by A P Bateman
King could see the entrance to the post office, saw Grant come outside at closing time. He carried what looked like a folded brochure and an envelope. He walked unhurriedly, apparently without a care. King knew the man would have much on his mind, not least the situation he now found himself in, but he would be concentrating on the layout, committing it to memory.
Grant reached the car and got inside. He took a pen out of his pocket, and a notepad. He glanced at King, then started to sketch out the floor-plan. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “I need to concentrate.”
King remained silent. He watched the post office, saw the woman pulling in a sign and closing the door behind her. It was the same woman that he had pathetically flirted with when he enquired earlier. He had been right not to go back in with Grant. A blind pulled down on the window. King figured there would be things to do, protocols to maintain. He imagined the woman cashing up the register, reconciliating the credit card terminal. He had no idea how to do all of that, but he’d seen it done and knew it was one of many behind-the-scenes tasks that businesses had to perform each day.
Grant had sketched out a detailed record of what he had seen inside the post office. King thought his own sketch had looked like a six-year-old’s in comparison. He thought nothing more of it. Grant’s was accurate and professional, and he would be working off his own plan.
“Standard PIR, or Passive Infrared,” said Grant.
“I know what it stands for,” King commented flatly.
“Well, I can re-route that, and I can get the alarm sorted, as long as the delay isn’t stupidly quick.”
“Good. But I’m sensing a but...”
“How are you going to get the computer logged onto the server and overcome any password protection?”
“You let me worry about that.”
“Fine,” said Grant curtly. “And you don’t need to get into the saferoom?”
“Just the server.”
“The server is in the office behind the counter. I saw it when she stepped out around the counter to show me the safe room,” Grant nodded. “We should be okay then.” He looked at his watch, glanced at the sky. There were still a couple hours of light left.
“Should be okay?”
Grant shrugged. “It will have a silent alarm for sure. I’m hoping it will be part of the master unit.”
“Right…”
“I still don’t see how you will get into that server.”
King nodded. “I’ll see to that,” he said. “The silent alarm worries me. I should have thought about it. This is a bit rushed.”
“You don’t have much time, do you,” Grant commented.
“I think I’ve already run out, pushed what little leeway I had.”
“Nothing like having all you care about at stake, is there?”
King nodded. The man had been recruited the day he had left prison. His estranged wife had moved on but was in an abusive relationship and wanted out. His son had seen more than any child should have. Grant had been bullied and conned into one last job, his family dangled in front of him like a carrot. Before he could draw breath, he was working with an IRA splinter cell and then whisked up by MI6. If anybody knew what it was to be used and keep false hope, it was Simon Grant. And yet still, the man had made a break for it, managed to get word to his family and steal the money from both the criminal who had conned him and the IRA who had hunted him.
“How did it happen?”
King could feel his heart race. Because I should have been there! Because I let emotion get in the way! Instead, he said, “It was after a mission. Mopping up the details. Caroline, my fiancé, had been lucky to survive. I checked she was okay, but I went after one of the terrorists. When I got back, she was gone…”
“You haven’t learned a thing,” Grant said.
“What?”
“In France, all those years ago. If you hadn’t blindly chased Forsyth out of the house and into the dunes, then you wouldn’t have lost both me and the money…”
“Piss off!” King snapped. But he knew deep down it had been true. “I found you all those years ago, let you go free because you and your wife and child had such a shit time,” he said coldly.
Grant held up his hand. “I know,” he said. “And I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But you should know, a sense of justice or even revenge, only serves one purpose and it is never worthwhile. Tell me; did chasing this person, whatever they did, or whatever you did to them when you caught up with them, make losing Caroline an acceptable cost?”
“Of course not!”
“Then make sure you never find yourself in this situation again,” Grant paused. “Don’t be blinded. Look at the whole picture. Vengeance solves no purpose if it gets in the way of the ones you love. Look at what lengths you would go to for Caroline. Look at what this person has made you do, how easy it was for them to own you. Love is the strongest emotion, but it can so easily be used against you by those who would do you harm.”
