by G I Tulloch
Anna took her eyes off the road, she was an American, they can drive like that.
"So you going to put the gun away before there's an accident?"
"No." Adam liked to think he could remain dominant, play the short answer game. "This doesn't sound like Customs & Excise to me."
Anna considered for a moment, fortunately she had put her eyes on the road again.
"It's not Customs & Excise."
He put on his best 'I'm flabbergasted' expression so she continued.
"You still covered by the Official Secrets Act?" She took his silence as a yes, she knew the answer anyway.
"The CIA has undertaken a mission to compromise O'Rourke, to get a hold over him for use in the future. He's a man with a very dodgy past who's accumulating too much power and influence both here and the States."
"Does the UK Government know?" Adam interrupted.
"Not precisely."
"So who can verify your story?"
Again she turned to glance at him before answering, as if to try and anticipate his reaction to the answer.
"Ask Erikson."
That floored Adam. That she should know the Head of NATO Military Intelligence was one thing, but that she knew that Adam knew, blew away all Adam's preconceptions.
The next half-hour was spent in silence. The petrol didn't run out. Adam put the gun away.
Eventually he broke the silence.
"So what happened at the farm?"
Anna stared straight ahead. "You weren't actually in any danger."
"You want to try and convince my headache of that?" Acting the hurt victim always worked well, playing the martyr bit you understand.
"We had two marksmen stationed. That's why I insisted on using the main room and not the kitchen. The main room had better light, and line of sight for a shot."
"Talking of shots.." Adam touched his head and winced slightly. "It came a bit close."
Anna bit a lip. "I'm sorry, it wasn't meant to get that close. I got up from the floor after the shooting had stopped and found you... I untied your hands but had to get out. I honestly wasn't sure you were going to make it. You've no idea how relieved I was to see you at the side of the road."
"So did I get this headache from an American bullet or from one of O'Rourke's henchmen?"
"That was one of O'Rourke's. He managed to loose off a round as he went down. That's why it missed the mark and grazed you."
"Why do I get the idea that you consider me expendable?"
Silence.
The scalp wound was still bleeding and by the size of the stain on the farmhouse floor he had lost a reasonable amount of blood before it had stopped. He felt slightly light headed but was putting that down to his having cheated death yet again. How many lives was a cat supposed to have? He scratched himself behind the ear with a paw and pulled out his mobile. Neither the phone in the flat nor Bel's mobile was being answered. His optimistic side came to the rescue. Bel's phone had obviously run out of battery and she was staying with someone for the night as she wouldn't want to stay on her own. Good thinking Adam, keep telling yourself, you'll believe it. The bottle is definitely half-full. Just don't drink any more. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, regretted it instantly and finally considered his next move. Something still narked at his brain.
"Someone tortured and killed Kemp." He waited for a reaction. Nothing. Zilch. Zip.
"I only told two people about him," he continued. "The other one was a policeman. I don't think he did it."
Still no reaction. Adam spoke slowly and deliberately, and kept one hand on the gun in his pocket.
"You told O'Rourke didn't you?"
He let the silence speak for itself until she replied. "I needed to maintain O'Rourke's trust, needed to keep the flow of information. I didn't realise what he would do."
"Crap," interjected Adam. "You had a bloody good idea what would happen. You signed Kemp's death warrant."
She swung round on him. "No Adam, you signed his death warrant, think on that." After a moment she continued, still heated. "We play a far bigger game, you and I. There are casualties, accept it."
In the early morning light, Adam spotted signs for Basingstoke. He had a growing need for fresh air.
"Let me out at Basingstoke."
The station had just opened for the early trains although people were a sparse decoration on the platform. He used the Gents to clean himself up. There wasn't much he could do about the haggard look but at least the blood had gone and whilst the good folk of Basingstoke would probably still lock up their daughters at the sight of him, they might not automatically dial for an armed response unit. He grinned ruefully in the cracked mirror, ran his hand through his hair and winced involuntarily. He was going to need to be careful what he did with a comb for the next few weeks.
The train was mercifully quiet and he managed to tuck himself into a quiet corner. It was however agonisingly slow. Despite the early hour, he tried both Gerry and Ford on their mobiles without any luck. His mobile battery was showing LOW but he didn't want to turn it off, not just yet.
His first returned call came as he was dozing just short of Weybridge. He squinted at the phone display.
"Gerry, you're up early."
"I tried to get you last night with no joy. What were you up to?"
"Tell you later. What news?"
"Bel did her nut when you two didn't return last night. You're going to have some explaining to do when you get back."
Adam grimaced. "You have no idea. What else."
Gerry's voice brightened somewhat. "I have news on our friend Brad Wilding."
Adam did a mental reset. "Brad? Has he been found?"
Gerry suppressed a chuckle. "In a manner of speaking. Brad Wilding died ten years ago." He paused for effect. "He was a hobo in New York. He would have been the same age as our friend."
Adam was having trouble taking this in, but he put it down to the blood loss. "So who's our Brad Wilding?"
"Well that's open to conjecture," suggested Gerry. "But I did some digging. You know the couple that Granger Bartlett swindled out of their company?"
