Tim Heath Thriller Boxset

by Tim Heath

  Still, by the end of the day, with Charlie now back home again, nothing was alarming in his behaviour. His home had been bugged, though only lightly. Anything too obvious and he’d start looking for more. A team of FSB agents were stationed outside his home for the night. They couldn’t be seen from the house, so it was okay for them to sit there playing cards. If Charlie appeared from the driveway, they would see him before he would see them. The rear of his property backed onto a large industrial building. There was no escape that way. The truth was, they didn’t expect him out again that night and so it turned out.

  26

  It was now just two days before Bill’s execution date. Anya was back in her home city of St Petersburg. She’d only stayed the one night with her mother and had been getting back into the swing of things since her flight home from Moscow. The weather had improved a little, though the darkness kept creeping in. In winter months she saw very little light, leaving for work in darkness and returning home again in the same gloom. The city itself, with all the artificial lighting, never seemed too dark. And with less snow to clear that week, getting around was a little easier.

  Anya had spent the morning at the Summer Gardens. She was not there for pleasure, as pleasant a place as it was. Her mother had been right; she was showing more interest in the case than was probably, to the casual eye, now warranted. The closer it got to the execution date, however, the more frantic she became.

  The park was very much back to normal. Being December, there were fewer people around than when she’d last been there, but it was far from empty. In a city of so many, nothing was ever empty. Anya walked to the bench where Fernandes had been sitting when he was shot. She sat down on the bench herself. There was no obvious sign that anything had happened there. No evidence of a crime but a crime they had so much evidence for, she reminded herself at that moment. And that was her great challenge. On the one hand, she saw the physical evidence. Few crimes she was involved in had so much to go on. They even had a photograph, taken at the time of the shooting, showing both victim and attacker. They had the murder weapon. There was also all the forensic information matching Bill to the victim, his blood on his shirt sleeve, found in his English country home. A clear case. And yet, niggling away deep down was the other side of the situation. Her own nation in fact, and her own mother’s role within it all. Their behaviour, their effort stood out as outright strange. Why the push for the trial, why the speed of the appeal? How was it even possible that today she sat in a park where about two months ago there had been a crime and in two days the sentence was being carried out from that same crime. The speed of it all was what bothered her most, coupled with the way her mother knew so much about the case.

  She stood up from the bench; it was too cold to spend too much time sitting. She then stood facing the bench, where Bill had been photographed holding the weapon. The images came back to her mind. She’d been one of the first on the scene that day, certainly the first from the FSB, as far as she knew. The body had already been taken away by the police, and the area sectioned off when she got there. Witnesses had been rounded up. But she’d been there maybe twenty minutes or so after the shooting, though she couldn’t recall exactly now. She turned from that spot and walked in the direction the attacker had fled, towards the canal. It was not a long way to the edge of the park. She paused there, looking out into the icy water below. The river had started to freeze but was not solid yet. The smaller canals tended to freeze first. Had the murder taken place today, the gun would be sitting on top of the ice in front of her. She now turned again, walking back towards the main gates. That had been where the wedding party was. She stood there mulling over what she knew about that day, what it must have been like to see someone walking into the park acting suspiciously. She recalled that the wedding party had left, they’d seen the situation and seen enough reason to flee. But their photographer hadn’t. He’d stayed and watched, getting some perfect shots as the crime was being committed. He’d stayed. Anya paused. She couldn’t stop asking herself the question as to why he had stayed when others went. He was a wedding photographer, and his wedding party had left, and yet he had stayed.

  “Why did you stand here and take photos?” she said aloud, standing in the spot by the entrance, looking back through the trees towards the bench she’d been sitting on five minutes before. “Why wait? Why didn’t you leave with the wedding party?”

  She knew his name was on file at the office. She’d spoken with him that day and asked him to send his photos once they’d been processed. She got back into her car, heading for the office.

  At that moment in Moscow, RusCom were preparing a press release that was going to go out that evening. They were about to announce the release of details regarding a product they had, believed to be the tablet. With interest flagging a little due to the lack of anything further, naturally, this news caused a stir. The date set for the sale of the company was just over one week away. The share price rose two per cent based on news of an imminent press release. Internet chat rooms were once again speculating about what it was. Unknown to many, though, was the involvement of so many RusCom employees in the online conversations. They were there to throw fuel onto the fire. The sale was approaching. The more hype, the better.

  Because of traffic, it had taken Anya fifteen minutes to travel the short distance back to her office. Arriving back, she was surprised to see so much talk about RusCom once more. She closed her office door and opened up her computer. Finding the information she was looking for, she wrote down the name of the photographer on a piece of paper she had next to her. She then opened up Yandex, Russia’s answer to Google, and searched using his name and the word photography. No results came up.

  “I knew it,” she said aloud.

