Capture or Kill

by Tom Marcus

  Think Logan, THINK!

  I’ve got to get the DG to appear, but I can’t tell this guy who I am or anything about Blindeye. Who could I be, sneaking into this house, who doesn’t pose a threat?

  ‘My dad. I’ve come to see my dad.’

  Fuck knows how I remembered this. The DG is probably old enough to be my dad, just. He mentioned having a son briefly at the underground garages when he tried to recruit me. Maybe it will be enough to get him up these stairs. I’m hoping it will put enough doubt into this bodyguard’s mind that he doesn’t shoot me. We all have a past, and if the DG hasn’t seen or heard from his son for years, it could just give enough plausibility for me to survive the next few seconds. Please God, make this work.

  No doubt another member of the protection detail will be guarding him now. It’s gone noisy, I need to do everything I can to get the DG up here to see my face without screaming Blindeye at the top of my voice.

  ‘With your right hand, I need you to unzip your jacket and show me you’re not carrying anything you shouldn’t. Do it now!’

  ‘Dad! DAD!’ I shout as hard as I can without being aggressive. I need the DG to see my face.

  It’s not working. The pistol lurches towards me. Fuck. Using all my ability to try and live this cover, I plead, ‘Please don’t shoot.’

  Angling my head, I try to project my voice down the stairs. ‘DAD! I need you!’

  I see it coming but let it happen. The leading foot of this bodyguard ploughs into my groin, forcing me back against the wall as the pistol edges even closer to my head. I can’t get into a fight with this guy. I’d be dead in seconds.

  ‘DAD, PLEASE!’

  Just as I’m about to be barked at again, the DG pops his head around the corner at the bottom of the stairs. ‘DAD, IT’S ME! ME!’

  There’s another guy trying to force the DG back into cover, but he resists while he takes a second to realize it’s me. His face turns to thunder as he disappears. I can hear low mumblings, sounds like he’s briefly explaining all this to his wife. Then he reappears. Walking up the stairs in a dressing gown, face like thunder.

  ‘Thank you, Edward. I can deal with this.’

  The bodyguard relaxes slightly as the DG is now alongside him. ‘You sure, sir? I can escort him out?’

  Looking at me then back at the bodyguard, the DG reassures him. ‘It’s fine. Let me talk to my son up here for a moment, please.’ Edward presses the de-cocking lever on his pistol to bring the hammer forward before he holsters the weapon. It’s still made ready as he moves back downstairs.

  The DG takes me by my arm, rounding the corner of the hallway so we can’t be seen by anyone downstairs, and whispers with venom. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Logan?’

  ‘Sir, I need your help. The hostage situation with the Foreign Secretary, we need to buy some time to work a theory out.’ He tries to interrupt but I refuse to relent; we haven’t got the time. ‘We think there’s a possibility the brothers are at a different location and the strike team waiting outside, ready to breach, could be walking into a trap.’

  The DG holds his hands up; he’s not getting this. ‘Slow down, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Sorry, of course. OK, we saw Iron Sword and Stone Fist buying a video camera and a webcam, and the true location of the video feed hasn’t been found yet. We also saw the brothers leaving an address in Liverpool with two large bags. Large enough to carry five times the amount of explosives found in that rental van. We think it’s a set-up, and if they try and rescue the Foreign Secretary the brothers will blow the building up, and then kill him at a completely different site, before slipping away.’

  He’s trying to absorb what I’m saying but it’s still not sinking in, I can tell. ‘We?’ His question shows all over his face as the cooler air flows in through the gap I’ve made in the window.

  ‘Blindeye,’ I respond.

  Silence. He peeks over the banister to make sure no one is at the bottom of the stairs listening, then faces me again. He’s wearing the same steely look he did at the covert garages, when he first recruited me. His voice takes on a different level of seriousness and an even lower volume, guaranteeing only I can hear what’s about to be said.

  ‘Logan. I haven’t authorized your team to start on any operations yet.’

  Holy shit. He’s not the type of person to joke. I can’t think of a response.

  ‘Who the fuck has been giving you operations? What have you been doing?’