"The Lakes'."
"That's it. The Lakes had a son Greg about the same age as our Mr Wilding the hobo. Yesterday I had a photo of son Greg sent over from newspaper files in New York. And guess what?"
Adam closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. "There is a remarkable similarity between the two."
He could feel Gerry's grin down the phone.
"You bet."
"This gives him a motive for getting Bartletts into deep shit with smuggling."
"Certainly does," confirmed Gerry. "It gives him something else."
"Like what?" asked Adam.
"If Fran had found out who he really was, it would have given him a real motive to kill her."
Adam hung up at that, to find a missed call waiting. He rang back.
"My, we're up early," Ford's voice was a little scathing but Adam was getting rather fond of it in a strange way.
Adam filled him in on the night's proceedings, missing out lots of details.
"Are you going to spoil the habit of a lifetime and give me some good news?" he queried.
"Habits are hard to break. Brad Wilding still can't be found but your friend Derek Travis has been found beaten unconscious inside the Bartlett building."
"How is he?"
"He's not good but he's not on the danger list."
"That's something." Adam dragged a weary hand across his eyes, but Ford wasn't finished.
"Your friend Anna Low..." he started.
"Hardly my friend," interrupted Adam.
"Yes well, anyway." continued Ford. "She was right about her connection with the CIA, but there's a problem."
"I specialise in them," replied Adam sardonically. "Go on."
"Her connection with the CIA was broken two years ago."
Adam felt his heart sink, he didn't like the sound of this. "Why?" He posed.
&nbs
p; "Taking the law into her own hands. Rumour has it she 'terminated' an informant who had given her duff information, which got her into deep water."
"Hardly a problem to the CIA by all accounts."
"It is when the informant is the son of the Swiss Ambassador to France."
"So you think she's pursuing O'Rourke on a personal vendetta?"
"Possibly, but I can't think why. It doesn't make sense."
Adam shook his head. "None of this makes any sense, that's the problem. Any more news, let me know." He went to hang up when Ford stopped him.
"One other thing. I found the file on the inquest into your wife's death. The first number she rang was subsequently traced to Bel Trent but it was only discovered after the inquest took place."
"Why should Fran ring Bel if she found out about the smuggling?"
"Pass." Adam could almost hear the shrug down the phone.
He redialled Gerry who greeted him with a mouthful of cornflakes as the train pulled into Waterloo.
"Gerry we need to find Brad fast."
There was a delay whilst Gerry choked on his cornflakes. "Funny you should mention that but I've just received word that he spends time on a friend's barge on the Thames." He outlined its location.
Adam dropped from the now stationary train onto the platform. "Meet me there. Half an hour."
Chapter 38
As Bel reached for the door handle, practised words of admonishment came to her mind. When Adam hadn't re-appeared last night she had found herself unable to sleep. She was ready to give him an earful.
The door flew open in her face with such force that it sent her reeling backwards as two large shapes rushed through the gap into the hallway. A large calloused hand clamped over her mouth whilst another grabbed her by the throat, threatening to lift her off the ground. She lashed out with arms and legs in an instinctive and desperate effort to gain some release but the hold was too strong to break. She felt a pounding of blood in her ears, and her lungs scrabbled for air as her windpipe was squeezed.
Just as she was beginning to feel faint, the pressure on her throat relaxed slightly. She took the opportunity to bite the hand over her mouth.
As the grip slackened marginally, she took her feet off the ground and as her assailants centre of gravity shifted, she used his own weight to propel him across the room in a classic judo throw. He cracked his head on the writing cabinet and dropped dazed to the floor, shaking his head to clear it.
The action had given others time to regroup however, and as she stood up hands grabbed her upper arms and held her. She lashed out, forgetting she didn't have any footwear on, but causing damage to a kneecap just the same.
An oath emanated from her assailant and the pressure returned. Two other figures moved into her view. The smaller of the two took a knife from his belt and put it to her throat.
"You continue to struggle and I will, without compunction, push this knife through to the back of your neck."
The horror in her eyes must have said it all.
He continued, "If you yell, I will do the same, do you understand?"
She nodded as much as she could in the circumstances, the surrender in her eyes as the apparent hopelessness of her situation became clear. At the very least, she thought, she had to play for time to give others a chance.
The hands relaxed from mouth and throat but hands pinned her arms to her sides. She gasped for air and with it her wits returned.
"You're the voice on the phone. The one who started all this."
Reilly nodded. "'Tis a good memory you have for voices, that makes you all the more dangerous to me. A shame really. Such a pretty thing. A waste. Prepared to fight back though. I like a bit of spirit. We'll have to subdue you later I think." He reached out a hand and made to stroke her cheek but she recoiled as far as she could within the little freedom of movement left to her.
He looked thoughtful briefly and then shrugged. He turned to the third, a tall big-boned man with a small pair of spectacles that looked ridiculously out of place on his face. The green velour jogging suit did nothing to improve the appearance.
"Get her down to the car. If she gives you trouble knock her out. If you hit her too hard you'll answer to me. We need to get to the Dunwich chapel." He turned away.
