by A P Bateman
“Nuts on the bar. Crikey, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
Ramsay frowned. “You’re breaking about four codes of conduct in the work place,” he said.
“I haven’t had the paperwork yet.”
“It’s about twenty pages long,” the woman said, not taking her eyes off the screen. “So, I imagine you’d need to keep your entire weekend free to read it.”
“Damn. I’ve got plans this weekend,” he smiled. “I’ve got a hot date. A real looker.”
“Really? What’s her name?” the woman asked incredulously.
Rashid leaned forward, his chin almost touching her shoulder as he read from her ID and lanyard. “Marnie Adams…”
The woman smiled, but she also flushed red. She was an attractive brunette, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and the thin-rimmed glasses she wore had slid down her nose. She pushed them back up with her finger and smiled. “I think my boyfriend will have something to say about that,” she said.
“Well, maybe you’d best not tell him you’re spending the weekend with me just yet… You’ll have to think of an excuse…”
“You can rest assured, I’ll be spending the weekend with him.”
“Meh…”
Ramsay coughed, but Rashid looked Marnie in the eyes, gave a little wink, then unhurriedly straightened up and turned his eyes back to the screen. “Yes, that’s about half-a-dozen more codes of conduct right there.”
“Best keep me in the field then,” he replied.
“Well, I think we’d better work out a plan,” Ramsay suggested. “And I’ll tell you now; you’re not going to be free this weekend.” He took out his mobile phone as he heard the bleep, unlocked it and started to scroll the screen.
“You hear that, Marnie? We’ll have to take a rain-check,” Rashid said. He turned to Neil Ramsay. “Sweden,” he said. “That should be our first port of call. We need to go to that post office and see what they can offer.”
“Like what?” Ramsay asked, still distracted by his phone.
“CCTV for one. They’ll have it for certain. We need to find footage of the safety deposit box. We need to see who put it inside, or even what they put inside.”
Ramsay nodded. “Or… we could go via South Africa.”
Rashid frowned. “Where exactly does South Africa figure?”
“This has just come through from Mereweather,” he said, flicking the text down. “When Caroline was investigating a lead in South Africa, looking for the identity of the sniper Anarchy to Recreate Society used in their campaign, she was abducted and very nearly assassinated. Suffice to say she was okay, but she was assisted out of the country by an MI6 field officer, a man named Ryan Beard. He knew of King’s reputation while he was with MI6. He has the name of the South African Secret Service agent who was corrupted by Helena Snell, as she was then, and who betrayed both Caroline and one of their own agents who was chaperoning her to her interview with a witness at Pollsmoor Prison.”
“A link to Helena,” Rashid said quietly. “Well, let’s get going.”
“I need to speak to Simon Mereweather first, get more on this Ryan Beard fellow.” “Fine, you do that. I think Marnie better come,” he said seriously. “She can work on finding out more, use this additional information in her searches, be on hand to keep us up to date.”
“What?” Marnie exclaimed. She took off her glasses, stared at Rashid, but it had the opposite affect to what she imagined, making her features softer and altogether warmer. “Sir, I don’t…”
“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Ramsay said. “You can work on Wi-Fi, and it will keep us in the loop with time zones.”
“But South Africa is on the same time!”
“With Sweden then,” he said. “We’ll work on returning via Stockholm.” He put his mobile phone into his pocket and picked up a file as he headed to the door. “Get ready, both of you. Meet back here with your passports and carry-on bags. No luggage.” He checked his watch. “Say, in two hours? That should give you both enough time.”
Rashid shrugged. “Suits me,” he said. “Just got to go back to the Holiday Inn and grab my bag.”
“But, Sir!” Marnie called after him, but it was too late. Ramsay had already closed the door and was hurrying down the corridor. She looked at Rashid, glared as she slipped on her glasses and took out her own mobile phone. “Happy?”
“Absolutely,” Rashid smiled. “I told you I’d see you this weekend.” He stood up and walked to the door. “Tell your boyfriend not to wait up…”
38
Caroline could see the mountains ahead of her, knew the distance would be deceptive. She had once driven towards the Rockies and they had appeared the same size after an hour on the road. She knew that these would not be in the same league as the Rockies, but she was aware they could be five miles away or thirty. There were scatterings of snow or ice at their peaks and given that it would be late May by now, that would indicate a great height and given their appearance, she estimated they were closer to thirty miles away than twenty. The thought of how long she had been captive made her eyes well-up. She missed Alex terribly, but more than that, to her sadness, she missed her freedom and detested the woman who had instigated this. What could she hope to achieve? She had only met her briefly, and that had been enough. She recognised madness, and clearly Helena Snell had been tipped over the edge. She had been seething with King, blamed him for the death of her lover. Blamed him for her being recognised as the instigator of a terrorist group, and their deadly manifesto. But it had been more than that, she had been in it for her own gain. To kill her husband and to gain financially from his death. And she had been both evil, or perhaps crazy enough to kill so many people as a cover for her agenda. With this knowledge, Caroline truly feared the woman. She knew she was a pawn, but she had no idea to what end.
