by Ellis, Tim
‘I’m sorry, Julie. I didn’t mean them.’
‘Oh, I think you meant every word, but it doesn’t matter now – you’re here. In time, I’ll probably forget the horrible things you said, but you have to work hard to make me trust you again.’
‘You can’t keep me chained up here, Julie.’
‘Yes I can, Jerry. This is your new home now.’
Julie stood up, turned and began walking up the steps. ‘Do you want me to leave the light on?’
‘Julie, please.’
The light went off.
The door banged shut.
Tears filled her eyes and tumbled down her cheeks. Oh God! Nobody knew where she was.
***
The first thing they did was move round the outside of the four-story building and secured all the exits.
No witnesses.
None of the workers were getting out of the building alive.
Next, they broke into the main entrance and secured the metal and glass doors before carrying on.
As they moved through the building rounding up the workers on the ground floor, they planted C4 explosives to detonate at four in the morning – local time. They had an hour and a half to acquire the information that Sir Peter wanted.
There were fifteen people on the night-shift. During the day there were close to seventy. Of the fifteen, ten were women and five were men. Cally Flinders ran WikiUK, but she wasn’t there. The night manager was an Icelandic woman called Sara Björk Árnadóttir who was twenty-seven and due to get married to an Icelandic football player the following week.
Sauerkraut took the lead. During his time in the German KSK Kommando Spezialkräfte he’d killed three men in a bar in Hamburg and had needed to disappear. The French Foreign Legion helped him to do that. They’d also taught him a few things he didn’t know. One of those things was the value of life – zero. Humans came and went, had done for as long as there’d been humans. They were born, they eked out a miserable existence and then they died – it wasn’t rocket science.
‘I will say this only once,’ he said as if he was an actor playing a role in a television sitcom.
Bulldog smiled. He’d seen that sitcom – loved it.
‘You were sent some files from Group323. We want those files, we want every copy and we want them now.’
All the workers had been taped into their chairs with duct tape. The same tape had been used to cover their mouths. With the exception of Árnadóttir – who seemed to be holding it together somehow – all the women were crying. One of the men had pissed himself.
Sauerkraut chose a tall skinny woman with a neck like a giraffe and ripped the tape from her mouth. ‘Well?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ It was the last words she would ever speak.
Sauerkraut rammed the point of his commando knife into her long neck and jerked it sideways through the jugular vein and carotid artery, through her trachea and muscle as if he’d been boning meat all his life – and maybe he had. Blood erupted like a fountain geyser, and air bubbled and sputtered from the severed windpipe. As she slumped forward, it seemed that only her spinal cord and a few slivers of skin were preventing her head from bouncing on the floor.
‘Now,’ Sauerkraut asked wiping the blade of the knife on his trouser leg. ‘Who’s next?’ He chose the man who’d pissed himself and ripped the tape from his mouth. ‘Are you willing to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?’
The man nodded as if he’d just been waiting his whole life for just this opportunity to bare his soul. ‘Yes . . . yes.’
‘Well?’
‘The server . . . everything is on the server.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Over there.’ He jerked his head towards a rack of computer equipment. ‘But . . .’
Sauerkraut pressed the knife into the skin of the man’s neck. ‘But is not one of my favourite words.’
‘. . . You won’t be able to stop publication of the files.’
He tensed as if he was about to push the knife all the way through the man’s neck.
‘Wait . . . please don’t kill me.’
‘You’re not being very cooperative.’
‘The files have been sent to America, to a company who specialise in cascade distribution . . .’
‘I don’t like jargon either. Maybe someone else . . .’
‘No, no . . . a different file will be published on the WikiUK site every two hours starting from eight o’clock in the morning – UK time.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning – no one can stop that happening.’
‘No one?’ He pushed the knife a quarter of an inch into the man’s neck. Blood began seeping from the wound and dribbling into his shirt. ‘I think you’re . . .’
‘No one here can stop it.’
‘Ah so, no one doesn’t actually mean no one. Who can stop it then?’
‘Only one person – Cally Flinders.’
‘And she is where?’
The man’s eyes pleaded with him. ‘Please . . . I don’t know.’
Sauerkraut pushed the knife into the man’s neck up to the hilt and twisted it left and right. ‘You’re no use to me then.’ He looked at the others as he shoved the chair across the room with his foot. ‘Anyone know where I can find Cally Flinders?’
One of the women nodded.
He took a pace towards her and ripped off the tape. ‘Yes?’
‘She flew back to England yesterday.’
Sauerkraut looked at Yank.
Yank nodded.
‘Where?’
‘London. I don’t know the address, but . . .’
He’d heard enough and pushed the knife into her heart.
Marley and Bulldog disposed of the remaining workers.
‘Rip out the server and destroy the hard drive,’ Yank said. ‘I have a phone call to make.’
He moved to one end of the room and made the call to Sir Peter.
‘We’ve done our part, but it’s not over.’ He told Sir Peter about the cascade distribution from eight o’clock UK time, about Cally Flinders being the only person who could stop it and about her now being in London.
‘Leave it with me.’
The call ended.
