Timebomb : A Thriller (9781468300093)

by Seymour, Gerald

  ‘Right, I’m watching and observing and—’

  ‘And you’re talking, which you shouldn’t be. You may scratch your bum or pick your nose if you have to, but don’t talk. Just wait and watch.’

  A man in a heavy windcheater, black, without a distinguishing logo, idled past them. Lawson had no eye contact with him, had no need to … and he doubted that Davies had noticed him.

  It was one of those City streets that the sun rarely penetrated. Too narrow, with too many high buildings lining it, this street had a built-in greyness. The old stonework on either side was stained dark from a near-century of fuel emissions. And it was empty. Wouldn’t be empty in three-quarters of an hour when the City workers spilled out of the doors, came to smoke or buy a sandwich or elbow into the wine bars, but the time for the exodus had not yet come.

  Damn all to watch and precious nothing to observe. Yes, there was the newspaper-seller with his small portable stall, and a van had drawn up, dumped an early-edition bundle on the pavement, then sped off, and a man in a black anorak, who wore a fleece under it and had its hood up, had bought a copy and was now leaning against a wall, studying the pages intently – wouldn’t have been the stock-market indices but the dogs running that night at Catford or the horses that afternoon, wherever … But his attention was on a dark doorway that hardly showed in the street’s shadow and which was on the far side from the newspaper stall and the guy who examined runners. A commissionaire, in uniform, with old medal ribbons, had come out of that door briefly and smoked half of a rolled fag, then pinched it out, replaced what was left in a tin box and retreated back inside.

  Luke Davies – because the awkward, rude bastard had starved him of information – did not know how long he would be left stuck on the pavement like a scarecrow in a field. Another three-quarters of an hour and the workers would be flushed out of the buildings, and he reckoned it a fair chance that a hand would clamp on his shoulder and he’d hear, ‘Hello, Luke, how’re you doing?’ and he’d be confronted with someone who had been at East European and Slavonic Studies or had sat the civil-service entry papers with him or the Foreign and Commonwealth exam. ‘Did you stay in? I didn’t. This is where the money is. Afraid the money was where I went – but good to see you.’ At least there would be no one from school. A comprehensive sink school in Sheffield did not supply ambitious recruits to the City, and those of his year were on building sites, driving white vans, or squaddies in some God-forsaken desert. If money had been Luke Davies’s target he would not have been a civil servant, a junior officer in the Secret Intelligence Service and living in Camden Town in what was little more than a student bed-sit. He shared a terrace house with two teachers, a junior at Revenue & Customs, a trainee Tesco manager and a guy from the Probation Service, and didn’t see much of them. He heard a sharp hiss of breath behind him. God’s.

  Funny thing, he hadn’t seen the black Audi saloon with the smoked windows come towards them on the street, then pull in outside that office door, flush up to the pavement and over double yellow lines – and hadn’t seen the man in the black windcheater with the hood up abandon his study of the horses’ form, and drift forward. Had seen damn all. Blinked, looked around. They hadn’t been in the street when the car had arrived. Their call had come, directing them to the location, after the car’s passenger had been dropped, and then the Audi must have headed away to find a place to wait until telephoned for the pick-up. He recognized the driver, who came round the back of the car, opened the rear door and left it ajar. The engine was running.

  In Luke Davies’s ear: ‘Don’t bloody move. Move and I’ll kick you.’

  He recognized the driver from the photograph in the file he had been shown that morning. Then he saw that the black windcheater was in the next doorway and had the newspaper half across his face, but it was held in only one hand and the other was deep in a pocket.

  Grigori came out first from the plate-glass inner door, crossed the pavement, stood at the Audi’s rear door and held it wide open. Carrick had done a crash bodyguard course, two weeks’ residential from people who specialized in the private-sector market, and it had cost SCD10 more than two thousand of their budget. He thought then that Grigori would have failed the course, was listless and bored and didn’t do the drills. He had his head down, as if he was examining the shine of his shoes.

