by Nick Oldham
‘And why would the cops want to spend time setting up a lowlife like you?’
‘Mmm, good point,’ the man known as Frank Jagger conceded. ‘Well anyway, I’m not a cop and you can do what you have to do. I don’t like it, but I want you to say sorry when you don’t find any hidden wires or micro-cameras.’
Ingram nodded to Mitch. ‘Do him and the car.’
The big sidekick said, ‘OK, boss,’ in a high-pitched squeak of a voice which did not complement his appearance. A paddle-like instrument appeared in his right hand, having been secreted underneath his jacket. He took two steps towards Henry. ‘Arms out, legs apart.’
Henry extended his arms, spread his legs slightly and allowed Mitch to run the detector across his body and under his armpits, down across his stomach to his groin and then up between his legs with a jerk which caught his balls. Henry scowled. Mitch smiled grimly, or it could also have been a scowl. Henry was not certain.
‘Enjoy that?’ Henry asked.
‘Actually, yeah.’ He jabbed the detector between Henry’s legs again, then ran it down and around both legs, then back over the outside of Henry’s jacket, causing it to beep.
Mitch eyed Ingram.
Henry extracted his mobile phone and showed it to Ingram, who took it from him.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘I’ll keep it for the time being.’
‘I don’t think so, it’s my phone,’ Henry bleated.
‘I’d just like to have a look through it, see who you’ve been calling … is that a problem? If it is, you can have it back and that’s us done for good.’
Henry’s jaw rotated. His eyes bore into Ingram’s. ‘OK,’ he relented.
Mitch completed the last scan of Henry and said, ‘Clean.’
‘Good. Now the car.’
Mitch nodded and rolled to the Nissan, began to search it. Henry folded his arms and gave Ingram a slitty-eyed, pissed-off look.
‘What’s he looking for?’
‘Anything that shouldn’t be there.’
‘What, like used condoms, that sort of thing?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘Clear, boss,’ Mitch called from inside the Nissan. He seemed to be having trouble extracting himself, his wide backside trapped momentarily in the space between the front passenger seat, which had been tipped forwards, and the door post. He came out with a pop and a grunt.
Henry shook his head.
‘OK, so far, so good … now let’s move on somewhere more comfortable.’
‘Where to?’
‘You drive this.’ Ingram pointed to the 607. ‘Mitch’ll sit beside you and I’ll follow in the wreck that you call a car.’ He pointed disparagingly at the Nissan. Ingram gave Henry’s mobile phone to Mitch and nodded at the big man.
The Peugeot was big and comfy, plenty of room for Mitch and his wide rear on the passenger seat.
‘Head down the M61,’ Mitch instructed him as he flicked the back off Henry’s phone and peeled out the SIM card.
‘What the fuck’re you doing?’
Mitch opened the glove box and took out a small black box which Henry recognized immediately as a device for downloading data from SIM cards. Mitch thumbed a switch and a tiny green light came on. He slotted Henry’s SIM into the device. ‘Just drive,’ Mitch ordered in his squeak of a voice.
Henry adjusted the driver’s seat, fired up the big diesel engine and moved away. In his rear-view mirror he saw Ingram set off behind, then as he turned his head and looked out of the windscreen, Henry saw the solitary figure ducking out of sight on the roof of the biscuit factory. He hoped to hell that Ingram had not seen the figure: the technical support officer who had, by means of a parabolic microphone, eavesdropped into their conversation, thereby having saved Henry the need to wear a hidden wire which Mitch would have found and probably enjoyed stuffing up Henry’s backside.
Trouble was, Henry was now alone. He had insisted on having no other back-up than a listener on the factory roof, hoping that he would have got more out of the conversation with Ingram. But the man had proved much too wary and Henry now realized he would need to keep his wits about him more than ever.
Six
The man ran alone, fighting the pain that arced through his whole being like repetitious jabs of electricity.
