How was this supposed to work, exactly? Just walk up and say, ‘I’d like my girlfriend back please?’ And what about Yorgi — Yorgi was bound to be there and he was, by any reckoning, a nasty piece of work. No wonder Petrov had wanted to keep hold of the DSB. And where were Petrov and his family now? All safe for the night, no doubt, and with no idea what was going on all because of them
He took another gulp of shandy. How do you solve a problem like Yorgi? The more he thought about it, the more he felt his stomach shake. A man who feared nothing — Petrov had said so. Well, almost nothing. Maybe the Yorkshire Police Air Support could drop a crate of snakes on him . . .
The pub crowd cheered at a goal or a try or a foul; they were leaping up and down like a troupe of morons so Thomas couldn’t tell what the payoff was. He raised a glass to them anyway, for living for the moment — lucky bastards.
Time for home; he’d been there long enough for an imaginary pick-up. He folded the map carefully and re-tied the rucksack. The barman received his glass, and exchanged it for a sneery look. Yeah, do come again.
* * *
Out in the car, he had another attack of the dreads and slipped the .38 between his legs. Unlikely anyone would try to lift the DSB from him, but better to be prepared. He checked his reflection. Is that what he’d become — a walking worst-case scenario?
Nothing happened on the drive back to Pickering. If the Eurostate Cartel had planned to storm the car, they’d obviously thought better of it. Karl probably had it right. All they wanted was the package back; Peterson had fallen meekly into line so why wouldn’t he naturally do the same, especially as he’d asked for a forty grand disturbance allowance? And if they did stop him tonight, what was he gonna do — start a shootout on the A64? Good point. He stuffed the .38 back in the rucksack and pushed it out of reach.
Ma and Pa Bladen were watching TV when he got back. James glanced up and tried to wink reassuringly. But try that when you’re terrified, and a tenner says it will look like a facial tic. “I was telling your mam, I’m thinking o’ getting a dog.”
“Thomas,” his mum made his name sound like an alarm call, “your dad says you’re off early morning — are you coming home tomorrow, then?”
He had to walk to the kitchen so they couldn’t see his face.
“Kettle’s not long boiled, if you’re making,” his mother called out.
He brought back a tray and noticed his dad had forsaken the armchair to squeeze in beside her on the settee. Wonders would never cease.
Thomas set the tray down. “Yeah,” he started, smiling as his mother mock-frowned at the word, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Dad reached for his cup. “I were thinking, Thomas, ’appen I might drive out with you, tomorrow morning, and get a bit of fresh air. I’ve already rung work and taken tomorrow off, especially.”
“Ooh, that’s nice, Thomas; you turn up out of the blue and your father’s already taking holidays. You should come up more often.”
Thomas blew on his tea.
“That’s settled then, lad,” his dad sat back.
* * *
He lay in bed, letting pixel thoughts scatter and reform of their own accord. It wasn’t long after ten — he’d turned in early, on account of the long drive. He tried to picture Karl and the boys — sleeping underground. But all he could see when he closed his eyes was Miranda.
Some time after eleven he picked up a text: Bunker road now closed for repairs. Don’t take chances tomorrow. Kosovo Girls Brigade.
Chapter 44
The wall clock read six thirty.
“Do you want some breakfast, Thomas — a bit o’ toast maybe?” Thomas’s dad stood by the kitchen doorway. It could have been a father and son day trip but for the ominous rucksack on the table. “All set then?”
They moved to the front door. “Don’t forget the letter, Dad . . .”
“It’s in safe hands, Thomas.”
There was no small talk in the car until they reached the great outdoors. His dad was the one to break the silence. “You don’t have to answer, but is this what you do for a living, like?”
He felt for his dad, trying to fathom all this out and come up with a new picture of the way things were. He shook his head, offered up as much explanation as he thought would help and directed them along the map. There were no police roadblocks to contend with, no suspicious vehicles with blacked out windows. In fact, the roads were so clear it was as if no one else existed.
For a few minutes he lulled himself into memories of the two of them out on the moors, photographing the sun as it struck the heather at dawn. He still had a print of that one somewhere, back at the flat.
