The Omega Sanction

by Tomas Black

  “Really?” said Fern, a little surprised.

  “It was Alice’s idea,” replied Drum.

  “Quite right, sir. Alice always did favour the bigger weapon,” said Giles.

  “Alice?”

  “A story for another time,” said Drum, looking at his watch. “Alice sends her regards, by the way, Giles.”

  “A wonderful woman,” sighed Giles. “We had such times …”

  “Giles,” said Fern. “We’re a little pressed …”

  “Quite so, quite so,” said Giles, straightening a little. “And you madam … are you carrying?”

  Fern smiled. “If you can find a place to hide a gun in this dress, you’re most welcome to try.”

  Giles raised an eyebrow. “No, madam. I was thinking of your purse.”

  Drum grinned.

  “Right,” said Fern, “of course. No, I’m not armed.”

  Giles moved over to a bureau and opened a drawer. He came back with a small, compact gun. “May I suggest this nine millimetre Beretta. It should fit nicely in your purse.” He handed her the pistol.

  “We expecting trouble?” said Fern.

  “I always expect that every function, here at the club, will go off smoothly,” replied Giles. “But as Alice used to say: ‘it’s best to prepare for the worst.’”

  Fern studied the compact weapon. It seemed small in her hand compared to her trusted Glock. The Beretta was a woman’s gun. She ejected the small magazine. “Six rounds.” She re-inserted the clip and slipped the gun into her purse.

  “One more thing,” said Giles. “Should things go pear-shaped, there’s a back exit. Go out of the patio doors next to the stairs and follow the path all the way back to a wall. There you’ll find an iron gate.” He handed Drum a small brass key. “This will get you out onto the street.”

  Drum took the key and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Anything else?”

  “If you need me, I’ll be manning my desk. Good luck,” said Giles.

  He led them back out into the lobby. “Take the stairs up to the next floor. That is where the action is.”

  Just then another couple entered the lobby. Drum glanced in their direction. He was a tall, grey-haired man, perhaps in his sixties; she was a bright young thing, old enough to be his daughter and had on a small, blue dress the size of a postage stamp. The man nodded to Drum then turned his attention to the woman hanging off his arm. She giggled and squealed as she looked around wide-eyed at the grand lobby of the club. Giles excused himself and made his way over to greet the new guests, his movements now much slower and the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced.

  Drum took Fern by the arm, and they made their way up the dark-oak stairway to the floor above. As they neared the top, they could hear soft music coming from behind two large closed doors. Two more liveried men attended the doorway. They nodded to Drum and Fern as they approached and pulled open each door.

  Drum and Fern walked through and entered a large, white high ceilinged ballroom, and lit by three huge Murano crystal chandeliers. The cacophony of people talking and the clink of champagne glasses were mixed with the subdued background sound of a string quartet, stationed in one corner of the room. The noise in the room subsided, and heads turned in their general direction. Drum guessed their stares were not for him but for the statuesque Alex Fern.

  Drum commandeered two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Fern.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to hers.

  “Now what?” asked Fern, looking around.

  Drum led her further into the ballroom. “We mingle.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  Drum reconnoitred the room. Large round dining tables with starched white tablecloths and ornate floral centrepieces dotted the dance floor. He moved over to a vacant table.

  “I suggest we split up and just engage people in polite conversation. We need to understand what Harry was looking for.”

  “Probably didn’t need to be armed,” said Fern. “Seems a pretty tame event.”

  “Over there,” said Drum. He nodded to a side room located off the central space and closed off by glass-panelled doors. Two heavy-set men stood guard outside. “Something’s going on in that room,” said Drum. “And it looks like the goons on the door didn’t have the benefit of my tailor.”

  Fern glanced behind her. “I see what you mean. I don’t think the bulge in their jackets is due to the size of their wallets.”

  “Let’s keep an eye on it,” said Drum. He walked off.

  “Hey, where are you going.”

  “I’m mingling.”

  He left his champagne. It wasn’t his drink. He spotted a bar in another side room and made a beeline for the door.

  Heads turned his way as he entered the room. He ignored their stares and ordered a gin and tonic. The hubbub of conversation soon resumed. He stood at the bar sipping his drink and surveyed the room. People congregated in small groups and talked in hushed conversation. They appeared to be bankers or City types – grey-haired captains of industry thrashing out the next big deal. But it was hard to tell who was who or what they were discussing. He didn’t recognise anyone in the room.

  He was on his second drink when he noticed a woman looking in his direction. She was in her forties and the centre of two older men’s attention. She appeared to be listening attentively to their conversation, but Drum could tell from her body language that she was bored. She interrupted one of her party who then looked in Drum’s direction. She walked over.

  “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met? Amelia Makin.”

  Amelia Makin was a dark-haired, attractive woman and wore a full-length modestly cut white gown which accentuated her shapely figure. She offered Drum her hand which dripped with diamond rings and a gold bracelet around her slim, elegant wrist.

  “Ben Drummond.”

  “I’ve not seen you here before,” she said, giving him a bright smile.

  “I heard the drinks were free so I gate-crashed the place,” he said, returning her smile.

