Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  Four hard-nosed bouncers guarded a small doorway cut into the wall halfway down the street. They frisked everyone entering the club and turned away anyone found carrying weapons. Wallace saw five such refusals in twenty minutes, and wondered what the hell he was doing staking out somewhere so dangerous. None of the people denied entry took rejection well, and stalked off muttering puffed-up threats of violence. It was the sort of neighborhood where people got buried for giving the wrong kind of look. He knew he shouldn’t be there on his own, and even if Matias was right, he had no idea what he’d do if he saw Smokie. He felt a chill of fear as he recalled how dangerous the man was, how he’d almost died at Smokie’s hands. Knowing that he had military training, that he was once part of Max Byrne’s Ranger unit, only served to swell his menace.

  Wallace was weighing up the possibility of calling Agent Reeves and asking for help, when a black SUV stopped directly outside the entrance. One of the bouncers hurried forward and opened the rear passenger door, and Wallace saw a face he recognized from his past: Toothless, one of Smokie’s lieutenants. He looked taller than Wallace remembered him, but was still short enough to be dwarfed by the bouncers. His wiry frame was concealed beneath an expensive black suit, but the biggest change was his mouth. When he scrunched up his wrinkled face to smile at a beautiful woman waiting in the queue, instead of gums, Wallace saw the glint of metal. He was wearing twenty-four carat dentures and each golden tooth looked like a tiny tombstone. Neither his gaze nor his smile lingered, his eyes darting around like those of a hungry predator, and Wallace could tell that the vicious man was alert to his surroundings. Toothless glanced over his shoulder as the SUV pulled away, and Wallace shrank into the shadows. He felt Toothless’s sharp eyes upon him, and shuddered with panic. Recognition meant death. Wallace held his breath and tensed, preparing to run.

  They seemed to lock eyes, but eventually Wallace realized that Toothless couldn’t penetrate the darkness. He pulled his hood up, hunched himself over, and staggered into the light, muttering and swaying like a drunk. He lurched toward Tenth Avenue, and when he was near the corner, he glanced over his shoulder to see Toothless heading into the club.

  Wallace didn’t straighten up until he was fifty yards from the corner and well out of sight of the Bunker. He could hear his rapid pulse as his racing heart sent blood thundering into his ears. His clothes were damp with sweat. He told himself that he didn’t care if he died, the only thing that mattered was avenging Ash—but deep down he knew the truth. He was terrified of the death that awaited him at the hands of such violent men.

  58

  Bailey and Melissa had only just made the last train to Paris. They’d arrived at the Gare Cornavin at seven-twenty, and had raced through the restored Empire-style building to buy their tickets for the seven forty-two departure. Bailey had been unable to resist the soporific effects of the painkillers, and the gentle rhythm of the train had soon rocked him to sleep. He’d woken a couple of times, when his lolling head had been jolted into an unnatural position, and he’d caught a snapshot of Melissa working on her laptop before sleep had quickly reclaimed him.

  She’d shaken him awake as they’d rolled into the Gare de Lyon, and surprised him by having taken care of their accommodation. Shortly after half past eleven they’d been buzzed into a grand old building within a few minutes’ walk of Notre Dame Cathedral, and had climbed the wide, sweeping staircase to the top-floor flat, where Melissa’s friend, Pravesh Malviya, a video game designer, lived.

  Pravesh had offered them a simple but delicious spread of sourdough bread with charcuterie and provincial cheeses that were so ripe and runny, their potent aroma had filled the whole flat. The food had been washed down with a Cahors that was so smooth, Pravesh had to open a second bottle. Bailey had been temperate, limiting himself to a single glass, which he felt mix with his pain medication, transforming the world into a muffled, dreamy place.

  Melissa and her university friend had tried to include him, but their conversation had soon turned to old times and they’d traded stories about people he’d never met. Pravesh had probed the nature of Bailey’s connection to Melissa, but she’d been pointedly vague, saying he was helping her with a story. Pravesh had eyed Bailey over the top of a pair of thick black-framed glasses, which matched his New York poet black shirt and jeans. His gaze had been rich with skepticism, but whatever judgment he’d come to, he had kept it to himself.