“Here’s good — don’t stop until I tell you. And don’t hang about afterwards; straight to Ajit at the police station.”
“I could come with yer, Thomas; the two of us, together, like.” There was an edge to the voice, like ice cracking on a pond.
“No, this is something I have to sort out. You taking my car away will really help though, honest.” Hopefully it would buy him a little extra time when they tracked it to the police station.
“If they . . . if they harm a hair of your head, I’ll not rest . . .” his father was crying now.
“I know,” Thomas shook his hand; he didn’t know what else to do.
The car rounded a hill and disappeared. He cleared the road and swung his binoculars wide. If he was really lucky, he could still pull this off. He had Karl and the Dagenham Duo on his side — so why were his guts still churning up like Robin Hood Bay in a spring tide?
It took an hour or so of scouring the moorland before Thomas found the habitat he was looking for: a pond. What was it the teacher used to say in Photography Club, at school? Take every advantage.
‘It’s possible, sometimes, to be so still that you almost merge into the landscape. Photographers and birdwatchers, the good ones anyway, they know how to do it. It takes patience and planning, but if you’re really lucky all that hard work pays off.’
Thomas remembered his teacher’s speech and tried to take comfort. His muscles were past numbness, beyond cramp; he’d been crouching in the same position for a good ten minutes now, glancing sideways on, as the grass snake wove through the grass. He fixed it with his gaze, as if he could magnetise it to the spot while he inched the canvas bag forward by degrees. He felt a bead of sweat slide down the side of his nose, trickling over skin cells, gathering pace. But he didn’t dare flinch in case it broke the charm. The grass snake licked ahead of it, unaware of the converging bag. A little closer . . . and . . . bingo!
He flicked the forked stick, lifting the wriggling snake high into the air, twisting and contorting it to keep control. With his other hand he moved the bag underneath — the one with the DSB in it — and brought the two together, pulling the drawstring of the bag with the snake safely inside. Then he allowed himself the luxury of a smile and touched the crucifix at his neck.
As he stood up and stretched, he felt the .38 pulling a little in its shoulder holster. Not to worry; it wouldn’t be for much longer. He took a celebratory sip of water, apologised to the snake and checked his compass bearing. Time to get walking again.
* * *
The entrance to the bunker beckoned, like a doorway to the Underworld. He surveyed the site through binoculars and tried to imagine Miranda down there, counting the minutes to freedom.
He squeezed the fear down into the pit of his stomach, telling himself silently, over and over, that they were all on the same side. That Sir Peter had entrusted him with the recovery of the sealed DSB. Entrusted, coerced — what was a word between friends? Their only interest was in recovering the DSB; his sole concern was Miranda.
Only one thing for it now: to set things in motion. “Hello, it’s Thomas Bladen.” There wasn’t an echo on the moorland, but the words seemed to magnify. He announced himself again just to make sure he wasn’t startling anyone. And hopefully Karl would now know he was on site.
As he wal
ked forward into view, someone surfaced from the bunker — a suit. Thomas raised a hand in greeting and forced a smile upon his face. The suit half-turned and Sir Peter Carroll emerged, shadowed by another man.
Thomas advanced a few more paces until Sir Peter raised a hand. “That’s quite far enough, Thomas. I must say, you’ve picked a fine spot — reassuringly secure.” There was bravado in the voice yet somehow Sir Peter didn’t have his usual unassailable confidence.
He watched the old man and kept his smile high, forcing it until his mouth ached. “I’ve got the package here. When can I see Miranda? ” He lifted the canvas bag high and held it out to one side.
The other man beside Sir Peter shifted his feet, the bodily equivalent of licking his lips. This must be Yorgi; he wasn’t massive, although he looked formidable. And even at that distance, Thomas could read him: a face unencumbered by conscience.
Thomas took another pace forward. Sir Peter stalled him again. “First things first. I think we’ll have your weapon on the ground; we don’t want any accidents.”
Hook, line and sinker. Thomas reached under his arm slowly and tossed the .38 to the ground with his thumb and forefinger. A pity, nonetheless.
