by A P Bateman
Caroline obliged, took a step backwards and smiled. “Thank you, Michael.” She watched him pour the thick, black liquid into a dirty-looking cup on the desk. It was hardly appealing, but the thought of the warm drink made it more appetising than she ever thought it would have. She stepped over carefully, noticed that the man did not move. Was he letting his guard down? She picked up the cup, cradled it in her hands and took a sip. It was strong, tasted faintly of cigars, of burnt tobacco. She grimaced but found the warmth of the liquid and the caffeine hit most welcome and took another sip. It tasted better the second time. By the third mouthful, she was drinking as fast as the heat would allow. She held the cup, studied the man’s face. “Where am I?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I not tell,” he said. “I cannot.”
“I was expecting Eastern Europe, but I think we travelled further. Perhaps into Russia? The scenery looks like I imagined Russia to look.” She took another sip, thought more about the time they had travelled, the stops. “Those mountains are to the north. Ukraine perhaps?”
“Enough!” he snapped. He held out his hand for the cup. His sleeve rode up, exposing a tattooed forearm. Caroline recognised it. She was no football fan, but she knew Manchester United’s insignia, briefly saw the name over and under the picture of the devil with the pitchfork.
“Okay,” she said, acting more subdued than he could ever make her feel. She decided that it might be best to put the sight of his tattoo in the bank. She could work on a satisfactory backstory, weave her brother in somehow. Appeal more to the young man’s conscience. “I just want to know where I am. I have family who will be worried. My brother…”
“I don’t wish to know!”
“My brother looks just like you. I miss him. He’s football crazy. You know, soccer? He supports Manchester United. Have you heard of them?”
“Of course!”
“He’s a huge fan, took me to see them play.”
“Where?” he asked curiously, his tone softening.
“Old Trafford,” she said. This was unfamiliar territory for her. She decided not to try and be too detailed.
“Who did they play?”
She tried to think of another premiership team but was at a loss. She thought of the big cities. “Newcastle United, I think.” She cursed inwardly. She couldn’t remember if they had been relegated or not. She would have to be hazy on dates and players.
“You think?”
“It was a long time ago,” she said flippantly. “I’m not a football fan, but it was fun to go. The atmosphere was incredible…”
“What colour shirts did they wear?”
“Red!” she said, smiling. She held out her cup. “Could I have some more, please Michael?”
He nodded, poured and filled the cup. “I mean, Newcastle.”
“Oh,” she said. She was concentrating hard. She knew their nickname was The Magpies. She went with it. “Black and white. It was a fun afternoon.”
“What was the score?” he cocked his head. “You must remember the score?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, two-one, maybe? It was a long time ago, and as I said, I’m not a fan. But my brother is. You like Manchester United?”
He smiled. “Yes.” He lifted his sleeve. “See?”
“Wow!” she exclaimed, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. “Have you seen them play, live, I mean?”
“I have,” he said proudly. “But not at Old Trafford.”
“My brother could set you up with a box. You and some friends. He does all sorts of corporate events with the club. PR work for his company. Other companies like the link, their managers enjoy a good box event with a free bar.”
Michael nodded. “I would like that…” he trailed off. “I have to go now,” he said.
“You said there were others here,” Caroline ventured. “Other women like me?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like you.” He backed away and caught hold of the door.
Caroline watched him leave. There was a moment when she thought she had blown it, but now she felt confident she had successfully formed a human link.
26
There was enough pandemonium to escape the property through the vineyard, but not without coming under fire from the guards. But as King had reckoned when he had first envisioned and formulated his plan, they were not of the standard of the Russians. Luca’s men were comfortable. They were renowned through historical acts, a ruthless reputation. But there was a difference between tough and sadistic men outnumbering individuals and businesses, and highly trained ex-military recruited into the Russian brotherhoods. And this is what King had seen at their meeting in the mountain town. Not only a higher degree of professionalism, but the Russians were on foreign soil and would undoubtedly be ill at ease.
King hadn’t underestimated the Italians, but he had used them. He had reached the edge of the vineyard and the plateau carved out of the mountainside. He was now into the trees and traversing the steep gradient. The ground was uneven, loose and dotted with giant boulders that he had to dodge around. He had thrown the radio handset behind him, and as he crouched low behind a thick pine tree to get his breath and bearings, he ejected the magazine of the Uzi and checked. He was down to two rounds. He thumbed them out and checked the breach of the Uzi. It was an original design Uzi, in that it fired off an open breach bolt. There was therefore no chambered round in the weapon. He dumped it down on the ground and pocketed the rounds. He took the pistol he had captured out of his waistband and checked it over. It was a Beretta APX in .40 calibre. He had never used one before but looked over the features and the trigger safety and decided it was similar in design and working function to a Glock. He checked the ten-round magazine and the weapon’s chamber, then stood back up and checked the ground behind him. There was nobody on his tail yet, but he wasn’t about to give them time to get organised and brave. He stripped off the suit jacket, and then tore off the ridiculous gold chains and tucked the bundle between a tree stump and a boulder which looked to have felled the tree in a landslide at some time. He wedged the Uzi and its magazine in there as well. Then, he started to take the slope, gaining in speed and agility as he grew used to the ground and momentum. He was carrying a lot of speed and ended up charging through one of the huge tarantula webs. He shook his head and brushed himself off the best he could as he ran, slid and leapt across the terrain. He tried not to think about the giant eight-legged creatures as he ran.
