by A P Bateman
Caroline lunged at her, dug her fingers into Helena’s eyes and pushed her against the Perspex. The Beast was caught off-guard, but only for a moment. He smashed the butt of the pistol down onto the top of Caroline’s head and she slumped to the floor. Helena was screaming, cupping her eyes tenderly, inspecting for damage amid blood and tears. She kicked out and caught Caroline in the face.
Caroline was out cold.
Helena screamed at The Beast, “Get her back into the house!” Then she gently touched the edges of her eyes, inspected the mess of crimson on her fingers. “You bitch!” she shouted, then turned and saw most of the women smiling behind the Perspex. She turned and pushed past Jurgen, muttering in guttural Russian as she went.
42
Franschhoek, South Africa
The house was a ranch-style, or bungalow. It was constructed of wooden white-washed slats and red wooden shingle tiles on the roof. There was a modern stainless-steel chimney, the type so often paired with a wood-burning stove inside. The nights in South Africa could be cold, even in the summer. It was a tidy property, and not out of the realms of a senior intelligence service officer’s finances. The house was sat square in half an acre of lawn with shrubs and trees and a gravelled driveway with a white BMW X5 taking up half of it. To the right, a larger property sat in an acre plot, the building being some seventy-metres distant. To the left; twenty metres of scrubland before a road that right-angled at a crossroads.
Rashid studied the property from across the road. The location of the house put the houses on this side of the road at sixty-metres distant. Considering what he had to do, it didn’t get much better, other than a deserted farm. He was certain nobody would hear the man shout or scream, and he was confident he would be able to contain the situation. He had read the cobbled-together details on the journey over. An attachment on Ryan Beard’s phone.
The man in question was an unmarried forty-year-old named Harvey Botha. He was an intelligence analyst and had been with the South African Secret Service for eleven years. His file hadn’t been clean. There had been an allegation of sexual harassment, which had later been retracted. No further action had been taken. And then four years ago, there had been an embezzlement investigation. Botha had sought representation, fought the case and won his tribunal. It hadn’t been cut and dried though, as the investigating team had taken shortcuts, not followed protocol and the case had been dropped. Botha had been side-lined for a promotion which should easily have been his, and his security clearance had been lowered. The man was on a short leash, and Ryan Beard’s enquiry had flagged up a warning in certain circles. Funds had been traced to Botha via poorly set-up offshore accounts. Ryan Beard had not held out much hope for the SASS, but he knew that forensic accountants working for MI5 would be able to get details of the account that the money had been sent from. Neil Ramsay knew this as well, and had tasked Marnie with sending the details to the department that had worked on uncovering the terrorist organisation Anarchy to Recreate Society.
“What do you reckon?” Beard asked.
Rashid shrugged. “We need information, see if what the man knows can tell us more about Helena Snell, or Milankovitch, or whatever the hell she’s calling herself.”
“I’m sure your forensic accountants will get something from the account number.”
“I hope so,” Rashid paused. “For Caroline’s sake.”
“What do you mean?” Beard asked.
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“I thought that was why you contacted MI5?”
Beard shook his head. “What?”
“Caroline was abducted. Just over a month ago.”
“Shit…”
“Exactly right. King is working for Helena Milankovitch, just to buy some time. She’s using him, and she’s using Caroline as collateral.”
Ryan Beard seemed to ponder on this for a moment, looked at Rashid curiously. “You know her… boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
Beard shrugged. “I thought he’d come out here, hell-bent on getting some payback for the attempts on her life. I kind of sold it to my contact in the SASS. I thought it would stand me in good stead. Caroline dropped his name, The Reaper’s. I didn’t want to be another loose end.”
Rashid smiled. “Look, I don’t think that would be the guy’s style,” he paused. “He’s tough and resourceful, certainly isn’t a guy to cross, but he’s a decent bloke. Relax. He won’t come gunning for you. So, you know his name. We all do. I gather there was some business or other in MI6 that he’d sooner forget, or have nobody know about, but he’s one of the good guys.”
Beard nodded. “So, you’ll kill Botha?”
