Hunted

by James Patterson

  “The body dumped in the street—it’s deliberate flaunting,” said Shelley thoughtfully, disgust in his stomach. “They could dispose of it, but they allow the bodies to be discovered as a way of publicizing the kill. It gives the players peace of mind. They get to see the cover-up happening in real time.”

  “Exactly. And the fact that they’re able to do that points to a high-level conspiracy of silence. I have to assume that there are eyes on this at every level. Anything I do to draw attention to myself…” He tailed off, before adding, “To know more, I need someone on the inside.”

  “And you think that’s me, do you?”

  “I’m hoping.”

  “Well, you can stop hoping.”

  “Shelley, come on. Don’t you want justice?”

  “It’s not that easy,” said Shelley. “Even if I buy into your theory, there are other considerations, other responsibilities. I’m sorry, you’re going to have to find another way.”

  Claridge gave a dry laugh. “What do you suggest I do? Send a group email to all of Thames House, Vauxhall Cross, and Parliament? ‘Could anyone who doesn’t hunt homeless men please get in touch?’ You fail to see the problem, Shelley. The problem is I don’t know who to trust within the intelligence community; the problem is finding someone I know is clean, and right now it’s a straight choice between you and the postman. If the postman had your skills, I’d probably be talking to him.”

  “So conduct your own low-level investigation. Gather evidence. Do it the old-school way.”

  “I wouldn’t last five minutes.”

  “Find a sympathetic journalist. Go public.”

  “I want to put a stop to this revolting practice, not bring this country to its knees. And that means no publicity, no public inquiry, no patsies taking the fall. It means giving these people a spanking they won’t recover from.”

  “And you want me as chief spanker. An assassination job. Get inside and take out the two mystery men running the organization.”

  “Whatever you need to do. This is the blackest of black ops, Shelley.”

  “No. I’m sorry, but the answer is still no.”

  “Shelley, we need you.”

  “So does my wife. So does my dog.”

  Shelley opened the door and stepped out of the BMW.

  “You won’t be able to live with it,” said Claridge. “You won’t be able to live with knowing, and doing nothing about it.”

  “Well, fuck you very much for that, then,” sighed Shelley, and slammed the door.

  That night Shelley lay awake, with Lucy snoring gently beside him, his mind working overtime. He reached over to shake Lucy’s shoulder.

  She mumbled in her sleep.

  “Lucy, wake up. There’s something I need to ask you.”

  An hour later he called Claridge.

  “Promise me this: if anything happens to me, you and your friend will see to it that Lucy is looked after?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Then I’m in,” said Shelley. “I’m in the game.”

  Part Two

  Chapter 8

  The homeless man made his way along Commercial Street in Whitechapel, maintaining a discreet distance between himself and the thin-faced man he was following.

  The thin-faced man went by the name of Colin. The homeless man answered to Steve, but had only used that name for the past four months. Before that he was Shelley.

  Colin entered the Ten Bells, and Shelley stood with the smokers gathered outside, enjoying the fact that his presence made them nervous. He gazed through the window of the pub. Inside, Colin had met another man, this one a bit of a snappy dresser, complete with a tan leather jacket and a smart pair of Red Wing boots that Shelley couldn’t help but admire.

  He watched the snappy dresser sip from a pint, nodding and listening to Colin, who stood with his back to the window, preventing Shelley from being able to lip-read. Whatever it was that Colin was saying, it seemed to meet with the approval of the well-dressed man.

  No doubt about it, in Shelley’s mind: this was the next link in the chain.

  As he stood there, Shelley caught sight of himself in the reflection on the window: old jeans; a pair of black leather loafers worn through; a sweater beneath a hooded; zipped-up jacket; and a scarf wound around his neck. His hair was lank and greasy, his cheeks sunken, a sprinkling of stubble. He looked the part, but that was just it—he was playing a role. He endured the constant nagging guilt of knowing that his appearance was a disguise, whereas Cookie had been living it for real.

  “We know Cookie was registered with a night-center in St. Martin’s and a Salvation Army hostel in Westminster,” Claridge had said. “According to the outreach workers who spoke to the police, he had the possibility of a studio flat in Wood Green. Now, I’m assuming that these people recruit under false pretenses, probably with the promise of a pay packet at the end of the hunt. Possibly Cookie wanted it for this flat, so that he could get back on his feet.”

  “I’ll need a new identity. Can you arrange that?”

  Claridge came up trumps. “From now on, you’re Captain Steven Hodges, Royal Marine commando. He was deceased, but I’ve been able to un-decease him in your honor. He’s the same age, same blood type, no photographs or fingerprints on record.” He handed over the record. “Here, study this.”

  It was the last time they’d met. Two days later, with his new identity fully absorbed, Shelley had left his home in Stepney Green, kissing Lucy first and then Frankie the dog, before bidding them both good-bye, departing as David Shelley and entering a new life on the street as Captain Steve Hodges.

  It was almost worrying how quickly he’d adapted. As Claridge had said, the streets were full of ex-servicemen, and they all liked to say that sleeping rough was nothing compared to bedding down in the freezing cold of an Afghan night. Shelley had to agree: Afghanistan was the most hostile environment he had ever known, roasting hot by day, bitterly cold by night, a terrain marked by razor-sharp rocks and stones and thistles that cut to the bone.

