He left to get a tube train to St. Paul’s station and walked to a small guesthouse near the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Shoreditch High Street. He booked in with the dead farmer’s Visa card and went up to his room. He had no luggage, just the two briefcases; it was an overnight business trip, he had told the clerk. He set off upstairs to his room. In one of the briefcases he had some old clothes. He went to the en-suite bathroom and changed. When he emerged he was in the grey robe of a Franciscan Monk that he’d slipped over his normal clothes. He carried one of the briefcases in one hand and a tourist map of London in the other. He left the hotel making sure that the clerk in the front desk did not see him.
Grigori reached St. Paul’s and paused outside the West Front Entrance taking in the magnificent masterpiece created over three hundred years previously by Sir Christopher Wren. Grigori was familiar with the building having visited it many times in the past but it never failed to stir his soul. He entered and walked past the nave and stood beneath the glorious dome, his eyes searching for the Whispering Gallery ninety-nine feet above his head. It would be here that he would leave the device. The great height would ensure maximum spread and dispersal of the material.
‘Good afternoon father.’
Grigori turned to find a greeter looking up at him. She was smiling and offering to give him whatever assistance he required. He thanked her but said that he had little time, adding that he just had to visit the Whispering Gallery before returning home. He bowed, smiling, and moved away. She turned to see him disappear towards the staircase and the 259 steps he would need to climb. Grigori decided he would have to complete the task as soon as possible and then leave. There would be no time for special refinements.
Jake Scott answered his mobile. Even before he’d heard the caller’s voice he had a premonition that this would not be good news. He was not disappointed. Cheshire told him to get to St. Paul’s Cathedral immediately and that a small team of plainclothes armed response officers and a couple of bomb disposal experts would meet him at the West Front Entrance. They were to be as quick as possible and search the place thoroughly but avoid creating a panic. Chesire told him that someone was planning to plant a device there and to be careful of a confrontation that might force him to detonate it. As the call ended Jake was already heading towards St. Paul’s in an unmarked car, its blue light flashing and its siren silent.
He got to the Cathedral and met the team outside. They went in, their eyes adjusting to the dark environment. The Cathedral was not crowded. Seeing them standing beneath the dome and huddled in a small group as if wondering where to begin, the greeter approached them to see if she might help.
Jake Scott asked her if she had seen anything suspicious or if anyone had asked her for any information recently. She looked surprised. Why was this young man asking questions and then she saw the Warrant Card that he was showing her. She looked back up at him more confused than before.
‘Can you please try to think,’ he said, ‘has there been anything out of the ordinary?’
She appeared to hesitate. ‘Well, it’s not very busy today but I just had a Franciscan Monk who said he wanted to visit the Whispering Gallery and I saw him go up but—’
Jake and his men were already running, heading for the stairs.
From above, Grigori had witnessed the arrival of the men and wasted no time. He’d secured the briefcase behind a pier out of sight and headed back down the staircase, in his pocket a small automatic fitted with a silencer. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw the men still speaking with the greeter who seemed to be rubbing her chin and thinking. He exited through the South Transept.
One look around the Gallery told Jake that there was no one there. He left the bomb disposal experts to look for and deal with the device if they found it. He headed back downstairs followed by three men from the firearms team. When they got to the ground floor they found the greeter there who pointed to the South Transept exit.
‘You just missed him,’ she said. ‘He was in a big hurry.’
Jake exited St. Paul’s running fast and stopped outside, adjusting to the light. His men joined him and they cast an eye around the immediate area.
‘There he goes,’ he said and took off running as fast as he could, followed by the rest of the team.
Grigori looked back and saw them. He turned back and continued running but the heavy robe was uncomfortable and was slowing him down. People were stopping to stare at the sight of a man of the cloth running at full pelt being pursued by four men on foot. They were now in Chandos Place heading towards Agar Street.
Grigori saw Jake closing in and brought out his gun. Jake dropped to one knee just as Grigori fired. The bullet buried itself in the wall just above his head sending stone chippings raining down on him. Jake was up again and running, not bothering to see if the rest of his men were behind him.
Grigori ran across the Strand, skirting between rows of slow-moving traffic and headed for Charing Cross Station. Jake saw him. If he went down into the tube it would be a disaster, with so many people and a desperate man with a gun. He couldn’t let him get there. He started running faster. A Metropolitan Policeman appeared from a side street and saw the group running after the Monk. The man chasing the monk was shouting something at him but the policeman couldn’t make out what he was saying. Everyone had stopped to stare at the extraordinary sight. Was this a film? Where were the cameras? People could not believe what they were seeing. Suddenly the policeman turned to face the Monk as he ran towards him. He raised his hand as if ordering him to stop. Grigori levelled his gun and shot him between the eyes. People started screaming and running for cover. Jake had his revolver in his hand; dropped to one knee; holding his weapon with both hands, he took aim. The shot rang out like a loud bang from a car backfiring. Grigori flew forward, knocked off his feet by the impact of the bullet hitting him on the back. He laid spread eagle on the pavement. Jake ran towards the fallen body of Grigori, reached him and kicked the gun from his hand. He bent down searching for a pulse. There was none. The rest of his men had caught up with him and a passing squad car from The Met had stopped. There were mobiles ringing, police officers had started to cordon off the scene and were asking the public to move-on. Tourists on the top deck of passing buses were gawping and taking photos and video with their cameras and mobile phones. Jake removed his jacket and draped it over Grigori’s face. He called Cheshire and brought him up to date.
