captain. Decorated for gallantry. But like all soldiers you tend not to understand how things work in the upper echelons of power. Your mission in Mozambique was off the official books. The books they give you when some bloody journalist submits a Freedom of Information request. But, guess what? There’s another set of books. It’s a bit like the Mafia running a crooked construction company: one set all clean and tidy for the auditors and the taxman; another that shows the true picture of their finances. The money from extortion, prostitution, gun running, drug trafficking – or people these days if you’re not too fussy.”

  “And, what, you’ve seen these other books? You have access?”

  “I think we could agree that I have access, yes. To many things, in many places. Places even our dear Prime Minister can only guess at. You see, Gabriel, democracy is all very well. But as Winston Churchill said, it’s a terrible way to run a country.”

  “Didn’t he go on to say, until you look at all the other ways?”

  “It’s beside the point. Churchill was fighting external forces. For us, the struggle is against internal enemies. The left wing with their unions and their human rights lawyers, their bleeding heart aid charities. The rioters, the shirkers, and the parasites who smuggle themselves into Britain like spiders in bunches of bananas. I don’t know if you watch the news much, Gabriel, but there are parts of England that are under Muslim control. When did this happen? When did we become so blinded by tolerance and multiculturalism that we lost sight of our basic values?”

  “Which are?”

  “You’re testing me. Very good, very good. You want to expose holes in my argument so we can plug them before I have the world’s eyes on me.” Then Maitland grimaced. “Jesus, that hurts. Wait a moment,” he said.

  He fished around in his inside breast pocket, then pulled out a handkerchief wrapped around something small. Unfolded it on his lap. It was a hypodermic nestling alongside a handful of small brown bottles closed with neat circles of foil.

  “Is that morphine?” Gabriel said. “You need to go easy on that stuff.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I also have to make it back to England without screaming from this FUCKING PAIN!” Maitland’s shout made Gabriel’s ears ring in the confined cabin of the Lincoln. “Now,” he said, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, “If you could resist the urge to give me any more medical advice, I just need to … ease this in here … and draw this back. There!”

  He held the filled syringe up to the light, flicked the plastic body a couple of times with a fingernail, squirted a thin stream of the clear liquid from the tip of the needle and then plunged it into his right thigh. After an indrawn breath as the drug flooded into his bloodstream, Maitland slumped back in his seat. A minute passed, another mile closer to the airport. Then he resumed speaking, his voice dreamy as the powerful opiate took hold of his central nervous system.

  “As I was saying. Values. Work is noble. It frees us from the tyranny of too much leisure time. Too much time to think. Freedom. Yes, freedom. From unelected bureaucrats setting rules they will never live under. From legislation that protects rapists and child killers and the bleeding hearts who complain about the scum having rights. And enterprise, of course. Britain used to control half the world, do you know that? Not with our Army, either. With commerce. Corporations. We invented capitalism, Gabriel, and under my direction, it will forge a new path for Britain in the world. Do you follow me?”

  “Work. Freedom. Enterprise. Got it.”

  “And strength. Economic, of course, but also military. I will withdraw our forces from so-called trouble spots. Let the wogs destroy their own civilizations if they want to. They can bomb themselves back to the Stone Age for all I care. We will defend our borders. Vigorously. Look at the Swiss. Neutral in matters of war and one of the richest countries in the world.”

  “And under your leadership, we shall set an example many will ache to follow.”

  “Exactly. Our friends will ap
plaud our stand. Our enemies will quake at our resolve. And the world will stand in wonder. And you, Gabriel. Do you wonder?”

  “About what?”

  “About me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you behind me? Do you share my vision? That we need to issue a corrective to the path successive generations of politicians have followed?”

  “You know I am. One hundred per cent. I saw enough effects of weak government in the Army to convince me that what we need is someone strong enough to put things right.”

  “Good. Because I should hate to discover your loyalty to me was open to other offers.”

  “What do you mean? There haven’t been other offers. You can’t mean Meeks, surely?”

  “No, not Meeks. But how about our late friend from Arkansas. He was trying to blackmail me. He didn’t try to interest you in the same sort of thing, did he?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Gabriel. Very glad indeed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I will just enjoy a moment’s rest. We have some exciting times ahead of us.”

