Trigger Point (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 1)

by Andy Maslen

  “That would have been an easy shot for you, Britta. Don’t tell me you’re losing your touch.”

  “Oh, you bastard!” she said, wiping sweat from her face with a grimy hand. Then she looked down at his bloodied trouser leg. “You’re hurt. Knife?”

  “Bastard stabbed me. I don’t think he hit the artery or I’d be a human fountain by now.”

  “No. It’s a bad flesh wound only. You’ll be fine. But we need to get you back. Come on, we can go and join the others. It’s finished.”

  “What happened to the other lot.”

  “Lauren’s team had them under surveillance from the start. As soon as we had photos we emailed them to the PM’s security detail and the chopper set her down about twenty miles from here.”

  “But I heard them. I heard the chopper.”

  “You heard a chopper. The Army sent one. Lauren got the DoD to use their influence. They bypassed all normal chains of command. It was an Apache.”

  “So the explosion?”

  “Air-to-ground missile. A Hellfire. There’s not much left. One of our guys made the call with the code word.”

  “How did they get it if they’d blown them up?”

  “Maitland texted Franz with it and we intercepted the transmission.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it. We just prevented a military coup. In England.”

  “Fuck me!”

  “Yes. I would like to do that very much. Later. But first we have to meet Lauren back at the house.”

  As they approached the house, Gabriel leaning heavily on Britta, they could see a mass of camouflaged soldiers milling about outside, twenty or thirty men carrying assault rifles, drinking mugs of tea and chatting.

  Inside, sitting at the same dining room table where the conspirators had met for the final time, were Lauren and two Army Majors. Plus a man Gabriel recognised as the Home Secretary. All four rose as Gabriel and Britta squashed themselves through the door. Lauren scrambled round the table to embrace Gabriel.

  “Oh, Jesus, are you OK?”

  “He will be,” Britta said. “Sit, Gabriel. They’re sending an air ambulance. Be about three minutes.”

  “Good to see you both again. Mission accomplished,” Lauren said.

  She introduced the two Majors. They were from Military Intelligence. One of the men, more experienced than the other to judge from his campaign ribbons, spoke.

  “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, Captain Wolfe. At this point I am not authorised to answer anything beyond the bare bones of today’s operation. You did a superb job and I want you to know the Army is very proud of you.”

  Gabriel nodded his appreciation of the courtesy rank.

  “Well, can you tell me about the bomb, at least? We heard it had gone off in Andover town centre.”

  “We intercepted it. It was detonated by a team from the Royal Logistics Corps on Army land outside the town. No casualties, just a nice big bang for the media.”

  Gabriel knew they’d be unforthcoming if he pushed for much more detail so he just said, “No more questions”.

  They offered their congratulations again before announcing they had to leave to interrogate the remaining conspirators.

  “So what happens now?” Gabriel asked. “Will there be trials and life sentences?”

  “It’s not that simple,” the Home Secretary said. “You see, announcing to the world that Britain came this close,” he held out his thumb and forefinger almost pinched together, “to a coup supported by rogue elements within MI5 and the Army would be less than helpful. Not just politically but economically. The banks could take fright. Industry, too. Sovereign wealth funds would whip their money out of UK Government bonds faster than you could say ‘capital flight’. No, on the whole, the judicial system is not going to be a great deal of use to us here.”

  “What then? Rendition? To where?”

  “No rendition. We’re not in the business of creating martyrs. The members of the Camelot Committee – did you know that’s what he called them? – are being dealt with as we speak. There will be an apparent accident on a flight taking a group of influential individuals to a summit in Scotland. Somewhere over the Cairngorms, the plane will get into trouble. Catastrophic engine failure, one in a million chance, nobody could have foreseen it. All lives lost. Tragic accident. That’s the story the media will receive and that’s the story they’ll use.”