They made their way back to the forest to watch the firework display. Over the coming days, they’d leave Iceland by various means using false identities and return to England.
***
He had never lost a partner before. Admittedly, he had only ever had one partner – Xena Blake – and she was lying in a hospital bed. The auguries weren’t good that was for sure. If anything happened to Isolde Koll he’d blame himself. He should have kept her with him, not sent her to the restaurant so that he could have Xena all to himself. God – he was a fool. They’d obviously made a mistake when they promoted him to Sergeant. He should have a sign on his forehead saying: “Not to be left alone for longer than five minutes!” Maybe five minutes was too long.
Even Xena didn’t trust him to look after himself or his new partner. Maybe he should submit his resignation, make carving animals from wood a full-time job – it would certainly pay the bills. Jennifer wouldn’t mind, and Xena could get herself a decent partner – one she didn’t have to mollycoddle from her hospital bed. Maybe, when the Chief had said he was too nice, it was a hint. What he’d really meant to say was: “You’re not suited to this type of work, Gilbert. The sooner you realise that – the better.”
Shrub End was still miles away. By the time he got there it would all be over. Koll would be mincemeat, and Dougall’s two men would have arrested Michelangelo. He’d arrive an hour too late, and they’d look at him like the pathetic partner that he was.
Yes, after it was all over – he’d hand in his resignation. If he’d been a Japanese samurai he could have disembowelled himself by committing seppuku, or fallen on his sword like Brutus. Those days of honour had long gone – a letter of resignation would just have to suffice n
ow.
His phone activated. Under normal circumstances, he would have pulled over to answer it, or passed it to Koll to answer if he’d been driving like he was now, but Koll was fighting for her life, and “normal circumstances” had got up and left.
‘Gilbert?’
‘It’s DC Tome Meade.’
‘Yes?’
‘You want to know . . . ?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve gone a ways past Shrub End to a small place called Point Clear. He’s stopped outside a lock-up in a road just behind the seafront. We’re in a dark red Shogun four-by-four. You’d better make it quick or it’ll all be over. He’s got the boot of his car open and he’s dragging her in there. Listen, I’ve got to go . . .’
‘Hello . . . ?’ he shouted into the phone. ‘Hello?’
Crap! They were going in without him. He pushed his foot down on the accelerator, but it was already resting the floor. As long as they saved Koll, that was all that mattered – wasn’t it?
He shot past the turn-off for Shrub End and continued along the B1027, through St Osyth, over Mill Dam Lake on Point Clear Road, and then he was at Ray Creek. He slowed down, found the dark red Shogun, pulled in behind it and switched the engine off.
There was no signs of life as he stepped out of the car. Up ahead, he saw Michelangelo’s green Saab 9-5 parked up outside a lock-up. He pulled the Walther P99 from its holster, put a round in the chamber and moved towards the lock-up. In fact, it was a bit more than a lock-up garage. It had a roll-up shutter and a side-door – the side door was open.
He let himself in.
There was a light on towards the back of the lock-up, but he couldn’t see Dougall’s two men – Rogers and Meade. Koll had been stripped naked and was tied spread-eagled on top of a battered old table. It didn’t take a genius to work out what Michelangelo was planning to do to her.
Then he saw Rogers and Meade. They were hanging on a wall to his left. As he edged closer, he realised that wasn’t strictly accurate. The meat hooks that protruded through their throats were hanging on the wall, they were suspended from the meat hooks like carcasses waiting to be gutted.
Michelangelo dropped his trousers.
‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this,’ he said. ‘It’ll probably split you in two and blow the top of your skull off when I shoot my load, but that’ll save me killing you afterwards.’
‘Armed police,’ Stick shouted. ‘Put your hands up.’
Michelangelo turned round.
Stick couldn’t believe the size of the man’s penis.
‘Not more police. This is not where they’re holding the police charity ball this year, you know.’ He yanked his trousers up and began shuffling forwards one step at a time.
‘Hands up.’
Michelangelo half-laughed. ‘I’m working for the police.’
‘Lie face down on the floor.’
‘It’s cold and damp down there.’
‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’
‘You won’t shoot.’
Stick flicked the safety off with his thumb. ‘Last warning.’
Michelangelo reach a hand out as if he was going to take the gun from him.
Stick fired.
The bullet went through the palm of Michelangelo’s right hand, travelled up his arm and entered the right side of his chest. It didn’t even slow him down.
‘You shot me,’ Michelangelo said with a surprised look on his face.
Stick began backing up.
He fired again.
The bullet entered just right of Michelangelo’s sternum, but he kept on coming.
‘STOP!’ Stick shouted again, but he knew Michelangelo was never going to stop. The whole situation was surreal and reminded him of a movie cliché.
His back smashed into the roller shutter – he had nowhere left to go.
He fired again.
Michelangelo kept on coming.
He pulled the trigger again . . . again . . . again.
At last, Michelangelo crumpled to his knees and fell forward, his face coming to rest in Stick’s groin
Stick jumped and pushed the corpse sideways.
He realised that he’d stopped breathing five minutes ago and took a deep breath.
‘Is he dead?’ Koll shouted.