King frowned. He said nothing as he started the engine and slammed the car into gear. He took off quickly and performed a U-turn in the road.
Grant fumbled with his seat belt. “Where are we going?”
King didn’t answer. He was well and truly irked. But what hurt the most, was knowing that Simon Grant was right. He knew that he was running out of time, and he was not going to waste any more of it on fool’s errands.
44
South Africa
Rashid wrapped his fingers around the chunky butt of the Sig Sauer P225 9mm pistol. He had already checked that the magazine was full, and the first round had been chambered. Safety off, finger resting on the frame, hammer cocked. He preferred to cock the hammer – the weapon’s double-action trigger pull was off-putting and never made for the most accurate first shot.
The plan had been hastily cobbled together. Marnie was an analyst and computer technician. She would stay in the car and had no aspirations to do anything different. It had been over twenty-four hours and she was still seething towards Rashid for suggesting she come to South Africa with them, even more so each time he gave her a cheeky wink.
Not a trained or experienced field agent, but flexible and willing to give most things a go, Neil Ramsay had slipped around the house and positioned himself at the back door. He had simply shrugged when Rashid had told him what to do, replying that he had been a useful Rugby fly-half at school and university and could throw himself around the legs of any man who ran from him, and wasn’t scared to either.
That left Beard and Rashid to go in the front. Rashid would hang back, let Beard do the talking. He was an experienced hand on the continent and had been in South Africa a few years. He looked at ease, and although the tan was not a factor with Rashid, he didn’t have the most welcoming of appearances. Something that had helped him blend into his infiltration with ISIS, but not somebody you’d want to turn up on your doorstep. For that reason, he would hang back out of sight. They had decided against a hard entrance. If Botha was a man who had sold secrets and sacrificed one of his colleagues, then the chances are he would take his own well-being seriously enough to have security in place. That may simply be a heavy series of door locks, or a loaded shotgun in the hallway. Botha was unmarried and had no immediate family. A loaded gun close to hand was of no consequence to the safety of a child or family member. South Africa was a country dominated by violent crime, most houses would have a firearm of some description.
Ryan Beard hesitated at the front door, glanced at Rashid, who glared at him and signalled him with the muzzle of the pistol to get on with it. He knocked firmly and stood back a pace. There was no reply. He waited twenty-seconds, knocked again. A few seconds later there was a faint and muffled voice through the door.
“Who is it?”
“Police,” Beard said. He glanced at Rashid, who was staring at him blankly. Beard shrugged. It had been agreed to simply ask for assistance using Botha’s phone to call a tow-truck, in lieu of his dead mobile phone batte
ry. He’d gone off-piste, had little choice but to go with it. “There was an accident on the road between here and Coopertown yesterday, I’m following up with witness statements,” he paused. “I’d like to ask some questions, see if we can build a picture.”
Rashid flexed his fingers around the butt of the pistol, tightened his grip. He was glaring at Beard.
“I didn’t leave the house yesterday,” came the muffled reply.
“If you could just open the door, please.”
“Show me your ID.”
And there it is, thought Rashid. All gone to shit…
He edged forwards, keeping his body against the wall. He then suddenly seemed to realise that the wall was constructed from timber, hesitated for a moment then crouched low.
Beard took out a wallet, thumbed through and held it up to the peephole quickly. All he had was his MI6 ID, but it did not say MI6 anywhere on it, and simply had a photo and small print. The MI6, or Secret Intelligence Service insignia was small. He hoped a quick flash would be ok. He glanced at Rashid, flustered and flushed red. He knew he’d messed up. He dropped the wallet on the decking and hurriedly bent down to retrieve it.