  The Bossman followed, came through the door, then hesitated, maybe said something to whoever had escorted him down to the building’s lobby, as if it was a final exchange in whatever business had been done. Carrick was at the driver’s door, had only to drop into the seat, do the gears and they’d be moving. The Bossman was on the pavement, but still talking … then coming for the car.

  Carrick saw the man, black against the grey stonework, emerge from the next doorway, and he wasn’t right. He was dressed casual and shabby, a layabout’s gear, and had a wino’s stubble where the cheeks and chin were not hidden by the hood, but he moved lightly on his feet, as if in an athlete’s dance, and closed on his Bossman.

  Damn, damn – fuck— Carrick saw the pistol in the man’s hand. Short, stubby, a black barrel, same as the sleeve of the windcheater. Tried to shout and hadn’t a voice.

  The arm came up, the pistol raised. The Bossman saw the man, gaped. Carrick came from the car. Where was the lump – where was fucking Grigori? Saw Grigori, saw him cringing. Saw Grigori pressed back against the car body, and his hands were up at his mouth; he heard Grigori’s shrill little cry. The pistol wavered in its aim.

  Carrick charged. No thoughts in his mind. He made no evaluation. Went on instinct. Ran. Carrick came round the car’s bonnet, half tripped on the kerb and launched. Was brain-empty. As he hit the man, shoulder against stomach, he heard the first shot fired.

  Was deafened, couldn’t hear. He might have shouted, might not. The second shot was fired and his head was a few centimetres from the barrel. Realized then that he wasn’t the target, that his Bossman was.

  The man went down. They were on the pavement together. A first sensation, Carrick smelled cordite, sharp, from the pistol and fast food, chilli, on the breath. He heard the grunt, and knew it was an older man because the stubble was greying, pepperpot colours.

  Turned him over halfway, fists grabbing the windcheater, then smashed his right knee up into the man’s groin. Did it hard, and heard the gasp. Heard the clatter as the pistol was dropped. Dared to look away, raked a glance, and saw Grigori still frozen, the Bossmann on his knees, his hands over his head, in the middle of the pavement.

  One hand holding the windcheater, the other clenched. Punched a short-arm jab into the man’s face and felt the impact of his knuckles on the nose bone. Carrick scrabbled with his leg. The pistol went off the pavement, skidding across the slabs, and disappeared under the Audi.

  He pushed himself up. The man groaned. His hands were over his privates, and he seemed to sing out his breath.

  Carrick wasn’t a policeman. He was in the employ of Josef Goldmann. The play-act had been automatic. He lifted the Bossman up, held him almost as if he was a child, shifted him, legs trailing, to the car, and threw him inside and slammed the door. Was at Grigori’s side, had a fist in his jacket, by the neck, and flung him into the front passenger seat.

  He ran to the driver’s door, dropped inside. Went into gear, surged, felt the slight bump and knew they’d gone over the pistol in the gutter. Realized that Grigori hadn’t closed his door, reached across and shut it.

  Carrick drove away.

  At the end of the street, alert from the adrenaline rush, his eyes went up to the mirror. He was ready for a following car, for a second stage in the attack, but he saw the man crawling on the pavement and then it looked as if he put two things, Carrick didn’t know what, into his pocket. Then he was in the gutter where the pistol had been, then shambling away. He swung his eyes down, saw the street junction clear and powered right.

  His heart pounded. His arms were leaden and he clung to the wheel. He felt the Bossman’s fingers on hi
s jacket and on his flesh, as if he was reassurance, but he couldn’t hear what his Bossman tried to say.

  He drove away from the City. Beside him, Grigori trembled and was ashen pale. Behind him the fist held his jacket and would not release him.

  It had all been reflex, and Carrick could not have explained it.

  The street was empty except for the newspaper-seller. Then the commissionaire came down the same steps, stood on the same pavement, opened his tin, took out the rest of the cigarette and lit it, puffed, dropped it and ground it out where two men had struggled, then kicked it over the kerb.