  After propping his head up for almost an hour, Bailey had excused himself, and Pravesh had shown him to the smallest of the two guest bedrooms. It was actually Pravesh’s home office, an airy space built into the eaves of the attic, which had a view of the top of Notre Dame through a tiny picture window. Bailey had thanked Pravesh for his hospitality and the food, and had stripped to his underwear and collapsed on the bed, falling asleep so quickly that he couldn’t even recall having closed his eyes.

  Melissa had woken him just after nine. Pravesh had already gone to work and they’d had the run of the flat. Feeling groggy and wrung out, Bailey had been glad to step into the shower and wash off the grime of the past few days. When he’d emerged, refreshed and feeling slightly more human, Melissa revealed that she’d managed to persuade Pravesh to lend them his car. She figured they had a better chance of getting to the UK via the Channel Tunnel than they did by plane, and Bailey hadn’t been able to fault the logic. Plane tickets required credit cards, passports, and checks. They could buy Eurotunnel tickets in cash, and unless there was an Interpol alert on Melissa, which seemed unlikely given that Diana Fleming had told them the Swiss police believed Harris’s death was suicide, they shouldn’t face more than a cursory check of their passports at Calais.

  They’d taken Pravesh’s one-year-old Peugeot 308 from a nearby underground parking garage, and Melissa had driven them three hours north to Calais, where they’d purchased the Eurotunnel ticket and, after an anxious wait, had been waved through passport control. Bailey’s false passport was still good.

  Inside the terminal building, Bailey had made two phone calls—the first to Salamander and the second to John Wallace, who’d given him the disturbing news that Chris had been captured. She and Wallace had been through a lot together and Bailey hoped that they’d both be OK.

  When the public address system had announced final boarding, Bailey and Melissa returned to the Peugeot and joined the long line of predominantly British vehicles that snaked into the massive train. Twenty-five minutes later, they’d been speeding into a dark tunnel bound for home.

  Salamander met them at the Stop service station just outside Folkestone, off the M20. Bailey saw him, Frank, and Danny milling around the Range Rover as Melissa eased the Peugeot into the car park. Salamander smiled as Bailey hauled himself out of the car.

  “Haybale, ya one lucky bastard,” he noted as they embraced.

  Danny and Frank nodded their respect.

  “Thanks, Sal,” Bailey replied. He gestured toward Melissa. “This is Melissa Rathlin, she’s a reporter. And this is an old friend of mine, Sal—”

  “Salman Sohota,” Melissa interrupted. “I know who you are.”

  The remark unsettled Bailey, who was disappointed to learn that his childhood pal was big enough to be on the press’s radar.

  “I got the burner,” Salamander said, eyeing Melissa as he reached into his pocket and produced a phone. “Ya sure ya know what ya doing?”

  “No,” Bailey replied, taking the mobile and dialing a number. “But Fleming says he’s one of the good guys, so . . .” He trailed off.

  “Home Office,” a voice said.

  “Yes, Special Services, please.”

  “Do you have a unit?” the disembodied voice asked.

  “No, but I’ve got a name: Sam Mayfield,” Bailey replied.

  “Just one moment.”

  “Who’s he calling?” Danny asked, between draws on his e-cigarette.

  “The Home Office,” Bailey explained, while he waited for the call to be connected.

  “M
I5,” Melissa added with a wry smile.

  Danny’s eyes narrowed as he tried to gauge whether she’d just made a joke, but when Salamander nodded confirmation, the young gangster glanced around nervously before peering into the sky.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Frank asked him.

  “Looking for drones,” Danny replied with a grin.

  Bailey heard a click on the line, and then there was suddenly background street noise.

  “Mayfield,” a voice said.

  “It’s DI Bailey.”

  “Where are you?” Mayfield asked.

  “Someone told me I can trust you,” Bailey replied. “I want to meet.”

  “Where?”

  “St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

  “Do you need a priest, Patrick?” Mayfield observed sarcastically. “Or are you ready to let me help?”