So far he had run for four miles, the longest he’d managed since beginning his slow recuperation. It had gone well, but as he looked up the long, rising driveway leading to the huge house in the distance, he had to stop. It was no great incline and several months before he would have easily raced up the hill, taken it in his stride. That was before he had come face to face with one of the world’s most wanted terrorists in a confrontation that could have gone either way. With a combination of luck, speed, skill and good health, it had gone his.
The terrorist, a man high on America’s most wanted list, had been killed and the man out running had survived – but only just.
If the team supporting him in tracking down Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar had been only minutes later finding him in that deserted, hidden square in Barcelona, he would have bled to death. The quick thinking of his team and their first-aid skills had saved him, and for that, he was eternally grateful.
Akbar, on the other hand, had died, but no one mourned him.
The runner was bent double, the balls of his hands on his knees, his face looking up at the house, breathing heavily.
He gritted his teeth and grimaced as a shot of agony seared up the exact route the bullet had taken: in under the ribs, through his guts, nicking the bottom edge of a lung and then stopping as it thumped into the back section of his ribs by his spine – which, miraculously, it did not damage, just nestled against. Had it ploughed on a further three millimetres he would have been paralysed from there down. Knowing that, and if that had been the case, the man would rather have been dead.
He pushed himself up and stood tall, feeling the track of the bullet like it was a steel cable inserted through him. The sweat poured down him, even though the day was chilly and overcast. He braced himself to continue and, because every journey starts with one foot in front of the other, he placed his right foot ahead of his left and began to jog up the hill.
He was running in a wonderful setting, and that inspired him. The house he ran towards was called Bramshill and belonged to the national training body for the police in England and Wales. It was used as a base to tutor and train high-ranking officers and equivalent support staff.
The narrow road up to the house was bordered on either side by wide fields and trees. A herd of roe deer looked up in a fairly disinterested way at the runner before returning to their grazing.
The last 400 metres were pure torture, but the runner did not stop now. Though a snail’s pace by his pre-injury standards, he made it in two minutes, coming to a halt near the front of the old house. He turned and looked back down the drive and across the amazing Hampshire countryside, thinking, I did good.
After spending a few necessary minutes warming down, he walked past the side of the house to the new gymnasium block where he had a long, hot-cold-warm shower and emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist into the men’s changing rooms. There was one other man in the room, easing on his jacket after a session. They nodded at each other, then the other man’s eyes caught sight of the runner’s abdomen and the ugly, puckered bullet wound under the ribs. The man’s face creased with empathetic pain. He turned away, slightly shocked, and hurried out as the runner allowed his towel to drop and display the remainder of his body.
‘We need to talk.’ Four words designed to strike terror into the heart of the listener. Despite his size and toughness, those words did just that to Karl Donaldson as he sat opposite his wife, Karen, in the dining hall at Bramshill Police College. For a moment, Donaldson pretended not to hear them and carried on by saying, ‘I did pretty well … four miles. Agony, yeah, but I made it. I’m coming on all right.’ Unconsciously he placed a hand on his shirt over where the bu
llet had entered his body.
Karen blinked. Her mouth twisted slightly and impatiently.
‘Karl, you’re not listening …’
His mouth clamped shut. He looked into her eyes and knew this was the horrible point his marriage had reached – the ‘we need to talk’ point.
He and Karen actually lived about four miles away from Bramshill in the small town of Hartley Wintney. From there Donaldson commuted to London daily, his job being at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square where he was the FBI’s legal attaché; Karen also commuted daily into the city where she had been a Metropolitan Police Superintendent for several years following a move from Lancashire in the mid-Nineties.
The couple had met years before when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating serious American mob activity in the north of England at that time. He had also met and become friends with Henry Christie.
At that time Karen had been a police officer in Lancashire and when she and Donaldson had fallen in love, he had secured a move for himself from America to the London Embassy and she had transferred to the Met so they could be together and get married. Which they did.
She was currently attending the Police College on a course for high-ranking officers.