‘Jake, listen to me, this is important,’ Cheshire was saying, ‘Grigori must have got to London somehow and there might be other devices, you must find out where he’s been staying and fast.’ He hung up.
One of the other men had searched Grigori and found a wallet with some money and a credit card as well as a key in his pocket; it was of a nearby hotel and they could get to it quickly but they had to wait for a second bomb disposal expert to arrive before entering his hotel room. The reception clerk was being interviewed and looked bewildered. No he didn’t know who the man was. They got a lot of businessmen with little or no luggage. No, it was not unusual. He paid with a credit card, again, not unusual.
‘Is this it?’ Jake asked, and the clerk looked at the card and replied, ‘Yes that’s it. That’s the card he used, we don’t have a chip and pin facility so he signed instead. I have a counterfoil.’
They told him they might have to ask him more questions but it was just a formality. He wouldn’t be able to help any more.
They ran a check on the card but it had not been reported stolen.
‘Get a hold of Barclays,’ he said to one of the men, ‘it’s their card, see if they can tell us who this J.C. Tailor is.’
A few minutes later they had an address and Jake asked the same man to get in touch with the local police and get them to check it out.
He phoned Cheshire to tell him that there had not been a second device; he could almost hear him let out a sigh of relief.
He phoned Cheshire to tell him they had neutralized the device and had
not found any others; he could almost hear him let out a sigh of relief.
‘Thank you Jake and well done. Please thank the rest of the team, well done all of you.’
An hour later Jake was told they’d found the owner of the card. He would not need it any more.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elliott had been back in England one week, and his head was still spinning from all that had happened. His first call had been to his mum and dad and they had reacted the way he knew they would, no fuss. But still that was what they were like and he loved them all the more for it. He’d been to see them and stayed three days promising to return soon.
Elliott met Natasha and took her to dinner at The River Café on the north bank of the Thames in Hammersmith. Throughout the evening she didn’t stop asking questions and he didn’t stop talking. They drank, ate, talked, laughed and smiled at each other a lot. Since his return they had seen each other more than usual and were getting on famously. Elliott had promised to take her on a visit to the cottage in Trowbridge and to take her around Bath. It would be a break from London and a chance to just relax.
Dinner over, Elliott took her back to her London apartment and saw her go in and shut the door. Soon he saw the light come on in the living room and he drove off down Pont Street, and at the lights turned left into Sloane Street, heading in the direction of The Sloane Club.
It was a little past midnight when she walked into the living room. She was smiling thinking about the great evening she’d had when the phone rang. She rushed to pick it up.
‘Elliott?’
‘Hello Natalia,’ the voice was Renfrew’s and she was suddenly serious and worried. What could he be phoning about this late?
‘Natalia, where have you been?’ he said, ‘I’ve been calling you for hours.’
‘I went to dinner,’ she said annoyed, ‘why? What’s the matter?’
‘Now listen to me Natalia, I don’t want you to worry,’ he said but her stomach had already begun to knot.
‘He’s what? Could you repeat what you just said?’ She realized she was shouting.
‘I said Blanco is alive. We don’t know how but he wasn’t killed with the others. He must have been out of the room when the explosion happened. He was lucky.’
‘Lucky!’ she said. ‘And what does that make me? Dead?’ She was shouting again.
‘Natalia please calm down. This isn’t helping. I have a man watching your flat; if he comes near you he’ll get him.’
‘Now you’re worrying me,’ she said. ‘Where is Blanco?’
‘He’s in England. Maybe in London, but we don’t know. We’re looking for him but, as it stands even if we find him we can’t hold him for long. Just take him in for a routine interview. Thing is Natalia, he hasn’t broken any laws that we can get him for. If anything he’s a victim who’s just lost a lot of friends and had his house blown up.’
‘A lot of comfort you are,’ she said.
‘Try to get some sleep. Let us do the worrying,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow but in the meantime be careful who you let in your house.’ He hung up.
As soon as she put the receiver down she realized she was shaking. The news that she’d just heard had terrified her. What if Blanco had worked things out? He’s not stupid. Shit, she thought, what am I going to do? She went over to the window and peered out, looking for the man Renfrew said he’d posted to protect her but she couldn’t see anyone. She wondered if Elliott knew. She’d call him and find out. Why hadn’t he called? Her head hurt and she tried to think straight.
‘Hola Natalia.’ The voice coming from the bedroom made her freeze. She felt her hair standing on end. She was sweating but she couldn’t move, her voice had deserted her.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Blanco was saying leaning on the doorframe to her bedroom. ‘Nice place you have here by the way,’ he said looking around the room, but Natalia still could not find a voice. Her mind was racing. She was trapped with nowhere to run.
At last she said, her voice trembling, ‘Esteban...what are you doing here? How did you get in?’