He was hot and soaked in sweat, but he reached the first mountain road, hopped the barrier and ran across the tarmac, clearing the second barrier and dropping six-feet to the slope below. He lost his footing and sprawled. He slid and rolled and came to a halt some thirty-feet later. He was cut and would certainly bruise, but he checked himself hastily and was lucky to have not broken anything. He had lost the pistol. He looked quickly, but the weapon had been electro-coated with olive-coloured paint and he did not hold out much hope finding it in a hurry in this environment. He still had the large sheath knife and the flick knife in his pocket, but he left them where they were, not wanting to chance another fall. The gun would not fire unless he pulled the trigger - and he wouldn’t do that because his finger was nowhere near a trigger until he needed to fire – but he wouldn’t want to fall with a sharp blade in his hand.
He knew he was clear, but he just hoped they would not gather, regroup and anticipate his escape. He needed to get to his car and get away as fast as he could. Right now, he imagined they were in a state of shock. But Luca Fortez was a man who had risen in his world by acting fast and striking hard. King knew that both his appearance and questions, the way he had asked them, would point them towards the Russians. But had he done enough? Would they fall for it? He thought they would. Was banking on it. But it was how they would react that would matter. He doubted the Italians would simply go round for a cappuccino and work things out. This was their turf and their boss had been hit. His family terrified. Their colleagues injured, some killed.
They were red-blooded, hot-headed men and they would go after the Russians with everything they had.
King just hoped it would be enough.
27
London
“Is that halal beef, then?”
“Couldn’t give a shit, mate,” Rashid spoke as he chewed through a mouthful of his cheeseburger. “Why do you feel you can comment on my religious practices?”
Ramsay seemed taken aback. He hastily took a sip of his coffee. “I just…”
“You just what?” Rashid wiped a glob of secret sauce off his chin with the paper napkin and swallowed his mouthful.
“Well, your file states you’re a Muslim.”
“And I bet yours says simply, C of E. So, do you go to church every Sunday? Or just the Easter and Christmas stuff, when most white British get the calling.”
“No, I just thought your lot were strict on that sort of stuff.”
“My lot? What, British citizens who were born here?”
“You know what I meant.”
“Do I?”
“I wasn’t being obtuse,” Ramsay paused. “I thought it strange, that’s all.”
“I was born here. My parents were persecuted by Sikhs, who raided Pakistan from India, and they fled to England. My mother was pregnant. My father was so relieved that he and my mother made the journey over, were able to establish themselves and eventually granted citizenship, that he embraced his new country, and encouraged us all to as well. My sisters, my brothers; we were all westernised, I suppose you’d say. But we still practised Islam, in our own ways. We still went to the mosque, not because of God, the Divine, but because of the spiritual togetherness it brought us. I’m open-minded and intelligent enough to understand science, most people are. Religion is about more than that. I understand the big bang theory, the evidence of dinosaurs. But through Islam, we connected with people, our community. But we still took everything that western culture offered. My parents eat halal, but my dad likes sausages and kind of denies what may be inside them. My sisters do not wear the hajib, and they go to nightclubs to have a good time. One drinks, the other has chosen not to. But they both plan to marry Muslim men. Because they grew up with them and love them, not because it has been arranged. Both have had white boyfriends in the past. You see, we have embraced everything, and people like you see the colour of my skin, read a few statements on a file and have me down as a bad Muslim because I’m eating a burger. Some of my kind would call me kafir and would ridicule me for turning my back on my roots and my religion, and I can’t help that. Those people in the extreme are the same people I fought in Syria under the banner of ISIS,” Rashid shook his head, put the burger down and sipped from his cup of tea. “People see practising Muslims, their heads covered, or dressed traditionally and they scoff at their prayers, their strict dietary requirements, and they hate that they have not immersed themselves into western society, given up on their heritage and culture and become more relaxed. Then I eat a couple of Big Macs and you come in here and have a pop at me that I’m not adhering to Islam. You see? We can’t win. And it’s that attitude which is creating a divide and making disenfranchised young men do terrible things in the name of Islam.”
“Are you serious?” Ramsay stared at him incredulously.
“If you don’t think any of that is true, then you aren’t part of the solution,” he paused. “And as we know, people who are not part of the solution are part of the problem.” He shrugged. “Anyway, show me what you’ve got.”
Ramsay moved Rashid’s tray over and put down his briefcase. He opened it up and took out an array of papers. “I never thought about it like that,” he admitted.
“Don’t sweat it,” Rashid replied. “I’m used to it. But tell me, MI5 has how many Muslim, Sikh, Jewish or Hindu personnel in the upper echelons? People who represent a cross section of Britain. Sure, a few of every colour and culture the recruiters or admin can think of; researchers, field agents and the like. But how many suited and booted senior-level staff that you and Mereweather, or Amherst meet daily? None, I bet.”