The door splintered at the same time as the almighty boom resonated and splinters of wood and lead shot that had slowed through the thick wooden door covered Beard’s back. Beard stood back up, shocked at the noise, but realised his mistake. He tried to dodge both left and right but was frozen and hampered by indecision. There was a loud and metallic ‘click-clack’ from behind the door.
Rashid was moving. He barrelled into Beard and fell onto his right side as Beard was thrown clear of the doorway and landed in a heap out of range. The second shotgun blast opened-up another eight-inch diameter hole next to the first. Rashid was already firing, putting three shots through the holes and another just clipping the wood a few inches to the right. He knew he was firing from a low enough angle for the bullets to have sailed cleanly in front of a man standing three-feet back from the door. And Botha would have to be to accommodate the length of a shotgun, and the size of the spread pattern which had punched cleanly through as complete holes, rather than like Swiss cheese.
Another ‘click-clack’ of the pump-action and another blast powered through, connecting the two holes. Rashid felt the splinters hit his face, but he was already up and had jammed the pistol through the group of holes. He heard: ‘click’ as Botha worked the action back, ejecting the .12-gauge cartridge, and Rashid fired four shots into the unknown. There was a yelp and a thud, and the sound of the shotgun hitting a hard, wooden floor. Rashid had already pulled back, putting himself behind the door-jamb. He swung around, aimed a kick at the door.
Nothing.
He kicked again, and again.
Nothing.
Ramsay appeared around the edge of the house. He caught sight of Beard on the ground, of Rashid kicking the door. He glanced at a heavy planter, caught hold of it and heaved it through the window. The glass gave, as did the clay planter and Ramsay punched out the remaining pieces of glass.
“Rashid!” he shouted.
Rashid was already moving and bounded across the decking, throwing himself cleanly through the window. He landed unceremoniously on the floor but got himself back up and out of the lounge towards the hall.
Botha was sliding himself backwards on the polished wood floor, pushing with his feet. He had the shotgun in his hands, pushed the pump-action forwards with a ‘clack’ and brought the weapon around on Rashid.
Rashid aimed, but did not have time to try and wound Botha, so double-tapped and stepped back into the lounge as the two 9mm bullets slammed through the man’s mid-drift and into the floor behind him. He ducked his head back out and saw that Botha wasn’t going anywhere. He stepped forwards, kicked the shotgun away and headed for the door. There were three serious-looking deadbolts and a five-lever lock. Rashid undid them, turned the key and pulled the door inwards.
Beard was dazed, but on his feet. Ramsay was breathless, his shirt-tails had come out and his white shirt was covered in red earth from the planter. Rashid looked past them, saw Marnie standing beside the Mercedes. She looked indecisive, had got out of the vehicle but was not sure if she should come and assist. Rashid beckoned her over. It would be better to keep together. He doubted whether the three shotgun blasts from inside the house would have been heard in the neighbourhood, but the volley of 9mm outside certainly would have. But this was South Africa, and people seemed to shoot regularly at the road signs. A semi-rural suburb like this may just absorb the sound. Or, the police could already be on the way.
“Containment,” Ramsay said. He looked up at Beard and tossed him the keys to the Mercedes. “Bring both cars off the road and park them nose out.” He turned to Marnie, who was staring at the blood on the floor, and Botha, who was not looking in the best of health. “Find the man’s computer and get into it. We want to see banking history. And drain his files.”
Marnie nodded and fished in her handbag for some USB sticks and an algorithm stick, which had been designed by GCHQ to find what she was interested in. A simple plug and play piece of hardware. She hesitated, then realised it was down to her to find Botha’s computer. She walked across the hall, slipped in some blood and righted herself quickly. She grimaced, glared again at Rashid as she walked past. She was not enjoying her introduction to working in the field.
“Right, get him into the kitchen,” said Ramsay.
Rashid was about to question him but shrugged and tucked the pistol into his waistband and bent down and caught hold of Botha by his shoulders. Ramsay took the legs and between them, they padded across the hall and by deduction, walked across the hall and into a large and well-appointed kitchen and diner.