  She laughed. “So what do you do, Mr Drummond?”

  “Call me Ben. I’m in the gold bullion business.”

  “Oh, really. Then you must know Damian Rhodes?”

  “Our paths have crossed,” admitted Drum.

  “I hear the bank is in trouble. They’re here tonight looking for a cash injection. I’ve already turned them down.”

  “What is it that you do, Amelia?”

  “Oh, I run a hedge fund.” She looked over at the two gentlemen she had abandoned. “Those two are bankers. They’re looking to invest in my fund. Tedious, really.” She studied him carefully. “You don’t look like a banker – too well-built.”

  “It comes from shifting tons of gold every day. It’s very heavy.”

  She laughed, her hand moving to a gold chain around her long, slender neck. Her fingers traced down the chain until they came to a large, teardrop pearl nestled deep within the canyon of her breasts. “Are you looking for anything particular tonight, Ben?”

  He was about to answer her question when in walked the diminutive figure of Anna Koblihova. She was wearing a small red dress which appeared to Drum to be made of the sheerest of fabric. She sashayed over to them, a smile on her face.

  “There you are, darling,” she said in a husky tone. “I look for you everywhere.”

  “Oh,” said Amelia, “I didn’t know you were with the Russians.”

  “Sorry Amelia, darling,” purred Anna. “Big demand for Benjamin tonight.” She took Drum by the arm and started to lead him out of the room.

  “Excuse me, Amelia,” said Drum.

  Anna led Drum out into the ballroom and towards the patio doors. Heads turned when she walked by. Drum looked for Fern, but she was nowhere to be seen. Two attendants opened the patio doors as they approached and they stepped out into the chill night air.

  “You’ll catch your death in that outfit,” said Drum, watching as Anna folded he
r arms around herself.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” whispered Anna. “Vlad arrived some time ago. If he sees you… “

  “We’re following up on Harry –”

  “We?”

  “I’m with Alex Fern.”

  “What! You should leave – right now.” She looked around anxiously.

  “What was Harry doing here,” he pressed.

  “Jones poked her nose into things she shouldn’t have,“ admitted Anna. “And now she is missing.”

  “But you don’t know where she is?”

  “All I know is that Vlad is now looking for her.”

  “Vlad?”

  “Leave now, Benjamin,” said Anna, her voice rising. “I cannot protect you here.” She walked back to the patio doors and tapped on the window. The doors opened, and she disappeared back inside. It was time to find Fern.

  Drum followed Anna back into the warmth of the ballroom. He found Fern sitting alone at one of the tables. She rose and smiled when she saw him.

  “Hello, stranger. Thought I’d lost you,” she said.

  “We need to go.”

  She moved closer to him, one hand extended, holding a glass of champagne. “But I need to give you my intel.”

  “Perhaps later,” he replied.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder and looked serious. “Well, Sergei over there,” she nodded towards a tall man in the corner, “is only interested in threesomes. But I had to pass on tonight. And Sir Reginald’s into whipping –”

  “Fern, we really need to go.”

  She smiled and leaned towards him. “You can be such a party-pooper …” She draped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, her lips brushing his ear. “And Victor owes a lot of money on a warehouse lease in Wapping – at least that’s what Sergei tells me.” She lightly bit his ear lobe. “God, you taste nice,” and started to giggle.

  “I think you’re pissed.”

  “God, I hope so after all the Champers I’ve drunk.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “Just doing m’job, guv’nor.”

  “I’m not going to have to carry you home, am I?” said Drum.

  “Bigger men than you have tried, believe me,” she said and started to giggle again.

  He unwrapped her arms from around his neck and liberated her glass. He took her arm and headed for the main door.

  “Why are we leaving?” she said.

  “Vlad’s here.”

  Fern suddenly became alert. “Oh, fuck.”

  They had made it halfway across the ballroom floor when the door to the guarded room opened and out walked Vladimir Abramov. He was closely followed by Sir Rupert Mayhew. The two men shook hands. Sir Rupert looked up and locked eyes with Drum. He turned to Vlad and nodded in Drum’s direction.

  “Shit, we’ve been spotted,” said Drum. Let’s pick up the pace.”

  They reached the main set of doors and Drum rapped on the wooden panel. The doors swung open. Drum glanced back to see two of Vlad’s heavies following close behind. They started quickly down the long staircase.

  “The escape route,” said Drum, pointing to the garden exit.

  A large hand appeared on Fern’s shoulder. One of the guards had caught up.

  Fern grabbed the guys wrist and turned to face him. She twisted and locked his wrist. The guard screamed. In one fluid movement, she flipped him forwards sending him crashing down the stairs.

  Giles moved swiftly from behind his desk and advanced towards the patio doors. He swung them open just as Drum and Fern reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Out you go,” he said. “Quickly now. I’ll delay them.”

  They ran out into the cold darkness of the garden. A light rain was falling.

  Drum looked back. Giles was busy trying to close the patio doors as the second of Vlad’s guards descended the stairs.

  There came the loud retort of a gunshot.

  Fern and Drum stopped in their tracks and turned to the patio doors. Giles was on his knees, clutching his stomach, a dark red stain spreading out across his starched, white shirt.

