Final Target

by E. V. Seymour

  This I knew. Having done the dirty on his boss, Yuri decided to attempt to pull the same stunt on me. Inevitably, Yuri lost. If a man tries to kill me they don’t get a second crack at it.

  ‘So Konstantin joined China Hayes’s outfit,’ Darren said.

  The guy lying at the bottom of the quarry, I realised, which was good in one way and not so great in another. I didn’t doubt that the Russian hood was in the UK illegally, probably had false papers and, consequently, would be difficult to identify. It would possibly get me off the hook. However the connection to current events was tenuous to the point of insignificance. It was not going to lead me to whoever had set a programme of revenge in play. Essentially, I’d travelled down a one-way street.

  ‘You need to watch your back,’ Darren said.

  I told him that he’d done well. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You’ll see me all right?’

  It wasn’t quite the answer I was expecting, but I assured him that I’d keep my side of the bargain, pay Barry a visit and see he was suitably rewarded, and Darren hung up.

  I pulled out my laptop and fired it up. After a rapid sequence of data processing I checked a bank account I hadn’t used in over a year. Sure enough, China Hayes had deposited the correct initial payment for the ‘Simone’ job not long after I’d been coerced into taking it on. Perhaps this was designed to lull me into a false sense of security. I logged out, closed my eyes, rubbing the lids with the tips of my index fingers, my entire focus on McCallen and the absence of a body or a ransom demand. I ran through our most recent conversations, hoping something would emerge, strike a note, or break. Zero. I had nothing to give Titus the following morning – not a lead, not a whisper, not even a rumour. I wasn’t sure how he’d react. What worried me more was McCallen’s continued silence. In blind desperation, I punched in her number again, knowing that her phone was dead, switched off, and that my call wouldn’t even connect.

  But it did.

  It rang several times and then went to voicemail. In a low and mellow tone, she asked the caller to leave a message. I blinked, killed the call. McCallen was perfectly capable of winding people up and letting them loose to see where they led. Manipulation was in her DNA. So while I was running around trying to find her, was she alive, in rude health, and playing her damn silly games? I sat back and thought about it and realised that it didn’t tally. McCallen would never fake her own disappearance and set her colleagues on a fruitless mission to find her. There would be too much explaining to do and it would screw her career. Only one possibility sprang to mind.

  Someone had the phone she used for me. Someone had switched it off and switched it back on. I refused to think about McCallen as anything other than alive. If she was still being held, it was only a matter of time before negotiations for her release began. Hope, a bright burning light, flared briefly inside me. This was progress at last and it provided me with something to hand to Titus the next day.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The rain had taken a break and was replaced by cold, wintry weather. Sky the colour of wood ash suggested that it might snow. Wrapped up in a heavy overcoat and wearing a beanie, I headed into town and called Simone en route. She answered sleepily after several rings.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘9.45 a.m. – time you were up.’

  She let out a groan. ‘I didn’t get to bed until four.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing until that time?’

  ‘I worked on a guest list until late and then had drinks with friends. You could have joined us,’ she added, clearly awake enough to throw in a barb. ‘Did you get your work sorted?’

  ‘Still on it.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. ‘Are you still free tomorrow night?’

  ‘Is this a formal invite?’

  ‘Mais oui, it is.’

  ‘Do I get you on my own or do I have to share you with dozens of others?’

  She let out a wonderfully raucous laugh. ‘I’m sure I could spare you half an hour or so.’

  ‘Good. Where do we meet?’

  She gave me an address in Belgravia. I knew the street. Once again, memories rose up from out of the deep like the ghosts of the shipwrecked on phantom vessels. One of my former Russian paymasters, now deceased, as Darren had reminded me, once lived in the same area. I told her I’d be there. ‘Should I book a hotel for afterwards?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the dress code?’

  ‘No masks this time, but the theme colour is purple.’