‘I’m not certain I want to listen,’ Donaldson whispered hoarsely across the bowl of clear, tasteless soup in front of him.
‘You’ve got to,’ she said firmly.
A group of rowdy police officers on an adjoining table burst out in raucous laughter. Donaldson scowled at them. One caught his eye and sneered. The American felt a surge of rage pound through him, completely unnecessary.
‘We can’t talk here,’ Karen said. ‘Let’s have a stroll.’
Donaldson stacked his unfinished meal on a tray and stood up stiffly, the run having taken more of a toll than he had bargained for.
Karen followed him out of the dining room and they headed towards the lake in the grounds, walking side by side, but two feet apart.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she said.
‘Darling, you’re on a four-week course, less than four miles from home, and you’re not coming home each night …’
‘I told you,’ she snapped, ‘I needed time to think.’
‘And what exactly is there to think about?’
‘Us,’ she said softly, and walked on ahead of him whilst he stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded.
He caught up with her, remembering in a flash the first time he had ever walked behind her over ten years before and, like a rude schoolboy, had made a remark to Henry Christie, who he had been with at the time, about how much he would have liked to make love to her. The words he’d used at the time had been less than romantic, though. To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world and marrying her had been the happiest day of his life.
‘C’mon, babe,’ he said reasonably, ‘what’s going on?’
This time she stopped, causing him to bundle into her. Her eyes were moist and she was close to tears. Her chin wobbled unsteadily and an overwhelming feeling of love enveloped Donaldson. He opened his arms, wanting to embrace her, hold her tight – but her right hand shot out, palm up.
‘No,’ she said.
The whole of his body language grasped to understand fully what was happening here. His hands shook, his head wobbled on his neck.
‘You almost died,’ she said accusingly.
‘But I didn’t, darlin’,’ he defended himself.
She held up a finger, jerking it at him. ‘You put yourself in danger, unnecessarily so. You did not have to go hunting down one of the world’s most dangerous terrorists …’
‘He—’ Donaldson stuttered.
Karen gave him no chance to cut in. ‘I know what he did and I know why you went for him, but knowing a reason does not mean I agree with it. Without even asking me, you volunteered to join the team hunting him down, without even thinking of the effect on your family – me and the children.’
Donaldson bridled. ‘I thought about you all the time.’
She gave him a withering look and shook her head. ‘You forgot us,’ she challenged him. ‘You went on a crusade and you hunted him down – and he nearly killed you!’ she shrieked the last five words. ‘What about us in your thoughts then, eh? If you had died, I would’ve had no husband and two children would have been without a father … did you ever think to consider that in your eagerness to go gung-ho?’
‘Someone had to do it,’ he said pathetically.
‘Yeah, but not you, Karl.’ She exhaled and looked at the picturesque lake. Her jaw jutted out as she turned back to him. ‘You’re a changed man, Karl. Not the person I met. You’ve become more and more distant … I feel that danger surrounds you all the time, somehow, and hunting down Akbar was just the icing on the cake …’ Her voice trailed off sadly.
There was a pause.
‘I love you, but I can’t live with it and I don’t think the kids should either.’
‘I …’
She shook her head.
‘Shit,’ he said.
‘I’ve stood by you, I’ve nursed you back to health … you’ve run four miles today, you’re OK now …’
‘And now you’re doing a runner, as they say?’
‘I want to think about things.’
‘I love you,’ he said simply, hardly able to breathe as he watched her stony face.
‘I know.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘I would like to go home every night, actually, and sort out the kids …’
‘But you don’t want me there?’
Karen stayed silent.
Donaldson nodded. ‘I understand. I’ll get one of the embassy bolt-holes in London. Won’t be until tomorrow, though.’
‘I’ll stay here tonight.’
‘And I’ll sort out the kids.’
She nodded, her face ashen, brittle. She gathered herself together, turned away and continued to walk around the lake. By herself.
Donaldson watched her for a few moments, then span in the opposite direction, amazed at how such a small woman could tear up the heart of such a big man.
