by A P Bateman
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 patro
l 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.
23
The top floor of Thames House had recently undergone a complete refit. The glass was quadruple-glazed ballistic composite, impenetrable by 20mm anti-aircraft rounds. The thickness also made the windows soundproof and would deflect parabolic microphones. To keep up with the added security measures, lead and titanium sleeves now lined the walls between the grade II listed stone walls and the plasterboard within.
It had been a deniable act of terrorism by Russian extremists that had necessitated the refit and reconstruction of MI5 headquarters. The strike at the heart of the British intelligence establishment had called for more changes, and now each floor was guarded by heavily armed security officers from MI5’s security group, the only non-police or military guards armed in the UK.
Rashid glanced at the guard, who was protected by a flack-jacket and body armour and armed with a Sig P226 pistol and a 7.62mm SAR rifle. He noted the heavy calibre. MI5 were not taking any chances. At the end of the corridor, another similarly attired and armed guard stood outside the director’s office.
“A bit heavy,” he said. “The PM hasn’t got a show of force like this.”
Mereweather nodded. “It’s exactly that; a show of force. Foreign intelligence officers and dignitaries have been doing the rounds. We wanted them to go home with tales of the service’s strength. The guards would normally be suited and booted, conceal-carry. The paramilitary boys are usually outside or on the exits and entrances.”
“Where do they train?”
“With the metropolitan police.”
“SCO19?”
“Yes.”
Rashid said nothing.
“Anything wrong in that?” Mereweather asked.
Rashid shrugged. “A bit gung-ho.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“We trained a few groups in Hereford, that’s all.”
“And?”
“They like Ray-Bans. Like, when it’s dark,” he paused. “And afterwards, in the bar, they keep their pistols on. Pose for photos, that sort of shit.”
“Anything else?”
“When they find out you went to war, they always ask you if you’ve killed someone,” Rashid said quietly.
Mereweather nodded. Rashid had a feeling the MI5 man would take it under consideration. He opened the door, ignoring the guard and ushered Rashid inside. There was an outer office and the secretary barely acknowledged them, as she tapped on her keyboard, and studied her handwritten notes. Mereweather opened the second oak door and the two men stepped into the inner sanctum of MI5.
Director Amherst was seated behind his large mahogany desk. As usual, the chairs for his guests had been arranged in a semi-circle in front of his desk, with two low glass tables between. There were three chairs. One was occupied, the other two were empty. The man in the chair stood up, nodded at the men as they walked in. Amherst remained seated.
“Neil Ramsay,” the man said, holding out his hand.
Rashid shook it but said nothing. Things were moving fast. He looked at the seated man, then back at Mereweather. He shrugged. “All looks official,” he said.
“Do sit,” Amherst said. He had been in the role for less than a year, but he was confident. He had paired some of MI5’s more dubious expenses and increased the closeness of their working relationship with both GCHQ and MI6.
“Long and the short of it is; you are in the shit, so we’ll get you off any charges if you work with us to locate our missing agent, Caroline Darby, and along the way, get Alex King back on the reservation,” Amherst steepled his fingers, his elbows on the desk. “Can you help us?”
“Why me?” Rashid asked incredulously. “You have agents for this sort of thing.”
Mereweather nodded. “But you know King. And he trusts you…”
“I’ll not set him up.”
“We’re not asking you to,” Ramsay said. “But the time will come when King will need to be approached, and we think he’ll trust you, more than us.”
Rashid looked at all three men in turn. “Have you given him a reason not to trust you?”
“Certainly not,” Amherst replied, seemingly for all three of them. “King is not thinking straight. He’s blinded by love, and I fear, revenge. He has jumped and danced to Helena Snell’s, or should I say, Milankovitch’s tune. We know he took out a Russian mafia brotherhood down in France, and we can assume he is planning another hit for Helena as we speak.”
Rashid shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Technically he had taken out the Russians, or at least most of them. He’d even dealt Sergeyev a wound that would have killed him, had King not delivered a coup de grâce. “You can’t blame the man,” he replied. “He’s buying time. He’s not blindly haring across Europe killing people. He’s finding out as much about the bitch as he can.”
“And what has he found out?”
Rashid shrugged. “I want anything against me dropped. And I want something in writing. I want the terrorist sniper on the rooftop covered in that paperwork too. Queen and country, that sort of shit.”
“So that was you,” Amherst stated flatly.
“You know it was. I want a secondment to MI5, open-ended. And I want that agreed at Hereford.”
“Anything else?” Mereweather asked sardonically.
“I imagine senior field agents earn more than SAS captains, so I want my paygrade to go northwards. Pension contributions too,” Rashid smiled.
“You ask for a lot,” Amherst commented flatly.
“I’m not asking for an Aston Martin or a jet pack,” Rashid smiled.
“And a good job too,” Mereweather said. “Our budget tops out at Fords and budget airlines. Now, in all seriousness, what did King tell you down in France?”
Rashid held up a hand. “Look, I haven’t eaten all day. There’s a McDonalds across the bridge from here. I’ll be in there with a burger and a brew. You can meet me over there with the paperwork and my get out of jail free card. I’ll need some expenses and a place to stay tonight. I’m not classy, a Premier Inn will do me fine. We can meet there at breakfast if you like, discuss transportation, flights and that sort of thing. Unless you want to get going tonight.” He stood up and looked down at Mereweather. “You can show me out, Simon.”
“Deputy Director Mereweather, if you please,” Amherst said sharply. “You want the paygrade and entitlement, you can take the chain of command.”
Rashid shrugged. “Fair enough, boss.” He walked to the door and waited.
“I’ll be out in a moment,” Mereweather said. He waited for Rashid to close the door behind him, then looked back at Ramsay and Amherst. “Well?”
Amherst shook his head. “Well, I think we just added a bloody great hammer to our toolkit, when we needed a pair of precision snips,” he said. “Seriously, what the hell is it with these sort of men and etiquette? Where did he say he’ll be?”
“McDonalds,” Ramsay said.
“Dear God…” Amherst shook his head. “Okay, Simon. See him out and come back up here. Neil, get what the man wants. You can take over now. Liaise with our new friend. I want you to accompany him, work with him to bring King back in. Simon, you keep an eye on this and report back to me, but I want you on top of this Russian state visit. We need to know where any Syrian radicals are, anyone with Syrian sympathy, ISIS connections, that sort of thing.
There’s a three-pronged war and resistance going on down there, and we don’t want anything happening to the new Russian president on British soil. Relations have been fraught enough of late.”
“I’m on it, Sir,” replied Mereweather.
“And Caroline?” Ramsay asked.
“We’ll leave a line of enquiry open. We can’t make a move until we get a lead.”
“But, surely we have to investigate every avenue to come up with a lead?” Ramsay stated. He looked at Mereweather, knew the man had a soft spot for Caroline. “Simon? We are searching for her, aren’t we?”
The deputy director nodded. “We are. But we must bring King in first. Stop him rampaging over Europe, dancing to Helena’s tune.”
Ramsay nodded. “I’ll get on with it then,” he said and stood up. “Unless there’s anything else?”
Amherst shook his head. “Thank you, Neil.”
Mereweather walked out with Ramsay and into the outer office. Rashid was sitting in a comfortable leather chair. He was watching Amherst’s secretary as she typed. She was smiling at him, a little coyly. Ramsay waited for the door to the director’s office to close, then leaned into Mereweather. “We can’t give up on her,” he whispered.
