STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  After tea, Sam and Terry did the decent thing and buggered off to the nearest café for supplies. Thomas set up new targets — under Karl’s instruction — and Karl unveiled the contents of his rucksack — a veritable armoury.

  “So you obviously got my clever message. How did you get away?”

  Karl laughed, rat-a-tat-tat style. “Well, my mammy wasn’t willing to write me a note so I did what any decent pal would do — I walked off the job.”

  “Really? Shit.” Thomas floundered for words. “So what’s going to happen?”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it, Tommo. We have other things to sweat about. Bottom line is, Miranda’s caught up in someone else’s fight — that’s unacceptable. You let me worry about my blistering career. Some things are more important.”

  Thomas gulped some tea down to soften the lump in his throat. “So where have you come from then, if you’ve driven half the night?”

  “Hey, hey, Mr Bladen,” Karl weighed the two Brownings in his hands, squinting one eye. “That’s confidential information. I’ll have you know that I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act.”

  “Twat.”

  Karl answered with a volley of two-handed gunfire, blasting bottles in all directions. “So how are you gonna tell Frank and Jesse James about the two-day hiatus?”

  Thomas curled a lip. So, Karl had been speaking to Teresa as well. “Dunno — any ideas?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” Karl exchanged weapons with Thomas for a try-out, “but I’m not sure you’re gonna like it.”

  Thomas followed Karl’s drill to the letter, first kneeling then crouching, coming belly down to the ground, walking straight ahead, and all the while shooting. Karl was a natural; no, scratch that, he was an un-natural. His hit rate was mesmerising, against an assortment of bottles, headlights and shop dummies.

  “You’re really serious about taking down these bastards?” There wasn’t a trace of mockery in Karl’s voice.

  Thomas laid the weapon on the ground — safety on — and brushed dust off his jeans. “Yorgi’s definitely involved and he’s not the negotiating type.” He relayed the fruits of his intelligence gathering.

  Karl poked his tongue out and licked his upper lip. “Hear me out now,” he made the pistol safe and passed it over. Thomas put it on the ground. “If we’re getting Miranda in exchange for the papers, and taking care of Yorgi — assuming he’s there . . .”

  “Oh, he’ll be there,” Thomas felt a shiver run down his spine.

  “You need to be somewhere safe; a place you know well. Your life could depend on it. And hers.”

  Yeah, thanks for that. Thomas opened his hands to catch some more pearls of wisdom from Guru Karl.

  Karl got the message after a few seconds. “Oh, right. If it was me, I’d make the exchange somewhere secure — only one road in and out.”

  Thomas wiped the sweat from his neck. “Yeah, but it’s not that simple, is it? They’ve got Miranda — I can’t take any chances; if anything . . .”

  Karl brought his hand down hard on Thomas’s shoulder, as if anchoring him. “Do you trust me, Tommo? I mean, really trust me? I see a way through this, but you’ll need to do things my way.”

  Thomas looked around him; everything was still. There was that feeling again; a sense that Karl knew this was coming and had always known. Still, weigh that up against any other options — precisely none — and what else did he have? Nowt. “I’m listening.”

  “You have to dictate the terms. Name the place — and state your price. If you give them a price, they’ll have you down as a rank amateur — which you are not. This gives us a certain, minimal advantage.”

  Thomas picked up the empty mug and stared inside. He felt like crying, and he could have filled it to overflowing. “I don’t know. I can’t afford to fuck this up,” he heard the panic in his own voice.

  Karl play-punched him on his good arm and shook his head dismissively. “It’s like automatic doors. You keep right on walking at a steady pace and they just open — because it’s what they’re supposed to do.” He did an exaggerated slow march on the spot.

  “No guarantees though,” Thomas wasn’t smiling.

  And neither was Karl. “No, Tommo, no guarantees.”

  He dropped the tin mug, the hollow clatter echoing in his brain. And shielded his eyes with his palms. He asked for guidance in the darkness, a solitary waiting, throbbing in his chest. But all he felt was the breeze stirring against the backs of his hands and all he heard was the hiss of his own breath. He lowered his hands and sighed. “Okay, how’s this going to work, then?”