  It was as if, Luke Davies thought, nothing had happened. He could make no sense of it. There were no gawpers at upper windows, no crowds gathering and no sound of sirens. A woman had appeared, he did not know from where, and bought a newspaper. A delivery lorry had pulled up and was unloading and had its hazard lights flashing. The man in the black windcheater and the hood had disappeared from the far end of the street. He was trained to retain in his mind, with clarity, what he had seen, but he doubted himself.

  He heard the snigger, then: ‘Come on, the show’s over.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Lawson … At the risk of sounding a complete idiot, did I see an armed attack on Josef Goldmann? Did I see Carrick?’

  ‘No names – highly unprofessional to use names. He’s November.’

  ‘Did I see Carrick fight off an assassin?’

  ‘I told you to observe. It’s all a matter of perception.’

  ‘And I did observe, and would have run to help him if you hadn’t stopped me.’ His arm had been held in a vice grip, more strength in it than he would have reckoned on Lawson’s having.

  ‘If you had broken free of me I’d have kicked you – as I promised – and you wouldn’t have walked for a week.’

  ‘What did I see?’

  ‘Decide for yourself. I don’t do twenty-four seven nannying.’

  Lawson had gone, walked away, and Luke Davies had to skip along to catch him. Confusion reigned because he didn’t know what he’d seen – what should have been clear was misted.

  ‘Without him I was dead. I have no doubt of it – dead.’

  In short, darting steps, Josef Goldmann paced the salon carpet. His wife watched him and knew better than to interrupt at a crisis moment.

  ‘You see it, your life – it’s as they tell you – at that one moment. You’re about to go to Heaven, Hell, wherever one goes, and you see your life. It’s extraordinary that you see so much. I was in Perm, in Moscow, I was with you, with the children. All of it went by me when I was low on the pavement and I was looking at a pistol and its aim was coming down to the line of my head. I could see the finger on the trigger. Believe me, the finger on the trigger was white from the pressure. The whiter the skin, the greater the pressure. The greater the pressure, the sooner he shoots, and I am dead – but Johnny hit him.’

  He babbled, was incoherent, and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief to clear off the sweat from the fear he had felt. The profits of violence had never come close enough to touch him before.

  ‘Do I understand that I have enemies? Of course. Understand that you, loved one, or the children should be targets? Of course. I never quite understood that I could be shot – kidnapped for ransom, yes, but not killed like a stray dog, put down in the street – and it was so close. A half-second more … He came like a lion.’

  He stopped abruptly, thought his legs would no longer support him, slumped into a chair. Many times in the past, in Perm and in Moscow, he had reported to Reuven that a client had defaulted on payment or used fraudulent bank drafts in settlement of debt and in two days, three, a week, the photograph would be in the paper of a body splayed out among bloodstains, of a car destroyed by explosives, of a petrol drum with a man’s legs protruding as it was winched from a river. But he, the launderer, had almost – in London – believed himself immune from danger.

  ‘Last evening we were among sophisticates. This morning I was with men who deal in money, have villas, play tennis, have … Then I am dead, but for Johnny. I tell you, I wasn’t brave, I cowered and waited for the shot. Almost I was screaming for him to hurry, to end the agony. Grigori, useless imbecile, has legs of lead – he didn’t move. I think he was crying, and he’s supposed to protect me! Johnny did that. From this moment, this very moment, I tell you that I’ll go nowhere without Johnny. Johnny beside me, in front and behind me. He will be with me.’

  He leaned forward, reached across the coffee-table, the fashion magazines and hospitality brochures for Henley and Ascot, took his wife’s hand and held it tight.

  ‘Would Viktor have done better? Would Reuven’s man, Mikhail? I doubt it. When Reuven was shot, Mikhail killed the man, but it was after Reuven was hit. Johnny dedicated himself to me, me. I am only his employer, not of his blood. He might have been shot himself. I asked him, in the car, why he had – almost – sacrificed himself to protect me. He said, very simply, “It’s what I’m paid to do, sir.” That’s the man he is. Incredible. I owe him my life.’

