Execution ht-5

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Why north?’

  ‘I think she’ll make for the city centre. Anywhere else is too open. In her state, she’ll stand out too much. She needs cover, somewhere to hide while she gets help and recuperates.’

  ‘Fair enough. And if we don’t find anything?’

  ‘Then you get to let your fingers do the walking.’

  ‘Yowzer,’ Rik muttered quietly. ‘At last.’

  Votrukhin and Serkhov were just as keen to be doing something, but for different reasons. After making their excuses to Gorelkin, they had left the Grosvenor House Hotel and headed south and across the river, on their way back to King’s College Hospital. Votrukhin had outlined his plan as they went, meeting no resistance from Serkhov, who favoured action rather than words.

  ‘I’m not having that traitorous little Englishman looking down his nose at us,’ he muttered darkly, as Serkhov pulled out into Park Lane. ‘Did you see the look on his face? I wanted to lean across and punch that smile all over the room.’

  Serkhov nodded sympathetically as he took the dark blue 3-series BMW skilfully across to the outside lane and squeezed between two taxis aiming for a space on Hyde Park Corner. Ignoring the looks from the other drivers, he accelerated hard and shot across towards Grosvenor Place. One of the training courses in the SPC was extreme offensive and defensive driving, at which he had excelled. ‘You should have given me the nod,’ he said tersely. ‘I’d have followed him out and rammed that phone down his throat.’

  Votrukhin gave an appreciative grunt. They were on the same page, Serkhov and him; neither man had enjoyed the lambasting that Gorelkin had given them for not dealing with the Jardine woman, but they could live with that. Operational errors happened in the best run organisations. What counted was putting them right in time and proving their worth for future missions. But having an outsider — a foreign outsider at that — present at the time and smiling at their discomfort was hard to take.

  Votrukhin also had a bad feeling about Paulton. Even accepting the Englishman’s previous job, which had required a talent for lies and deceit in spades, there was something in the man’s face that had made him uneasy from the moment he’d met him. Gorelkin seemed unaware of it but Votrukhin had sensed it like an aura — especially when the ex-MI5 man had returned from making his telephone call.

  ‘Why are you going this way?’ he asked Serkhov. He knew the layout of London well and guessed that the sergeant was heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. It didn’t really matter which one they used, but he was intrigued.

  ‘Because,’ Serkhov replied, ‘when I joined the centre, I promised I’d spit on MI6 if I ever got close enough. Don’t worry, I won’t actually stop and gob on the building. Even I can handle symbolism.’

  ‘You’d better not. They’ll have our faces on film in seconds and their FRS systems will light up like St Basil’s Cathedral.’

  Facial recognition software was patchy at best, as both men knew, especially in moving vehicles with the play of light off windows. But neither wished to take the risk of being ‘pinged’ by a random lucky shot. The result would be embarrassing for all concerned, and career destroying at the very least for them.

  Serkhov glanced across at his colleague. They had worked together several times, forming an effective team. But seniority in the SPC was a divider of men, and there was always a slight hesitation in both men when talking non-operational matters.

  ‘What is it?’ Votrukhin had noticed the look. Serkhov had something on his mind.

  ‘I’ve never worked a black operation before. Have you?’

  ‘No.’ Votrukhin sighed. ‘But it’s what we do, isn’t it? It’s just a name. What’s your problem?’

  ‘This. . no contact stuff the colonel talked about — ’ he steered through a narrow gap and accelerated hard — ‘it sounds extreme.’

  Votrukhin didn’t reply immediately. He’d been having similar thoughts. From what had started out as a tough but straightforward operation — if terminating a man could be called that — it had taken a slightly nasty turn. Chyornyiy. The word was so bland, in normal circumstances merely a colour. Yet here and now, it had taken on a completely different tone. Sinister. Now they were cut off from all outside contact, with only Gorelkin and their wits to keep them out of trouble. And Votrukhin wasn’t entirely sure why it had gone this way.