  “Just be there,” Bailey responded coolly. “Five o’clock,” he said before hanging up.

  Bailey directed Melissa to St. Andrew’s Hill, and they found a space on the narrow street, opposite the Cockpit, an old-fashioned black-and-gold-fronted pub. Raindrops flecked the pavement as Bailey and Melissa climbed the hill. He’d spent the journey up the M20 trying to convince her to go home, to lie low until it was all over, but Melissa had been firm. Sylvia had been her friend and mentor, and she was determined to find her killer. Besides, this was her story and she’d been on it longer than he had. And she needed to do whatever she could to help Francis, who was still missing.

  They walked briskly, turning on to Creed Lane, another tiny, crooked street that dated back to London’s distant past. They started to pass people as they neared Ludgate Hill: a couple of suited men in their late twenties, full of the brash energy of celebration, halfway to being completely trashed; a group of tourists peering into the windows of the souvenir shop on the corner; and a frazzled mother leading her chatty young son south, toward the river.

  When they emerged on to Ludgate Hill, islands of tourists clustered on the wide pavement in front of the cathedral, while local professionals charted swift routes around them. A steady stream of vehicles flowed along the wet street, and even though the sun hadn’t set, the heavy clouds meant most had their lights on, their brightly colored beams reflecting off the surfaces of the deepening puddles. The rain started to fall harder as Bailey and Melissa crossed the road. They hurried into the cathedral courtyard, toward the grand steps that led up to the visitors’ entrance. Bailey was glad he’d chosen somewhere so public: there were plenty of witnesses, and CCTV cameras protruded all around them. He also knew that the City of London police had one of the fastest response times in the capital. If Fleming was wrong, and Mayfield couldn’t be trusted, then they were meeting the enemy in one of the safest possible environments.

  Bailey’s back and ribs ached as he climbed the stone steps up to the West Portico, but the worst of the pain was absorbed by the pills, and he kept up with Melissa as she entered the cathedral. They went through a large circular door and came to a small lobby where uniformed security guards were searching people’s bags. Melissa was ushered to one side to have her laptop case checked before they were allowed to proceed into the vaulted nave.

  A small congregation gathered in prayer on chairs that were arranged in rows across the wide space. Most of the chairs were vacant, and what worshippers there were had gathered near the altar at the heart of the cathedral. It was impossible not to feel moved in such a building. The white marble and gold detailing, the ornate stucco reliefs, the high arches, the distant, domed ceiling all combined to give a sense of majesty that time had not diminished. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the still air and made Bailey think of all the midnight masses his grandmother had taken him to as a child. As he and Melissa crossed the black-and-white flagstone floor, he kept his eyes open for any sign of Salamander, Danny, and Frank. He was unsettled not to see them anywhere, but told himself that his old friend had vowed to ensure they were safe.

  When they were level with the classically styled, imposing Wellington Monument with its heroic statues and ornate crypt, Bailey spotted Mayfield standing in the south transept. He was wearing the same leather jacket he’d worn when Bailey had overpowered him to help Wallace escape. He felt slightly foolish as he led Melissa toward the short, powerfully built man, but consoled himself with the thought that paranoia had kept him alive. Mayfield nodded as they approached, and Bailey was relieved to see that the man was alone. If he’d listened to the MI5 agent, he’d have been spared the horrors inflicted by the men who abducted him from Belmarsh, and he and Wallace would have been in protective custody together.

  “Detective,” Mayfield observed. “Miss Rathlin. Are you ready to listen to me now?”

  Bailey nodded sheepishly.

  “We believe a radical anti-capitalist group known as the Foundation is blackmailing key decision-makers around the world. We think Sylvia Greene and David Harris were killed to prevent them from talking. They also served as warnings to the other blackmail victims.”

  “Which is why the ‘truth’ symbol was by the bodies,” Bailey noted. “The killer probably took photos to send to people and the symbols were signatures to prove they were responsible for the deaths.”

  “There have been another four such killings, two in Japan, one in Australia, and another in Germany,” Mayfield revealed.