  The second guard was now advancing towards them, his gun outstretched.

  “Bastard,” shouted Fern. She drew the Beretta, discarding her purse in the process. She racked the small gun and extended her arm.

  “No, Fern.” Drum drew his weapon.

  Fern strode back towards the advancing guard. He was surprised by the sudden confrontation and fired a round that went wide of its mark. Fern fired back, hitting him in the shoulder. He grunted and with an effort raised his gun. Drum came up beside her and fired twice in quick succession – a double-tap to the guard’s chest as he had been trained to do. It was an automatic response. The guard fell face down into the cold, wet earth of the garden.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Breaking Bad News

  Alice sat in her dressing gown sobbing.

  “Who’s Giles?” asked William. He placed an arm around her, but she was inconsolable.

  It was a little past midnight and Drum sat slumped in an armchair, still in his tux in Alice’s apartment in Chelsea. Fern sat across from him, a look of anguish on her face, her hands clasped tightly together.

  Alice pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “He was someone I used to work with.”

  “But I thought you worked at the Foreign Office?” said William.

  “Why don’t you make us some tea, dear,” said Alice, forcing a smile.

  William sighed. “You can’t keep asking me to make tea whenever you want to get rid of me. What’s going on?”

  “Why don’t you pour us a drink, William. We could all use something stronger,” said Drum.

  “Right,” said William, knowing that it was useless to argue. He heaved himself up from the couch and pulled his dressing gown tightly around him. “Bushmills it is then.” He ambled into the kitchen.

  Fern got up and sat next to Alice. She enveloped the small woman with her arms. “I’m so sorry Alice. It happened so quickly …”

  “He went out fighting,” said Drum, angrily. “Like a true soldier.”

  “Ben!” exclaimed Fern.

  “No, dear. Ben’s right. And you shot the bastard,” said Alice.

  “I only winged him – too pissed. It was Ben …”

  Alice gave Fern a hard look. “You’ve never shot anyone, have you dear?”

  Drum looked surprised. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to him that Fern had never used her gun in anger. He remembered their first encounter with the Russian. She had been reluctant to draw her weapon.

  William came in carrying a tray of tumblers and a bottle of Bushmills whisky. He placed the tray on a small table. “What will happen to Benjy?”

  “Have you been listening?” asked Alice.

  “I’m not deaf or stupid,” replied William. He splashed whisky into all the glasses and handed them around. “Will he be arrested?”

  Fern took a glass and sat forward nursing her drink. “I honestly don’t know. Technically, I should report the whole thing.”

  “Technically, you’d be stupid to do anything of the sort,” said Alice. She knocked back her drink in one gulp and held out her glass for a refill.

  “I don’t understand,” said Fern.

  “There’ll be a cover-up,” said Drum. “They won’t risk exposing what’s going on at the club.”

  “You’ve lost me …” said William.

  “The club – it’s a black market for laundered money. The place was filled with City types looking for investment and the Russians only too happy to help,” said Drum.

  “But we should report what we saw,” said Fern. “I’m supposed to be a police officer.”

  Alice took a swig of her second whisky. “I think you're naive. The first thing they’ll do is arrest Ben and probably suspend you. And that will be the only arrests they’ll make.”

  Fern stared down into her drink.

  “You’re an NCA Commander,” added Drum. “You’re supposed to fight organised
crime. No, the only way to clear this mess up is to find out what’s going on in that vault.”

  “This is the place at Blackfriars?” asked William. “Close to the river?”

  “You know it?”

  “My father did. I remember him telling me stories. Used to be a school before it was a bank. They stored paintings in the cellars during the War. My dad told me how he and a mate barged valuables into the place from the river. Stopped them being damaged during the Blitz.”

  “In the vault?” asked Drum.

  “No. There wasn’t a vault in those days, just large cellars that led straight to the river. You can still see the entrance.”

  Drum turned to Fern. “You still have a mate in the Thames River Police?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “We should take a look at the location from the river. Just a hunch.”

  Drum downed his whisky then made their excuses to leave. William lent Fern a raincoat which she draped over his shoulders as she stepped out into the chill, night air.

  Alice took Drum to one side as they were leaving. “They’ll come for you now, Ben. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know, Alice.” He hesitated. “Perhaps it’s time you came clean with William.”

  She looked down at her feet. “I know I should … I just don’t want to screw things up between us.”

  “He adores you, Alice. He’ll understand.”

  Alice started to cry again. Drum drew her to him and held her tight. “It’ll work out, Alice. Don’t you worry.”

  She pulled away. “Abramov is going to pay, Ben. He’s going to pay …”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Rhodes is Summoned

  Rhodes was summoned once more to the Mayfair club, this time by the Treasury Mandarin Sir Rupert Mayhew. He was beginning to dislike the place. Rhodes was only a member because social etiquette demanded he take part in the charade. He entered the lobby expecting another run-in with the old duffer behind the desk but was greeted instead by someone much younger.

  “Hi. Can I help you?”

  “Damian Rhodes. I’m meeting Sir Rupert Mayhew for lunch. Who are you?”