Capture or Kill

by Tom Marcus

  Alan pushes harder. ‘But surely it’s something worth ruling out. Two large bags would carry way more than ten kilos of explosives—’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Jeremy explodes, like a man who is trapped on the edge of something he can’t get into, or escape from. Frustrated or scared – I’m not sure which.

  My immediate reaction is to launch myself between them. Jeremy hasn’t made any advance towards Alan but my gut reaction wants to protect the tech. But the boss’s aggression dissipates, probably helped along by my ugly mug rushing towards him.

  He’s backing down, but is still visibly worried about something. Looking around the room, I see panic in his face. As if he’s fucked up.

  ‘Team, we have to leave this to the police and Special Forces on site. We, you, are stood down until further notice. Keep your phones with you, take a few days off.’

  With that, he rushes past me and down the stairs, and he’s in his car in a matter of seconds.

  This doesn’t feel right at all; somehow Leyton-Hughes feels too close to this operation. The inside knowledge he has, I can live with. Both he and Alan still have contacts within Thames House and if Jeremy is taking his orders directly from the DG then obviously he’s going to know a lot more than we do. But why won’t he entertain the possibility that the brothers aren’t at the address currently surrounded by Britain’s best armed specialists?

  We watch as he drives under the roller shutters without looking back at us. ‘Why wouldn’t he want to rule this out? If we’re wrong, fair enough, but if we’re right and nothing is done, the boys in black getting ready to storm that building could be walking into a booby-trapped massacre. All of it on camera. Iron Sword and Stone Fist could easily carry more than just ten kilos of explosives in two large holdalls. If this is part of their plan, the truck is such an obvious plant. These guys are clever, they knew the truck would be found.’ The entire team agrees with me. ‘Alan, I’ve got an idea. Everyone will need to be on board though.’

  Each of the team gives me a resolute nod. Of course, we’re all in. ‘Alan, do you think there is any way of back-tracing the feeds to identify the true source of the broadcast?’

  ‘Of course, given time. GCHQ would have done that already I’m betting, unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless, given how fast the PM wants a result and all the evidence pointing to this one address, they’ve completely overlooked trying to double-check the route source.’

  ‘Logan, what you thinking of doing?’ The look of concern on Riaz’s face is genuine and shared across the group, even by Alan.

  Running my hands over my stubble, I can’t believe I’m going to say this. ‘Going to the DG and asking him to buy us some more time. It’s moving too fast and there are too many variables not being looked at.’

  ‘No chance, you’ll be spotted, mate. I know one of the guys on his protection team. Top people protect him, mate. And you can’t walk into Thames House anymore,’ Ryan says.

  He’s right, the DG’s team are good. And I’m meant to have completely left MI5 now – I can’t get inside headquarters anymore. ‘Alan, do you know the DG’s home address? You must do . . .’

  He nods like a naughty schoolkid who knows he’s about to do something incredibly bad. I knew I could count on him. ‘I’ll meet him at his house,’ I continue. ‘Ask him to buy us some time. You guys cover for me, in case anything comes in from Jeremy; I’ll have my radio with me so I can give the odd acknowledgement, so it sounds like I’m with you guys if Leyton-Hughes is listening in. Alan, is it possible for you to find the source of this video feed while running our ops?’

  ‘Of course.’ The confidence of a man who’s spent a lifetime on jobs like this, completely off-book.

  ‘Logan, say you manage to get to the DG without being stopped by his team and he rats you straight out to Leyton-Hughes. Then what?’ Riaz has a point.

  ‘Well, I guess I’m stacking shelves at the supermarket for a living.’ That gets smiles all round, apart from Alex; she knows this is risky. ‘Look, seriously. If they have the right house surrounded then great, hopefully they’ll get the guy out of there and leave the brothers for dead. But what if it’s a massive trap and those bags they were in Liverpool with were filled with explosives? Where are the rest of those explosives now? Killing a Cabinet minister and multiple police and Special Forces in one op? It would be the greatest achievement of any terrorist on British soil. Stopping that is worth the risk.’ They all agree. ‘No electronic references to me or this conversation now. Nothing outside this room. I’ll be as quick as I can. Alan, you have the DG’s address?’