  “But what about Lizzie – she’s nobody outside of Maitland’s gang? How could she be on an aircraft with that lot? And Vix, she’s in hospital.”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately, Lady Maitland’s condition deteriorated.” The Home Secretary flicked his eyes across to Lauren. “There were complications from her surgery. She’s sadly no longer with us. And the daughter did us an enormous favour. Apparently, she came out of that garage round the back brandishing a gun. She even got a shot off before one of our lads slotted her – I think that’s the approved word. Anyway, dead, thankfully, so no worries on that score. Now, I have to run. There’s a vote in the House later that I absolutely can’t miss, or the whips will have my guts for garters.”

  He rose from his seat and held out his hand to Gabriel, who was still in shock at the ease with which this man had just dispensed with the rule of law.

  “Thank you for you help, Gabriel. Needless to say, your absolute discretion is required. I feel awful having to tell you this, but, should you feel tempted to reveal any of these events to friends or family or, heaven forbid, the media, well, let’s just say identity theft will be the least of your worries. Good day to you.”

  He shook hands with Gabriel, Lauren and Britta in turn, then was gone.

  The silence was broken by Lauren.

  “Asshole.”

  Britta snorted, and soon all three were choking on laughter, tension releasing itself in the only way it could. Lauren spoke.

  “Listen, Gabriel. Don’t say anything, just listen, OK? I’ve been speaking to Britta and her superiors at MI5. Plus my boss back in DC. We can’t quite see you hacking out a living for the rest of your life as a negotiator for corporate types. We feel your talents would be put to better use in a different line of work. There are plenty of operations running on both sides of the pond where we need capable people who are outside the normal government agencies. If you’re interested I think it’s safe to say you’d have no shortage of work. Wolfe Security Consulting, hmm? Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

  He looked at Britta. Thought about her last remark. Turned back to Lauren and gave her his answer.

  THE END

  Andy Maslen

  Andy Maslen was born in Nottingham, in the UK, home of legendary bowman Robin Hood. Andy once won a medal for archery, although he has never been locked up by the Sheriff.

  He has worked in a record shop, as a barman, as a door-to-door DIY products salesman and a cook in an Italian restaurant. He eventually landed a job in marketing, writing mailshots to sell business management reports. He spent 10 years in the corporate world before launching a business writing agency, Sunfish, where he writes for clients including The Economist, Christie’s and World Vision.

  Andy has also published five works of non-fiction, on copywriting and freelancing, with Marshall Cavendish and Kogan Page. They are all available on Amazon.

  He lives in Wiltshire with his wife, two sons and a whippet named Merlin.

  *

  News of the second Gabriel Wolfe thriller on the next page…

  Want to know more?

  To get regular updates on new Gabriel Wolfe books, and exclusive news and offers for members, join the Wolfe Pack at www.andymaslen.com.

  Email Andy at andy.maslen@gmail.com

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  Gabriel Wolfe returns in a new novel, Blind Impact. Turn the page to read the first three chapters.

  BLIND IMPACT

  Chapter 1

  The call Ka
sym had been waiting for came in at 10.30. He went out onto the balcony to answer his phone. The stars reflected in the screen matched the white headlights streaming along the road beneath him.

  “It’s Erik. The Bryant women are here. They just asked for a car to take them back to the hotel. The Birger Jarl on Tulegatan. You know it?”

  “No, I don’t know it, you idiot. And it doesn’t matter does it?”

  “Oh, no. Sorry. How long shall I tell them?”

  Kasym checked his watch. “Tell them 15 minutes. Give them a drink on the house.”

  “OK. Text me when you’re outside and I’ll bring them out.”

  “Fine. Just keep them happy. Oh, and Erik?”

  “Yes?”

  “Pack up some food for me. I haven’t eaten today.”

  He ended the call and went back inside.

  “Elsbeta! Get your jacket, we’re leaving. They’re at Gro Restaurang.”