  The difference was that in Afghanistan you were mostly all the same, whether you were bedding down in the scrub or in the relative luxury of a cot back at operating base. You weren’t crouched beneath a bridge, trying to make a hobo stove and listening to the pop of champagne corks from a floating restaurant yards away. In the forces you looked out for your fellow man, it was practically the only reason you got up in the morning; you didn’t step over him on your way out of the Tube station going to work. You didn’t ignore him. It was that which made street life tougher than life in the forces. The men and women on the street sometimes liked to pretend there was a sense of solidarity, but they all knew it was dog eat dog. You were alone on the street. In the forces you could depend on two things: your friend was your friend, and your enemy was your enemy. Homeless, you fought on all fronts, not least the gnawing of your own soul.

  After a couple of months, Shelley had got to know the street teams. These were volunteers who came out at night, checking on people’s welfare and taking men and women to the shelters. Shelley took a bed in the St. Martin’s shelter when he could, getting to know the street people. Watching, waiting, observing.

  Now, after four months on the streets, he believed he’d identified a possible scout—a man he thought might be recruiting for the hunt. He was a rat-faced character by the name of Colin, who hung around the homeless and made a nuisance of himself at shelters. And he seemed particularly interested in a fellow named Barron.

  Shelley had been aware of Barron for some time. Like Shelley, Barron hadn’t been on the street for long. Unlike Shelley, he’d made his presence felt, constantly bragging about being an ex-Para. What was the old joke? How do you tell a Para? You don’t have to. He’ll tell you.

  Barron was brawny. A bluebird tattoo peeped from under the collar of his hooded sweatshirt, and he was missing a couple of teeth. He was also, as far as Shelley could tell, a bully and a thug. Queue for the kitchen? Barron barged in. One
cot remaining? That was for Barron. Pretty female volunteer? Barron was the one leering at her.

  As well as letting it be known that he was an ex-Para, Barron had also been saying he was in line to make some easy money, that “certain people recognized talent when they saw it.” He’d been boasting about it that very morning at breakfast.

  “He wants to be careful, that one,” the man Shelley was sitting next to had said.

  “Oh yeah?” Shelley had replied. “Why’s that, then?”

  “Two of the men who got friendly with Colin ended up dead. That’s all I’m saying.”

  That was more than enough for Shelley. It was time, he had decided, to have a word with Colin. He had stuck to Barron and, sure enough, Colin had turned up for a quick word at one of the day shelters. There was a noticeable change in Barron when Colin was around, as though his presence reminded Barron to be discreet. When Colin had left the day center, Shelley had followed.

  Now Colin exited the Ten Bells and began to make his way back along Commercial Street. Shelley fell in alongside him.

  “Hello, mate,” he said.

  Colin didn’t break stride. “Yeah, mate, what can I do for you?” He wore a vinyl jacket and had a habit of shrugging his shoulders in it, like a man impersonating one of the gang members from West Side Story. He cast a sideways glance at Shelley. “Do I know you?”

  “You might have seen me at the shelters.”

  “I see a lot of people at the shelters. What’s on your mind?”

  “I need to talk about Barron.”

  Colin blinked, and it was enough to give Shelley the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

  “What about Barron?”

  Mixing truth and lies, Shelley plowed on. “He says he’s going to be making a bit of extra money, and it’s got something to do with you. Says you recognize a man of talent.”

  “I might have a job for him—why?” said Colin, recovering his composure.

  “I was thinking maybe I could do it better.”

  “And why might that be? You an ex-Para as well, are you?”

  “Royal Marine commando. And I’m in much better shape than he is.”

  “Fuck me, this isn’t a beauty contest, you know. Listen, mate, the position’s taken. I’ll bear your offer in mind. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut and your nose out of any business that doesn’t concern you. Consider that a warning, okay?”

  With that, Colin waved him off and sped away, leaving Shelley in his wake. Mission accomplished.

  Shelley stopped, not really caring that pedestrians had to step around him. It suddenly occurred to him how close to home he was—close enough that he could be there in ten minutes, knocking on the door, kissing Lucy and cuddling Frankie. “I just wanted to say hello. Just wanted to see your face…”

  For a moment or so the temptation to do it was almost overwhelming. But then he remembered that by talking to Colin he’d made himself visible. He was well aware that as soon as you popped your head over the parapet you made yourself a target. For all he knew, Colin could be making calls about him right now.

  With a heavy heart he made his way back to St. Martin’s. Usually he cut quite a figure on the street, even if he did say so himself. He had an eye for clothes; he looked good in a hat. But nobody checked him out now. There were none of the admiring glances from women that usually put a spring in his step. Other pedestrians looked through him or away, keen to avoid eye contact.

  No matter. He had an appointment to keep.

  Chapter 9

  Midday on Upper Street, Islington. Claridge drained the last of a McDonald’s Sprite and then, in one surreptitious movement, eased off the lid and slid something inside.