  ‘I do. I’ve been there once, when he first moved in, to do an eavesdropping sweep and make sure none of our Russian friends had left anything there. I also installed his alarm system.’ Another smile, Alan is such a sneaky bastard but an absolute gold mine of resources. ‘You know Tony Blair’s residence on Connaught Square?’ The team all stop breathing at the same time. It’s like waiting to get hit in the face; you know it’s going to hurt, but your hands are tied and there is nothing you can do about it. ‘Four doors up from that. Black front, white door, dome security cameras along the roof line. Let me get something you’ll need to get in.’ Alan walks down to his workbenches. The enormity of it all starts to become apparent and I lose the ability to make light of what I’m about to do.

  The team doesn’t really say much as we wait for Alan to reappear. We’re all trying to weigh up the pros and cons, but ultimately we all know this theory has to be ruled out. I try and reassure the team as well as myself. ‘Blindeye is designed to do things no one else would do. Things that are just too risky, or completely illegal.’

  The nods of agreement from the team are comforting, until Alex quickly adds something to my statement. ‘And the outright stupid . . .’

  Alan rushes back in, slightly out of breath from running up the stairs. ‘OK, this acts like a . . . never mind. It’ll take too long to explain. Press and hold this and it’ll make sure no alarms go off right before you enter.’

  I can see the team in my peripheral vision and feel their anxiety as Alan tells me the plan for breaking into the DG’s house. Fuck me. I’m either going to be shot on sight or arrested. But the level of risk I’m taking is nothing compared to the guys in black kit waiting to storm a house, potentially rushing to their deaths. Not to mention the Foreign Secretary we still have to save.

  ‘Now, he has a terraced extension at the very top of the house. Some of the houses around there are flat-roofed, but he has a pitched roof extension. With tiles.’

  That’s my way in, through the terrace. ‘How do I get up there without being seen?’

  This small detail doesn’t seem to bother Alan. ‘Easy, you can climb, right?’ Looking over to Alex, I keep composed; the team needs to know I have conviction in what I’m about to do, but the sense of unease is really evident on her face.

  ‘There’s a posh deli on the corner. Much lower roof line than the houses. Get onto that, use the ledges and arches on the building face to climb up. Some of the houses on the corners might still have the cast-iron drainpipes too. You’ll figure it out, you’ll need this.’ He hands me a small but quite heavy rucksack. ‘Should be enough tools in there for you to force a fairly quiet entry from the roof. Good luck.’ That was it. Alan walks off with a smile and a pat on my shoulder, and an attitude that says, Get on with it.

  Bollocks. Not only have I got between six and twelve armed police from the Met’s Parliamentary and Diplomatic Protection Unit a few houses down, permanently looking for dodgy fuckers like me, I’ve also got to circumnavigate the DG’s team and any sort of alarm system on his house. After climbing onto the roof and finding a way in.

  No time to waste; I can worry about it on the way down to London.

  ‘Right, guys, see you in a bit.’

  It’s already dark on the roads, and the signs for the South and London light my way down the motorway as I try to maximize my speed in be
tween speed cameras. I’ve got my radio on, just in case Jeremy suddenly calls us in, so I can make up the necessary excuses then pretend to be on the ground with the rest of the team.

  As the miles disappear and I get closer to the end of the motorway into London, I visualize what I can remember of the houses around the DG’s. I didn’t know he lived near Tony Blair. I fucking wish he didn’t. Having a controversial ex-Prime Minister on the street isn’t conducive to breaking and entering.

  Still nothing on the radio, no text message alerts from Jeremy either. So far so good. After three hours of driving I make it into the area of the DG’s house in the posh streets to the north-east of Hyde Park. Midnight. I’ll have to park up before I get to Connaught Square so I don’t light the whole place up with my headlights.

