Reaper

by A P Bateman

  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…”

  “Viktor Bukov?”

  “Victor…” Botha nodded.

  “You met him?” Ramsay prompted.

  Botha nodded.

  “And the woman,” Ramsay paused, watching the man’s eyes. He caught hold of his wrist, checked for a pulse and glanced at his watch. The man’s pulse was over one-fifty. His heart couldn’t sustain the dose of sodium panthenol, nor the dramatic blood loss and whatever damage the 9mm bullets had done internally. “Who was the woman?”

  “The… billionaire’s wife,” Botha said, but started to gasp for breath. “Snell…”

  “Her name?”

  “Helena…”

  “What did she ask of you?”

  He gasped again, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. “To… help the sniper in and out of the country,” he paused, his head lolling listlessly from side to side. Another gasp. “And to block the British agent investigating…”

  “What do you mean by block?” Ramsay asked.

  “I… I don’t feel well…”

  “You’ll be fine,” Ramsay said curtly. “An ambulance has been called and is on its way. Now, what did Helena Snell mean by block?”

  “Kill,” Botha paused. He seemed to have trouble swallowing now. “I was asked to arrange for someone to kill her. To buy her and Bukov time…”

  Ramsay turned to Rashid and said, “Get him some water.”

  Rashid did as he was asked and took a glass off the draining board, filled it and handed it to Ramsay, who was checking Botha’s forehead with the back of his hand. He took the glass and offered the man a drink.

  “He’s burning up,” Ramsay said. “He’s about to go pop.”

  Rashid shrugged like it was nothing. “Well, hurry up, then,” he urged. “We need a link to Helena. Not a back story…”

  “I’m doing it!” Ramsay snapped. He tipped the remainder of the glass on the man’s head and the water cascaded over his face and neck. Botha appeared not to notice. He pulled the man’s eyelid up and could see they were dilated. They were also red, blood vessels had burst, most probably due to the man’s high pulse. He checked Botha’s wrist again, frowned. He monitored it for fifteen seconds, then looked up at Rashid. “Over two-hundred…”

  “Can’t sustain that with the gunshot wounds…”

  “Nor the temperature,” Ramsay paused. He snapped his fingers in front of Botha’s face, then gave his cheek a gentle tap. The man was dazed and appeared intoxicated to the point of passing out. Ramsay stood up. “I could give another shot of adrenalin…”

  Rashid shrugged. “Not my area of expertise.”

  Ramsay went back to the graphite box and drew a small amount into the syringe with the large needle. He checked for air, tapped the side and held it ready. “Hold him, would you?”

  Rashid caught hold of the man’s shoulders and braced. Ramsay brought the needle down through the chest wall and into the heart. Botha went rigid and kicked out, catching Ramsay in the shin. The man cursed and hobbled on the spot for a moment. He put the syringe back in the box and crouched down to look the man in the eyes.

  “The ambulance is near,” he lied. “You’re going to be alright. I need you to tell us where Helena is. Where the Russian woman is,” he said slowly. “I need to know how to contact her.”

  “She called me… the man, Bukov, gave me a cell phone…”

  “What do you mean?”

  Botha gasped, clutched his chest. He grimaced, spoke through gritted teeth. He couldn’t resist the sodium panthenol, the urge to unburden and cooperate. “Bukov gave me a cell. It had her number on it…” He sucked air through his teeth. He was soaked in sweat, had started to shiver. “One number only… must keep it switched off… contact by text… turn it on at midnight, then every three hours for five minutes only… she will text back when she’s ready…”

  “Where is the phone?” Ramsay asked. He could see Botha shutting down, breathing less, his eyes fading. “Tell me!”

  Rashid pushed his fingers deep into the carotid artery, on the left side of the man’s throat. “Faint pulse,” he said. “He’s gone.”

  “Damn it!” Ramsay snapped the graphite box shut and put it back in his pocket. He picked up the glass and walked it to the sink where he washed it with detergent and left it in the sink. He rubbed the taps with the tea towel. “Let’s try and find that phone,” he said.

  45

  Caroline had regained consciousness before The Beast had returned her to her room. She had lolled over his shoulder, his body odour rancid and almost enough to make her gag. He had taken the stairs as if her weight had been unnoticeable. He was a huge man, his back as wide as a cart-horse. He smelled about as bad as one, too.

  She knew he would try something when they reached the room. She managed to get the wingnut out of its hiding place, tucked into her bra, and got it between the knuckles of her right hand. The metal protruded over a quarter of an inch. Enough to make a mess of his eye if she could get a punch there quick enough. The shock and pain would disable him, perhaps only temporarily, but she would not stop there. Like she had been taught by her krav maga instructor, the service’s close quarters combat instructors, and by Alex - who she sparred with as part of their fitness regime - she would just keep hitting, gouging and striking until The Beast stopped moving.

  And she wouldn’t stop there.

  The Beast took the stairs easily. Her heart was pounding, not only because she knew that the man would be intent on violating her, but because she knew that the time had come.

  She would fight or die.

  It would be as simple as that, because if The Beast overpowered her, she knew he would not stop until he got what he wanted. And she would never allow that.

  Not over her dead body.

  The door had been left open. The Beast was tall enough to have to duck down under the doorframe. Caroline would put him at six-feet-six. His frame was large; muscular underneath an ample covering of fat. Caroline felt the weightlessness as she was tossed through the air and landed on the bed. The mattress was old and most probably a poor-quality item when it had been purchased, and she felt the slats of the bed against her spine as she landed heavily and bounced once. She gave up feigning unconsciousness, looked up at him with contempt.

  “Convenient,” he said, his accent thick and guttural. Barely pron
ouncing the vowels. “So good for you to be awake for this…”

  Caroline tucked her legs up, turning herself into a ball. She was frightened, but it was also an integral part of her act. She would appear submissive, strike like lightening when he thought he had the upper hand.

  “Jurgen!” Michael appeared in the doorway. He spoke Russian. A short sentence, but Caroline could make out Helena’s name. It was spoken like an instruction.

  The Beast looked at Michael sternly, then back at Caroline. He shrugged, then said, “Later sweet one. Later I will show you, teach you a lesson…”

  Michael glanced at Caroline, held the door open for Jurgen, then closed the door behind them both. Caroline could hear the bolt slamming back in place, the sound of the padlock hasp locking tightly. She had been close, but was now a prisoner once again.

  46

  King was seated in the departure lounge at Stockholm Arlanda airport. He had eaten open snow-crab sandwiches with lemon and dill mayonnaise at a concession stall, dressed-up to look like a street food stall. It wasn’t exactly convincing in its execution, but it offered him a chance to sit at the counter on a barstool and observe the rest of the lounge, and it was quiet which meant that nobody would be waiting for his seat or bother him with inane conversation. The server cleared away his plate and he turned his side to her while he washed the sandwiches down with a cold Mariestads beer.

  He took out his mobile phone and scrolled through his address book. He thought about it for the third time in as many hours, decided against it again and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. He could not order things. It was like playing chess and thinking five moves ahead. He knew he was on the cusp of his mental capabilities. Helena Milankovitch was as devious and ruthless as anyone he’d ever been up against. But it was more than that. The tasks he had completed over the past couple of weeks and the threat of Caroline’s life hanging over him had been both physically and emotionally draining. He was starting to over-think things, doubt his chances of success. Sweden had been a case in point. He had over-thought the importance of the post office. The effort and risk involved in gaining access to that computer server was a move too far. If he could find an image of the person planting the letter and the phone in the safety deposit box, but what then? Sweden was to be the turning point, because Simon Grant had unwittingly laid it out for him.