by L J Morris
McGill checked out the scene through his binoculars. ‘If I were a betting man, I’d say those people are up to something that might attract the police.’
Sinclair shifted her position to try to get a better view. ‘What is it?’
‘Put it this way, some of the car windows are steamed up and there’s a group of men looking in.’
‘Holy shit. They’ve left our car at a dogging site.’
‘Could be worse, at least they’ll be too busy to notice us. Hopefully.’ McGill put down the binoculars and took off his backpack. ‘Stay here. I’ll go and get the car and pick you up. Don’t move out onto the road until I’m there.’
Sinclair put the binoculars into McGill’s backpack. ‘Be careful, Frank. You never know how people are going to react when they get caught out doing something they shouldn’t.’
McGill kept low, and made his way down to the edge of the trees and around the perimeter of the car park. The target car was parked in the spot furthest away from the only working light, in almost complete darkness. McGill approached it from the rear and looked through the back window to make sure it was empty. Dropping to his knees, he turned on his torch and checked under the car for anything suspicious. He hadn’t mentioned the possibility of a car bomb to the others, but it would be an easy way to take them out.
The keys were sitting on top of the driver’s-side front tyre in a plastic sandwich bag. He had no way of knowing how the car’s alarm was wired. If he’d been prepping the car to be picked up, he would have disabled the alarm and just used the key to open the door. He couldn’t risk that here, it might set off the alarm. He had to use the key fob.
As soon as he pressed the button, the indicators blinked twice and a loud ‘blip’ echoed around the car park. ‘Shit.’
‘What you up to, mate?’
The voice came from behind him. McGill stood up slowly and turned around. The man was in his mid-thirties, muscular and heavily tattooed. McGill smiled at the man and pointed at the car. ‘Just pickin’ my car up, buddy. Don’t wanna disturb anyone.’
‘We don’t like outsiders sneakin’ around and taking pictures of us. You a reporter?’
‘I’m nobody, mate. I’ll just get in my car and drive away. Leave you people to it.’
The man took a step towards McGill. ‘It’s too late for that. Give me your wallet. I wanna see who you are.’
McGill had promised Sinclair he would avoid trouble, and he really was trying. ‘Walk away, mate. You’re out of your depth.’
The man clenched his fists and took another step towards McGill. ‘I said, give me your wallet.’
‘Not gonna happen, buddy. Walk away, I don’t want any hassle and, believe me, you don’t either.’
The man wasn’t in the mood to back down. He took another step towards McGill and raised his fists. Unfortunately for him, the last step took him within striking distance. McGill raised his right foot and smashed it into the man’s kneecap. The man went down immediately, clutching his knee and screaming. McGill patted him on the head. ‘Deep breaths, mate. You’ll be okay in a couple of days.’
The rest of the group were now paying attention to the commotion on the other side of the car park. Some had decided it was time to leave, but a few were now shuffling towards McGill like a zombie horde.
McGill jumped into the car and fired up the engine. He put the headlights on main beam, to blind the approaching zombies, and sped out of the car park.
When McGill stopped the car, Sinclair jumped in the front seat and Porter got in the back with the backpacks. Sinclair looked at McGill with a grin. ‘You took your time. What did you do, stop to watch?’
‘Don’t ask. Bloody doggers.’
* * *
They drove for an hour before pulling into a layby on an A road outside the M25. McGill switched off the lights and the engine then turned around to tell Porter to get some rest, but he was already asleep. ‘Dead to the world.’
Sinclair looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’s lucky. I wish I could fall asleep that easily.’
‘You and me both, Ali.’
‘We need to check the boot, Frank. See what our friends have left us before we get into London.’
‘I’ll do it, you look in the glovebox.’ McGill got out of the car and walked round to the boot. Inside, there was a small suitcase, the type people use as hand luggage on flights. He unzipped it and checked the contents: three Glock 17s, spare magazines and ammunition, sound suppressors and a change of clothes. Behind the suitcase were two boxes of bottled water and a bag full of food: crisps, chocolate, packets of sandwiches – things they could eat on the move. He took three bottles of water and the bag of food and walked to the front of the car.
Sinclair was closing the glovebox. ‘What did you find?’
McGill put the food and water on the back seat, next to Porter, and helped himself to a sandwich. ‘Everything we asked for – food and water for the trip, weapons in case we hit any trouble before we get to the safe house, and a set of fresh clothes. It looks like Gabe’s gangster friend can be relied on after all. What about you?’
Sinclair pointed to the contents of the glovebox, which were now arranged along the dashboard. ‘Three Oyster cards, that’ll make it easier to get around, three mobiles, directions and keys to the safe house, and a shit load of money.’ She was holding up a plastic bag with thick wads of twenty pound notes in it. ‘About ten grand in used twenties, I would say.’
‘This guy must really owe Gabe.’
‘I hope so. We might need to use him again. Let’s get to the safe house before it gets light, and then we’ll ditch the car.’
McGill started the engine. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He pulled out of the layby and they headed for London.
