by A P Bateman
And that was what King was counting on.
19
Dover, England
“Have they treated you well?”
Rashid shrugged. He looked at the man in front of him. The recorder had been switched off and all police officers had left the room. There were two cups of steaming coffee on the table in between them, and a plain manila file.
“There will be no charges brought against you. I’ve seen to that.”
“Cheers,” Rashid said, his Birmingham accent making it sound somewhat noncommittal, as he reached for the cardboard cup.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want? A dance?”
“Some gratitude would be nice.”
“I’ve got some bitchin’ blisters, you wouldn’t want a hand job…”
The man stared at him, then shook his head. “I can see why you and King are friends. You love authority too…”
“I don’t know anybody called King,” Rashid paused. “Is that what you are? Authority? Sorry, I thought you were just some prick in a suit.”
“I think we’d better start again.”
“You can start by telling me your name and business,” Rashid said coldly. “You’re a spook, that much is clear.”
“My name is Simon Mereweather, and I’m director of operations in MI5.”
“Head shed.”
Mereweather smiled and nodded. “I suppose,” he said, picking up his coffee. “I’m joint deputy director. MI5, or the Security Service to use its proper title, has a director and two deputies. One deputy oversees administration, while the other oversees operations. That is what I do. And that is why I want to talk to you about Alex King.”
“Like I said, I don’t know anybody called King.”
Mereweather shrugged. “When I said, no charges will be brought against you, I meant that is if I had your cooperation. Without that, then Special Branch can have you, and the rifle you were bringing in, and Christ knows what else they can get to stick to you.”
“You going to charge me for the coffee too?”
“Please, take this seriously, Rashid,” Mereweather said plaintively. “I need to find King. I need to help him get our agent back. You are aware that Caroline Darby, an agent with MI5 and also King’s fiancé, was abducted by a suspect in an operation the two of them were investigating?” He looked at him, studied his eyes carefully as he let the silence envelope them. “Of course, you are. I can see you’re in a quandary. Well, Captain. I can smooth over the heavy mob at Hereford, give you a cover story, black-ops stuff. They’ll welcome you back, get you off that desk you’re riding, put you back in the field. If you don’t go shagging the nineteen-year-old daughters of commanding officers, that is.”
Rashid smiled. “I still don’t know this King bloke.”
“Yes, yes. All very admirable.” He opened the file in front of him. “Good shot, are we? Must be to be in the SAS.” He took out a series of photographs. They were of a body and a crime scene. “Your handiwork?” He pushed the photographs towards Rashid.
Rashid looked at the photographs. He recognised the body, had seen it through the scope of his sniper rifle about a month ago. He looked up and shrugged. “No.”
“I don’t want a confession, Rashid. Just hear me out. Okay?”
“Not going anywhere, by the looks of it.”
“You’re friends with King. You met on separate operations that merged. You kept in contact, or whatever. Perhaps you bonded in the brief time your paths crossed. I don’t know. But I do know that your bond was strong enough for you to take out a sniper for King during his last operation. There’s enough CCTV in London. Don’t play me for a fool. As it is, nobody is looking for the killer of a killer. The case is never going to be solved, because nobody is looking into it. It’s been black-bagged. End of. The only thing that will open up that particular can of worms is if pictures of a serving SAS officer linking him to the killing of a man on a London rooftop find their way into the public domain.”
Rashid looked at Mereweather. “And you think threatening me will get you my cooperation?”
“I don’t have time for appealing to your better nature,” Mereweather said, his tone clipped and harsh. “Or rather, my agent, my friend even, doesn’t have time. Caroline Darby has been abducted. To get her back requires more than playing into her captor’s hands. King has gone on a self-destructive mission to get her back. He is singing to their tune. He is doing what they require of him, and hoping he finds an in. A way to get close to them. It only takes one mistake, one run of bad luck, and King is dead and Caroline is gone forever. I’m not prepared to take that risk. Not for her.”
“You’re sweet on her?” Rashid smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t let our mutual friend know about that.”
“I like her. She’s a long-time colleague, and now comes under my command…”
“Whatever,” Rashid shrugged. “Not my business.”
“I can get you out of here, Rashid. I can get you out of here, paint a picture of your shenanigans in France as a black-ops mission for MI5 to the regiment, even keep a lid on what you did in London. But I need your help in return.”
“I’m not selling out King,” he paused. “Firstly, because he’s my friend. Secondly… well, he isn’t the sort of man you sell out. You may want to remember that.”
“It’s nothing to do with selling him out. It’s a contingency. And it’s a second prong attack. King is haring around trying to buy some time while he gets a handle on this, and it’s quite possible the man will slip up. I want to search for Caroline, use what we’ve found so far to get to Helena.”
“Helena?”
“Christ, you don’t know a thing, do you,” Mereweather paused and sipped some coffee. “Look, agree to help me. Agree to help find Caroline, and in turn, help King. Let’s agree that King is not infallible. Let’s agree that he needs help with this.”
Rashid nodded. “I can see where you’re coming from,” he said. “But right now, I’m still under arrest and AWOL from base. You can really make all of that go away?”