  Purple – the colour for mourning, I thought – dismissing the connection as too maudlin and weird. ‘What time is kick-off?’

  ‘9.45 p.m. I’ll meet you there.’

  By the time I reached the church, I was running late, but it was quiet. The office workers would be at their desks with their first coffee of the day, the shoppers already in the warmer environment of the Beechwood or Regency arcades. The porch was empty and I stepped inside out of the cold. Under the cover of studying the parish notices, I kept lookout for Titus or anyone else. After a few more minutes admiring the fine Victorian woodwork, I tried the heavy door and pushed it open, the noise of the ancient hinges enough to announce my presence. Craning for signs of Titus, I closed the door after me and walked into the main body of the church, my footsteps ticking loud in the dusty silence. Uncomfortable in such a holy place, I soon concluded that Titus was not sitting spy-like in a pew, gaze fixed ahead and towards the altar, waiting to interrogate me.

  While I was wondering what to do next, a loud creaking sound shattered the tranquillity and a middle-aged woman stepped inside with a bunch of flowers in her hand. Making eye contact, she smiled. I smiled back, every inch of me on alert, working out what might lurk beneath the flowers and, more importantly, what I was going to do about it, but she soon passed by and the sudden spark of adrenalin inside me died.

  Back outside, clapping my gloved hands together to force warmth back into my fingers, I turned left out of the porch, past the magnificent rose window, and walked a circuit of the graveyard. On the second round and thinking I’d return home, I noticed something in the frosted grass. Crouching down, I picked up a discarded pack of opened cigarettes, noted the brand and pushed them into my pocket. Still on my haunches, I took a long look over my shoulder. The sight of iron railings and stone steps reminded me of my last foray with McCallen. Chill crept over my bones.

  I stood up, took a lungful of cold air, and crossed the grass. At a glance I saw that the padlocked door to the crypt was broken.

  Descending the stone steps on the balls of my feet, I took out my smartphone, switched on the torch facility and entered the void.

  I was standing in a stone chamber. Directly ahead were two pillars and an archway of bricks that housed a sarcophagus. Upon the tomb lay two skulls with two sets of sightless eyes that seemed fixed on me. I didn’t approach to find out whether the bones were recent additions, or part of the deathly furniture. I wanted to get the hell out.

  To my left, the vault opened up in a dogleg. Shining the torch directly onto the floor revealed that it had been badly scuffed; deep marks were gouged into the stone like lashes across naked skin, a clear sign of human activity. Puzzled, I walked deeper inside the tomb and followed the trail for around another three metres then stopped.

  The smell of shit after a hanging is like no other, but this was different. Pain, brutality and fear combined with the primary odour.

  Up ahead was a naked body, face down, rope around the neck and pinioning the elbows and around the ankles so that the feet were crossed. Another rope ran from the victim’s neck to the feet. This had Billy Squeeze’s signature written all over it. A buried memory from my previous life when I’d been hogtied, incapacitated, with any sudden movement risking my own slow and painful demise, threatened to knock me off my feet. Another memory surfaced of the woman who’d saved me. McCallen. And here she was, her mid-length red hair revealing that she was another
victim of revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I could not move. I had a vile, acrid taste of something rotten in my mouth and I found it difficult to breathe. Not often stuck for ideas or thoughts, this time I was clean out. I don’t know for how long I stayed, my feet planted to the spot, my torch flashing aimlessly around the sides of the vault. Along with the grief and rage, the burning sense of abandonment and loss, I had one desire and that was to cover her up. I couldn’t let her be found like that, without dignity.

  I reached out towards her. Stupid, of course – it would make no difference to McCallen now that she was dead, and the professional in me said that there was no way could I risk so obvious a connection to her. I had to leave. I had to go and never come back. Despite this, I took one step then another, forcing myself forward. Within a metre or so, I halted for a second time and registered that something else was very wrong.