  ‘Jeremy Leyton-Hughes. He’s running our ops. He’s the conduit between you and us, right?’

  ‘Jesus Christ. We haven’t told him anything. You’re meant to be on standby to react.’

  I reply with my own ‘We?’ this time.

  ‘Yes. We!’ He doesn’t like having to explain himself but knows he has to now. ‘Blindeye has been set up to be used by me and my counterparts at Vauxhall and Cheltenham. Tell me now, what have you done?’

  I had no idea Blindeye was at the full disposal of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. This is bad. Fucking hell, Leyton-Hughes had me kill someone. ‘Boss, if you haven’t authorized any of the jobs then he’s playing his own angle. But right now we need to buy time on this hostage situation. That strike team can’t get blown up and the Foreign Secretary will not get his head cut off on British soil with the whole world watching.’

  An angry sigh leaves his lungs. ‘How sure are you that the brothers aren’t at this house? And how can you be sure they have more explosives than those put in the van we found?’

  ‘We’re not yet, we just need a bit of time. We have no intelligence to say they have more explosives than you found, we have no intelligence to say that they purposely left the hire van there to be found, so they could trick Special Forces into thinking this is a straightforward hostage situation. Is there any chance—’

  He cuts me off. ‘I’ll speak to the PM now, keep your phone on.’ There is no need to ask if he has my number. He’s in charge of MI5, of course he has my fucking number. Looking up at the missing window and ladder, he ushers me downstairs.

  ‘I left my bag on the roof,’ I explain.

  Another sigh of frustration. ‘I’ll sort it, you need to leave.’

  Walking down the flights of stairs towards the front door, I can’t see any of the protection detail, but their presence is felt. Almost like they are purposely staying hidden from me. Maybe the whole son story played out. Well, that’s the DG’s problem to handle.

  As the DG opens the door to let me out, he makes sure he stays behind it so he’s not seen from the street. Edward appears again from a side room. ‘Edward, my son left a bag on the roof, can you collect it and bring it straight to me. Don’t look inside it, please.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Edward runs upstairs to retrieve the bag, and presumably to fix the window I’ve removed.

  The DG nods at me to leave, and I can tell he’s in work mode. ‘Go. I’ll be in touch.’

  I make my way straight back to the car; I need to get a message to the team. I leave the engine off and take my phone out of the glovebox to type a text message. I need to be careful, in case Jeremy is monitoring our phones.

  Alan, Alex, fancy meeting up in London for a bit of R&R? Ran into an old friend down here who’s doing a big event, tons of people. Fancy it?

  Send. Hopefully they will see the references – old friend, big event, tons of people – and read between the lines that I’ve managed to speak to the DG and we’re on.

  It takes less than a minute for Alex and Alan to reply to the group message.

  Alex: I’m in. Setting off now. Find us a hotel close by?

  Alan: Yep, see you in a few hours.

  Great, now we’re covered. Just. Although I think it’s Jeremy who’s probably covering his arse right now.

  Now we just need to work out if the brothers really are in the Middleton Road address, where everyone thinks they are, and then work out if we are being played by Leyton-Hughes and, if so, just how fucking da
ngerous this situation is.

  But first, I need to find a hotel.

  20

  I kill the engine in the chain hotel’s car park on Dalston Lane, just north of Middleton Road, and send Alex and Alan another quick text message:

  Hotel E8 3DF. Parking N1 4BY. Booking under Mr Davies.

  Making sure I get my grab bag from the boot with the essentials – toothbrush, clean pants and socks, phone charger, spare top – I pay for parking and move quickly towards the hotel.

  This place is used by travelling sales reps and contractors from all over the country, arriving at all hours. This is nothing unusual for the front desk. The receptionist pays me no interest until I start talking. ‘Hi there, I booked a couple of rooms online, one twin, one single. Mr Davies . . .’ It’s the first time I’ve used my fake identity.

  She smiles professionally. ‘Have you got your reference number, Mr Davies?’

  I give her the number and get two key cards in return; one for me and Alan to share, one for Alex. Not that we will be here long. I get a reply from Alex:

  Thanks mate, we’re probably about 3/4 hours away.