  The woman he’d shouted for came out of one of the bedrooms. She was dressed smartly in a black trouser suit. Only a careful observer would have noticed that she wore combat boots under the well cut trousers. Together they took the lift down to the parking garage. He thumbed the door-unlock button and pointed when the big black saloon’s indicators flashed its location behind a square concrete pillar edged in black and yellow hazard tape. Clearly the tape was insufficient notice for the hotel’s guests: it was rubbed away on the edge and replaced with scrapes of blue, red and black automotive paint. He gave her the chunky black key for the Mercedes. “You drive.”

  Elsbeta settled herself in the driver’s seat and press a button marked “2” by her right thigh. They sat, not talking, as electric motors inside the seat brought it closer to the steering wheel, raised it by four inches, tilted the backrest more upright and performed a half-dozen other movements, accompanied by a conversation of whirrs, hums and buzzes from inside the thickly padded leather.

  “Are we ready now?” he said.

  “It’s not my fault you’re built like a giant,” she said. “I want to be comfortable.”

  She selected Drive and rolled the car around the pillar, along the rows of expensive German and Swedish cars, then left the car park via the ramp that took them out onto Råsta Strandväg. The big car was virtually silent inside. She spoke.

  “When we get there, I’ll bring them out. Are they both going in the back with you?”

  “It’s best, I think. Easier to watch them. I don’t want any funny business, grabbing the steering wheel.”

  They drove to the restaurant without further conversation. Elsbeta was a good driver. Careful, nothing flashy. She slowed early for red lights and waved people out in front of her. Sometimes it drove Kasym crazy, but tonight it felt right. Appropriate. Luxury limousine drivers didn’t power-slide round corners like those stupid American cop shows, or streak away from traffic lights leaving trails of black on the road surface. The fact that she could do all those things was helpful, but tonight he felt the need for calm.

  He looked out the side window as Stockholm rolled by. Such affluence. Such ease. These people didn’t know what they had. Back home the only cars like the one he was riding in were owned by the men at the very top of Government. Or men like him, he supposed. But here, in social democratic Sweden, they were everywhere. Perhaps not the top models like this one, but plenty of BMWs, Mercedes and Volvos for the common man.

  “We’re here.”

  Elsbeta’s short sentence roused him from his musings on the inequalities life dealt to different people, different countries. He fished out his phone and sent an even shorter sentence to the Maitre D inside.

  “Outside.”

  He turned to Elsbeta.

  “Go.”

  She opened the door and walked up to the front door of the restaurant. He watched her disappear inside then got out, moved to the rear seats and squashed himself down on the extreme right of the soft, sculpted seat. God those fat-arsed Germans loved their comfort. From the outside the darkened glass would give no hint of his presence.

  Then he saw them. Two western women. English women. Coming out ahead of Elsbeta, who had even found a cap with a shiny black plastic peak from somewhere. She was smiling broadly and extending her arm towards the rear of the car. He noted with approval the foil-wrapped package in her other hand. Erik was nothing if not obedient. He evaluated the two women. The older one, Sarah Bryant, the wife. Elegant, middle-aged, maybe late forties, early fifties. Blonde hair tied back away from her ears. Tanned skin. Light makeup. Grey skirt and cardigan. High heels. Bad for running. The younger woman, Chloe. The daughter. Still well dressed but not formal like her mother. Tall; tight jeans, red leather biker jacket. Baseball boots. The women were laughing and talking. He watched as they drew close to the car door.

  Elsbeta moved in front of the daughter and opened the door. The young woman slid in, looking out at her mother. By the time she bumped into Kasym’s hip, it was too late.

  He pulled her across and clamped his hand over her mouth. Elsbeta pushed the mother, not too hard but hard enough to unbalance her, so that she stumbled off the kerb and almost fell into the back of the Mercedes. The door slammed behind her and in another two seconds, Elsbeta had arrived in the driver’s seat and they pulling away.

  As often happens when you catch people out, Sarah Bryant had said nothing, done nothing. Chloe was quicker on the uptake and was writhing and kicking out.

  Then Sarah Bryant found her voice.

  “What are you doing? Leave her alone.”