  Chill freezing my spinal fluid, I glanced back, awkwardly, over my shoulder. I don’t scare easily. I don’t believe in the concept of evil, no more than I believe in coincidence and superstition and men in colourful robes swinging incense, yet the way in which McCallen had been dispatched, the symbolism behind the death tableau did not escape me. Darkly, I wondered if Titus had played a hand in it. Was he still here?

  A final couple of strides and I was close enough to stretch out and rest my hand on her hair, feel the softness between my fingers, entwine a lock and feel it shift within my grasp. Alarmed, I gave a tug and the entire head of hair came clean off. Dropping the wig on the ground, I stared more closely at what lay beneath. Short hair, muscular shoulders and narrow hips. Lifting up the dead man’s head told me all I needed to know.

  I backed away and headed for daylight. At any moment the padlock would be reinstated and I’d be left here entombed. To my surprise, the door yielded easily and I sped outside, up the steps, and glancing left and right saw that by some miracle I was alone.

  I remembered nothing of my journey home. One moment I was fleeing, head down, hands in pockets, the next I was packing a holdall. As a last-minute precaution, I picked out a skinny vintage tie made of leather, very Sixties, and popped it into my jacket pocket.

  I now knew that, with Titus’s death and another intelligence officer missing, my home would be swarming with police and MI5 and God only knew who else. If Titus had acted with the full knowledge of his superiors, I was a dead man.

  I piled out of the house, mind screaming. The wig was a nasty touch and undoubtedly contained a message. Something I’d paid so little attention to at the time darted into my brain: ‘What if he was killed to get to me?’ McCallen had meant Lars Pallenberg. Was Titus killed to get to me? If the wig trick, a blatant and sick joke, was also designed to stir my blood, it had worked. God help whoever was responsible.

  Whatever theory or scenario crowded my brain, every one of them was coloured by China Hayes. It was Hayes’s man who had come for me, Hayes who had the motive to wipe out his competitors, Hayes who’d sent me to kill Simone. Yet the connection to Simone, the coincidence of her association with Titus, the fact that she’d picked me up, continued to bug me. When questioned she’d had an answer for her activities and denied having a close relationship with Titus or knowing Hayes, yet the grim thought that there was something Simone wasn’t telling me poked me hard in the gut. Again, it came back to motive. The thought of her running around town bumping off experienced intelligence officers was mad to the point of absurd. No, Simone would keep until the following evening. It was time I paid China Hayes a more personal visit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I knew where Hayes would be holed up. Avoiding his main residence in the capital, he’d be lying low at his penthouse apartment in Kingston upon Thames. With its glass balconies and river views, it was a grand place to lose yourself and still be connected to the action thirty minutes away.

  Security was tight, and a couple of his men did a thorough search before allowing me in to see the main man. When China prised himself away from his laptop, he did not look surprised to see me – anxious, perhaps, but there was no ‘tell’ in his expression that suggested he’d believed me dead.

  He told me to take a seat. I did. The room resembled a goldfish bowl. Floor to ceiling bulletproof glass, smoked-glass coffee table, glass dining table, glass doors, all soundproof. Thanks to my lip-reading skills, I knew that the goons on the other side were chatting about football.

  While China clicked out of whatever window he was looking at, I stared idly ahead at a couple of modern arts prints, the patterning resembling China’s shirt. Having had more than a couple of hours to work out what needed to be said, I felt confident. Screw the goons with their guns.

  China turned his slow gaze upon me. I didn’t wait for him to speak. I got in first.

  ‘Job’s done.’

  China is not a man to show emotion. Smiling is not part of his repertoire. He smiled. His face looked like a piece of pottery with a crack in it. He also let out a deep sigh, one of unusual relief.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘is why you sent one of your men to kill me.’

  The smile vanished. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘The Russian.’

  ‘Konstantin?’

  ‘I have no idea how many Russians you have on your payroll. You tell me.’

  China’s eyes thinned. ‘I don’t like your tone.’