Chapter 26
The UN summit was in full swing at the Maison de Jura. The heads of government had welcomed each other and posed for the obligatory photo to show how united they were; as usual, they were anything but united. Old rivalries rose to the surface and left the photographer with the unenviable job of herding them all into a group they were happy with. The Americans wanted to be centre stage but didn’t want to stand next to the Russians; the Germans and the French were inseparable, and the situation between India and Pakistan was best left unsaid. People wandered off or had to take a phone call; it had taken almost an hour to get the single photo that was called for.
After the opening speech in the main ballroom, about how they should all work together to solve the world’s ills, the delegates adjourned to their individual suites to blame the others for everything, discuss the morning’s events and have some lunch. The UK delegation, led by the Prime Minister, filed into the Lucerne suite and descended like a plague of locusts on the five-star buffet that had been left for them. The PM and the Foreign Secretary went straight for the pork pies, while the Chancellor, who had more expensive tastes, made a beeline for the smoked salmon.
Junior MPs and parliamentary secretaries mingled with the civil servants as they waited for the big boys to load up their plates. They all helped themselves to glasses of fresh orange juice or mineral water and sat down to congratulate each other on how well they had done so far.
As the UK’s political elite sat and chatted, the green light on the small metal box in the air conditioning vent stopped blinking and turned red. The end of the countdown, the start of the chaos.
* * *
Asil Balik had sneaked out of the hotel. It wasn’t difficult, the security agents were looking for people trying to break in, not break out. He arrived at his little cottage, in the nearby village, twenty minutes later. He and his wife could never have afforded to buy a place like this: his father had left it to him when he died. They had discussed selling it and using the money for something else, but they were doing okay and it was such a lovely place to bring up the children.
He pulled up in the driveway hoping his family were okay and that the men who had threatened them were gone; he hoped they could get on with t
heir lives, whatever was happening at the hotel.
As he approached the door, he could see it was slightly ajar. Would the men have left it open? A shiver ran down his spine. He pushed the door all the way open and paused, not wanting to go in, afraid of what he might find. ‘Christina?’
There was no answer from inside. He stepped through the door and walked across the entrance hall towards the kitchen. The first thing he noticed was the spray of blood on the wall, the second was his wife’s leg sticking out from behind the cupboard.
Balik ran to his wife. ‘Christina …’
It was no use. Christina Balik was dead. A single gunshot had ensured she wouldn’t be talking to the police.
Balik panicked. Where were the boys? He ran back to the hall and up the stairs, two at a time. The boys were lying on their beds, seemingly asleep. The only evidence otherwise was the neat nine-millimetre hole in each of their foreheads.
‘NOOOO.’ Balik scooped up his precious sons and hugged them to his chest. Why had they done this? He had done everything they asked. He rocked silently back and forth as his mind tried to deal with the sudden waves of horror that threatened to tip him into insanity.
The man who appeared next to Asil was quick; he grabbed his hand, placed a gun it and put the muzzle into the grief-stricken man’s mouth. Asil knew what was going to happen but he didn’t fight. He didn’t want to live without his family. Before his assailant could finish the job, Asil Balik pulled the trigger himself.
* * *
In the Lucerne Suite, the inhabitants paused from their buffet at the sound of the small explosive charge detonating inside the metal box. It sounded like a single gunshot. The police bodyguards inside the room instructed everyone to stay where they were while they checked things out. Ultimately, that was what sealed their fate.
The charge ruptured the glass vial of nerve agent and dispersed it in a cloud into the air vent. The cloud blew out of the vent and on to the UK delegation who were now gathered at one end of the room. The first person to show any sign was a junior minister at the treasury. He started to have difficulty breathing and his heart raced. He grimaced and clutched his chest before collapsing backwards onto the floor.
It happened quickly after that. A second junior minister collapsed, followed by the Chancellor and the Foreign Secretary. Two civil servants frothed at the mouth as they crawled towards the door. The PM started to feel light headed. ‘Everybody out. Get out of the room, NOW.’
Panic set in as those who were able to ran for their lives. The bodyguards reappeared and started pulling people out of the room, until they too were overcome. The fire alarm was set off and the whole building evacuated. Delegates poured out of the other rooms and joined the throng of people trying to get out; UK civil servants being helped by those from other countries, spreading the contamination. US Secret Service agents, alerted by what had sounded like a gunshot, were rushing the President to his helicopter. The rotor blades were already spinning and the US VIPs were quickly in the air, heading for safety.
A tsunami of panicking people burst out of the doors and onto the lawn in front of the hotel. It soon became apparent that symptoms were pointing towards a chemical attack, but not before first-aiders and those trying to help had already been contaminated.
Medical resources, which had been pooled on the estate next to the hotel, swung into action; the organisers had anticipated and planned for several possible scenarios. A chemical attack was seen as a distant, very remote possibility. No one really expected it to happen – a bomb was much more likely.