  “Why hasn’t this made the news?” Melissa asked.

  “Apart from my team, you’re the only ones to have linked any of the deaths,” Mayfield replied.

  “What has this got to do with the attack on John Wallace?” Bailey asked.

  “We don’t know, but we’re convinced it’s tied to the Pendulum killings. That’s why I needed to talk to him. That’s why I put you in Belmarsh. I was trying to get you to crack,” Mayfield explained. “I’m sorry about that,” he added quietly. “I had no idea what would happen.”

  “The guys that took me—how’d they do that?”

  Mayfield shook his head slowly. “We don’t know. The Foundation has reach. They’ve been able to do things we didn’t think were possible.”

  “What do you need us for?” Melissa asked.

  Mayfield seemed puzzled.

  “You know all this stuff,” Melissa went on. “You know the organization that was behind Sylvia’s killing. You know way more than either of us. Why do you need us to come in?”

  “You having second thoughts, Miss Rathlin?”

  Mayfield’s tone was light, but Bailey thought he detected a little unease.

  “There might be some nugget of information locked in your heads that will help us connect the dots,” Mayfield explained. “You’re assets. You don’t know what we might find valuable.”

  The lull in the conversation was filled by the sound of hushed prayers from the nearby churchgoers.

  “So are you ready?” Mayfield said at last. “We want to take you to a safe house.”

  Bailey glanced at Melissa, who seemed uncertain. They were staking their lives on their assessment of this man.

  “Did you find the warehouse?” Bailey asked.

  “What warehouse?” Mayfield seemed puzzled by the question.

  Either he was a brilliant actor, or he genuinely knew nothing about the scene of Bailey’s interrogation. Bailey wanted to trust the man, but years of being a detective and his experiences with John Wallace had honed his needle-sharp paranoia.

  “We’re going to need time to think,” Bailey said at last.

  Melissa nodded. “The trouble with spies is you can never tell when they’re lying.”

  Her pointed remark provoked a smile.

  “I can’t protect you out there,” Mayfield countered.

  “We’ll be OK,” Bailey assured him, backing away.

  As he and Melissa started retracing their steps through the nave, Bailey glanced over his shoulder and saw Mayfield following them, like a lion stalking its prey. Something’s wrong, Bailey thought, and his senses went into overdrive. His gaze darted over t
he congregation and he saw two men, their heads no longer bowed, watching them with cold eyes. Another man, a black guy with a skinhead, was standing by one of the massive pillars that lined the south of the nave, studying them intently.

  “It’s a set-up,” he told Melissa, grabbing her arm and urging her forward at speed. The guards at the visitors’ entrance might provide some protection.

  When Bailey looked over his shoulder, he saw the two men had risen from their seats and joined Mayfield and the skinhead in a measured pursuit. As they rounded the Wellington Monument, Bailey felt a rush of panic. The visitors’ entrance was shut and the three guards were waiting for them, batons in hand.

  “Patrick Bailey, Melissa Rathlin, you’re under arrest,” Mayfield called out as he approached. “Put your hands up.”

  Bailey turned to see that the three thugs trailing Mayfield now had pistols drawn. He glanced at Melissa, who was looking at him nervously. Bailey shook his head, regretting his stupidity. His only hope was Salamander, but his old friend was nowhere to be seen.

  Mayfield grabbed Bailey’s wrist and manacled him.

  “Shout terrorism, and you can do anything,” Mayfield whispered. “Even take over the security of a cathedral.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, people,” the skinhead called out to the members of the congregation who were watching nervously. “You’re safe now.”

  “I was hoping to avoid a scene,” Mayfield said as he cuffed Melissa. “But you’re too stupid to know when the game is over.”

  “Diana Fleming said we could trust you,” Bailey returned, his tone almost pleading.

  “You assumed Harris was the one being blackmailed,” Mayfield replied. “We never go after the monkeys, just the organ grinders. Fleming’s in our pocket. Harris simply found out about it. That’s why he had to go. That’s what he was going to tell you,” he said to Melissa. “We told Fleming where to send you if you made contact.”