Yorgi seemed much amused, but he already had his gun drawn so he could afford to be jolly. “And now the bag, if you please,” he affected a bow.
Thomas felt the tension in his throat, squeezing the words out in single file. “I need to see Miranda.” But the next face he saw was Christine’s, rising from the depths of the bunker. His legs turned to lead.
Yorgi was laughing now, waggling the gun towards him like a taunt. “Now, smart boy, give me the fucking package or I kill you.”
And they say manners are a thing of the past. Not now, he told himself: no distractions. This was it then. He backed his arm up for a half-decent throw.
“Quickly,” Yorgi sneered, or you’ll never see your whore again.”
He felt his breath turn to fire. Chances of making the distance without being shot — very low indeed. Willingness to try anyway — almost absolute. Almost. He fed on the rage and helplessness that swarmed inside him and drew them down, until he felt a strange sense of stillness, as if the world was narrowing in. Yorgi, prick that he was, had done him a favour; he had brought Thomas into what Karl called ‘the kill zone.’
The bag sailed through the air and landed near Yorgi’s feet. He grinned like a ravine, lowered his gun and retrieved the bag.
Thomas inched his hand up the side of his jacket to the pocket: shit or bust.
“What? You think you are smarter than Yorgi; you and that piece of shit, Petrov? No, Tomas, you are a fucking moron. Your precious Mi-ran-dah isn’t even here! But I made sure I fixed her for you.”
Yorgi opened the bag and shoved his hand in. Any . . . second . . . now . . . “Argh!” he screamed and snatched back his hand.
Thomas took his cue, drew the Makarov from his pocket and fired. No hesitation, no deliberation; aim, shoot to kill.
Yorgi jerked backwards, dragged into a spin by a shoulder wound. But that didn’t stop him returning fire.
Thomas was momentarily stunned by his own incompetence. Then he heard the blast as the bullet slammed into his chest, smashing him down. He felt the ground punch him in the head and a clamour of voices swirl around him as the blood oozed down his face.
He must have been dreaming; Miranda was calling his name. He dragged himself to sitting, gasping for air, just in time to see Miranda materialise from the sidelines like some glorious angel. Then it all got very frightening indeed.
“You bastard!” Miranda roared at Yorgi and shot him, square in the chest.
Yorgi went down, but Thomas knew a pro like him would have a vest on as well.
Thomas heaved himself to standing, screaming with the pain; waving Miranda frantically aside, out of the line of fire. She didn’t get it and started running towards him.
Yorgi jerked back up mechanically, wide-eyed and bloodied, like a homicidal marionette. Suddenly there was gunfire overhead, seemingly from all directions.
In the confusion, Karl barrelled through the scrub, slamming into Miranda side-on as he carried her to the ground. Yorgi’s second shot went wide of the mark and whizzed past Thomas’s head.
Karl rolled away from Miranda and recovered to face Yorgi with one of his Brownings drawn. Thomas dropped to one knee and kept his gun hand level.
Yorgi remained absolutely still, blocked by two weapons. His face twitched, like a trapped animal; Thomas figured Yorgi wasn’t ready to call it quits yet. Yorgi turned to Sir Peter, pushing the barrel into the old man’s face. “I take my package and I walk away.”
Thomas was still wondering if Karl could make the shot when Karl abruptly lowered his Browning. Yorgi emptied out the bag and then he looked directly at Thomas. His gun wavered for an instant. “This isn’t over, Tomas.”
“Yes it is,” Sir Peter’s voice was as clinical as his marksmanship.
The bullet slammed into Yorgi’s skull in a flash of red, propelling him to the ground as blood and brain matter pumped free. Sir Peter Carroll stood rigid, flecks of Yorgi’s blood glistening against his face and clothes.
Karl holstered his gun and helped Miranda to her feet. She took his hand reluctantly and looked across at Thomas. He ran to her, clutching his chest on the way — it hurt like a bastard. Then, as Karl stood aside, Thomas gritted his teeth and squeezed Miranda hard against his jacket. She felt cold, in every sense. He breathed her in, pressing her face against his neck, and watched Karl surveying the scene.