  ‘It’s extreme only if we get caught,’ he concluded, and focussed on the job in hand. ‘We’d better make sure we don’t, right? Then we can go home.’

  Forty minutes later, they pulled into a car park near the hospital and dutifully fed the meter. Only amateurs took chances; it was how they got caught. Then they set about scouting the area outside, trying to find a lead, any lead, that might point towards where the Jardine woman had gone. Inevitably, that proved fruitless, and merely increased the chance of them being noticed. Votrukhin finally led the way back to the hospital.

  ‘Remember,’ he said, as they approached the entrance to the Major Trauma Centre, ‘this is quick and dirty. We get to the security control centre and shut it off, then get what we need and go.’

  ‘Are you sure Gorelkin won’t have us shot for this?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But I’m certain he might have us sent to Afghanistan if we don’t do something positive.’

  ‘And if anyone gets in our way?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Serkhov took out his gun. It was a 9mm Bernadelli P-018. He checked the magazine and slid it back into place, then put the gun away, every movement economical and practised.

  Votrukhin produced a Spanish Astra 9mm and did the same. Both guns had entered the UK illegally, shipped in hold luggage with other weapons and ammunition, for which an American with dreams of easy riches was now awaiting trial in the US. If either weapon were lost, it would be traced to a gun shop in Concord, North Carolina. Not that either man was planning on that. As with all members of the elite SPC, Serkhov and Votrukhin were quite capable of dealing with problems quietly using their hands, or with whatever else might come within reach. But sight of the guns and the credible threat to use them would effectively ram home the message much faster than any shouting or physical threats.

  Through the entrance, they already knew the way. Skirting the security guard by the desk, they followed the signs to the washrooms. But instead of going in, they veered off and followed the corridor, dropping down another set of stairs to a sub-basement level. Through a door marked STAFF ONLY into another, narrower corridor with dimmed overhead lighting and lined with unused furniture and electrical equipment awaiting clearance. Numbered doors were on either side, all closed. The atmosphere here was deadened and silent, other than the clank and hum of heating being pumped through the overhead venting.

  Votrukhin was in the lead, fast and purposeful, checking for security cameras. He spotted one at the end of the corridor. Grabbing a broken chair he held it in front of him, obscuring his features. Serkhov did the same, hoisting an old overhead projector in front of his face. The air smelled of hot plastic and dust.

  As they approached a door on their left marked ‘Control Centre — No Admittance’, Votrukhin reached for his gun and dropped the chair. He very carefully tried the door handle. Locked, as he’d expected. Standing to one side, he beckoned Serkhov to move up close. They had a couple of seconds at most if the guard monitoring the screens was awake.

  ‘Open it and stay out here,’ he said quietly. ‘Anybody comes, stall them.’

  Serkhov nodded, then swung his shoulders and heaved the projector at the door with almost casual ease.

  The door smashed open under the onslaught, catching the single occupant by surprise and making him utter a squeal of fear. A cardboard mug dropped from nerveless fingers and bounced across the control desk, spilling hot liquid across the buttons. Shock and awe, thought Votrukhin happily. Works every time.

  ‘Touch anything,’ he told the guard in perfect English, ‘hit an alarm or even speak, and you’re a dead man.’ For em
phasis, he placed the tip of his gun to the security officer’s forehead and held it there, finger curled around the trigger. And waited.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘You have backup discs for the cameras,’ Votrukhin told the guard softly after a few seconds. The short silence was enough to allow the fear factor to build just enough to make him compliant. Now to give him something to focus on. ‘Two nights ago, from midnight to four. I want that footage.’

  There were a dozen screens in two banks of six, showing various locations around the hospital. Every few seconds, the screens would jump to a new location: stairways, entrance, wards, canteens, delivery bay and so on. But it was the outside footage that interested Votrukhin. As far as he could see, though, all the exterior camera angles were close to the building, showing little or nothing of the surrounding streets.

