by L J Morris
The door was broken, the lock smashed. Inside, Danny’s chair was lying on its side, his computer screens were dark. A cup of coffee had been spilled and papers piled up on the desk. Someone had searched the room thoroughly but hadn’t finished.
‘Danny? Danny are you okay?’
Two black-clad firearms officers appeared from the kitchen, shouting orders. ‘On your knees. ON YOUR KNEES.’
Carter knew what was coming next. He dropped to the ground, arms in the air. More police appeared from the other rooms in the flat and up the corridor behind him. In a blur, he was down on the floor and handcuffed. He looked to his left, Kinsella was being brought out of the kitchen, flanked by two officers. Carter didn’t want him to panic. ‘It’s okay, Danny. Don’t panic, and don’t say anything till you’ve got a lawyer.’
‘I’m fine, Simeon. I’ve got a very good lawyer who’ll look after both of us. We’ll be out in no time.’
Two police officers picked Carter up and read him the standard police caution. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, yes, I understand. Remember, Danny, you have the right to remain silent.’
The two police officers pulled Carter back into the hallway, and he and Kinsella were frogmarched down the corridor, out of the building, and bundled into the back of two separate police vans.
Chapter 23
The dim headlights of the beaten up old Land Rover lit up the front of Maison des Fleurs as Gabriel Vance reversed the 4x4 into one of the barns. He climbed out and grabbed two large shopping bags from the passenger seat, holding them in one hand as he swung the barn door closed. As he approached the house, the front door opened and Sinclair stepped out to meet him. ‘Any news?’
He held up the bags. ‘I got a few supplies. You lot are using up all my teabags.’
Sinclair tried again. ‘Forget the bags; have you heard anything from London?’
Vance looked down at the ground, not wanting to tell Sinclair the news. ‘It could be bad, Ali. Let’s go inside and I’ll bring you all up to speed.’ He handed Sinclair one of the bags and they both headed for the house.
McGill and Porter were sitting in the kitchen chatting. Porter appreciated the older man taking the time to talk things through with him. On top of everything else, Porter was still grieving. McGill had become a stand-in father to him, listening to whatever Porter wanted to say; he’d become a shoulder for him to cry on.
McGill didn’t need the wheelchair any more, and he no longer had a drip in his arm. A few more days and he’d be good to go. Maybe not a hundred per cent, but good enough. He was tired of sitting around while Vadim’s men tried to track them down. It wasn’t in his nature to be the one running away. McGill wanted to be on the road, he wanted to be the one hunting them. It was the only way all of this would stop.
Vance put his bag on the counter top and sat down at the opposite side of the table. ‘We’ve had contact from London. Your message was delivered to Carter, but the situation has ramped up.’
McGill stood up and paced around the kitchen, testing his strength. ‘Ramped up more than it already has? That doesn’t sound good.’
Vance knew McGill and Sinclair weren’t going to like what he was about to tell them. ‘Carter and Kinsella have been arrested on some trumped-up terrorism charge. Apparently, the police have said they have evidence of an active plot that Carter and Kinsella are involved in. They’re on remand.’
Sinclair slammed her fist on the table. ‘Surely no one believes that, can’t they see it’s Vadim stitching them up?’
McGill sat back down. ‘That’s the thing, though, Ali. They are involved in a plot and we’ve sent them the evidence to prove it. The police are just doing their job, following through on the evidence they’ve been given.’
‘This is bullshit. They are with us, trying to stop the conspiracy, they’re not part of it. Why can’t everyone else see that?’
‘It’s a matter of perspective. We must assume Vadim has at least one senior cop on his payroll. Manipulating the evidence to show a different angle to the story wouldn’t be difficult.’
‘Why isn’t Edward Lancaster doing something about this?’
‘He can’t. As soon as the authorities know he’s involved, he’ll be in as much danger as we are. He has to stay hidden for as long as possible. Fight this from the inside.’
Sinclair laughed. ‘We really are fucked, aren’t we?’
McGill paused. ‘There’s something else we have to consider, Ali.’