  ‘I don’t like being shot at in my own home.’ I slid my hand inside my jacket and let him think for a second that I had a weapon tucked away. China knew he stood no chance if I was armed. He might manage a shout before I shot him but that would be all.

  He put up both palms, defensive. ‘Konstantin disappeared.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After your visit.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to question it?’

  ‘I might have done, but I saw no connection to you.’

  I threw him a spectacularly cold look.

  ‘A man like you can more than take care of yourself,’ China shrugged. I remembered that McCallen had said the same thing. ‘I have no reason to kill you, Hex. We are in this together, remember?’

  I stifled a snort. In common with all the other bosses I’d ever worked for, China was never ‘in’ anything with anyone.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  I gave him the headlines.

  ‘And you’ve taken care of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can only apologise. I’ll see you’re reimbursed for your trouble.’

  Did I believe him? Yes. I made to get up to go. China returned to his laptop. ‘One other thing,’ I said, ‘Simone Fabron.’

  ‘What of her?’ Almost imperceptibly, his right eyelid flickered, and I didn’t think it was due to eyestrain.

  ‘A drug dealer, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure.’ I wasn’t treading on thin ice. I was about to plunge through an ever-widening crack.

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘My information doesn’t tally.’

  ‘Your information?’ he snorted. ‘Since when have you researched your targets?’ All the time, as it happened, but China didn’t need to know this. Fact was, he had me. I was showing too much interest and it was bound to raise suspicion. ‘Word on the wire.’

  China broke into another big smile. ‘Are you going soft? And in any case, what do you care? She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘And buried.’

  ‘That’s my man. You know, I could always do with someone like you permanently on the team. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  Just then, his phone gave a bleep and he glanced once more at his laptop. It took him five seconds to change from Mr Congeniality to Mr I’m Coming to Get You – not that it was obvious.

  He beamed, stood up, stuck out his hand, clasping mine in his.

  ‘You’ll give it serious thought
, Hex? I could make it an attractive package.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘We’ll talk in a few days, yes?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’re going to be in the city for a while?’

  ‘I am.’

  As I left, China called to one of the guys on guard duty, a nondescript, bland-featured man who I took to be another Russian, his name Leonid. The door closed, effectively soundproofing the living room and sealing off all conversation. Picking up my coat, I looked through the glass, caught sight of China deep in conversation and lip-read his instructions. Four words glanced across his lips: ‘Follow and kill him.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  When you catch a man in one lie it’s a given that there are others. China had lied to me about the absence of killers on his payroll. He had also lied to me about Simone. My first priority was to trap Leonid and discover what China was up to, my second, to find out what was on China’s laptop. Something had spooked him but I didn’t know what.

  I made my way out of the building and headed for the train station at a leisurely pace. I couldn’t fault China’s choice of assassin. Of average height, average weight, hair neither too short nor too long, and with colourless, nondescript features, he was Mr Forgettable. In his jeans, sneakers, T-shirt and leather jacket, he could be mistaken for any number of individuals. I wondered what he packed. Taking a punt, I guessed a Makarov with silencer, the perfect toy for the type of work he had in mind.

  Reaching the station, I caught the next train to Waterloo. Leonid boarded at the same time but sat in a different carriage – his strategy, no doubt, to kill me in a quiet street without an audience. I sat back and decided to play to the man’s tune, but with me writing the finale.

  I stepped out at Waterloo and took the Jubilee line to Green Park and from there, the Victoria to Kings Cross. In the old days, he’d have tried to pop me on the Underground, but with all the extra security it was unlikely he’d be that audacious. To be certain, I speeded up and fell into the unrelenting flow of workers, tourists and students, keeping my head down. A memory of another time, when I’d been the hunter, flashed through my mind. In the minutes before Billy’s death, I’d joined a similar flow of folk and tracked my prey, Billy unaware of me until the final moment. It was karma, perhaps, that I was now the hunted.