by A P Bateman
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.”
“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 w
as 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.
He was sweating profusely, and he doused his armpits and chest, let the water run down his back. He had stripped off the black trousers and shirt and had crammed them into a bin sack, along with the shoes and the empty water bottle. He had drunk his fill of the tepid water when he reached the car, as thirsty as he had ever been. He knew he had been dehydrated, his vision and balance were off by the time he had reached the vehicle, but the water soon revived him.
He had driven away from the area, found a hunter’s track and parked up, his heart pounding and his pulse thudding in his ears. He was wearing khaki cargoes, and once the water dripped from him enough, he slung on a loose-fitting blue cotton shirt and slipped on a pair of trainers that bordered on boat shoes. He put the flick-knife into one of the pockets on his right leg and tucked the sheath knife into the door pocket of the car. He still had the two 9mm bullets and was about to toss them away, when he thought of his old instructor, Peter Stewart and the man’s insistence on utilising everything. It isn’t over until you check your bags at the airport, the man would say. The bullets still had a use outside of ammunition. Melted lead could set a broken knife blade back into the hilt, the powder could start a fire, purify dirty water enough to drink, cauterise a wound, lower a heart arrhythmia – the brass could be flattened to form a makeshift blade. He tucked the two bullets back into his pocket and checked his reflection in the window. He looked like every other tourist, and nothing like the man he had been up at the vineyard and mansion. He donned a pair of black wraparound Oakley sunglasses, tossed the bag into the car and got back behind the wheel.
He did not see any of Luca Fortez’s cars on the drive to Monteverdi Marittimo and when he reached the outskirts of the town, he pulled into a pine-clustered layby where there was a bank of general waste and recycling bins. He left the engine running while he got out and tossed the bag into the general waste bin and got back inside the vehicle. He paused on the side of the road, allowed the convoy of vehicles to drive past. He tensed, every fibre of his body on edge for no more than a second, as he realised the cars were Fortez’s. Two red Alfa Romeos led the way, Luca’s Maserati followed, with a new Lamborghini SUV and a Porsche Cayenne following closely, and another red Alfa Romeo bringing up the rear. All the cars had tinted windows, the darkest tint possible, verging on black. King had no way of knowing how many men there were, but he figured each car was rammed full of Italian muscle and a whole lot of guns.
He eased out behind them and followed. He was out-powered and had to work the gearbox and accelerator hard as the convoy snaked through the corners and into the town at over twice the speed limit. They veered off left on a mountain road King had not noticed during his time here, and the road was both narrow and twisted around a deep canyon descending rapidly. King realised he was down to just knives, and there would be enough firepower ahead of him to start and finish a small war. He kept his distance, tried to estimate from the satnav where the convoy was heading. He realised it was an alternative route that would snake around the mountain and come up onto the Russian’s rented villa from what looked to be a series of tracks from the south.
King pulled to a halt. If the Italians were going to attack the Russians, then they would be doing so from the low ground. Tactically, a poor move. He scrolled on the screen and brought up the Russian’s track that led off the road from Canneto to Monteverdi Marittimo. He had used the high ground to perform a reconnaissance on the Russian’s villa. He needed to see what was happening and he needed to place himself somewhere with a tactical retreat. If the Italians were not heading for the Russians, then he would just have to take his chance. He wasn’t about to blindly follow the Italians into a killing ground, and he wasn’t going to chance detection as he followed them on their devious route.
He drove back to Monteverdi Marittimo and headed straight through, barely pausing for the pedestrians. He was tired, still hot and thirsty, as he threaded the car through the series of bends and steady incline. He got caught behind a slow-moving hatchback and cursed as he did not have enough power or road to overtake, but he wanted to get close to the villa and get himself into position before the Italians got there. Eventually, the car turned off sharply for Canneto, and King floored the accelerator and broached the hill affording a glorious view of the sea with the sun low on the horizon. It was almost dusk. The perfect time for Luca’s men to attack.
King found the track he had used earlier and grounded the car over the rough lane, dropping harshly into the potholes and scraping the fronds of thorny bushes and the outspread branches of pine trees. He manoeuvred the vehicle around, so he was facing back out the way he had come, then switched off the engine. The silence was total, bar the ticking of the cooling engine. King got out and was instantly set upon by midges and the same type of horseflies that had terrorised him in the pool. He swiped them away, the best he could, but he was hot and perspiring and the insects had homed in on the only meal in the area. King rolled down his sleeves and reached back inside the car for the sheath knife. He slipped it onto his belt and checked he could draw it quietly. He then slipped the car keys under the driver’s-side front wheel arch and stepped out into the thick brush, taking careful steps down the steep mountain slope.
It was five-hundred metres to the edge of the ledge, which dropped vertically three-hundred feet or so to the bottom, and the start of another steep slope. The villa was clearly visible to the right of the slope on a plateau below. King could see the rutted track running parallel. Uphill would eventually meet the road to Canneto, and King could only assume that the track ran downhill to the road that the Italians had taken, just outside the town of Monteverdi Marittimo. As if to confirm this, King saw the first man edging uphill. Another appeared behind him. Both carried what King could only identify as ‘longs’. Too far away to see if they were assault rifles, hunting rifles or shotguns. A third, and then a fourth followed. They made their way up the track, edging closer but tentatively watching the ground either side of them.
King watched, voyeur to the assault from the sanctuary of the cliff edge. He felt strangely nervous. He had put a lot of stock into the personalities and traits of
the two sides. He had the Russians down as professionals, and judging from their close protection performance, they had been far more switched on than the Italians. The Russians were ex-military, provided muscle and resources for enterprises like Luca Fortez had planned for the rival mafia families. And he had the Italians down as hot-headed, impetuous and able to muster resources at a moment’s notice. He just hoped he’d not read too much into what he had seen in the town earlier that morning.
Any doubt King had over the Russian’s professionalism was ruled out in a burst of automatic gunfire. He ducked down instinctively and watched as the first two men in the line dropped to the ground and lay still. The rear of the line was joined by more men, and they now dodged and darted their way across the lane and into the brush for cover. There were a few single shots, voices in Russian, returned shouts in Italian and then all hell broke loose. The two SUVs thundered up the track with men firing out of the windows towards the villa. More men came out of the trees. King could only assume that Luca Fortez’s men had picked up friends or family, because there were now dozens of men breaking out from the trees. There was the sound of heavy-calibre hunting rifles, the sharp crack they made and the echo of sonic boom resonating off the cliffs. The pistols clattered away, short and sharp and far quieter but, what they lacked in noise they made up for in sheer quantity, as men paused beside trees and fired up to ten rounds at the house in one go, then dropped down to reload. King could hear shotguns as well, and then the crack of military-style assault rifles as they fired in bursts of three or four rounds, the men behind them more disciplined. King had these down as Luca’s bodyguards. He tried to count the men, but he simply had to estimate as the men were moving fast and had amassed to thirty or more.
The Russians were fighting back hard. King could see them on all points of the house, on all levels. They had obviously managed to secure weapons for their excursion, most probably proving to Luca that they could put their hands on the hardware required to take out the other mafia families. King could hear the unmistakable clatter of the AK47 rifles, see the three-foot-long flashes from the muzzle in the dim light. He watched the men stay in formation, keeping cover using both the building and now upturned wooden dining furniture which featured on each of the patios and sundecks. King could not count them, which was a good thing for the Russians, as it showed they were disciplined and they were also using the windows of the villa to remain inside. They were defending a building, and they had the high ground. They could afford odds of 6 to 1.