  The guard’s mouth moved momentarily, but no sound came out. He was sweating visibly, and the smell of nervous body odour was heavy in the enclosed room. He needed a shave and a haircut. Votrukhin put his age at about forty. He was overweight and looked out of condition. He probably sat in this ghastly bunker most days, slowly dying of inactivity and eating his way towards going home time.

  ‘It’s OK — I give you permission to speak. I won’t shoot you. Unless you decide to be a hero.’

  The guard swallowed and croaked, ‘I can’t.’

  Votrukhin’s finger tightened around the trigger. ‘Can’t? That’s a silly thing to say.’

  ‘I can’t — believe me! I don’t know how to isolate specific time frames. . or any of that stuff. They haven’t showed me. All I do is monitor the screens. They have an IT guy who deals with backup and storage.’ He sniffed pathetically. ‘I’m just here to watch, that’s all.’

  ‘Pity.’ Votrukhin gave a sigh. ‘You’re not much use to me, are you?’

  ‘Wait!’ The other man held up a soft hand. ‘I know where the drives are. They have separate ones in case of problems. They rotate them regularly.’

  ‘Where?’

  The guard pointed to a cabinet against the wall. Trunking fixed to the wall showed where power and feed leads ran into the cabinet. ‘In there.’ He turned to a separate monitor by his elbow, the sudden movement nearly earning a bullet from Votrukhin’s gun. Tapping the keyboard, he scrolled down the screen. ‘The one for the other night would have been. . hang on. . DS013. They change automatically. It’s pre-programmed, so we just check the list.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Votrukhin. He cast his eye across the screens as the guard moved. No signs of alarm or panic anywhere so far. One of the screens jumped and revealed Serkhov, standing outside the door, looking like a nightclub bouncer. He was grinning at the camera. Idiot. ‘Hurry.’

  The guard complied, opening the cabinet door and pointing to an inner box housing four hard drives. They were each numbered from DS010 to DS013. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Take it out.’

  ‘Huh?’ The guard looked puzzled.

  ‘Take it out and give it to me.’ Votrukhin emphasised the instruction with a prod of the gun barrel. ‘Take out the drive, disconnect the wires. Or I shoot you.’

  The guard did as he was told, grasping the hard drive and pulling it towards him. With shaking fingers, he disconnected the wires at the back and handed over the box.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Votrukhin. ‘Now sit down.’ He waited for the man to sit, then cast around. A canvas shoulder bag was hanging from a hook on the back of the door. He stepped across and dropped the drive into the bag, then threw the strap over his shoulder. ‘You have been a great help.’

  The guard pointed to the bag. ‘Can I have my lunch box? It’s in there.’

  Votrukhin ignored him. He was looking around the room. There was nothing he could use to restrain the guard and stop him sounding the alarm, and they had already used up enough time. If the guard was worried about his lunch, it probably signalled a shift change coming up any time now. But they needed a few minutes to get out of the building and away. ‘Where is the nearest outside door?’ he asked.

  ‘To your left.’ The man’s voice was dull, although whether out of fear or losing his lunch, Votrukhin wasn’t sure. ‘Through the door in front of you and you’ll be in a small lobby. Push the bar down and that opens onto the side of the building.’

  ‘Is it alarmed?’

  The guard hesitated just for a moment. Then he reached across to the control board and hit a switch. ‘No.’

  Votrukhin smiled. He almost got caught, there. So the man had some guts after all. Or maybe he’d genuinely forgotten. He reached in the bag and felt a bottle and a plastic box. He took out the box and tossed it in the air. ‘Here.’

  As the guard reached up to catch it, Votrukhin lifted the gun and shot him. The noise was loud in the room, but he doubted it would be heard outside.

  ‘You eat too much,’ he said, as the guard flopped to the floor. He stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door to behind him.

  Serkhov looked at him. ‘Did he get to be a hero?’