“Like it never happened.”
“Well, let’s talk some more,” Rashid said. “But I want to see you pull a few strings first. When I’ve seen that, I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say.”
20
Tuscany, Italy
The vineyard was expansive. It surrounded three sides of the mansion’s gardens and took up an area of what King estimated to be four football pitches. The rear of the mansion was laid to lawns and gardens, dominated by an elaborately constructed swimming pool that was all swirls and nooks and fountains, with barely an area for proper swimming. A place where drinks could be taken, and conversations whispered, and groups of people could disperse into couples.
There were two children playing in the pool. Even from this distance, King could tell it was a boy and a girl from their swimming attire. The boy was dive-bombing the girl and she was splashing him in the face as he returned to the surface. A woman and a man walked out from the patio doors, the woman looking in King’s direction. King froze, worried that his costume jewellery would give him away, but he was aware of his surroundings, knew the sun was on his back. The woman pointed at a sun-lounger to the man and he obliged, dragging it to where she was now pointing. She had wanted the chair aligned with the sun, her feet acting as a pointer. She sat down, then reclined, her hands by her side, her face taking the full glare. The man walked away and sat at a chair and table in the shade. King could see that the man was one of Luca’s men. The clothes, the body language. He was what every bodyguard eventually became to the rich and indifferent – an assistant. The man was an armed butler. He would not be switched on and alert. He had melded into his role. And a target.
King backed into the treeline twenty-feet or so. Enough to keep the property in view below him, but also enough to keep his profile interrupted by the trees. The ground was steep, steeper than he had found on the hike up. His pace was rapid, occasionally he would slip and
needed to correct himself or he would be on his backside. After he had dropped down five-hundred feet in elevation, and around two-thousand feet in distance, he stopped and tentatively made his way back out to the treeline. He was beside the fence. At eight-feet high and topped with razor wire, he wasn’t looking to get over it anytime soon. He looked around, found what he wanted at the base of a large pine. A clump of dried grass. He picked a blade of the grass, wet his fingers with spit, and rubbed the grass between his fingers. He then walked to the fence, rested the blade of grass against the wire. There was no noise, no tingle. He tried again, further up, then rested the grass on the stanchions fixing the wire to the posts. Nothing. A practical defence against rampaging wild boar, and a deterrent for someone to climb, but not an impenetrable barrier. Not in keeping with one of the wealthiest men in Italy, soon to be one of the most powerful crime bosses in Europe.
King studied the layout of the mansion. There was an array of cars parked in the lee of the building, and King could now see a series of outbuildings which had been redesigned or renovated into tiny villas. He thought they could be accommodation for both security and the vineyard workers. Or maybe they were offices and day quarters for the criminal operation. The cars ranged from hatchbacks through to the three Italian saloons King had seen at Monteverdi Marittimo. The hatchbacks would suggest domestic staff, gardeners or vineyard workers. The security personnel would be on higher salaries, would express themselves with more expensive vehicles. The collection of cars looked large and shiny, and King supposed they belonged to Luca’s bodyguards. It was a large operation, and the fence seemed at odds with what lay behind it. It didn’t seem a big enough deterrent.
King took another few steps, then froze. He waited, chanced it, pulled back into the treeline and hurriedly made the crossbow ready. If he hadn’t thought the mafia boss had enough security on the perimeter, he had changed his mind now.
21
Caroline worked on the wingnut, hard to move at first, but now turning slowly and stubbornly on the bolt which had been carelessly painted during its haphazard restoration. The dressing table had been given a new lease of life by someone, a coat or two of eggshell white, fashionable in a New England beach house way. It was one of the rear legs, and if she could remove the leg, complete with the three-inch bolt embedded deep within the wood, then it would be a formidable weapon at close quarters. Finally, the wingnut cleared, and with a little force, breaking the seal of two coats of paint, she got the leg out. She examined it closely, then replaced it, carefully pushing the dressing table to the wall to keep the leg in place. She held the wingnut in her palm, turned it over, then wedged it between her fingers. One end of the wingnut pressed firmly into her palm as she made a fist, and the other end protruded almost an inch. It would make a decent knuckleduster. Something to give her an edge.
She hadn’t seen Michael since. She had drunk some water from the bathroom tap but was feeling hungry still. The sun was going down now, edging its way west. She felt the chill already and had kept the bedsheet near, planning to use it as a shawl. To go to bed, tuck herself under the covers and chance a sleep felt too submissive somehow. Like she had given into her fate. She couldn’t take that step. Not while she still had fight left in her.
Caroline had a sinking feeling, knew that taking these steps was a morale boost. She had thought back on Michael, he seemed different to her captors so far. Certainly, a different man to The Beast. What was his role? A house keeper, perhaps. But he had said he had to get food for the others. Those words had played on her mind. Were the others her captors? Were there other captives here? And who were they? Women like her? She hoped not. Not only for their fate, but for her own. Because if there were others, then Caroline knew that she was close to her destination. And more worryingly, the reason she was here.