Caroline considered the mountain region no more. With that direction ruled out, Caroline craned her neck to see what was to east and west. Naturally, if she were able to escape, she thought west would be her best option. Simply because it was in the direction of home. It would seem outlandish to head further away.
She heard footsteps, tensed at the sound. It took all her resolve to steel herself, assume the arrogant superior personality she had used with Michael earlier. She had trained in evasion and capture, knew all about Stockholm Syndrome, where captives can start to sympathise with their captors.
Well, that was not going to happen with her.
She would reverse it. She would have this cowardly little pervert eating out of her hand. She had taken a chance, and now she had to act on it. She would take each little victory she could.
The lock on the door raked back and she could hear keys rattling. The door eased inwards, and she stepped over to the dresser to be closer to her makeshift club. The wingnut was still tucked inside her bra. But she was trained in Krav Maga. She wouldn’t be going quietly.
Michael skulked inside. He had a plastic grocery bag in one hand, some clothes tucked under his arm as he put the keys back into his pocket.
“Good,” said Caroline. “Put the clothes on the bed.” She waited while he placed a folded pair of jeans and thin sweater on the bed. “No shoes?”
Michael shrugged. “There are none.”
Caroline considered this, glanced at the man’s own. She estimated him to be a nine. She was a five and a half. She looked up at him. “What have you got me in there?” She nodded at the bag.
“Food, some drinks. All sealed, like you said.” He looked behind him into the hallway, then stared back at her. “You will be moved soon,” he said. “When I know, I will come and get the clothes from you. I will be in trouble otherwise…”
“Moved? Where?”
“I do not know.”
“Find out for me,” she said. “Please, Michael. We are friends, yes?”
“I…”
“Are you happy here, Michael?”
“I…”
She interrupted him again. “I could get you a
place to stay in England. In Manchester, perhaps. A job, season tickets to watch Manchester United’s home games. My brother could help me get those for you. You will be paid a great deal of money, by the people I work for, for helping me get home,” she paused. She had hurried, but she was desperate. A new place could mean somebody less pliable. It could mean something altogether more terrible even. “What do you say?”
He glanced behind him, then said, “I have to go. I will think about what you have said.”
“I mean it, Michael. I can help you have a better life.”
He looked ashen, closed the door without saying anything else.
She cursed herself for rushing in. She tore off her dress and pulled on the jeans. They were a bit on the loose side, as was the sweater, but both made her feel less vulnerable than the white linen dress. She tore both straps off the dress, tied the ends in a reef-knot, then threaded it through the beltloops and pulled the jeans tighter around her waist. She sat down on the bed. She felt like crying, had to control herself. She knew the time to act was looming. She knew what it was to fight for her life. But she also knew the fear would subside quickly, as adrenalin and survival instincts took over. The first move was always the hardest. She breathed deeply, took her mind off it by checking inside the bag. There were two cans of full-sugar Coca Cola. She opened one, appreciated the caffeine and sugar hit as she drank half the can in one go. She placed the can on the floor and turned her attention to the crisps, biscuits and chocolate inside. They were all unfamiliar brands and it reminded her of holidays in Europe, or occasional visits to budget supermarkets. Apart from the cola, she did not recognise any of the brands. With all the fat and sugar content, it wasn’t the healthiest meal, but it was the best she had eaten in a month.
39
Sodertalje, Sweden
Time had taken on another dimension. One that King felt it almost impossible to assimilate. He had barely paused for breath since Simon Mereweather had handed him the letter in Scotland. He could not tell, without concentrating hard, whether it had been weeks or days. But he had given his all, pushed through fatigue and his own fears to buy Caroline the time she needed. She was tough and resourceful, possibly one of the most intelligent people he had met, and he knew deep down, that the likelihood of a gallant rescue was slim. Caroline would have to use her military and intelligence training to get out of her situation. All he could hope for was to keep up what he had started. Keep Helena from seeing Caroline as a loose end of no future value, and now, unbalance the woman as he bought himself some precious time. He would have to act fast. It would be a fine line emotionally for Helena. She would undoubtedly be trying to find out what had happened to King, and while she was doing that she would be exposed. She would have to make enquiries, pay-off people in a position to extract information, and that would always create a trail.
King knew his time was limited. Stay under the radar too long and Helena may well abandon her plans and cut her losses, including her ties to Caroline. He would have to resurface soon.
He had already revisited the post office and been mildly rebuked at first, threatened with a call to the police when he had persisted. Data protection was a key right to living in Sweden, and the Swedish protected their freedom so fervently. King could tell that no amount of cajoling would work. He was unofficial, and a flash of his MI5 ID was about as useless as the mild flirting he had tried at first. He was ruggedly handsome, but certainly the wrong side of forty to have the desired effect on a twenty-year-old woman with looks worthy of Vogue’s front cover. He had been told that all recordings were digital and held both on cloud and hard-drive, and only a court order would retrieve them. King had known that he had been close to the wire, knew he had to appear to give up and walk away. But appearances are deceptive, and King always played more than one card.
