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Terror's Reach

Page 19

by Tom Bale


  Oliver rarely went near his father’s bedroom. The whole suite had

  recently been refurbished, at a cost of some eighty thousand pounds.

  Oliver couldn’t see anything that justified such extravagance. The

  interior designer must have laughed all the way to her bank.

  He opened the fake panel that covered the safe door, and remembered

  his earlier discovery that the code for the fire-protection system

  had been re-set. If his father had changed this combination as well,

  a bullet in the brain might be only seconds away.

  Oliver’s hand trembled as he reached out. 81-23-66. Just three

  numbers, but the process wasn’t quite that straightforward. He had to

  turn the dial three times to the left, stopping at 81 on the fourth turn.

  Not so easy to do with shaky hands.

  He was conscious of Turner at his shoulder, snorting like a hungry

  raptor. Priya had hung back a little. Twice she’d said they should be

  waiting for someone called Liam. The ringleader, presumably.

  Oliver turned the dial to the right, going twice round, stopping at

  23 on the third time. There was a shuffling behind him: Turner, growing impatient. Oliver felt cold metal pressing against the back of

  his neck.

  'Don’t get any ideas,’ Turner said. 'We know there’s a silent alarm.’

  'I won’t set it off.’

  You’d better not. No one would get here in time to save you.’

  Oliver swallowed. He could feel sweat prickling on his brow. He

  turned the dial one full circuit to the left, then again, stopping on 66.

  Then right, back to zero and just beyond, until he met resistance.

  The dial wouldn’t turn any further.

  The moment of truth.

  He gripped the door handle and turned. There was a heavy metallic thunk as the lock disengaged and the bolts drew back. Oliver shut his

  eyes. The relief was like a flood of warm water.

  Thirty-Two

  It wasn’t until eight-thirty that both children were finally sleeping

  soundly. Only then did Cassie allow herself to reflect upon the day’s

  terrible events, and what seemed like the utter hopelessness of her

  position.

  She ran a bath and soaked in it for twenty minutes, leaving the

  door open so she could see the children. She listened to the gentle

  rhythm of their breathing and wondered how she’d be feeling now if

  the abduction had succeeded. Just trying to imagine it was like being

  speared in the heart.

  And yet that was the kind of loss Joe had to endure every day: his

  daughters growing up without him. To Cassie, it was an unbearable

  tragedy. She’d been raised in a noisy, vibrant household with three

  older siblings and parents who were still devoted to one another after

  forty years together. Family was everything to her.

  But after today her life would never be quite the same. The hairline

  cracks in her marriage had split wide open, smashing the relationship to pieces. She and Valentin were finished as a couple.

  After the bath, Cassie dried off and dressed again. She saw no point

  in going to bed. The prospect of sleep seemed impossible while there

  was so much uncertainty.

  Instead she sat on the double bed, next to Jaden, and tried to watch

  TV. Every thirty seconds or so her gaze drifted to the phone, or to

  her watch. Joe had said she mustn’t use her mobile, but how long

  was she supposed to wait?

  The fears wormed their way into her mind. What if he didn’t

  call? Would she just sit here, hour after hour, growing ever more

  hysterical?

  He’d already been gone nearly ninety minutes. Even if Valentin

  was still in his meeting, he must have spoken to Joe by now. So why

  hadn’t she heard something?

  She stared at her mobile phone. It felt wrong to ignore Joe’s advice.

  He’d been an undercover policeman, after all. He knew what he was

  talking about.

  But one quick call. Could it really hurt?

  Yes, it could. Cassie shifted position, trapping her hands under her

  thighs. No more looking at her watch.

  It’s just like dieting, she thought. Forget how much you want it, and be strong.

  Liam took Valentin to Dreamscape, collecting the Ford Explorer from

  outside Terry Fox’s place on the way past. Valentin joined the other

  prisoners, now seven of them in total, seated in a circle on the garage

  floor.

  Liam noted that, as well as Valentin, Angela Weaver was also

  cuffed with her hands in front. The others had their hands behind their backs, which was far less comfortable. Liam wondered if he

  should alter it so they were all the same, then decided it wasn’t that

  important.

  Allotti had collected up the mobile phones and taken them into a

  small office on the ground floor. Pendry and Manderson were standing

  the other side of the cars, where they’d removed their masks to smoke

  and talk in conspiratorial whispers. That left only Eldon to keep watch

  on the prisoners.

  'Where’s Turner?’ said Liam.

  'He went next door,’ said Eldon. 'The Feltons.’

  Liam frowned. Apart from himself and Priya, Turner was the only

  member of the team who knew that Valentin was in on the robbery.

  The others believed he was merely another victim, and it was vital to

  keep it that way.

  But Liam had his doubts as to whether Turner could be trusted

  with such an important secret. Like Priya, Turner was one of Valentin’s

  recruits, and didn’t inspire much confidence. Privately Liam had

  resolved to eliminate him if he came close to compromising the

  operation.