‘Don’t tell me there’s more bad news, Frank. Things are bad enough.’
‘While you were in prison in Mexico, Vadim tried to have you killed several times. What if that’s his plan here? I don’t think Simeon and Danny will be able to protect themselves like you did.’
Sinclair stood. ‘We need to get to London, now.’
Vance held up his hands, palms towards Sinclair. ‘Not so fast, Ali. I’ve put things into place, made some arrangements, but it’ll take a couple of days to get to London. It’s the fastest you can do it. Get your things together, you’ll need some kit for when you get there. I’ll sort that.’
Sinclair sat down again. ‘I hate all this hanging around, we need to help Simeon and Danny. We can’t let Vadim kill them.’
‘You and Frank get ready to travel, I’ll contact London and see what can be done to protect them.’
Sinclair gripped Vance’s forearm. ‘Thanks for all your help, Gabe. I really appreciate what you’ve done for us, what you’re risking.’
Vance put his hand on top of Sinclair’s and smiled. ‘I owe my life to Frank. His friends are my friends. Anything you need, I’ll do what I can.’
Chapter 24
The hotel Maison de Jura was situated in the centre of a one-hundred-acre estate in the mountains north of Geneva, close to the French border. Its isolated position, and the fact there was only one access road, made it a favourite for the organisers of inter-government conferences. The whole estate could be sealed off for weeks in advance and thoroughly searched before the heads of government came anywhere near the site.
Security presence at the hotel, which had gradually increased in the build up to the summit, was now at its peak, as the attendees arrived. Motorcades of black 4x4 vehicles made their way along the access road and through the security cordon. One by one, each VIP turned up with their own entourage and security detail. Last to make an appearance, as always, was the President of the United States.
Many Secret Service agents were evident around the perimeter and throughout the hotel. Local police were becoming increasingly agitated as their most important charge approached. Armed guards kept a discreet distance, but had effectively surrounded the immediate perimeter of the hotel gardens, and controlled access to the helicopter pad, where Marine One, with the President on board, would be touching down.
Intelligence from MI6, of a possible, though unspecified, threat, was treated seriously. The hotel and grounds had been swept again, prior to any VIPs arriving; no one was getting in who didn’t belong. All staff had been vetted, once the dates of the summit were known, and everyone was confident that any threat was empty and had been neutralised.
Asil Balik watched the commotion from the window in the main ballroom. He was the hotel’s handyman and spent his days working his way down the list of repairs and maintenance jobs the manager had given him. He had been living in Switzerland for twenty years, since he and his father had moved there from Turkey in the nineties. His father had worked in the financial industry for years and had jumped at the job offer from the Swiss bank. Asil’s mother had died the previous year and his father wanted a new life for them, a fresh start.
The young Balik had loved his new home. He was proud of his Turkish roots but considered himself Swiss; he had integrated completely into Swiss society and taken up citizenship as soon as it was open to him.
His father’s untimely death had hit him hard. He dropped out of university and descended into a general malaise that clouded eve
rything. Drink and drugs became his normal way of life as he flitted from one dead-end job to another. That was, until he met Christina. She gave him a reason to change, a reason to stop wallowing in self-pity.
Christina was a local woman, who used to work at the hotel, too; they fell in love and were soon married. When a family followed, Christina gave up her job to stay at home and look after their two young children. His life had turned around, his life was perfect.
The two men who had come to Balik’s house two weeks earlier weren’t locals. They weren’t friends or tourists. They were angry, violent men who had crashed into Asil’s perfect life and turned it upside down. They wanted Asil to do something for them, something important, they’d said. They had given him a list of very specific actions that he must carry out. Instructions that he had to follow, to the letter, if he ever wanted to see Christina and the children again.