  Perfect, time for some sleep. I send a quick reply as I head to mine and Alan’s room. As I drop my bag inside, I can instantly feel my body shutting down. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. Feels like I’ve been running on empty, fuelled by adrenaline for so long now. It’s times like this I fall into soldier mode. Admin. Get your admin sorted before you get some sleep. Door locked and on chain, chair butt up against the door. I grab a glass from the side and balance it just enough on the arm rest so the slightest of movements will make it fall. Phone on charge, volume turned up.

  After using the toilet, I fill the other glass with water from the tap and move towards the beds. Two singles. I’d love to strip off and climb in, to sleep for hours, but I know I’ve got to remain sharp, ready to react. Collapsing on top, I don’t feel very sharp at all. Allowing my eyes to close, I whisper to myself, ‘No nightmares. No nightmares. No nightmares. No . . .’

  The sound of my phone receiving a text message acts like an electric shock to my body. I bolt out of bed; it’s Alan. We’re here. Replying immediately, I send my room number and move to the door. Taking the glass off the chair and shifting both out of the way, I wait behind the door, listening.

  Removing the chain, I hear more than one set of footsteps and wait for the knock on the door. Doesn’t take long.

  I let Alex and Alan in with a smile; they look as tired as I feel. No one says anything yet. Alan immediately opens his backpack on the bed and takes out a handful of small pouches made of the same material we used to block Stormy Weather’s tracking anklet. We each take one and place our phones inside. Alan takes all the pouches and places them in the bathroom. He even closes the door. It’s finally time to update them both.

  ‘So I saw him. It’s good and bad news. The good news is he’s getting us more time, I don’t know how much, so we have to act fast. But there’s a problem. The DG hasn’t given Leyton-Hughes the authorization to use us yet. We’re meant to be waiting for our first job.’

  ‘What?’ Alex can’t believe what I’m saying. ‘How, and more importantly why, would he have us going on operations that haven’t been approved or directed by the DG?’

  Alan looks genuinely shocked, a frown appearing on his face that shows how angry he is at being deceived by Jeremy.

  ‘I met the DG inside his house. I asked him for more time to find out whether or not the brothers really are at the address being surrounded or not. I told him about the large bags carried away from the address in Liverpool, the video camera and webcam we saw them buy, and that’s when he stopped me to say he hadn’t authorized Leyton-Hughes to start operations yet.’

  Alex sits back on the desk, shocked, as Alan slumps on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands and staring down at the floor.

  ‘He also said it’s a joint agency team. Him, the DG from Vauxhall and the West Country.’

  The anger spewing out of Alan very nearly affects the volume of his voice, but we still need to keep quiet here. ‘So everything we’ve done so far has been off Leyton-Hughes’s own fucking back?’

  Nodding slowly, I reply. ‘Yes. But the DG knows now, he said he’d deal with it, and asked us to find out if the brothers are at this house or not and to keep my phone on.’

  He puts his rucksack onto his shoulder and gets ready to get straight back to the search, presumably from the back of his van. But he looks dejected. ‘I’m nearly there. I’m almost positive they aren’t at that address. From what I can tell, all the neighbours around the house have been evacuated. There is very little internet usage in that defined area now, apart from large data packets being constantly received. There’s near constant upload as well, but that always starts slightly after data comes in. I haven’t identified if that’s the actual feed of the video yet. If there’s anything you can do on the ground, it would be really helpful.’

  As he moves towards the bathroom to get our phones, he has an idea. ‘Of course, fucking hell.’ Frantically removing his backpack and sliding his laptop out of it, he places it on the desk next to where Alex is sat. ‘Guys,’ he whispers to prevent his excitement raising the level of his voice, ‘while looking at the GPS movements of the phones MI5 traced to the house in Middleton Road, I had a look at the call and text history.’

  Alan opens up a file I don’t recognize in a format I’ve never seen before. He sees the confusion on my face. ‘Ignore all this, it’s cell tower information, but here is the actual message. We don’t know if this is definitely one of the brothers, because no names are used and this side of the conversation is on an unregistered phone. Look here.’ Alan points to the screen as we huddle round.