  It’s all parking permits round here and congestion cameras everywhere, but given I’m not going to be that long, hopefully I can risk it. Nestling the car in between an S Class Mercedes and a 5 Series BMW, I kill the lights and engine. I put my phone in the glovebox and grab the black bag of tools Alan gave me, before zipping my dark jacket up. As long as my movements are natural, I shouldn’t draw too much attention to myself. But I have to be quick.

  Surrounded by houses that are worth millions of pounds, with cars outside to match, it’s eerily quiet here. I can’t quite believe how quiet it is. When I was with A4 surveillance teams, we hardly ever operated in posh areas like this, always in dingy, rough areas. I feel incredibly out of place.

  I wish I could have made something else of my life, and had whatever these families are experiencing all around me. I wish I just had my family. Focus, Logan! Stopping at the junction of the square, staying out of the street lights in the shadows, I can see the posh deli Alan mentioned. I walk past and turn left onto Connaught Square. There’s a fenced private park in the middle, guarded by these opulent townhouses. I can just make out the DG’s front door, white against the black facade of the house, further down the street.

  I was hoping for some cast-iron drainpipes that I could climb up to get through the higher windows while hopefully evading any security lights. But nothing. Using these precious few seconds to decide if there is an easier way onto the roofs without climbing onto the deli first, I see a wafting sheet of plastic at the bottom of the street, just before the corner, past the DG’s house.

  Plastic sheeting dancing in the wind halfway up one of these tall houses can mean only one thing: scaffolding. That’s going to be much easier to climb than anything else, especially a deli roof.

  Ah shit, I’m committed down this street now, right past the DG’s house and any cameras his protection team might be monitoring. Keep moving, just a normal guy. As I move past the black-fronted house and the DG’s gleaming white door, there isn’t any obvious hint of protection details.

  I know they are here, ready to respond, but with this being a residential area, they clearly try to keep a low profile. I don’t visibly react to the DG’s house as I continue to the scaffolding, but I notice there is a small light on downstairs. As far as I can tell, upstairs is in total darkness.

  I pause a few metres away from the scaffolding. The plastic sheeting is meant to hide the renovation work from the street, but tonight it’ll provide me with some cover. I’ve just got to get on with it. No one around, not that I can see, anyway.

  Looking up from next to one of the main corner poles, I can see a rough route to the middle. Once I haul myself up onto this initial ledge, about nine feet above the ground, there are connecting ladders to each platform. I jump up to grab a cross piece of scaffolding and I’m suddenly very aware of how heavy this bag is; it’s like doing chin-ups with a sack of potatoes on your back. Got to keep the noise down. Pulling myself higher onto the cross piece, I manage to hook my arm over and position my hands to pull my upper body onto the platform.

  I squat down on the first ledge, quickly assessing any reaction in my environment. No shouting, no people rushing out of their houses to challenge what I’m doing. To be honest, at this time of night, if anyone is walking around they won’t notice me once I’m another level or two higher; a combination of being hidden by the plastic sheeting and the fact that people just don’t look up anymore.

  I can see through the first-floor windows of the house; it’s empty, gutted inside. A couple more levels to go and I’ll be at the top, then I’ll hopefully be able to get onto the roof of this house and right across to the top of the DG’s house.

  The next few levels are tackled quickly, using the ladders the builders use during the day, with the challenge now to remain quiet. Every clang from a pole and creak from a wooden board forces me to pause and reassess my environment.

  At the top of the scaffolding, I can see there’s a four-foot gap from this roof to the next. No point thinking about falling; just get on with it.

  As I leap across, I catch sight of the very bottom, the bits of rubbish and leaves that have been blown into the gap and haven’t managed to escape, waiting to be cleaned out. Landing on the pitched section on the next roof, I no longer have the safety of the scaffolding beneath me. Come on, Logan, four houses to get across.

  Lifting myself up and quickly getting my legs over the lip of the roof line, I land in the gutters on the flat portion of the roof. Looks a fairly easy route, got to stay quiet, this house below me is empty but the others probably won’t be.

  London’s skyline looks completely different from up here at this time of night. The noise carries totally differently up here too, without as many sound barriers. It feels like I’m on a private tour.