He watched the teenagers practice on the goals. There were a few girls, but mainly boys and the skill-level was high. It was called soccer in Sweden, but King would always call it football. Each player would dribble the ball a few metres, then power a kick towards the goal. It was quite an onslaught for the goalkeeper, but he was coping well, saving far more than he was conceding. After ten-minutes all the players were taking long passes and strikes towards the goal from just shy of the centre line. The goalkeeper coped admirably and saved all but a few. There was no element of surprise, and unsurprisingly he had more time to meet the ball. The coach seemed to recognise this quickly and he brought half the players in close, the other half split between the two corners. He shouted and made some gestures, and the players kicked in sequence to avoid a blast of multiple balls, and the goalkeeper let more than a few goals into the net. After five-minutes, the players ceased fire, gathered the balls and started to perform some warm-down exercises and stretches. The coach tossed a few spiky foam rollers into the mix and the players alternated working it along their hamstrings and quads. They all took on fluids, some drinking from bottles of water, others squeezing sachets into their water bottles. King guessed they were syrupy fruit cordials packed with electrolytes. It made him smile when he thought about playing football as a boy using jumpers as goal posts and downing a fizzy pop afterwards, or later training with the SAS on nothing more than tea, Mars Bars and bacon rolls. Perhaps a can of Guinness and paper-wrapped fish and chips smothered in salt and vinegar, his muscles aching and cramping after fifteen-mile runs with a fifty-pound Bergen on his back. But always up for a beer and some chips off base in the evening.
The coach was dismissing the players and packing the balls away in nets. He was forty-something, wore his thinning fair hair in a crew-cut. He had put on some weight in the years since King had seen him last. Par for the course. Not everyone lived such an active life as King did.
The coach dragged the nets of balls off the pitch, King guessed the Volvo estate backed up with its tailgate open belonged to him. It seemed the obvious choice, given that most of the parents waiting for their children had parked facing the pitch, most driving expensive SUVs and either talking on their phones, texting or surfing the internet on various devices. King got out of the Volkswagen hire car and made his way towards the coach. He walked unhurriedly, hands in his pockets. Just another parent waiting for their child to get changed.
The coach was pushing the nets in place, moving equipment to make room. He spoke before King could, didn’t turn around.
“Time caught up with me?”
“It catches up with everyone.”
The man wedged a cooler of bottled water between the nets of footballs, then turned around. He looked older than when King had last seen him. Of course he would, it had been over seventeen years, but even so, the crow’s feet, wrinkles and extra weight in his face aged him considerably. “I thought the day would come,” he said. “What can I do to change your mind?”
King looked him up and down. He was about to allay the man’s fears, but saw the way he looked at him, noted the sense of foreboding in the man’s voice. He needed some stick and carrot.
King simply shrugged. “I don’t know, Simon…”
“Why so long?” he asked. “I mean, it’s been, what? Seventeen… no, eighteen years?”
“Can’t beat the Reaper,” King said.
Simon Grant sat back down on the edge of the boot space. He sagged. He’d been with King on an operation, seen what the man could do. He wasn’t a fighter, never had been. He knew if the man was there to kill him, then he was as good as dead. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing more than delay the inevitable. “Can you give me some time?”
King had heard this before. In Switzerland, many years ago. A man who knew he had been beaten before the fight had begun. King had earned his moniker from that operation. The Reaper. The man had been a traitor and he had taken a softer ending with drink, a warm bath and a sharp knife.
“How’s Lisa?” asked King.
Grant’s expression hardened. “Fine,” he said. “Please, leave her out of it.”
“And David? He’s
what? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six,” Grant said. King noticed his eyes brighten, could see the man’s pride in his son. King felt a pang of indifference, jealousy even. Nobody had ever felt that way about him. “He’s a teacher now. In Gothenburg. Married too. A little one on the way.”
“About the same age I was when we met,” King mused.
“Good times,” Grant said sarcastically. “Seriously, why now?”
“I want you to do something for me,” said King. “I want you to do one last job. Afterwards, you’ll never see me again.”
“What?” Grant asked incredulously.
“It’s in Sodertalje, a quiet commuter town.”
Grant nodded. “I know the place,” he said.
“The target is a secure building. A post office. Time delays, motion sensors and a strong room,” said King. “Inside the strong room is a computer server. I need to access it tonight.”
“You can’t seriously…” Grant shook his head. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said.
“You do tonight. I trust you. And I need your help.”
“I coach football to rich kids after school. I drive a taxi at weekends. I haven’t broken into anything since France, all those years ago.”
“Simon, you were one of the best,” said King. “And skills can go rusty, but not to someone like you. My hand is still in, and it’s a two-man job. I need you.”
“And afterwards?”
“I’m gone.”
“Sure…”
“No, really. I don’t ever intend to return to Sweden.”
“And leave me dead? Or take me back with you.”
“No.”
“The money’s gone.”
“Life must be expensive in Sweden.”
“I was on the run a while, still am I suppose,” he said. “It costs money.”
“I gather that.”
“And Forsyth?”
King shook his head. “Dirty. And very dead.”
“So, why are you here?”
“For your help.”