  She opened up the email program she used with Charlie to communicate. She typed in a draft message, telling him what she had. She wrote the photographer’s name into the message and saved it. They had both agreed to check this mailbox daily from now on. She hoped he’d pick up on the information soon.

  After this, she closed down her system. Picking up her coat, she told her staff that she was working from home for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow, too. She left the office straight after saying this and was back out in traffic, not moving anywhere very fast.

  While the UK authorities had done their best to keep the latest developments out of the news for the moment, political relations with Russia were at a thirty-year low. Moscow was refusing to talk to London any more, all their usual channels of communication now totally useless. The British government had become increasingly concerned by the silence, so when news reached them that, just one day before the planned execution of the British national, the Russian embassy in London was being closed, they started to fear the worst. All Russian diplomatic personnel had been ordered to leave. Not long after that, they received notification that in Moscow and St Petersburg, Russian officials with FSB agents had gone to both the British embassy and consulate and ordered they be closed down too. All staff had been given one day to vacate the country otherwise they would face imprisonment.

  This caused the UK a major headache. At a time when dialogue, not distance, was needed, the Russians were closing down operations and setting a clear barrier between the two nations. The British could only connect it to the events unfolding in St Petersburg. It worried them greatly.

  Charlie was made aware of the situation as he returned home from the gym. It was not the end to the day he had wanted. Instead of going straight home, he’d opted to go to a coffee shop and have a look online. Once he'd made his order, the first thing he did was to check the email program. He saw the message Anya had left for him.

  He opened up a search engine and did his own search on the photographer about whom she'd given details. He found nothing. At that moment Zoe came through the door and Charlie looked up smiling. He’d called her after hearing about the embassy closing in London, suggesting they meet. She walked towards Charlie, passing a t
able on the way. Sitting at that table were two FSB agents, who’d followed Charlie since he’d left the gym. They had earphones in, a directional mike on their table picking up any conversation Charlie would have. They were in luck when they saw Zoe joining him.

  “How are you?” she said, taking a seat, scanning the menu once she’d got herself comfortable.

  “I think I’m onto something,” he said as a waiter came over and Zoe ordered a tea.

  “You heard about the Russian embassy closure in London?”

  “Yes, that’s why I called you. What’s the latest?”

  “I think you know as much as me, Charlie. All personnel in the British embassy in Moscow, as well as the consulate in St Petersburg, have been ordered to leave. They’ve given them one day.”

  “Which takes us to the day of the execution.”

  “Yes, convenient, isn’t it?” Zoe took a sip of the tea after it had been placed on her table. “Anything more from your contact?”

  “Yes, I was just picking up on that. I’ve been sent the name of the photographer who was in the park at the time of the murder.”

  “The one who took the photo of Mr Hackett holding the gun at Fernandes?”

  “Yes, Zoe, the very one. Except, if you look online, he doesn’t exist. There is no trace of a photographer with his name working in St Petersburg.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a website? Is it so far-fetched to believe?”

  “What photographer, worth his salt nowadays, doesn’t have a website, or any web presence at all?”

  “What are you saying then, Charlie?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but the evidence for the crime was always apparently so clear. Everything was there for us, and it was almost too perfect.”

  “So the photographer was a plant?”

  “And he knew where to be and what was going to happen.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do fully, Zoe. But it’s given us something. Somewhere to start. If we can find this man, maybe it will lead to some answers.”

  “But where are you going to find him, especially if, as you say, there is no sign of him online? Especially if his name is not real.”

  “I don’t know, but I think our contact might know where to look. They met with him too, remember.”

  There was a movement at a table by the wall, something that was nothing and yet it made Charlie look, just for a moment. Two people sat not talking to each other. Both had earpieces in. Something that looked like a pen lay on the table. They’d not touched their drinks in a few minutes. Instinct kicked in with his inner voice speaking to him. Charlie quickly wrote on a paper napkin: We’re being watched.

  Zoe read it but didn’t react. She didn’t look around either. They both finished their drinks and got up, paying at the counter by the back wall. When they turned to leave, the table by the door was empty. A five-pound note sat on the table but no other sign of life. They moved to the door quickly, but there was no sign of anyone matching their description outside.

  “That was odd,” Zoe said. “Who do you think they were, journalists?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve not noticed anything so far, so either they were and they just showed up, or they’ve been tailing me for some time...” and his voice trailed off.

  “Tailing you for some time and what?” Zoe said.

  “If that’s the case, I don’t think it’s the press I have to fear.”

  “The Russians?”

  “It’s highly possible.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know at this stage, besides this whole Hackett thing which is starting to stink the more I look into it. I need to meet with...” and he stopped himself. Zoe was about to finish his sentence before he jumped in. “Don’t say the name. For the sake of caution, let’s not say anything more.”

  “Jesus, Charlie, you’re making me paranoid now.”

  Two roads away from Charlie and Zoe, now out of sight, the FSB agents who’d followed Charlie into the café were speaking with their team in a black van that was parked up.