  By the time Terry and Sam returned, the guns were stowed away and Karl was making stick drawings in the dirt.

  “Who wanted the runny egg?” Rely on Sam to break the tension.

  * * *

  Thomas sat down with Sam and Terry, as Karl repeated the plan for their benefit. As it was the second time he’d heard it, his mind began to wander. With hindsight, it was easy to see the choices he had made as inevitable. The mind played tricks, picking out key pieces of information and stringing them together like second-hand pearls. Wrap the parts in meanings they never had before and hey presto, it’s destiny. But mostly it was just making the best of a difficult situation at the time, and wanting to feel good about it.

  Karl did some keypadding on his new state-of-the-art mobile and the Internet flashed up the bunker, not too far from Fylingdale; the one that Thomas and Ajit had rediscovered as kids. It was closed, Saturdays and Sundays. One road in and the same road out; surrounded by open moorland. Even Thomas had to admit that the location was damn near perfect.

  Terry raised a few objections while Sam wanted to be convinced. Thomas watched as Karl sold it to them; how the setting, time and place would work in their favour. Except he referred to it as ‘securing the objectives.’ It was a new side to Karl, decisive and with a certain, clinical eye. If the army was missing him, Thomas figured, it wasn’t missing a mere squaddie.

  Once the boys were on board, Thomas made the call to Dagenham. Diane and John didn’t take the change so well — not at first, anyway. And bringing Karl’s background into the picture seemed like the desperate act of a desperate man. Thomas was past caring; he just wanted it all sorted.

  It still sounded a bit sketchy in his head. Karl and the boys would dig in on the moors. Then Thomas would make his call to Whitehall, giving details of the exchange and adding a £40k fee to the mix. He could follow Karl’s logic that Sir Peter would deduce he was a greedy bastard, and that Thomas had probably sent the document up country, ahead of time. But what if they just sent the police — or worse — round to his mum and dad’s, or Pat’s? Karl’s logic to the rescue again; so what, they wouldn’t find anything. No, but they might take a few doors off in the process. Anyway, the plan was set and there was no going back now.

  * * *

  Thomas was alone again, but not abandoned. He loitered for an hour in Wapping Gardens, near the scrapyard, and then at the Turk’s Head Café, cradling a coffee he didn’t need. He figured it was a better option than waiting around Wapping Underground, trying not to look suspicious. The last thing he wanted was an over-zealous copper doing a bag search.

  When it was time, he took the tube to Victoria and wandered the station complex, psyching himself up for action. If he didn’t commit soon, the spare-any-change brigade would bankrupt him. He chose a phone stand to use and waited for it to be free. Which phone made no difference at all, but every little firm decision was a toehold on reality. He slid in his card and dialled the number from memory, in slow, steady movements.

  As the number connected he checked the time — Karl’s team should be well on their way now. The phone picked up on the third ring — no switchboard interrupt or invitation to leave a message. He stalled for a second, led with his name — always a strong opening — and took the plunge.

  “So, Thomas, what do you have for me?”

  He closed his eyes. “I can get the DSB to you in a c
ouple of days’ time.”

  “I see,” the voice was non-committal. “How do you propose to do that?”

  Half-truth time. “I’m to await a phone call at home and then I’ll be texted a time and place.” In his mind’s eye, he saw Sir Peter scribbling notes down in red ink. “I go there alone and collect the package then we do the exchange and I leave with Miranda.” He tried not to sound too authoritative, but hey, he wasn’t asking permission either.

  Sir Peter Carroll rasped down the phone. “That’s settled then — I’ll await your next call.” The line went silent.

  Thomas fought the panic and followed the plan. “There’s one more thing.” Steady now, not too eager.

  “What’s that?” It sounded like the old man had tapped a spoon against a cup, like he was waiting for a punchline to a joke he’d already heard before.

  “I’ll need £40,000, for services rendered.”

  “I see.”

  Can two words be made to sound smug? Those did. He hoped Karl was right — better they had him down as a chancer, than as honest and predictable. The line cut off while he was waiting for a reply.