Balik looked down at the small metal box they had given him. It was the size of a cigarette packet and didn’t look dangerous. He had no idea what it was, but he knew it couldn’t be good. He had smuggled the box into the hotel as soon as the men had given it to him. He’d hidden it in his underwear; security wasn’t as tight then and it hadn’t been a problem. Now he needed to put it into position, in the air conditioning vent in the Lucerne Suite, as the men at his house had told him. He looked out of the window: everyone was watching the US President’s arrival. All eyes were away from the hotel and no one was interested in anything he was doing. He picked up his small stepladder and toolbox and headed for the suite.
Balik unscrewed the louvered cover from the air conditioning vent and used adhesive pads to stick the metal box to the inside. He checked the time on his watch then pressed the red button on the edge of the box. A tiny green light came on and blinked every second. The countdown had started.
He closed the vent and folded up his ladder. His job was complete, the instructions followed. He opened the door an inch and checked outside, the corridor was empty. He slipped out of the room and headed for the kitchen, and the next job on his list.
Chapter 25
Vance’s old green Land Rover rattled and shook as McGill drove through the rural back roads of north-western France, heading for the old fishing port of Douarnenez. Although the fishing industry in the area had all but died, it was still used by water sports junkies and occasional pleasure boats. Sinclair, McGill and Porter had been given directions to a jetty where they would board a fishing boat.
McGill wasn’t happy about their forthcoming sea voyage. ‘Couldn’t we find a plane that could drop us off somewhere?’
Sinclair shook her head. ‘Too risky, Frank. If we travel by boat we’ve got hundreds of miles of coastline to pick from. If we landed in a plane someone might spot us.’
‘Couldn’t we at least get a fast boat?’
‘Fast boats attract attention. That’s the last thing we, or the people who own the boat, want. Don’t worry about it, just get us there.’
The Land Rover’s engine spluttered as McGill changed gear to climb a hill. ‘We’ll be lucky if this thing lasts long enough.’
‘We’re just going to abandon it anyway, Frank. Leaving Gabe the camper was a good way to say thanks. He’ll get good use out of it.’
‘I suppose so. How far away are we now?’
Sinclair picked up the map from the dashboard and studied it. ‘I reckon we’re just about there. A couple of miles further on then hang a left. We should be able to see the jetty then.’
McGill put his foot down, which didn’t have much effect, then turned onto a smaller road that led down to a private jetty. ‘That old rust bucket can’t be it.’
Tied up alongside the jetty was a medium-sized fishing trawler that looked like it wasn’t far from breaking up and sinking. As they pulled up, an old man, who was as weather beaten as the boat, walked down the gangplank to meet them.
He held out his hand. ‘You must be Ali. You can call me John.’
To their surprise he wasn’t French. Sinclair took his hand. ‘Glad to meet you, John. This is Frank, and Callum.’
‘Good to meet you all. If you’d like to jump aboard, we’ll get going.’
Sinclair and Porter got the bags out of the Land Rover while McGill stayed with John. ‘Tell me, John, is this boat sea worthy?’
John chuckled. ‘We use this jetty to run fishing trips for tourists. Some of them like to be on an old trawler. Don’t let its looks fool you, though. The outside has been deliberately aged. Underneath, she’s sound with a good engine and will do a steady 15 knots. There’s plenty of up-to-date equipment on board to make sure we get to where we need to be.’
‘Glad to hear it, John. I’m not the best of sailors.’
John laughed. ‘You’ll be fine, my friend. We’ll get you there in one piece.’
Sinclair and Porter carried the bags up the gangplank, followed by John. McGill paused for a while, as if he was enjoying his last moments on dry land; he shook his head then followed the others.
* * *
McGill was in a bad way and it was nothing to do with his injuries, although they did still hurt; it was the way the trawler bobbed and rolled as it made its way across the English Channel. McGill hated the sea, he always had. He was lying on his back, staring at the stars as his stomach churned. He’d already vomited everything he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours, but it didn’t stop his body trying to expel more. He turned over and dry retched again, actually thinking that falling off that roof in Paris might have been the better option.
Sinclair came up the ladder, onto the upper deck and handed McGill a bottle of water. ‘Have a drink, Frank. You don’t want to get dehydrated.’