Bel saw her chances slipping away.
"What have you done with Adam?" she demanded.
"Ah, you have feelings for this man Lennox do you?" Silence. He smiled. "He took a bullet in the head." The matter-of-fact statement was designed to shock. He paused and Bel felt the strength go from her legs. If she hadn't been in such a strong grip she would have sunk to the floor. Gracefully of course.
Reilly continued, teasing her, "but for all that he managed to escape. And therefore we need our insurance policy." He waved a hand at her.
The relief swept over her but so did nausea. She started to retch and before she knew it she had been thrust through the doorway of the bathroom, and after a quick check she was left to deposit her breakfast down the toilet with a great deal of noise. Afterwards she wondered at the sensitivity of such vicious people to abnormal bodily functions. There was no means of escape, no window, no makeshift weapon, and after what was obviously considered a safe period the door opened and hands grabbed her roughly once again. She decided there was no longer any point in struggling, and came out of the bathroom without fuss.
The flat's back door didn't exactly come off its hinges but it wasn't for want of trying. All Bel saw was a brief glimpse of Mitch framed in the doorway before a loud bang made her flinch, and the bespectacled assailant dropped silently like a stone, his lower face blown away.
Mitch moved through the doorway and into the kitchen but before he could take stock of the situation Bel was thrown to one side as her captor brought up a gun and fired in one action. Mitch never saw it and crashed against the wall before collapsing to the floor, blood already staining his shirt. Bel was scooped up and passed him, out the back door and down into the alley where she was bundled onto the floor of a car. She turned to look up and the last thing she saw was a raised arm before darkness closed in and she lost consciousness.
Chapter 39
The boat dock was deserted as Adam joined Gerry at the lock-gates. Weeds abounded on the quay-sides and walkways, potholes threatened to trip up the unwary. This was no Canary Wharf or St Katherine's Dock, regeneration had passed this by on its way through London Docklands. The old wooden sheds that would have been filled with goods for transport by canal in a bygone age, stood empty and derelict, leaning drunkenly, crying out for attention, or demolition, one of the two.
The sole occupant of the boat dock was Adam's target, an old coal barge that had been renovated some years ago for use as a houseboat on the Thames, a pastime so popular that they were now building them new in the same style. This one wasn't new nor did it have any style. The paint was peeling, at the waterline green slime formed a collar around the hull and at the windows, curtains hung in limp dejection, neither open nor shut, unable to decide whether to reveal the interior or not.
Adam felt a depression descend as he watched for signs of life.
He turned to Gerry. "Are you sure this is the place? This is not the Brad we know. This is way beneath him."
"You doubt my abilities as a tracker Kimo Sabi?" replied Gerry.
Adam grimaced, partly at the Lone Ranger reference, partly at the attempted accent.
"Just keep your eyes peeled, Tonto."
Having surveyed the cover available they moved around the back of some of the tumbledown sheds until they approached the quayside opposite the barge. Still there were no signs of any life but Adam was painfully aware of the exposed quayside they had to cross. If Mitch had been there he would have advised against it (in a Glaswegian accent of course) and approached the barge from the water. Adam looked at the flotsam and jetsam floating around in the dock and decided the open approach was probably less injurious to health. They made it to the deck of the barge as quietly as Gerr
y's size tens would allow and still there were no shouts or shots, or even signs of life in any degree.
The main access to the barge's accommodation was at the rear of the low-level superstructure and appeared to be locked. Adam had, however, done the lock-picking module of advanced army training in the past and, pulling out something akin to a pretentious but sophisticated paper-clip, he made short work of the Yale lock and they moved down into the main cabin area. This wasn't as straightforward as it might sound as one might be mistaken for thinking that the place had been turned over by vandals and thieves. The items of everyday living were strewn everywhere, strengthening the evidence that it was being lived in, but not by anyone belonging to a modern day civilisation.
Motioning Gerry to stay where he was Adam picked his way carefully across the rubbish strewn floor to the door opposite and through into the next compartment. The gun that appeared in his hand proved superfluous as the only thing in the kitchen area that was a danger to him were the empty cans of beer, and bottles of whisky that rolled around on the floor. He decided that he had stumbled into either a squatters' camp or a stage set for East Enders, it was a toss up.
He was on the point of deciding they had made a worthless journey when he detected the faint sound of snoring from the compartment beyond, either a toilet or a bedroom he decided. The door had no lock on it which made a bedroom more plausible and tied in with the snoring. Adam Lennox, intellectual genius and master of logical deduction! Move over Sherlock.
The handle was silent but the door wasn't and let out an agonising creak as he pushed it open. The sound brought his gun up, cradled in both hands, ready for retaliation. As it swung open the room revealed one occupant, oblivious to the intrusion, lying fully clothed on the bed, one hand clasping a half-full whisky bottle, the other wrapped in a makeshift bandage. The unshaven look and unkempt appearance lent it anonymity but Adam would have recognised the broken nose anywhere.
Adam shook him roughly and Brad came to slowly, as if out of a deep cave. When he realised what was happening he fought to retreat away from Adam, a wild-eyed expression full of fear and panic dominating his features.