  I hop over various obstacles – low joining walls, chimneys and air-conditioning units – until I make it to the terrace extension on top of the DG’s roof. No lights on. Two window openings. No curtains or blinds. This extension has been built to lift the ceiling of the hall below and let in some more light. I can just see the carpet in the hallway and stairs leading down. Looks quiet and still.

  Fuck. Once I’m in, where am I going to go? I don’t know where the DG will be. Probably in bed, but where is his bedroom? Don’t think about future problems, just solve what’s in front of you.

  Breaking the window will be noisy and won’t give me a chance to see the DG before his protection team are on me. Crouching down next to the tiled extension, I slide my bag of tricks off my shoulder and quietly place it down next to me.

  There are various bits of kit inside, from crowbars and a rolled-up fabric ladder to electrical boxes. Some of this I’ve no idea how to use. Looking at the window again to weigh up my options, I notice the hinges are on the outside.

  I check them over quickly; the hinges have been fitted here to oppose their counterpart on the opposite side, which should prevent people like me simply lifting the window up off the hinges and getting in. It’s all held in place by a variety of security screws, some of which I don’t even recognize. Bollocks. I doubt Alan has anything remotely quiet to get me in here.

  Struggling to see much in the darkness, I dig around in the bag and find a box of screwdriver heads. Please have something in here, Alan. Opening the small box up, I see all manner of driver heads, including one that looks like it’s been custom-made, with serrations around the edges and top. I wonder . . .

  Placing this modified contraption over the security screw heads, I can feel it immediately bite. Perfect. This thing will undo anything. I place a screwdriver handle onto this bit and start to quietly undo the screws.

  Shit, wait. Alarm. I unzip my jacket pocket and pull out the box Alan gave me, with no idea what it will do or how it does it. All I need right now is for no alarms to go off. I press the button and put the box away and get on with undoing the screws, eight in total. The window is already leaning away from the frame, only held in place by the catch attaching it to the adjacent window.

  I slowly pull it away and have my gap into the house. It isn’t huge, and I still have to drop down onto the stairs without making too much noise. I can’t shake the feeling this is about to go v
ery wrong, very fast. Poking my head inside the window, I wait for that alarm. Sirens. Shouting bodyguards. Nothing.

  The drop below me to the stairs is a good eight feet. I’m no cat; wherever I land it’ll be noisy, even with the DG’s thick-pile carpet. I pull the fabric ladder out of the rucksack and start unrolling it. It’s around six feet long. Should do the trick. Securely fastening one end around the window frame, I drop the ladder down into the house.

  No time to think about how stupid this is, I’m going in, now. The ladder bends and strains as it takes the weight of my first foot inside the house. Moving as quickly as I can, I’m holding my breath. I’m facing the wall so I can’t see the main space behind me; just the plaster, this ladder and the rungs beneath me. Desperate not to get my feet tangled and caught in the fabric, I keep lowering myself down. Almost there. Keep going.

  Shit. What’s that noise? Sounds like the bottom of the ladder is banging against the wall. Stay still, Logan! The noise is getting louder. Fuck! It’s footsteps racing up the stairs behind me, growing louder. Haven’t got enough time to get back out. Shit, Logan, think!

  The footsteps are almost on me, and I hear the unmistakable sound of a top slide being cocked on a pistol. ‘Don’t fucking move!’

  19

  ‘I’m not trying to steal anything, I swear!’ My protestation of innocence doesn’t quite go to plan as I feel a sharp, hard jab straight into my right kidney, buckling my body.

  ‘Slowly, move down the ladder, SLOWLY!’

  One of the DG’s protection team. The fact he’s giving me commands and punching me instead of putting two 9mm rounds into the back of my head is a good thing, but fucking painful. Rotating away from the wall, I move down the last four rungs of the ladder to yet more barking.

  Six feet tall. Stocky. Clean-shaven. Polo shirt. Trousers. Smart comfortable shoes. SIG Sauer 228 aimed directly at my head. There must be cameras round here that I missed. The barrel of his weapon doesn’t falter in its aim. If I twitch the wrong way he’s pulling that trigger twice. I need to disarm him mentally, not to get out of here, but to stay alive.