  Chapter 40

  Miranda woke up with a migraine. Not a drink hangover, but a stress, dehydration, unable-to-sleep headache from hell. She hadn’t had one of those in years. Last time? Probably the break-up with Thomas; the final break — a funny memory to dredge up. Doors: that was it. Those bloody doors slamming in the night and someone messing with a portable TV or radio in the corridor outside her room. And all that shouting — some bloke yelling at the top of his voice. Who was she kidding: it had been Yorgi.

  She stumbled to the en suite and ran the tap, scooping the cool, stinging water to her face. It was the crying that did it; always gave her a bloody headache. The bathroom cabinet had been thoughtfully stocked with the female guest in mind — tampons, painkillers and cotton-buds. She snatched a couple of tablets and sank her head below the tap, pushing past the nausea by focusing on the craving for water.

  A quick shower, then she changed into her gym wear — well done, Alice. It was a masochistic never-fail cure: exercise. True, you felt like shit for three quarters of the time, but afterwards, if your head hadn’t exploded, you were in a better shape to face the world. She stuck a body spray in her waistband, ditched the lid — funny how they all looked so phallic — and opened the bedroom door.

  The corridor was empty — hardly surprising after last night’s aggravation. Even so, she tiptoed past every door to make it to the exercise room on the far side of the house.

  The strip lights flickered with an angry buzz, gleaming off the shiny surfaces in a riot of light. She gave her eyes a moment to adjust, then began with a few warm-up stretches, progressing to practice falls and rolls on the mat. Back when she’d spent time in Bermuda, she had started kobudo defence classes. Her commitment had more to do with a guy she’d been dating, but now and again she still went through the kata at home.

  Soon she was getting into her stride and the painkillers were kicking in. She flicked the CD player on, turned the sound down slightly and cycled like a maniac. The blood started pumping, and she turned her thoughts to the previous night. That Yorgi bloke was really unhinged. If Christine hadn’t finally intervened, he’d have probably kept her there all night. But . . . Christine had left her there in the first place. So much for her promise of friendship. Jesus, this bloody CD — she must know every beat of every track by now. Maybe it was time to send Alice shopping again.

  The shift of air, as the door opened inwards, broke her train of thought. She turned behind her — stupid really as she was facing the mirror — and there was Yorgi, looking like he’d had an argument with his suit, and lost.

  He didn’t speak, just stood with his back against the door. Miranda lifted her feet off the bike, swung over it and jumped down; the bike whirred on. “What do you want?”

  Yorgi seemed to look beyond her, as if it wasn’t really her he was seeing. In two words: coked up. She edged back and felt the sweat running between her shoulder blades. He was whispering to himself now; maybe it was deliberate, to freak her out. If so, he was succeeding. “I asked what you’re doing here.”

  He snapped out of his torpor and glared at her, opening his mouth to a sneer. Miranda narrowed her gaze; flicking her eyes over him, fixing the vulnerable points in her brain the way that her sensei had showed her, long ago. She moved out into the middle of the room, facing him. Then it happened.

  In a second, he had leapt the distance between them and had his hands on her shoulders, pressing down with such force that her arms felt weighted. He leaned in close to her face. “I have had a hundred dogs like you,” he hissed, the words spattering against her skin. “Now, I ask you for the last time — where is my package? Does Tomas have it?”

  She felt her face flush at Thomas’s name and looked away, trying not to react. But Yorgi swung his face round to fill her gaze. He reeked of sweat and rage. Yeah, that was it: rage. And he was barely keeping a lid on it.

  His hand drove into her collarbone and at first she resisted, pushing back as if to pretend it wasn’t crushing into her. Then she relaxed and the weight of him toppled her off balance. Now he looked at her differently, as if she’d awoken something in him that was even more dangerous. Every woman knows that look, and what it means. Dread and anger mixed inside her like the elements of a Molotov cocktail. And the flame was coming.

  He moved his hand down to her breast and flattened against it. She smacked it away, full force, and a malevolent leer rose up on his face. “I will enjoy teaching you . . .” he squeezed with his fingertips, digging into her flesh.