  Across the road he could see Shelley loitering outside the Tube station. He was unshaven, shabby, and a shadow of the man he’d first met, but still recognizably Shelley. The two made eye contact, but otherwise there was no sign they’d seen one another.

  As Shelley crossed the road, Claridge dropped the McDonald’s cup into a litter bin and turned smartly away. Shelley walked up to the bin, lifted out the cup, and moved off in the opposite direction.

  He took a right onto White Lion Street, glanced to check he wasn’t being followed, then flicked open the lid of the cup. What he saw inside made him tut: a micro-earpiece, which he extracted from the plastic wrapping and fitted into his ear.

  “Hello? Shelley? Are you there?” Claridge was saying.

  “What the bloody hell is this you’ve given me?”

  “It’s so we can talk.”

  “Christ, you can take the boy out of MI5, but you can’t take MI5 out of the boy.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No. I need to see you.”

  “You don’t need to see me.”

  “If I don’t see you, how will I know you don’t have a gun to your head? How do I know someone isn’t listening in? You’re MI5. I assume you know surveillance and evasion techniques. They still teach that, do they?”

  “Well, I’m a little rusty, but—”

  “Time to get un-rusty, Tin Man. In thirty seconds I’m stamping on this earpiece. Nine minutes and thirty seconds after that I’ll meet you behind Trinity Church. Make sure you’re not followed. Do it the old-school way.”

  Ten minutes later they sat together on a secluded bench at the rear of the church. Claridge shifted in his seat, nervously peering into the foliage that surrounded them on three sides.

  “Have you made any progress?” he asked.

  “I’ve identified the scout. A scumbag called Colin.”

  “Description? I’ll see what I can find out—discreetly.”

  “Forget him, he’s a single-celled organism. I’m more interested in his contact. No name yet, but it looks as though he conducts his business from the Ten Bells on Commercial Street. See if you can check CCTV footage. Look for a well-dressed guy in a tan leather jacket, my height and age, neat dark hair, jeans, and good shoes. I’ll work on getting more, but I’ve got something else I need to do first; this guy Colin and the snappy dresser—I’m 90 percent sure they have a mark in mind, a big-mouth ex-Paratrooper who uses the shelter, name of Barron. They’ll have wanted to check Barron out. Could you find out who has accessed his records recently?”

  “Maybe. How old do you think he is?”

  “I’ve got about ten years on him.”

  Claridge drew breath sharply. “Well then, his records will be computerized, which makes accessing them a risk. I’d be logged, same as anyone else, and if there’s a flag on the file—”

  “Then don’t open it.”

  “Are you sure? This is good detective work. It might be worth taking the risk.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s supporting evidence for when this is all over. You have family, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t open the file. Not until we’re done. Don’t come to the meeting spot again, either. Don’t try to contact me any other way.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to take Barron’s place. I’m going to be the quarry.”

  Claridge gave a start. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course.” Shelley frowned. “And don’t pretend that wasn’t always the plan. How else was I going to penetrate this organization in any meaningful way?”

  “I had hoped there might be more of a Trojan-horse aspect to it,” said Claridge sadly.

  “Impress them as a potential security man, you mean? Hope they’re hiring, and then pray I pass whatever battery of security checks they have planned? Come on, you knew it had to go this way.”

  “It needed to be your decision. You’re putting yourself in grave danger.”

  “At least this way I get to manage the danger. I don’t have to worry about knowing whether they want to kill me or not. I know they want to kill me.”

  “Of course,” said Claridge. There was a pause. “And we’re understood that the objective is to put a stop to this.”

  Shelley nodded. “Wh
ich probably means killing the guys who organize it.”

  “We need to tie up loose ends.”

  Shelley barked a cynical laugh. “Well, yeah, of course. That’ll be in everybody’s interests, won’t it?”

  “I told you. The aim of this operation is to create a controlled explosion. A minimum of collateral damage.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll make contact if I can, but otherwise, forget about me and wait. My identity remains in place?”

  “Of course.”

  “How were you able to set that up without being logged?”

  “Well, that’s where your relatively advanced age comes in handy.”

  Shelley shot him a look.

  “‘Relatively,’ I said. Anyway, what it means is that it’s a paper record. One from the pile marked ‘to be digitized.’ Old school, you see.”

  “And the player’s wife? The one who alerted you to all of this?”

  “She’s being kept informed.”

  “Is she, indeed? Why do I get the impression she’s well connected?”

  Claridge chuckled. “And why do I get the impression you did a little checking on me, before you embarked on this mission?”

  “Enough to find out who you studied with at Cambridge.”

  “Then you’ll know that in Sarah we have a strong ally.”

  “Okay. You tell her I’m close.”

  Claridge nodded. “So what happens now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hoping I’ll think of something.”

  Chapter 10

  The Home Secretary, Sarah Farmer, and her husband paid little attention to their television, even though it was on. Both were engrossed in other pursuits: Sarah was peering at papers spread on the coffee table in front of her, face bathed in the glowing light of her laptop screen; Kenneth was sprawled on the second sofa, his MacBook open, angled away from her.

  “Have you noticed we never actually watch anything anymore?” she said.

  “What was that, dear?”