  Now he sighed, and checked his watch. Nine-fifteen.

  “I’m going over there myself,’ he told Eldon. 'When Turner comes

  back, you and Pendry can get to work. Take the Citroen and start with

  the Weavers, okay?’

  Eldon nodded. Liam scowled at Manderson and Pendry; they felt

  his gaze but brazenly continued smoking and chatting. As he turned

  away, Liam made eye contact with Valentin. The Ukrainian gave an

  almost imperceptible bow of his head.

  Good luck.

  On the way out Liam detoured to the office. Allotti was splayed in

  a chair, chuckling to himself as he scrolled through the menu on

  someone’s phone. He saw Liam and scrambled to sit upright.

  'What is it?’

  'McWhirter. Nudie pictures of some hooker. Much too young for

  him.’

  Liam grunted. 'You turned the jammer off yet?’

  'No. I can do, if you want.’

  The plan had been to restore the mobile phone network once the

  island was secure, allowing incoming calls to be intercepted rather

  than blocked. Allotti’s job was to monitor texts and phone messages,

  and either respond to them himself or get the prisoners to reply, to

  maintain an illusion of normality.

  'We’ll risk leaving it on a bit longer,’ Liam said. You can monitor

  anything coming in on the landlines, though?’

  'Oh, yeah.’ Allotti gestured enthusiastically at a small receiver and

  telephone handset on the desk. 'We’re piggybacking from the junction

  box, with wireless transmission to here. I’m using a similar

  frequency to the two-way ra
dios, so the jammer won’t affect it. It’s a

  sweet set-up. I don’t even have to get out of my seat,’ he declared

  happily.

  Liam nodded. Allotti was a clever bastard, but a lazy one.

  Then his radio buzzed, and he forgot all about Allotti and the

  phones.

  It was Priya. Her voice sounded tight and unfamiliar, almost vibrating

  with tension.

  'There’s a problem.’

  The mystery of McWhirter’s whereabouts didn’t take long to solve.

  Joe found the South African’s body in Valentin’s study. He felt for a

  pulse, but knew it was useless. McWhirter’s eyes were open, waxy and

  sightless. Nothing that could be done for him.

  Scanning the room, Joe noticed Valentin’s hip flask sitting on the desk

  next to his laptop. A few drops of whisky had run down the side and

  pooled on the glossy walnut surface of the desk. The image troubled

  him somehow, but he couldn’t say why.

  And there was no time to dwell on it. He left the office and swiftly

  checked the rest of the house: partly to make sure he was alone, but

  also to search for a weapon. He paid particular attention to the guest

  bedroom appropriated by Yuri, hoping there would be a gun stashed

  somewhere, but found nothing.

  In Cassie’s room he made an unwelcome discovery. A Cartier watch

  and a set of diamond earrings lay in full view on her dressing table.

  It was inconceivable that such items would be excluded from the

  robbery, which meant the gang might come back at any moment.

  Joe drank some water in the kitchen, then opened the cutlery drawer

  and selected a six-inch boning knife. Not very effective against a gun,

  but useful for close-quarter combat.

  His last call was the basement. As he reached the communal living

  area he saw the vault door standing open. He looked inside, and

  frowned. He’d last been in here about a fortnight ago, when he’d

  accompanied Valentin’s insurance assessor, who was producing an

  updated inventory. On that occasion the room had been bursting with

  treasure.

  Around half of it remained, sitting undisturbed, but the other half

  was missing. Had it already been removed?

  Joe puzzled over it for a second or two, but reached no conclusion,

  other than a vague sense that this was something more complex

  than a simple raid. More complex – and therefore more dangerous.

  Outside, the light was rapidly fading. With most of the houses in darkness,

  and no street lighting, the twilight had a more emphatic quality

  than it did in towns and cities. Already the woods across the road

  looked impenetrable and slightly sinister, like something from a ghost

  story. Soon they would need flashlights to see their way from place to

  place, Liam thought.

  But at least it was cooler now, too. Liam tilted his head to catch a

  gentle breeze coming in off the sea. The mask was driving him mad,

  but he couldn’t dispense with it until Oliver Felton had joined the

  other prisoners at Dreamscape.

  And that wouldn’t happen until Oliver had served his purpose.

  In the minute or so that it took Liam to walk next door, he tried

  to push Priya’s gloomy message aside, half fearing that she’d gone and

  stabbed the boy to death. He didn’t want anything to detract from the

  anticipation he felt right at this moment – for Robert Felton was the

  reason they had come to Terror’s Reach.

  The plan had been hatched by Valentin Nasenko, after his fortune

  had taken a pounding in the banking crisis of 2008. He and Felton

  had been enemies for years, for all kinds of reasons that were frankly

  of no interest to Liam. He’d quickly learned to tune out whenever

  Valentin began ranting about all the lucrative deals which Felton had

  supposedly denied him, thanks to his network of political cronies

  around the world.