  She bent her head and kissed his hand.

  ‘He will go everywhere with me. Everywhere. He goes with me tomorrow.’

  Chapter 5

  10 April 2008

  ‘Mrs Goldmann requires to see you upstairs,’ Viktor said.

  He couldn’t read Viktor, impassive, unemotional and masked. Grigori was different. Grigori had sat in the ready room all afternoon, and hadn’t spoken, just sat with sullen, blurred, glazed eyes focused on the middle distance. He seemed to see and note nothing. Grigori did not have to speak to betray his feelings. Grigori was a failure and Carrick assumed he was spoiled goods, would be replaced at a time of convenience, never again trusted. The older and more senior man, Viktor, had been closeted with the Bossman and the Bossman’s wife upstairs, and Carrick assumed the crisis would have been thrashed out. Sitting in the ready room off the kitchen, with Grigori not speaking to him, Carrick had calmed, had lost the knots in his arm muscles and the slackness at his chin, had felt strong enough to get the kids from school.

  He pushed himself up from the chair. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Viktor held the door open for him. It was not a gesture of respect but an indication that the summons was immediate. Two things had happened, and he understood neither. Simon Rawlings should have been at the wheel of the Audi going into the City; had been removed on a drink-driving charge, but did not use alcohol. An armed attack had taken place, an attempt to kill: nothing in the atmosphere of the household or from the body language of his employer had shown him to be fearful of a killing strike.

  He went up the main staircase, with its gold-leaf paint, with the softly lit pictures at eye level. He paused to rub hard with the heel of his hand at the stain on his knee from the pavement, then at the smear on his elbow.

  When he had come off the training course, had won his admittance to SCD10, Carrick had been told: ‘We think we’re going to like what we’re getting from you. What we appreciate most is that you’re not painted over with police procedures – you are still, at heart, a squaddie. We reckon you behave more in the old military characteristics than police stereotypes. It’s a good legend you have, the paratroop background, and it’s checkable. We can use you as a contract hit guy, as a muscle doorman and as protection. It’ll go fine. Welcome to the team.’ The controller, George, had been allocated to run him, Rob had been the cover officer on his first job and Katie sorted out the office. Katie had told him, shouldn’t have, that his first rating had had a handwritten paragraph in the margin: ‘… has common sense, is down to earth, above all has bottle’. On his first job, he had been assigned to a team of north London detectives, with club owners as a target.

  Ahead of him, Viktor knocked at the door, didn’t wait for an answer, and opened it. He saw the family on the settee. Josef Goldmann had Peter sitting astride his knees and Esther Goldmann had Selma cuddled close to her. He was ushered forward.

  The club owners were Jed and Baz – brother
s. They had a place off Green Lanes, in Haringey, had made an alliance with the Turks there, and were careful, clever and did Class A stuff. A Chis had done the digging to get him in. The Chis was a Covert Human Intelligence Source, a low-life rag, and he’d made introductions, then been paid to fuck off up north, and was looking at a tenner inside if he reneged on the deal.

  For seven months, Carrick had been on the door and inside, but he’d taken a night off when the uniforms did the raid. Wasn’t there to rubberneck, and enough Class A stuff was on the premises – as he’d said it would be, and where – for him not to be needed as a prosecution witness: that was about as good as it got. If an undercover could do the business, and not have to go into court and give evidence, it was big-bonus time.After the raid and the arrests, he’d had one drink with the detectives, just the one, and he’d gone off into the night, leaving them to get well pissed up. They’d never know his name, only the bogus identity he’d assumed. They’d never see or hear of him again. About three months ago, he’d read in the evening paper that Jed and Baz had gone down for fifteen years each. Not bad blokes, actually, for company, quite amusing but over-greedy.