‘I certainly hope so,’ he said. He was leaning back against the roller shutter. His eyes were closed and he was trying to stop his heart and lungs from exploding.
He walked towards Koll and untied her.
She sat up, and began sobbing and shaking uncontrollably.
He took off his jacket, wrapped it around her naked body and put his arms around her.
‘Did you see what he was going to do to me?’ she said.
‘I saw.’
She jumped off the table, ran to Michelangelo’s body and began kicking and stamping on it. ‘You fucking bastard,’ she said over and over again.
He dragged her away. ‘Remember, this is a crime scene now. I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No, I’m all right.’ She found her clothes and put them back on.
He phoned DI Dougall.
‘Rogers and Meade are dead.’
‘WHAT?’
‘I think they underestimated Michelangelo.’
‘And you didn’t?’
‘I had to put twelve bullets into him before he’d stop.’
‘Christ.’
‘I don’t know what to do now,’ he said. ‘By rights, this is a Shrub End crime scene, but . . .’
‘Yeah, that won’t work.’
‘Hoddesdon haven’t got the resources to deal with it.’
‘You’re suggesting I take charge?’
‘It seems logical, Sir. Two of your men have been killed, you know what’s going on and . . .’
‘Two of my men have been killed on a job that they shouldn’t have even been on. Christ, what a mess! Okay, I’ll sort something out, Gilbert. I’ll be down there with a forensic team sometime this morning. Lock everything up tight to preserve the evidence.’
Stick agreed to leave the keys to the lock-up in DS Rogers’ Shogun and hide the keys to the vehicle in the front of the bumper.
‘Is Koll all right?’
‘Just about.’
‘That’s something anyway. You couldn’t take Michelangelo alive?’
‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell.’
‘We’ll just have to see what else we can find then.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
‘What are you and Koll going to do now?’
‘Life goes on. We’ve still got two cases to solve.’
‘I’ll need statements.’
‘Just say when, Sir.’
They moved Michelangelo’s body to one side, pulled up the roller shutter, drove the Saab-95 inside and locked everything up tight.
After finding a cafe open on the seafront, Stick bought them both breakfast and watched the sun come up.
Chapter Eighteen
Ruth Völker had been up since Sir Peter had called and told her about the impending disaster looming over the British Government and its security services. How had they come to this? It seemed that nobody could do anything right.
After she’d made herself a gin and tonic, she phoned Oliver Brightmore in the seventh basement level at the Defence Geospatial Intelligence Fusion Centre (DGIFC) in Feltham, South West London.. He wasn’t Chapman Ryder, but he would have to do. It wasn’t as if what she was asking him to do was in anyway difficult – find Cally Flinders, force her to stop the cascade publication of documents that didn’t belong to her, destroy said documents and kill Flinders by making it look like an accident – what could be simpler?
That had been over two hours and three gin and tonics ago. Now, he was on the damned phone.
‘What is it, Brightmore?’ She felt slightly woozy.
‘Her flat is empty. There’s no evidence that she’s been there recently. If she did come back to England, then she must have gone somewhere else.’
‘And you want me to tell you where?’
‘I’ve hit a brick wall.’
‘Clearly, not hard enough. Wait there.’
She phoned Nana Rodriguez.
A breathless ‘Yes?’ gasped down the phone.
‘Coitus interruptus?’
‘I’m on my jogging machine. Who is this?’
‘Ruth Völker. I need to find the head of WikiUK – Cally Flinders – before eight o’clock and the country goes into meltdown. She’s back in England . . .’
The line went dead.
She hoped the dead line was intentional, and that Nana was already on the phone to her colleagues. She imagined the SIGINT reconnaissance satellites crunching through the gears and zeroing in on Cally Flinders; the computers humming and whirring as part of the clandestine security electronic surveillance program – Tempora – and accessing the US internet monitoring program – PRISM – to find any occurrence of the name Cally Flinders.
The sound of the phone ringing made her jump.
‘Yes?’
‘Flat 17B Tufnell Road, High Holborn. It’s the London address of Jack Rankin – MP for Tintagel South in Cornwall.’
‘Isn’t he married with three children?’
‘I have a jogging machine to get back to.’
‘Do a lap for me.’
The line went dead again.
She phoned Brightmore and gave him the address.
‘What about Rankin?’
‘Kill him. We’ll be doing his wife and kids a favour. Don’t fail.’
‘Failure isn’t in my vocabulary.’
***
He had seized up overnight. Like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz, he creaked and rattled and needed oil for his joints. After putting on his shorts, t-shirt and trainers, he grabbed a towel and made his way down to the hotel gymnasium like the worst kind of crazy person.
What the hell was he doing? He was thirty-two now. Surely he should be taking things easy. Easing out of middle age and into old age and not trying to reclaim his youth from the waste bin of history. Footballers were on their last legs in their early thirties. What about detective inspectors? How long did he have left? Maybe, if he looked after his body a bit better than he had in the past, he could go another couple of years. Possibly hang in there until he reached forty through the liberal application of aromatherapy, hydrotherapy, psychotherapy and all the other therapies. Then there was acupuncture, Feng Shui and . . .