22
The man carried an Uzi machine-pistol in one hand and a two-way radio, or walkie-talkie, in the other. It was an old fashioned-looking handset with a long, rubber antennae. King supposed the mountains made receiving a clear reception difficult and he knew that smaller units with discreet, or built-in aerials often struggled in remote areas, so there was purpose to the choice of equipment. Either that, or Luca Fortez had not reinvested his money into security. He supposed men with Uzis should be enough. But it put King in a quandary. He had not wanted to kill the mafia guards. They were bystanders to his plan, for the most part, and his primary target was Nicolai. But, intentionally wounding a man with an Uzi was as dangerous as pulling on the tail of a tiger. King couldn’t breach the fence while the man was there, and he was running out of daylight. For his plan to work, he needed to move now. He hadn’t wanted collateral damage, but he hadn’t wanted Caroline kidnapped either. He didn’t know this man, knew that his career choice didn’t make him a choir boy. This man would have done terrible things, and he would have earned good money from it. If you wanted to dance, eventually you’ve got to pay the band.
King had a clear shot of the man, hoped the bolt would pass through the mesh fence without clipping a link of wire. He had a good sight bead on the man’s neck and figured it would go a long way towards silencing him as well as stopping him in his tracks. The guard tucked his radio into his pocket and fiddled with a packet of cigarettes. King waited. Eventually the man would take his hand off the grip of the weapon and his finger away from the trigger. Lighting a cigarette was one of those tasks. The man pulled the cigarette out with his lips, pocketed the packet and reached for his lighter, proving King wrong. He lit the cigarette, savoured the flavour and aroma, the hit to his senses. King steadied his aim and squeezed the trigger. The bolt shot through the fence and whipped through the air missing the man by less than an inch. The man straightened, dropped his cigarette and turned. King had the bowstring pulled back but was struggling with loading the bolt. Time, as it always did in close quarter battle, slowed. The man pointed the Uzi out like a handgun and fired. King blinked, hearing the dry-fire of the safety. The man looked stunned, brought the weapon back and held the fore-end with his left hand as he flicked the safety over with his right thumb. He had the machine-pistol back out, but this time aiming more carefully with both hands, the sight lining up with his right eye.
King had already moved to his right, putting the post of the fence between them and had got the bolt under the spring clip and was aiming carefully, but this time he centred the sights on the larger target – the centre of the man’s chest. He fired, and the man shuddered. He glanced down at the bolt, which was lodged under his diaphragm. His white shirt was growing red, the blood looking like a rose, but some foot or so across. It had hit the aorta, and King assumed from the man’s build and the length of the bolt protruding, that the wicked-looking hunting tip would have exited near the man’s spine.
King reloaded the crossbow. The Uzi was still in the man’s hand, and although he didn’t look as if he was going to get it back up to aim, he couldn’t risk the man firing the weapon and warning the security in the property below. King aimed, was about to fire, when the man fell backwards, and the weapon clattered out of his hands and across the rocky ground.
There was no time to waste, and he had started the ball rolling. He dropped the crossbow by the fence, took out his tactical sheath knife and slipped it between the links of the fence. The W shape in the haft of the blade, near the hilt, was a military grade wire cutter. He slipped the wire into one of the vees, then twisted and pulled the knife downwards. The wire was severed, and King worked quickly until he had enough room to pull the wire back and slip through. He replaced the wire, leaving it tidy enough to pass a walk-by inspection.
The man was dead. King rolled him onto his side, saw that the head of the bolt had been broken in the fall. No point pulling the bolt out, and it would have been a grisly task that King was happy to avoid. He took the spare magazine out of the man’s pocket and picked up the Uzi. It wasn’t a precise and accurate weapon, but it could make a good noise and strafe targets at fifty-metres with little skill.
King could comfortably take this to volleys of aimed shots out to one-hundred metres with great effectiveness. He checked the action and magazine, each one held thirty rounds of 9mm, but sixty rounds in an Uzi wasn’t going to last long. He slung it over his shoulder on the worn leather strap and picked up the crossbow. The radio came with him too. His Italian was poor, but he could cause some problems for them with the radio when the opportunity presented itself.
King skirted the fence, moving quickly down the steep gradient. He could see a group of guards milling around where the driveway met the gardens. He could still see the pool as well, the two children playing and the woman sunbathing. The light was getting low, so she would not be there much longer. King imagined her changing into something long and sheer and flowing and sipping cocktails beside the pool later. The bodyguard was still at the table, apparently uninterested in a roaming patrol or even a change of position. He was stale, and King hoped he could exploit this soon.
The next guard seemed more alert. He was cradling an assault rifle in both arms, and the way he paced, turned and watched reminded King of somebody with infantry experience. King kept right up against the fence, he was coming from the east with the sun above him. It was borderline for a stealthy approach, but it was still in his favour. The guard was sixty-metres away, and King knew it was now or never to take a shot. The man was more alert than his dead colleague had been and King imagined he would track a look towards him at any moment. But King wasn’t worried, because the man had the right hardware and things were going to get noisy now.