  ‘Not really. I think it was a chemistry thing. Come on.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Rik Ferris struck gold not long after beginning his trawl for CCTVs along Coldharbour Lane. Close to where it intersected with Denmark Hill, he came to a short stretch of shops. Above a beauty salon, he spotted the blue glass eye of a camera beneath a protective dome. He checked the point where the bracket was fitted to the wall. He could see a power lead but no data cable. It was a wireless unit. His laptop carried a useful software programme called Eye Drop; it gave him the ability to plug in to wireless CCTV feeds and copy any recorded footage. But why stand out here and do it if he didn’t have to?

  He entered the shop, where the air was hot and perfumed. It was little more than a reception area and trade counter, with glass racks of beauty products around the walls. A curtained doorway led through to a larger room at the back, from where he could hear laughter and the hum of a hair dryer.

  He asked to see the manager, and the girl behind the counter disappeared through into the back, to be replaced moments later by a slim, striking woman in her fifties. She was wearing a white overall and peeling off rubber gloves.

  ‘Can I help you? I’m Maria Carvalho, the owner.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Carvalho.’ Rik smiled winningly and handed her his ID card. He explained that he was helping in the search for a young female patient who had discharged herself from the hospital. ‘She hasn’t completely recovered,’ he said. ‘We think she may be in shock, and confused by what happened. She was seen heading in this direction, and your camera might have picked her up.’

  The woman looked him up and down with a momentary suspicion, then seemed to relent. ‘We fitted the camera after some break-ins,’ she explained, in a soft accent. ‘Our insurers insisted, and it seems to have worked well so far.’ She shrugged philosophically. ‘Or maybe we’ve just been lucky.’

  ‘How long do you keep recordings for?’

  ‘For no more than two weeks. It’s movement activated, so we don’t fill up the drive with pointless rubbish. At least, that’s what the man who sold it suggested.’

  Rik nodded. He was familiar enough with the technology. The less footage he had to trawl through, the better. ‘Could I see it? It would cover just a couple of hours of recording, that’s all.’

  She gestured towards the curtained doorway. ‘Of course. Come. I’ll show you where we keep the machine.’

  Rik followed her through the main room, which was a combination beauty treatment and hair salon, nodding at a clutch of assistants and their customers. Mrs Carvalho led him to a small office and gestured to a shelf with a hard drive and monitor. The monitor’s screen was dark, but a green operating light was blinking on the hard drive.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she offered. ‘I’ve got a colouring job to finish, so please excuse me.’

  Rik watched her leave, then got to work, calling up the programme menu and selecting a time frame which focussed on the night Cla
re left the hospital.

  There were many brief snatches of movement, mostly of cars stopping at the kerb then moving off, and several pedestrians walking by. Conducted in silence, it had the eerie feel of a cheap horror film, with snatches of movement and the play of car headlights forming shadows across the pavement. The footage was grainy and stuttering, and whoever had sold Mrs Carvalho the system hadn’t gone for high-end technology. But it was clear enough to make out some detail of faces and clothing.

  He’d been at it for nearly forty minutes when a figure went by just beneath the camera. He almost missed it, but for the glint of light off the metal stick in the figure’s hand. He hit rewound then played the scene again. A buzz of excitement went through him. It wasn’t a stick; there was an odd shaped attachment at the top.

  A metal crutch.

  He breathed easily and replayed the footage over and over, watching the figure ghost by, seemingly hugging the building and bent over. Female or slim male? Female. There was something about the build. From what he recalled about her, Clare wasn’t exactly sylph-like, but neither was she a weightlifter.

  Then the area around the figure flared with light as a car pulled up at the kerb nearby, and the face became clear.

  It was Clare.

  Rik took out his mobile and called Harry.

  ‘Got a sighting.’ He gave the address of the beauty salon. ‘And I think the manager fancies me. Her name’s Carvalho. You’d better hurry — I’m frightened.’

  ‘Keep your legs crossed,’ replied Harry. ‘Two minutes.’

  Rik ducked his head through into the main salon and beckoned to Mrs Carvalho. She followed him and he showed her the footage, pointing out the glitter of the crutch.

  ‘A colleague’s on his way to verify it, but I think this is her.’