Karl turned to face him. “Well, turned out nice again.” He threw his one-liner away and advanced on Nicholas, who was already by the package. “Hey, hey,” Karl called out, “don’t make me shoot you. Leave it be.” Then he looked over at Christine, who nodded to him.
The air crackled; Christine lifted a walkie-talkie from her back pocket. “It seems a local man drove through the road barricade; Jack and Alice have been detained by a policeman on the scene. Police Air Support is on its way.”
Sir Peter Carroll lowered his head. Thomas pointed at him, the Makarov still in his hand. “He goes down for this, Karl.”
“Hold on there, Tommo . . . that’s not the way these things work. If this goes public, we all crash and burn — that’ll be the end of the SSU and all those Euro bastards vanish into the night.”
Thomas had already started walking. Miranda was at his side, her hand in his. He’d seen enough, heard enough and had enough. Karl shouted after him. “I’ll sort it, Tommo; I promise. No loose ends. Leave it to me — I know how these things are done.”
Miranda nudged Thomas as they crossed Christine’s line of sight. He watched as the two women eyed each other silently. Miranda dropped a cash card, a gun and a mobile phone at Christine’s feet, and then pulled Thomas away.
Chapter 45
It had been seven days. A whirlwind of events that, as Thomas lay listening to the birds outside, almost seemed like they’d happened to someone else. As he rolled over on one side, the bruise in his chest reassured him that it definitely had happened to him. He caught the alarm clock on the first bleep — he’d been awake for ages anyway. It was his second morning back at the flat.
Sam and Terry had taken Miranda back to London after a hotel overnight. He’d wanted to drive her home, but she made it very clear she didn’t want him around. So he’d stayed on in Yorkshire for a few days, just until the official story unfolded: Eastern European drug trafficker apprehended, following combined operation between police and security services. He left after that — he couldn’t stomach any more lies.
He’d been ringing John and Diane’s twice a day, to check on Miranda. There had been a suggestion she might go abroad again but, thankfully, Diane had talked her out of it. Said that what she needed was the family around her.
Give her time, they told him — and that was about all they told him. Did they blame him? Not as much as he blamed himself; that wasn’t possible. John reassured him
that he’d be welcome at the house, in time.
And Karl? Well, Karl was another huge disappointment; he’d showed his true colours in the end, and tidied everything up. John Wright even got his gun back, apparently. Last Thomas had heard, Karl was back at work, resetting the clocks once more.
As he lurched out of bed, the previous night’s phone call with Karl stung his ears. ‘Trust me, Tommo, I’ve got your back covered.’ Yeah, right.
He showered and then stared at himself in the mirror. The bruise on his chest had come up a fine shade of purple. Right about where the heart was; Yorgi was a true professional to the end.
Today was the big day — off to Whitehall to face Sir Peter Carroll. As he grabbed his coat off the peg, he noticed two brown envelopes on the mat — minus addresses or stamps. The A4 photographs were a mixture — some colour, some monochrome. There was a woman going about her daily life — at the shops, with her children, and a family photo in a park. As to the black-and-whites — well, not quite porn, but the couple weren’t holding a raffle. Not unless they’d found a novel way to pick the winners. Sir Peter Carroll was evidently more athletic than his physique suggested. It looked like some sort of downbeat hotel or a motel, and it definitely wasn’t the woman from the colour shots. The very last photo was different to all the others — an outdoor scene, long lens — Sir Peter’s gun up against Yorgi’s head.
A small card fell out of the envelope. He bent down to read it and a lump came to his throat. ‘I never break a promise — K. See you back at work soon.’
He ditched the card, checked the other envelope — a copy of everything — grabbed Exhibit A and headed out the door. At Walthamstow Central he filed through the gate with the masses and enjoyed the rich travelling experience that was the Victoria line.
He walked past the lockers at Victoria and shuddered. He needed coffee, a double espresso. As he savoured its umber goodness, a text message came in: Dinner tonight? Caliban’s — 8 pm. Don’t be late! Give Karl my regards. Mx. Wow. He texted back a glib comment and marched right into Whitehall, holding up his ID like a badge of honour: Floaters Anonymous.
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 31