  With a subdued whirr from hidden electric motors, Maitland’s seat reclined almost flat. He folded his hands across his belly. Within seconds he was asleep, his snores filling the cabin.

  “You’re a solid gold fascist aren’t you?” Gabriel said quietly.

  Three hours later, Gabriel pulled into long-term parking at Chicago’s O’Hare airport. Maitland was still asleep, or tripping, beside him. They’d booked a month’s parking for the Lincoln. By the time it showed up as an overstay, they would be back in England. Not that it mattered one way or the other. Maitland would either be occupying a cell in a very secure prison somewhere or Number Ten Downing Street. Gabriel hoped for the former.

  Chapter 33

  Gabriel got out of the Lincoln and stretched his back and legs. Then he opened the rear door to start unloading their bags. Maitland was coming round. With the suit carriers, holdalls and briefcases stacked in a neat pile, he went round to the passenger door and pulled it open. Leant down and depressed the smooth, leather-covered chrome switch that brought Maitland’s seat upright.

  “Toby? We’re here.”

  Maitland still looked muzzy. He was having trouble focusing on Gabriel. His breath smelled odd, musty somehow. Perhaps a side effect of the morphine.

  “Gabriel. Are we here? What time is it?”

  “It’s 2.30. We made good time.”

  “Excellent. We have to meet Earl Wilson at the American Airlines cargo building. Hold on one second.”

  Maitland pulled out his phone and made a call.

  “It’s Toby Maitland. Yes. Just now. We’re in long-term parking. Zone E. Take the first right off Bessie Coleman Drive and head for the centre. We’re by a black Lincoln Navigator.” He ended the call. “Bessie Coleman,” he snorted. “Some civil rights activist no doubt. Or a fat civil servant lazing about on the taxpayer’s dollar.”

  “I think she was a pilot. The first African-American woman to get an international pilot’s licence.”

  “African-American?” Maitland sneered. “Oh, please, Gabriel, not you, too? And you know about this woman how?”

  “There was a poster about her in arrivals. I read it after I met the Feds when we got here. You’d gone by then.”

  “Yes, well. Let’s focus on the next step of our mission, shall we, instead of lionising some dead Negro aviatrix.”

  Once again, Gabriel found himself biting back his anger. Before he had time to formulate any sort of answer that Maitland wouldn’t take as insubordination, a silver Mercedes S-class limousine rolled to a silent stop beside them. The driver got out and nodded at Gabriel before stepping round the car to open the rear door for Maitland. He looked like the FBI agents who’d met Gabriel a few days earlier: mid-grey suit, white shirt, dark tie. Cheap shoes, a little scuffed at the toe. Very dark sunglasses. He even had a curly-wired earpiece, though this was no doubt just a Bluetooth headset for his mobile phone.

  The driver loaded their bags into the trunk. He got back in and pulled the door closed. Motors whirred inside the door to seal it shut over the last quarter-inch of travel. Gabriel looked at the back of the man’s head, noted the way the translucent wire snaked under his collar and wondered if it was uncomfortable. Not so uncomfortable as the 9 mm round that killed Maitland’s last driver.

  “You know the way, I take it?” Maitland said. A command, not a question.

  The drive took less than ten minutes and Maitland and Gabriel sat in silence throughout. There was a gravelled car park opposite the American Airlines Cargo building and they pulled in. The driver came round and opened Maitland’s door for him, ignoring Gabriel. Outside, there was a cool breeze blowing, although the humidity was still oppressive. Gabriel could feel the sweat running down the insides of his arms.

  “Wait here,” Maitland said to the driver. Then, “Gabriel, with me please.”

  Outside the glassed-in office building to the right of the loading bay, Gabriel recognised a Mack truck with a chrome visor. Inside the reception area they found Earl Wilson putting his name to a sheaf of forms and handing them to a middle-aged man with a thin, sandy moustache covering a harelip scar.

  “Well, well, Sir Toby Maitland. And Gabriel.” He stuck out his hard, dry hand.

  Gabriel took it and shook. It was a relief to meet someone whose connection to Maitland was commercial and nothing else.