  Kasym needed to take decisive action to quieten her and to still the struggles of the daughter, who was now kicking out at the back of the driver’s seat, threatening to unsettle Elsbeta.

  He reached inside the jacket of his suit and withdrew a long-bladed knife. Keeping his left hand around the young woman’s mouth he brought it into her eyeline, where it caught the orangey-yellow glow of the passing streetlamps. The move worked. It usually did. She became completely still. The mother stared, open-mouthed at the blade. It had a very narrow tip and glinted viciously along its stone-stropped edge.

  Slowly, so that his intent should not be misinterpreted, he uncurled his palm and freed the girl’s face from his grip.

  She gasped and sobbed in one drawn out, halting exhalation.

  Before either woman could speak, Kasym began his prepared words.

  “Please listen and say nothing. Not until the end. Then you may ask questions. We are kidnapping you.”

  Sarah Bryant caught her breath at the word and clutched her daughter’s left hand. She glanced down at the chrome door handle.

  “Please don’t bother. Child locks,” he said. “We do not intend at this point to harm you but you must behave yourselves. This is a delicate business and we have some travelling to do tonight. We need you to encourage your husband to carry out certain actions for us. When he has done as we ask and we have achieved our objectives, we will let you go. We will even drive you to the airport and give you first-class tickets back to London. But please, know this. If you do not behave as required, I shall kill you. In war one must be prepared to take difficult decisions. Perform unpleasant duties. You would think women would always be safe, but, sadly, it is not so. Now. Question time.”

  The mother had been rendered speechless by his monologue, but the daughter was less scared. Brave girl. He liked her spirit.

  “What war? What actions is Dad supposed to do for you? Why are you doing this? Who are you people?”

  “My name is Kasym Drezna. Your driver tonight is Elsbeta Daspireva. We are Chechens. Our organisation is fighting for independence from Russia. We need funds from time to time. Your father will help us acquire funds.”

  “How? He runs a publicly-owned pharmaceutical company. He’s not a banker. He can’t just give you money to buy guns or whatever.”

  Kasym grunted his approval at her smarts.

  “We have someone on our payroll at your father’s company, in the R&D department. A ‘high-up’ you would s
ay. He has a—” he paused briefly, “a fondness for young girls. We discovered this and now he is our inside man at Dreyer Pharma. He will make certain modifications to a drug your father is working on. For the British Royal Air Force. There is a very evil man called Yevgeny Solomin. He is what you would call an oligarch, though this is a polite word for an ex-KGB commander who gets fat by stealing state assets. He plans to buy this drug and sell it to the Russian Government. We cannot allow that to happen.”

  The mother had regained her composure and asked the next question.

  “Promise you won’t hurt us? Promise! Chloe is only 25. She has her whole life in front of her.”

  “Dear lady,” he said. “You have only to cooperate and everything will be fine. Peachy.”

  “And where did you learn to speak such good English? If you’re really a Chechen.”

  “I know, amazing isn't it. A savage terrorist from a place you couldn’t even point to on a map, able to speak the Queen’s English. I learnt while at university. UMIST. You know it?”

  “University of Manchester Institute of Technology,” Chloe said. “It’s where I studied.”

  “Coincidences, eh? Such an amazing thing. I studied aeronautical engineering there. Plenty of time to pick up the lingo. Your Radio 4. Very educational.”

  Elsbeta spoke. “We’re here.”

  They had pulled up outside the Birger Jarl Hotel.

  “Ladies,” Kasym said. “Your room number, please.”

  “It’s a suite,” Sarah said. “749.”

  “Very good. A suite. So, Elsbeta will go inside and fetch you some things. We will stay here and get to know each other a little better.”

  Ten minutes later Elsbeta exited the hotel’s front door carrying two weekend bags. The thumps as she dropped them into the boot were barely audible inside the soundproofed cabin, felt, rather than heard. Then she was back inside the car and they were pulling away into the traffic on Tulegatan.