‘Just shoot me and dump me here. Trust me, it’s for the best.’
‘Oh, what a wuss. Has mummy’s little soldier got a poorly tummy?’
‘If I could stand up without retchin’, I’d kick your arse.’
Sinclair laughed. ‘You’d try.’
McGill sat up and took the water. They could see lights flickering in the distance and one of the crew was lowering a semi-rigid inflatable boat into the water. ‘Looks like we’re leaving, Frank.’
‘Thank fuck for that. You’d better go and get Callum.’
Sinclair went back down below to get Porter and their backpacks.
McGill climbed to his feet and walked to the guardrail. He looked down at the inflatable as the crew member fired up the outboard motor. Flashbacks to previous jobs ran through his mind. He still felt shit but he had to switch on. With Vadim being Home Secretary, England was now enemy territory. They would be on everyone’s wanted list. Vadim couldn’t afford for any of them to turn up with a folder full of evidence and blow his conspiracy out of the water. He climbed over the guard rail and on to the rope ladder that hung down the side of the fishing boat. After checking below, he took a deep breath to overcome his nausea and stepped off the ladder.
Sinclair and Porter stood on the upper deck of the fishing boat with the three small backpacks Vance had sorted out for them. Each contained a change of clothes, water bottle, simple first-aid kit and a few snacks. Anything else, they would get once they were back in the UK. Sinclair threw the backpacks down to McGill then she and Porter climbed down the ladder into the inflatable. The crewman let slip the rope that secured the inflatable to the fishing boat then turned the throttle on the outboard and steered them towards the beach.
As the rigid hull of their boat skimmed over the waves, salt spray blew into their faces; Porter shielded his eyes but McGill was in his element. It was like being a commando again, making an assault onto a beach. He knelt at the front of the boat, his heart rate and adrenaline levels increased: he was ready for action. The crewman cut the engine and as soon as the bottom of the boat hit the pebbles, McGill was out and running up the beach. He looked all around for any signs of life, listening for any unnatural noise, looking for vehicle lights. There was nothing. The only sound he could hear was the waves lapping on the pebbles. H
e turned his gaze back to the sea and waved to the others.
Sinclair and Porter were soon beside McGill and they watched as the boat disappeared into the darkness. Throwing on their backpacks, they climbed the steepest part of the beach to the ridge that ran parallel to the shoreline. There were no street lights on this part of the road and there was no passing traffic. McGill pulled out a map and used a small torch to check their position. ‘Just under two miles along the coast to the drop-off point for the car. We’ll stay away from the road as much as we can. Remember, we don’t know who our friends are here, we have to treat everyone as if they are against us.’
Sinclair nodded. ‘Just don’t hurt anyone until we know they are definitely working for Vadim. Some of the people after us will be regular police, just doing their job. They’re as much a victim in all of this as we are.’
‘I’m not too worried about the police, they have a responsibility to protect the public. If things get too hairy they’ll back down, if coming after us puts the public at risk. It’s Vadim’s muppets we need to watch out for. Collateral damage won’t worry them at all.’
Sinclair grabbed McGill’s backpack strap and pulled him round to face her. ‘But no killing unless it’s unavoidable, right?’
‘Okay, okay. We’ll have to be careful, but don’t take any risks.’ He looked at Porter. ‘Are you ready, Callum?’
Porter didn’t know what he was supposed to be ready for. ‘I guess so.’
‘Good, let’s go.’
McGill took the lead with Sinclair bringing up the rear. Porter, inexperienced in this kind of situation, stayed in the middle and went wherever he was told to. McGill kept them in the shadows between the ridge and the road, moving as quickly as they could but keeping away from any prying eyes.
After thirty minutes, they crouched in the cover of a copse of trees that overlooked a dimly lit car park. The car they were looking for was parked on its own at the far end of the rubbish-strewn tarmac, hidden from the road. All they had to do was pick up the keys that were on top of the front wheel and drive away, easy. The problem they had was that between them and their transport was a group of other cars, with people milling about around them.