  “You boys made good time. I only just got here myself with the harvester, I brought the car in yesterday. You want to come and see your stuff?”

  “Lead the way, please, Earl,” Maitland said. He had an uncanny ability to make the use of a person’s first name feel more insulting than using their last.

  They left the air-conditioned office and walked across the concrete apron to the row of trucks. The heat reflecting off the ground was fierce, despite the breeze.

  “Down here,” Earl said, taking a right and walking between two canvas-sided trailers and into the dark interior of the hangar.

  Gabriel saw a vast space, punctuated by vertical steel beams holding the thin roof up. Everywhere forklift trucks and electric tugs were pulling, pushing, lifting and stacking cartons, crates and shrink-wrapped pallets. Earl pointed upwards.

  “See that sign? Special Loads. That’s us.”

  He led the way between towers of crates, flashing a temporary ID badge at a couple of security guards who approached them with hands resting on pistol butts. They made an unusual trio: a trucker and a couple of management types in shiny shoes and three-thousand-dollar suits.

  Ahead of them, sitting behind a line of black and yellow hazard tape stuck to the floor in a huge rectangle, maybe a hundred yards by fifty, were the special cargoes. Harley Davidsons lashed into wooden frames. Complex stainless steel objects twice as high as a man and as long as a couple of family cars – some sort of machine tool, Gabriel guessed, or maybe food production equipment. And, off to one side, a group of exotic cars, huddled in a tight formation like supermodels stranded in a crowd of football supporters and unsure where to look. In the centre of the front row sat the D-Type. Next to it, incongruous in its lime green – a bodyguard to the models – the potato harvester.

  They walked round the car and the harvester for a full circuit. Gabriel wondered what would be the appropriate shipping symbol for a heavy machine gun.

  “Next time you see ’em will be in London, England,” Earl said. “Must get myself over there one of these days. My wife’s a big fan. Says she’d love to see Buckingham Palace.”

  “Well, you must let me know if you do decide to visit,” said Maitland. “I would be delighted to give you a tour.”

  “You could do that?”

  “It would be my pleasure. Now, business is business, Earl. You’ve done us proud and I think that deserves a little something extra on top of our agreed fee.”

  He bent to the ground and placed his briefcase flat on the floor of the hangar. Popped
the catches and opened it, keeping it facing away from them, Gabriel noticed. When he closed it, he was holding a neat, slim brick of notes in his hand, banded with a wide strip of pink paper.

  “An extra thousand. For services rendered. Including, I hope, a measure of discretion on your part.”

  Earl didn’t look surprised at the bonus. Maybe he was used to deals like this one. Maybe Maitland wasn’t the first rich man who’d hired him to transport unusual items around the US and then forget all about it. He stuffed the bills into his pocket without counting them or even fanning them over his thumb.

  “That’s mighty decent of you, er … sorry, I forgot your name.”

  Later, as he and Maitland were sitting in the First Class lounge in the passenger terminal, Gabriel wondered if this was the way the super-rich managed all their affairs. Bundles of banknotes pressed into willing hands. Wire transfers to offshore accounts. Baubles and trinkets from Tiffany or Bulgari that smoothed their path around countries, around red tape, even laws.

  He sipped his gin and tonic and glanced up as another passenger entered the room and showed her boarding card to the smiling young woman at the reception desk. A familiar face. Dark brown, glowing skin, chartreuse silk suit, killer heels.

  Lauren.

  She walked over to them, clutching a handbag in front of her like an amulet.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  Maitland looked up from his Financial Times. Then he blinked. The tall African-American woman looming over him was holding out her slim right hand, gold bracelets clinking together as they slipped forward on her wrist.

  “May I help you?”

  “You are Sir Toby Maitland, right?”

  “I am, yes,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “I knew it. I recognised you from your Time front cover. May I sit down?”

  “Er, of course. Gabriel, make some space for Miss-?”

  “Boudicca Johnson. I know, I know. Please don’t look at me like that. My Mom was a massive fan of your history and named all her children for English monarchs. If you think my name’s funny, I have a sister called Cartimandua and a brother called Ethelred. We all learned to fight in grade school.”