“Pull out the chair,” he said to Rashid.
Botha was in and out, groaning and on the cusp of unconsciousness. Ramsay dropped the man’s legs when Rashid positioned him on the chair. Rashid stepped back, wiped his brow with his sleeve and watched as Ramsay took his mobile phone out and fiddled with the screen. He set the voice memo function and placed it down carefully on the kitchen table. Next, he removed a small graphite box from his pocket. Rashid could see that the box was marked: Insulin. Not that Ramsay was a diabetic – it was merely a ruse for airport authorities and customs officers. It was complete with a doctor’s letter outlining Ramsay’s medical needs.
Ramsay opened the box and picked up the first syringe. He twisted off the cap and revealed an enormously thick needle approximately four-inches long.
“We’re way past a thorough interrogation,” he explained. “A shot of adrenalin to stop him going down the drain, and then straight into sodium panthenol.” He looked at Rashid, who looked puzzled. “Truth serum, I suppose. A large dose could cause brain damage, but I don’t think that will be of any consequence, considering his condition and the brief.” Rashid didn’t speak. He’d killed many times, especially on the battlefield, but this all seemed quite clinical. He watched as Ramsay prepared the needle, wouldn’t be so quick to discount the man’s field abilities in future.
“Right, open up his shirt,” Ramsay told him.
Rashid got back in the game, decisively catching hold of both sides of the shirt and ripping the buttons off. There were four bullet holes in his chest and stomach, one was bleeding badly, but the other three seemed to have sealed closed. He stepped back, wiped his hands on a tea towel and noticed the two exit wounds in the man’s back. He could see Botha wasn’t going anywhere. He doubted the man would live more than ten-minutes. There would be untold damage inside him.
Ramsay held the syringe like a knife, then pushed the man’s chin back and stabbed him in the centre of his chest, straight through the wall of his chest cavity and into the heart. Botha wrenched himself upright and inhaled deeply. His legs kicked out wildly then went rigid, almost forcing himself backwards, had the chair not banged into the table and stopped him from going any further. Botha looked at them, grimaced then started to chatter.
“Who are you
? What are you doing in my house?” He looked down at his stomach, then back at Ramsay. “Get me a doctor!”
“All in due course,” Ramsay said, as he prepared the next vial. This time, the needle was far smaller. He looked at Rashid. “Get a vein up.”
Rashid had done paramedicine training in the SAS. He snapped to, unfastened Botha’s belt and pulled it clear of the loops. He wrapped it tightly around the man’s bicep. Botha attempted to resist, but his new lease of life was in the mental, not the physical presence. His forearm started to change colour, and the veins in the crux of his elbow were more prominent. Ramsay bent down and carefully administered the dose of sodium panthenol. He stood back, looked up as Ryan Beard entered the room, clearly shocked by the sight of the man in the chair, the injuries he had sustained and the treatment he was receiving at the hands of the apparently bookish and rather forgettable looking man from MI5.
“Go and check on Marnie,” Rashid said to Beard. “See if she needs help searching, then go and stand guard at the front door.” He looked back at Ramsay. “How long does it take?”
Ramsay looked at his watch. “About five-minutes,” he said. “We can start now though, see where it goes.” He caught hold of Botha’s chin, looked him in the eyes. He was in and out, like he’d seen off two bottles of wine and was trying to appear sober. Ramsay clicked his fingers in front of the man’s face. Botha seemed oblivious. “I’m going to ask you about money in your offshore account,” he said. “We have your account number, have seen the dates of the deposits and the amounts… I want to know where the money came from.”
Botha’s head lolled. “The Russian…” he said slowly. His mouth didn’t seem to correspond with his words. The facial muscles were affected by the drug, the voice slurred. It looked like Botha was well into the third bottle now. “The woman…” he added. “Not the man…” he paused. “He was here last year… to shoot…”