  “He’s got a contact in Russia. Someone who's feeding him information. He’s going to try and track down the photographer.”

  They talked a little more about what was required. Two would track him for the rest of the day. A wider team was now needed. If his erratic actions in the café had been anything to go by, he now suspected he was being followed. It was just an agent’s instinct to know these things. And from what they’d heard of Charlie Boon, they knew he was a good agent, despite his relative youth.

  “I’ll report back to Moscow. They’ll certainly want us to be at any meeting there is with a rogue FSB agent. I’ll ask them what the orders are for such a meeting,” said the team leader.

  Two agents got out of the van, a different two from the ones in the café, and started walking towards the last known location where Charlie had been.

  27

  It was the day before the execution and the British tabloids led with the breaking news of what was about to happen. The phone lines at the Home Office were ringing off the hook. MI6 had been told about the stories just moments before the papers hit the streets. They’d been told too late for them to be able to stop anything, which was the intention.

  Charlie, Zoe and a few others sat in the offices of MI6 that morning. They’d been in from seven. There was no idea yet from where the leak had come. Several papers were leading with the story and by breakfast it was all over the television too. The government was on the brink of collapsing, their handling of the whole situation being brought into question nearly as much as Russia's agenda in it all.

  Charlie and Zoe grabbed a quiet word with each other at the first break.

  “Does this shed light on our little visitors yesterday?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. They were both trying to recall what they’d said. Had they been responsible for giving the game away? “Let’s keep it between us, anyway, just for the moment.”

  She agreed. There were bigger issues at stake now than whether they’d been the leak with some careless talk. Back in the meeting, after the ten-minute coffee break, MI6 was leading the discussion.

  “There is nothing in the Moscow press. Despite this story being broken in London, the Kremlin press is not saying anything,” he said.

  “Which tells us,” Charlie added, “that they are still keeping a close lid on everything.”

  “But surely they’ll want to come out and say something now after the message has got out?”

  “I think the days of second-guessing the Russians are over, don’t you?” said the MI6 chairman for the meeting.

  “So what do we do now?” Zoe said. Charlie had been the one who insisted she stayed on the case even though her part was long since over. She’d not been told any of that, however, and was enjoying being involved in something as high-level as this. She was getting a taste for it.

  “Charlie, you probably need to start arranging a time to meet with your contact again. Time is running against us on this one.”

  “I don’t think I can arrange anything quick enough to save Bill,” Charlie said.

  “Don’t worry about him, for now, Charlie,” came the reply. “We’ll have to work on that avenue. He was, after all, convicted of the murder.”

  “Do we still believe he had anything to do with that?” Zoe said.

  “I don’t see what other conclusions we can draw, can you?” Zoe thought about that for a moment but shook her head.

  “Still, it doesn’t do away with Moscow’s reaction to everything since,” Charlie added. “Can we press economic sanctions?”

  “More than we currently have? Hardly. Since the Ukraine situation, we’ve been using that tactic. If they stopped supplying us with gas, we’d be in trouble. Their sanctions would probably hurt us more than we can now hurt them.”

  “So we’re out of options, then, is what you're saying?” Zoe asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that, but w
e are in a tight corner, and Moscow is the one dishing out the blows.”

  “So, besides a covert rescue mission by the SAS, you're saying William Hackett is a doomed man?” Zoe sat back in her chair, surprisingly vocal today.

  “We can’t go into Russia and extract him, Zoe. That was never an option.” They all understood that too, really, Zoe especially. She’d been in on things from the start. While she hadn’t seen eye to eye with Anya and her FSB colleagues, she didn’t deny that they had a strong case against the accused. She had, however, heard of the SAS doing such things before, but maybe not in Russia. And Hackett was not some hostage in a terrorist attack, but a prisoner in a murder trial, one that the British had handed over in the first place to Russia to stand trial.

  “What about the press?” Charlie said.

  “What about them? We say nothing, as usual,” came the reply from his boss. “It’s probably fatal for the government, but it doesn’t change the situation for us. Maybe the international pressure will result in some action.”

  “I doubt it,” said Charlie. It was a feeling shared by all.

  “Another thing,” the chairman of the meeting said. “Our friends at RusCom made a statement last night about product details soon being made known. We’ll have the two technicians ready if it’s this device they are talking about, which is what it’s expected to be. They didn't obviously have any real development program in place for anything else, as far as we have seen.”

  It was a bitterly cold day in St Petersburg. The cell where Bill was being kept was barely heated. He would have become ill because of it, no doubt, had today not been the last of his life. Execution day had come. There had been no rescue, no one turning up to his door saying how there had been some big mistake. His dreams of an end to this ordeal had turned into the nightmare he dreaded. Breakfast remained untouched, as always. There was no last wishes feast about which he’d wondered. It seemed his passing from this life was not to be marked in any way. He’d not seen his lawyer in days, his family in months.