Paramedics in protective suits were soon treating the victims and the hotel was sealed off. The dead were left inside, the living categorised by the severity of their symptoms and separated from those who needed immediate medical help. Other survivors began the process of being decontaminated – forced to undress and be scrubbed down inside hastily erected shower tents – some complained at the humiliation, but the majority were just happy to be alive.
Within an hour, the access road to the hotel was packed with military vehicles and ambulances ferrying people to hospital. Those who had been more seriously affected were loaded into a seemingly endless queue of air ambulances, which hovered above the helipad, awaiting their turn to land and load up.
By the end of the day, the statistics were being flashed around the world: thirty-seven dead, twenty-eight critical, and another one hundred and eight with mild symptoms. The UK delegation made up most of the dead: the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Foreign Secretary, junior ministers and civil servants, bodyguards – thirty people dead. Among the critically ill were several more UK delegates, including the Prime Minister.
Within hours of the attack there were expressions of sympathy and solidarity, with the victims and the UK, from around the world. The US were calling it an attack on democracy that the President was lucky to survive. The United Nations issued a statement deploring the use of violence, and the EU offered help and support to anyone affected.
Within the UK, rolling news channels showed little else, while social media was full of expressions of solidarity alongside the first calls for a swift investigation and, ultimately, retribution against the guilty – some media posts already suggesting who the guilty were, amid calls for military action.
Back in London, Vadim smiled and drained his glass of scotch. He called his driver and prepared to leave for the office. Today had been a success, now he had to prepare for phase two.
Chapter 27
The safe house was in the East End of London. Everyone in the area knew who it belonged to, they weren’t going to stick their noses in or pry, it was none of their business. Besides, most of the local residents and the members of Nash’s gang had grown up together. Nash was one of their own and they always looked after family. Those who came from outside the area were more concerned about avoiding the wrath of a gang leader who had a reputation for brutality.
No one had seen the new occupants of the two-bed terrace arrive the previous night, so couldn’t describe them to the police – even if they’d wanted to. McGill had dropped off the others and the kit at four o’clock in the morning. He had switched off the headlights when they were still one hundred meters from the house and pulled up twenty yards short of the door to check for any watchers.
Sinclair and Porter took the backpacks and suitcase inside, before McGill drove the car to a multi-storey car park and left it where the instructions had told him to: on the top floor with the keys on top of the front tyre. Within minutes of him leaving the car, it was driven to a scrapyard where it would be crushed and all record of it destroyed.
By the time McGill got back to the house, people were starting to appear on the street; early morning deliveries were arriving at newsagents, market traders were setting off to get ready for another day selling their wares. Cafes that catered for the early risers, alongside taxi drivers who had worked the night shift, were opening and preparing for an influx of hungry customers.
McGill walked round to the back of the house and, after looking up and down the alley, opened the door that led to the house’s backyard. He tapped on the back door and waited.
Sinclair watched from the bedroom window, checking that McGill hadn’t been followed, before she went down to the kitchen and opened the door. ‘Is everything okay, Frank?’
‘Yeah, no drama and no followers. All went to plan.’
‘Good. I’ve put the kettle on, we’ll have a cup of tea and get some rest.’
* * *
They’d all grabbed a few hours’ sleep and were up and ready to go. They were keen to get to the bank and pick up the folder, but it couldn’t be rushed. First, they had to assess what the security situation was and how easy it would be for them to move around unimpeded.
Sinclair turned on the television and immediately knew that all their plans were down the pan. Every channel ran the same story: the attack at the hotel in Geneva. ‘For fuck’s sake, can’t we get at least one break before the world dec
ides to shit on us again?’
Porter sat on the couch. ‘Why does that cause us a problem?’
‘It doesn’t cause you a problem, Callum. You’re fine. Me, on the other hand. I’m an escaped convict that the Home Secretary wants to kill. This gives them an excuse to up the threat level to critical and put troops on the streets. And, of course, there is the possibility that it was Vadim’s goons that carried out the attack.’
Porter looked back at the television. ‘Do you really think he would do something like this?’
Sinclair nodded. ‘He’s power crazy. He tried to blow up the world a few months ago. This is well within his scope. With half of the cabinet dead, he’s the next in line to be PM.’
‘We’re fucked, aren’t we?’
Sinclair smiled. ‘It’s a situation I’m beginning to get used to, Callum. Seems I spend most of my life being fucked-over by Vadim. This’ll make things difficult but it doesn’t change what we need to do.’
‘So, we need to get to the bank and get Justin’s folder as soon as possible.’
McGill pointed at the screen. ‘Security is going to be as tight as a duck’s arse from here on in. We have to be very careful.’
‘I could go to the bank on my own. I know exactly how to get there, it would only take a couple of hours.’
Sinclair shook her head. ‘Not a chance, not this soon. I’m not letting you out on your own. What if someone at the bank recognises you and realises you’re using fake ID? It’s too risky.’
‘No one will recognise me. The bank was bought out and we were all made redundant. The new owners wanted to bring in their own people. No one I worked with is there any more.’