  She kept her gaze on him, implacably hidden behind mental defences she hadn’t had to use in a long time. A slight shift to one side and her leg was primed. At the first movement, his hand came down hard to block in front of his groin, but she crosskicked and slammed into his knee with the top of her foot.

  Yorgi let out a roar of pain and fell to the floor, dragging her down with him. He was bigger and heavier. Despite his pain, he used his descent to his advantage, pinning her down and straddling her. Red fury burned in her eyes as she rocked him from side to side with little effect. “Now I give Tomas a message you will both remember for a long time.”

  Miranda pushed her arm forward, across and below her abdomen. He cackled with laughter, as if he relished the struggle. With a grunt of determination, she stretched her fingers, slipped into the waistband and palmed the bodyspray. The adrenalin was in full flow now; she wanted this fucker dead.

  He bore down on her and she felt the obscenity of his bulge against her clothes. He pushed again, burrowing his nails under the elastic of her leggings.

  She bent her neck back, drew down a snort of phlegm and spat in his face with all her might. He withdrew his hand to wipe it, and she took full advantage, emptying as much spray as she could into his eyes. He screamed and clawed at his face.

  She swung a punch at his throat, but hit wide of the mark, catching a glancing blow against his chin. At the same time, she wrenched one side of her body up, screaming at the effort. He fell to the right and she dragged her legs out from under him.

  “You bitch!” he choked through his hands, launching at her blindly from the floor — half grabbing, half flailing, crashing the two of them into the full-length mirror. They rolled together, mid-trajectory, and he hit the glass first, bearing the brunt as shards blasted from the wall.

  She felt for her balance, sensing him crumple. But Yorgi had only folded momentarily to arm himself. She saw the blade glint against the ceiling lights as his hand swung towards her face. She dug her elbow in hard, twice in succession, against whatever flesh she could contact and swerved to one side as his hand arced in.

  As she rolled on the glass-strewn floor she heard the crackle of fragments and curled in tight to protect her face. As soon as she came out of the roll, she leapt for the door and wrenched it open. Outside, she pulled the door to and stood behind the frame, franti
cally bracing herself for the tug-of-war.

  “I kill you, you whore!”

  She leaned back to counter jam the handle and bellowed for help. What the fuck was wrong with everyone — were they all deaf?

  “Tomas and Petrov — they are dead men!”

  She shuddered at every syllable. Then a shot rang out, dead centre of the door, blasting a hole through like a tiny explosion. She screamed and pulled her arm rigid until the bicep burned. The only way this bastard was coming out was if he shot a hole big enough to climb through. The stench of scorched wood and hot metal stained the air. A second shot burst out the door, splintering against the opposite wall.

  At last, she heard people galloping towards her. Christine got there first. “Quick, come with me,” she pulled Miranda away and threw an arm around her.

  Only now did Miranda feel the flecks of glass in her hand and the sting as she brushed them aside.

  “Nicholas, keep him here. You'd better sort this out — now!” Christine demanded, half-carrying Miranda away. Yorgi was still yelling as Nicholas attempted to placate him from the other side of the door.

  Miranda made it as far as the kitchen and retched in the sink. Christine stood back, but she could feel her staring. “You’ve got to get away from here.”

  “You think?” That was all Miranda could manage before another bout of vomit erupted against the stainless steel. Not so stainless now. She felt her legs buckling and gripped the side of the sink unit.

  “Come on,” Christine insisted, “we don’t have much time.”

  Miranda turned, and for a moment she thought of striking out. But by the time she had chambered her knuckles, Christine had moved out of range.

  “Miranda, hurry, please!”

  She followed the voice through to the lounge. Christine was unlocking the patio doors.

  “Right,” Christine’s voice sounded shaky. “Take my phone . . .” she fumbled about in a small shoulder bag. “Give me your hand — quickly,” she scrawled four numbers on Miranda’s arm. “My cashcard — and there’s twenty pounds.” She thrust plastic and paper into Miranda bloodied hand. “And you better take this.”