  What interested Liam was that Nasenko wanted revenge, and he

  needed money. Stealing from Felton satisfied both objectives. The

  catch was that it had to be done in a way that avoided any suspicion

  falling on Valentin.

  It was Liam who had provided the solution, which had three main

  elements. Firstly, target all the homes on the island to make it appear

  that Felton was just one of several victims. Next, find a way to ensure

  that Travers – a trusted associate of Felton’s – was present to witness

  and later corroborate Valentin’s ordeal at the hands of the gang.

  The last touch, which really added the seal of authenticity, was the

  cold-blooded murder of Valentin’s loyal adviser, Gary McWhirter. Even

  Felton was unlikely to think his rival capable of such a ruthless gambit.

  Valentin himself had dreamed up an additional component. He

  planned an overture to Robert Felton, via Travers, regarding a business

  deal in some godforsaken Central Asian republic. This was a

  quite genuine proposal, albeit one that Felton would normally reject

  out of hand. After all, he had no incentive to do business with Nasenko.

  Except that, as a result of tonight’s activity, Valentin’s offer would

  be made from a position of strength, having helped himself to a large

  slice of his neighbour’s fortune.

  Reaching the open front door, Liam gave a short, gleeful laugh. It

  was a hell of a fortune. A hell of a slice.

  He found Turner in the living room, sucking on a cigarette and

  pacing up and down like an expectant father in an old movie. When

  he saw Liam he dropped the cigarette and ground the butt into the

  floor. He looked worried and upset and aggrieved all at once. There

  was no sign of Priya or Oliver Felton.

  'Where are they?’ Liam asked.

  'Upstairs.’

  'So what’s the problem?’

  Turner just glowered, shouldering his way past Liam.

  'What?’ Liam asked again. His hand drifted towards the gun in his

  belt.

  'See for yourself,’ Turner said without looking back. He marched

  across the hall and started up the stairs.

  'Mask,’ Liam said, hurrying after him.

  'Fucking thing,’ Turner said. But he put it on.

  The master-bedroom suite occupied about a quarter of the first floor.

  It was a ridiculously large space, with dressing rooms, twin bathrooms

  and even a sitting area with sofas and a coffee table. Oliver Felton was

  perched on a sofa, rigid as a dummy in a shop window, staring blankly

  at the far wall. Priya was standing over him, absently biting her lower

  lip. She hardly reacted when Liam and Turner walked in.

  One of the walls was clad in light-oak panelling. Robert Felton’s

  safe was set into the wall, concealed by a section of fake panelling,

  which had been swung aside. The safe door was open. Operated by a dial combination lock, it was made of heavy reinforced steel with

  three-way boltwork and anti-drilling plates: exactly as their research

  had suggested.

  The interior space was about six feet high, three feet wide and two

  feet deep. There were five shelves, but four of them were bare. A

  handful of trinkets lay gathering dust on the top shelf, and there was

  an old foolscap box file on the floor.


  And that was it. Nothing else.

  The safe was empty.

  Thirty-Three

  Joe was relieved to find his own room still intact. He locked the door

  behind him and dragged his bed across it for greater protection. Then

  he stripped off and allowed himself thirty seconds in the shower. He

  dried and got dressed in clean jeans, black T-shirt and trainers. Pocketed

  his multi-tool and keys and the boning knife, and then remembered

  his mobile phone.

  He took out his strongbox from the wardrobe. There was another

  phone in there, and he could swap the SIM card. Although he’d told

  Cassie not to call, he didn’t like the idea of her being unable to contact

  him if she really needed to. That meant he had to keep hold of the

  number she had for him.

  But he was also aware of the time ticking away. He couldn’t afford

  to get caught down here. Besides, he ought to find a better hiding

  place for his own possessions, to prevent his IDs from falling into the

  wrong hands.

  Joe moved the bed away from the door and tucked the strongbox

  under his arm. He crept upstairs, listening hard for any movement in

  the house.

  Back in the hall, he paused. There was a landline extension on the

  wall. He thought about McWhirter, lying dead in the study. He thought

  about the prisoners, marched off to an unknown fate. Shouldn’t he

  call the police while he had the chance?

  Still he hesitated. The junction box was just along the road from

  here. He felt sure they would have cut the line, or disabled the phones

  in some way.

  He looked at the receiver for a long second, then snatched it up.

  Expecting nothing, he felt his heart stutter as he recognised a dialling

  tone.

  Maybe they thought cutting the lines was too great a risk. If someone

  called the island and couldn’t get through, they might report a fault.

  As he pressed 9, a voice in his head warned him:

  The police won’t believe you.

  He pressed it again.

  They haven’t cut the lines, but they must be—

  A blast of feedback made him jump. He nearly dropped the receiver.

  The line went dead. Someone had cut him off.

  'Shit,’ Joe whispered. He’d just made a really big mistake.

  Liam stared at the safe in disbelief.

  'What the hell is this?’

  You tell me,’ Turner growled. 'There’s meant to be a fucking fortune

 

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