‘You sound surprised,’ he said ‘aren’t you glad to see me?’
‘Yes, of course it’s just that...well...’ she trailed off flustered and at a loss for words.
‘I came to get you,’ he said. ‘I’ve planned a long trip for us. A sort of happy reunion if you like but the thing is we’ve got to leave right now.’
‘Right now? Esteban I can’t. I mean not right now. It’s late,’ she said, ‘I’m tired’
‘You can sleep on the plane,’ he said pointing a gun at her chest.
Back at home Renfrew couldn’t sleep. It was a bloody mess. He put a call to his man outside Natalia’s flat. No answer. He checked the number and tried again. Still no answer. Renfrew dressed quickly while dialling for backup. He needed a squad car to pick him up outside his home in Wandsworth. The police car was there in five minutes. Renfrew was waiting outside.
The man Renfrew had selected to guard Natalia was found down the stairs that led to the basement flat. He was sitting with his back to the wall. He’d been shot at close range. He was dead. A few minutes later an ambulance arrived and lights started to come on in the windows of the apartments surrounding Natalia’s home.
A search of her apartment revealed nothing; nothing except the fact that she was gone. There was no sign of a struggle. No clue as to where he might have taken her, but Renfrew knew. He was feeling as guilty as hell for not having warned her before and worse still for the dead officer.
He knew Blanco was dangerous and should have had her flat under surveillance sooner; he’d not forgive himself if anything happened to her. There was no time to lose, if they left now they would arrive before Blanco and Natalia, after all, he would not be driving fast, not if he didn’t want to attract attention at that time of night.
Renfrew left in an unmarked car; no siren just flashing lights. At that time of night it would not take long. When he had received the call from Ed Garrett telling him that Blanco had escaped the blast and was headed for the UK, he had immediately contacted air traffic control at Swanwick Centre with instructions to tell him the moment the Falcon entered UK airspace and the airport and time it was due to land. It had been Luton and they were heading there travelling fast. Renfrew was sure he would get there first.
On his way to Luton he contacted the airport police and gave instructions of what he wanted them to do.
Blanco’s car arrived and he headed straight for the hangar and his waiting plane. The door was open and the hangar in semi darkness. His headlights lit the plane and he caught a brief glance of his pilot in the cockpit. He would soon be airborne and able to enjoy Natalia’s company totally undisturbed. He’d often fantasized about that and now it was about to happen.
He went to the back of the car and opened the boot. Natalia was there, her mouth taped, her hands and feet bound. She looked a mess. He undid the knot to remove the rope that tied her feet and pulled her out of the boot. Her legs ached from the journey and tingled as blood started to flow again. She was dragged to the waiting plane and pushed up the steps. Just the sight of the familiar interior of the Falcon and the smell of the plush leather seats made him feel better. He could imagine what he would do to Natalia and could not wait for the moment the plane took off and he had his prize all to himself.
Blanco pushed her into a seat and closed the rear door. He went over to her and pulled the tape roughly from her mouth. Natalia gasped for air. Her lips red and the lipstick smeared excited Blanco whose eyes were shining like a wolf predator eyeing his prey before the final pounce.
‘Don’t go away’ he said, his mouth twisted in an ugly grin, he turned around leaving her there and moved forward to the cockpit.
Antonio, his pilot, was leaning forward over the controls preparing to start the engines and get underway which was exactly what Blanco had told him to do the moment he arrived.
From her seat, Natalia saw Blanco going towards the cockpi
t. Her heart was pounding and she was crying. She knew she was dead and was terrified by what she expected to happen to her before Blanco killed her and put an end to the nightmare.
Antonio turned around.
‘Good evening, Señor Blanco.’
Blanco was already reaching for his gun. Andrew Renfrew pointed a revolver straight at his head.
‘I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m terribly out of practice and this thing might just go off.’
From the bedroom at the rear of the plane an armed officer in a bullet-proof vest was moving forward towards the cockpit, an automatic weapon held expertly in his hands. As soon as Blanco had been cuffed the officer opened the rear door and other policemen came on board to remove the prisoner.
Natalia was leaning forward on her seat, her head on her lap; she was crying but this time from relief.
Ever since he’d stared death in the face, Elliott had wondered about the loot from the Gold Train. What had happened to it? Clearly the bomb had not been meant for him though the thought gave him little comfort and Wilhelm Klein wasn’t around to ask him. It was puzzling. He had to go back to the notes Keating had made during his interrogation of Dieter Klein. He was thumbing through the pages searching for something he remembered reading; the memory of it was nagging him. At the time it had hardly registered but now... he saw it written in Keating’s clear handwriting: ‘...but before Göring could do anything to him an American destroyer saved him the trouble and depth charged him in the North Atlantic. Wilhelm and his entire crew lost their lives.’
The moment he’d seen it he’d known what he would do. There had to be records kept of U-boats that had been made and those that had been lost. It had not been simple, but he was used to research and did not give up easily. He found out that U-1977 had not been depth-charged and had in fact survived the war. It had ended its days, like so many captured boats did, as a target sub for the U.S. Navy.
Mary Dear - Redux Page 28