  You betta get rid of it. I ain’t paying for shit. It’s not mine

  Alan moves his finger past another load of data to show us the next few replies.

  It is yours. I don’t want anything to do with you. Stop texting me.

  Bitch you better get rid of it

  Blocked your number, goodbye.

  ‘I do have an address and name for you for the polite side of the conversation: Emily Gordon, 63 Grosvenor Road, Borehamwood.’

  Brilliant, we have two leads now; Alan working on the electronic side of things and a possible ex-girlfriend to see. Although we still don’t know if this is definitely a text message sent by one of the brothers, as the phone could’ve been stolen. They are extremely good at keeping their operational security tight. ‘Alex, why don’t we go and see this Emily Gordon, see if she knows the brothers? It’s a long shot, but worth trying.’

  Alex agrees. ‘Perfect. If Alan finds the true source of the video feed and it is different to the house they have surrounded right now, it can’t be that far away, can it?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Alan replies. ‘I’ll stay here and do my thing and that way I can cover for you with Leyton-Hughes if he tries to call you in early.’

  Packing my phone charger up and grabbing my bag, I ask Alan one more thing,

  ‘Alan, I take it the Foreign Secretary wasn’t carrying his phone?’

  Alan’s head shakes in unison with his sinking shoulders as he mutters, ‘His phone is dead.’

  There’s a sense in the room, although no one says as much, that we are doing the right thing. The rest of the team are holding back in case Blindeye gets called in, they can cover for us. But we’ve been set up by Jeremy Leyton-Hughes, and to what end is unclear. We were designed to operate independently, to be the deniable solution the DGs needed, but so far everything we’ve done has been built on one big lie.

  We’re all tired; the driving takes its toll on you. Hollywood and glossy TV shows would have you believe you can just hop on a private jet or helicopter and can cover hundreds of miles in a matter of minutes. But think about your daily commutes. An hour? Two? More? Imagine doing that all the time, travelling three hours to find a target and then following them all day, sometimes ten hours, eighteen hours non-s
top, and then travelling back to get a few hours’ sleep before getting back out on the ground again. It takes a huge amount of energy and resilience, and right now we need every last bit of our reserves. If we don’t keep pushing and find out for sure what’s happening, a lot of people could die. Not to mention the huge propaganda victory we’d be handing to terrorists all over the world if the brothers succeed.

  Thankfully, Borehamwood wasn’t a long drive at all, but we still arrive at the crack of dawn, too early to go banging on doors. Alex and I sit outside her address for as long as we dare wait before knocking on the front door. It’s 6 a.m., and the morning sun is already climbing its way up. Emily Gordon is likely going to be pissed off with this, I would be too, if I had two people knocking on my door at this time of day.

  It takes a while, but eventually a heavy lock is operated and a woman in her mid-twenties, wrapped in a thick dressing gown, peaks out from behind the open door.

  Alex takes the lead. ‘Emily Gordon? I’m sorry it’s early, but we have some questions for you. Can we come in?’ This is a bold move, because we aren’t police, nor do we have any police cover IDs.

  She could call our bluff at any minute. ‘I already told you lot everything I know.’

  Bingo. Alex has found the right route in and can push for the answers we need. ‘Yes, and we do appreciate it, Emily, but we have a couple of urgent questions to ask you. Then we’ll be out of your way, I promise. A lot of people could get hurt if we don’t get to talk to you.’ Alex is playing on Emily’s maternal instinct. Emily must be in the very early stages of her pregnancy, no bump showing underneath the dressing gown. She reluctantly lets us in and invites us to sit on a cold leather sofa.

  Emily looks tired as she covers herself up with a large blanket on a chair opposite us. Alex dives right in, not giving Emily the thinking time to ask for our IDs. Special Branch must have been here after MI5 went through the text messages, to rule her out as an accomplice. ‘Is he the father?’ Nodding towards her stomach, Alex is fishing for her to open up by appearing to be sensitive.