“I’ll question him,” Rashid said. “After that, we’ll have to see how it pans out.”
“But my contact was adamant,” Beard protested. “That’s the deal for giving him up. That’s the deal for the account number I gave you!”
“Come on,” Rashid said. He opened the door of the SUV and signalled across the street for Ramsay to follow. He turned back to the MI6 officer. “I never made a deal with the South African Secret Service.”
“But I did!” Beard protested. “I agreed that in return for any information the British intelligence services get from Botha, and for the account number they have already given up, Botha would be eliminated!”
“Well, you best live up to your end of the bargain,” Rashid said coldly.
43
Stockholm, Sweden
“So, no plans of the building?”
“No.” King fished a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Simon Grant. Grant unfolded it, frowned as he studied the drawing. “What?”
“You have kids?”
“No. Why?”
“I thought you were showing me something they’d scribbled out in nursery.”
“Nice.”
Grant handed it back. “I need better than that,” he said.
“Good. Seeing you don’t like my plan of the building, you can do a recce yourself.”
“When?”
King looked at his watch. “About an hour. Leave your car here, I don’t want you getting lost following me.”
Grant shook his head. “No. You follow me home. We’ll leave my car there to avoid suspicion. I can’t leave it here on school grounds. While I’m there, I’ll grab some tools.”
“Thought you were out of that game.”
“I am, but I have some tools that will get us in. We’ll go to Sodertalje to scout out the post office, have some dinner, go back after dark and do the job. After that, I’ll go back home, and we’ll never see each other again.”
King studied the man for a moment. He seemed tougher than when he had last seen him. Fresh out of prison, railroaded into working for London criminals and the IRA. Then coerced to work for MI6. King couldn’t blame him now. The man had long-thought he had been in the clear. Lived a good life in Sweden and had more to lose now than he ever had before. He had his freedom now, his wife, a grown-up son and another child. He had it all to lose, whereas before, he had lost everything and had it all to gain.
King already knew where Simon and Lisa Grant lived. He had checked before, knew more about the man than he would ever let on. There were many people King kept tabs on. Some were old friends he would consider being able to call upon in times of need. Others were people he had given the benefit of the doubt to. It never hurt to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. And then there were the people who were connected to fallen comrades. He never visited them, many would not even be aware he even existed. But he had bestowed acts of kindness upon them from time to time in one form or another. He had started this life almost twenty-years ago, drawn into a fight with a group of Royal Marines in a drinking den in Portsmouth. That night had changed his life. Two men had been killed in a savage brawl and King had fled, only to be captured and tried for murder. His recruiter and MI6 trainer, Peter Stewart, had arranged for his escape, provided the body of a
homeless man, who had died of hypothermia on a London street, to be substituted for King in a bog on Dartmoor and Mark Jeffries had ceased to exist. And good riddance to him. A brawler, a chancer and a troublemaker. Alex King had been born, as he had been whisked away that night, and became a better man. He had learned much over the years, but he couldn’t forget, and he had made regular payments to the families of those two dead soldiers ever since.
His penance.
Simon Grant had picked up his things and met King in his hire car around the street corner twenty-minutes later. King did not ask if he had spoken to his wife, although he suspected he had. That was Grant’s business, and they were not exactly buddies. The drive southwest to Sodertalje was both quiet and taken up by early weekend traffic out of Stockholm. King checked his watch regularly, imperative they arrive at the post office with enough time for Grant to check out the inside of the building. When they arrived in Sodertalje they had forty-minutes to spare. King drove around the block twice, checking where he had thought he saw a curtain twitch all those weeks ago. The house had a for rent sign outside it. He guessed it had been rented solely to act as an observation position to watch King take delivery of the package which would change his life. And Caroline’s too.
Simon Grant had walked into the post office ten-minutes before. He was enquiring on the premise of setting up a safe box before he set about travelling throughout Sweden. Somewhere to keep his tickets, credit cards he didn’t plan on using, his passport even. With any luck he would get a quick tour of what facilities they had, terms and conditions, even what security they provided.
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 battery. 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.”