Ramsay shrugged. “No. You’re right.” He passed Rashid the first paper and nodded. “It needs working on. Anyway, back to business…”
Rashid smiled. He doubted the issue would go any further than this table. He finished his last bite of the burger, which like all fast-food outlets, had now turned hard and tasteless as it had cooled. He chewed rapidly and picked up the sheet, leaving a thumbprint of secret sauce on the edge. He read quickly. It was a de-arrest form. He folded it and placed it in his pocket. The rest of the papers were recruitment contracts. In return, Rashid supplied his bank account and sort-code. Within ten minutes, he was an active and official member of the Security Service.
“What’s the plan, then?” he asked, sipping the last of his tepid tea.
Ramsay looked at his watch. “We’ll go back to Thames House and put in a few hours on the databases and see what we can get on the Russian’s killed down in Biarritz. I have a techy working on gathering intel on Helena Milankovitch, formerly, or I guess, even currently Helena Snell. Either way, he’s working the angles on that. We’ll meet with him, see what he has found. You’re booked into the Holiday Inn in Mayfair. Don’t get excited, it’s a standard double but breakfast is on us. I’ll meet you there in the morning, work out the time later.”
“Then?”
“Then, I think we had better get over to the continent and concentrate on finding King.”
“Caroline is the one who needs finding,” Rashid said. “King can handle himself.”
“We’re not worried about King handling himself. We don’t want him becoming a problem that comes back onto the service. He took down a Russian mafia brotherhood. Those hoodlums are connected to all sorts of prominent Russian figures, all the way to the bloody top. King could soon have Britain involved in an international incident.”
Rashid leaned forwards conspiratorially and said quietly, “Go after King before this is finished, and King will make you a target. Throw your resources and attention on getting Caroline back, and King will come in on his own.”
“You can approach King,” Ramsay commented. “You set up a meeting, I’ll make sure we have enough personnel on hand to bring him back.”
Rashid smiled. “And you’ll be front and centre to make that happen?”
Ramsay nodded. “I like King. He’ll see it for what it is. An intervention.”
“Rather you than me.”
“You and he are tight,” Ramsay said, his fingers crossed, emphasising the fact. “You must know how to contact him?”
“Not a clue.”
“So, how did you help him out in France?”
“He contacted me.”
“Well, maybe he will again.”
“Maybe.”
“So, he used a phone to contact you, you must have his number stored on your phone,” Ramsay ventured.
“Email.”
“I’ll need your device.”
“It’s a laptop in Hereford.”
“I can arrange that.”
Rashid shook his head. He took a pencil out of his pocket. It was small and had been sharpened using a knife, the edges around the nib were straight. He scribbled down his email address and handed it to Ramsay. “That’s my personal email,” he said. “You’ll get my server and IP address with that. No need to go giving my landlady a fright.”
“And that’s it?” Ramsay asked. “No other way to contact King?”
“No. That’s it.”
“And what of your involvement with him in France?”
“We met for a drink.”
“A drink.”
“Pernod, I think.”
Ramsay stared at him. “And you needed an assault rifle for that?”
“Boys will be boys,” he smiled. “We let off some steam in the woods.”
“Forensics will see if there is a bullet match to the Russian’s that the French police recently found in the forest near Biarritz.”
&nbs
p; “Well, they would if they were investigating. But they’re not going to be. You have me down as an official agent. You’ve informed Hereford that I was working with MI5. I have the paperwork in my pocket.” Rashid stared, his dark eyes as black as jet and emotionless. He stood up. “It was a pleasure serving my country, as always. I’m sure the press will make quite a bit of clandestine wars fought in Europe. Brexit might make that even more tricky for you…”
“Okay, sit down,” Ramsay said.
“No more bullshit tactics?”
“No.”
Rashid sat back down, but his posture was defensive. He leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed. “Don’t try and fuck me over again,” he said. “I’ll help you for one reason, and one reason alone. King. That’s it, plain and simple. He’s in a tight spot. He has some demented bitch using him in her vendetta, and she’s holding all the aces. But what you and the suited and booted prats on the top floor don’t seem to get is; King was on your payroll. King was serving his country and got shafted. His fiancé was abducted because he shut the terrorists down. MI5 should be moving heaven and earth to get her back. But not for King. She isn’t his property. She is one of your agents and she got shafted, too. She was taken in the line of duty. Get that into your stupid heads. King is doing what he must, to keep her alive. The least you can do is get her back. Forget King. Your paths will cross again. Find Caroline.”
Ramsay considered this for a moment. He nodded. “Okay.”
“Just like that?” Rashid asked incredulously. “You’ll get that past the top floor?”
“I agree. And that’s enough. The top floor, as you call them, will get what reports I feed them.”
“Good,” said Rashid. “I just hope it’s not too late.”
28
King poured the water over his head and rubbed his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and thick, but the water had warmed in the inside of the car enough to take the worst of the butter out and leave it looking marginally cleaner.