Following Mitch’s directions, Henry drove on to the westbound side of Bolton West motorway services on the M61 and parked up. Ingram drew the Nissan alongside, jumped out of it and got into the back of the Peugeot behind Henry.
‘We leave that here,’ Ingram said, referring to the Nissan.
‘Are you fuckin’ jokin’?’ Henry snarled, twisting around to glare at Ingram.
‘You can still take it or leave it.’
‘I want dropping off back here,’ Henry demanded.
‘I’m already getting pissed off with you, Frank,’ Ingram growled.
‘OK, OK,’ Henry gave in, raising his hands off the wheel in defeat. ‘Whatever.’
‘Ungrateful git,’ squeaked Mitch.
Henry gave him a sidelong glance that Mitch locked into with his piggy eyes then blew him a kiss. Henry had a premonition there and then that the two of them would come head-to-head in a very unpleasant way in the near future.
‘Where are we going?’ Henry asked.
‘You two need to swap seats now. I don’t want a dizzy driver driving me around just yet,’ Ingram said.
When this was done, now with Mitch squashed in behind the wheel, the car set off west again, Henry increasingly uncomfortable that they were very nearly back on his home turf of Lancashire, dramatically increasing his chances of an encounter with someone who might blow him out, intentionally or otherwise.
They journeyed in silence as Henry watched the familiar countryside flash by, dropping down from the M61 on to the northbound M6.
‘Just going somewhere for a chit-chat,’ Ingram said eventually as they shot over the River Ribble, motoring in the fast lane at about 85 mph. It might not have been the best looking of cars, but the Peugeot was fast and comfortable.
‘Where might that be?’ Henry enquired.
‘A room with a view.’
>
Which turned out to be another service station, this time the Lancaster South one at Forton on the M6, the one with the huge water tower-like structure opened in the 1960s shortly after the M6, Britain’s first stretch of motorway. The structure, reached by a lift, housed a restaurant and Mitch led Ingram and Henry up to it, then queued up at the serving hatch and helped himself to an all-day breakfast. Ingram and Henry made do with a coffee, seating themselves by a window overlooking six lanes of motorway.
Henry felt reasonably relaxed now. He was unlikely to be recognized here. Even so, he kept his face low but watched all the comings and goings keenly.
He waited for Ingram to begin as Mitch inserted himself on to the seat of a table behind them and began to devour his feast noisily.
‘OK, Frank, spill the beans.’
‘Er, don’t really know where to begin.’ He rubbed his eyes and they squelched. ‘I’m usually a middleman, mostly fags, booze, that sort of stuff. It comes my way, I dispose of it, take a cut. Still do, but I saw a window for some diversification, but it went kind of awry, y’know?’
‘Awry? Nice word.’
‘Yeah, y’know, down the shitter,’ Henry said hurriedly, realizing that Jagger would be unlikely to use a word such as awry. His vocabulary would be far baser, at ground level. Point noted, he thought: take care. Ingram is watching, ready to pounce on anything that doesn’t hold up. ‘Anyway, I saw this opportunity but I needed some upfront cash because of cash-flow problems, if you know what I mean?’
‘What was it for?’
‘DVDs.’ He closed his eyes appreciatively. ‘Do you know how big the porno market is in this country? Worth fucking millions. Well, I’d come across this guy on my travels, a Paki or an Indian or summat … got chatting, hit it off and he said he could supply if I could find the dosh and that was that.’
‘What was what?’
‘It was an opportunity I couldn’t, didn’t want to miss … I’d seen the samples …’ He shook his head in awe. ‘Awesome, real hard stuff, and kids too.’ As he said that, he tried to gauge Ingram’s reaction to the last revelation and thought he saw some spark of interest in the eyes. ‘But,’ Henry added, drawing himself back slightly, ‘obviously not to everyone’s taste, I admit.’ He peered quizzically at Ingram. ‘It might be something you’re not interested in, I dunno.’
