He chewed on an old piece of apple that had stuck in his tooth before spitting it into the bathroom sink.
He emerged back into the bedroom, leaned against the wall.
“We need a break team and fast or this is going to go down the gurgler rather quickly.”
“Anyone heard from JD?” asked O’Shea, trying to change the subject.
“No. Last I heard, he was heading to his old place and getting spruced up for some function somewhere in town. Look guys, I’ve had enough for one day. I’m heading back home. I’ll catch up in the morning. What are your plans?”
“No idea at this stage, Jason. Maybe take in a show or a river cruise. You know how it is. When in London…”
“Mate almost every show is sold out and forgive me but it’s cold enough out there to freeze the nuts of a brass gibbon. I’d stay indoors and keep out of trouble, and I’d shut that loft door, keep the draught out.”
“It’s monkey,” said O’Shea, also trying to figure out what their plans were.
“It’s whatever I choose it to be.”
“Gibbon half a chance I’m sure you would grill her more DCI Roberts,” said Cade with a smug grin.
“You do, from time to time, actually think you are funny, don’t you, Jack?”
“Well, I used to…look mate, get yourself off home and get some sleep. If anything comes in, get your team to divert the calls to us. We are still deputised to go and have a play and besides, as you quite rightly mentioned, it’s too cold for a river cruise.”
Roberts rubbed his eyes. Cade was right. All work and no play made Jack a dull boy.
“You’ve got yourself a deal. But ring me, if anything happens that will get the actual monkey off my back.” As he walked, he sent a text to his duty officer, then recorded a new voice message.
Cade put his hands around O’Shea’s hips. Held her there for a moment and looked at her.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, kid…”
“I’m happy enough with that arrangement.” She paused. “Jack?”
“Go ahead.”
“When will we start to live a normal life? It seems that since we met, all we have done is avoid being killed.”
“OK…so what I am gathering here is that you don’t enjoy being kidnapped.” She gave him a look that said too soon.
“Far too soon.” She pulled him toward her and gave him a kiss. Nothing too physical. Just a good old-fashioned kiss. The type you have when you don’t have energy for anything else.
“I just want normal, even if only for a few days.”
“I’ll do you a deal, Carrie. If that phone rings I’ll respond and head out, you stay here and get snuggly, open a bottle of red, sink down into the Egyptian cotton and catch up on some decent television. I hear there’s a good new drama on called The Night Manager. Right up your street, all intelligence operatives and good-looking men.”
“That is so not a deal, Jack Cade. I’d rather my operative stayed in and taught me all I need to know about going undercover.”
“I see what you did there Miss O’Shea. Perhaps later. If you are a good girl.”
“And if I am bad?”
“Then there will be no afters.”
“I’ll just wait up for the starters then. Anyway, we’ve got time before the inevitable bloody phone call…” She jumped onto the bed and spun round onto her knees.
“Come on. Leave the light on, curtains open, just how you like it…” She began to unbutton her blouse, taking just long enough on each button, a little sideways glance with each one, a raise of the eyebrows.
She was very good at this.
The phone screen lit up, and then it started to buzz.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Sorry.” He pressed the green icon. “Jack Cade.”
In Knightsbridge the woman they called Baki Maciji was finalising her make-up, checking her evening gown and generally admiring herself in the mirror. She looked past her reflection at the deep white bath tub. She smiled at the memory of holding the naked form of Apiyo, feeling her struggle, then finally, after what was a real fight, letting go. She had run her hands across the dead woman’s body, feeling it without resistance, stopping to read the scars with her fingertips as a blind person reads Brail.
Baki’s real name was Doto Adesida.
Tall, elegant and toned, she stood and studied herself a little longer as one of her trusted men clipped a necklace into place.
A single, large diamond on a simple gold chain. It sat perfectly, nestled into her cleavage, which hinted at itself between the cups of her blue lace bra.
She walked in her underwear across the lounge as four men sat and pretended not to watch her. She had the walk of a big cat, graceful, elegant and deadly. Her most trusted bodyguard was waiting in her bedroom, she walked in, feet marvelling at the deep pile carpet to see him holding her dress, ready for her to step into, she closed the door behind her.
She slipped off her bra and knickers and flicked them to the corner of the room, knowing they would be gone when she got home.
“What are you looking at?”
He looked away, but only as far as a nearby mirror. She ran her hand over his neck, down over his chest, across his waist and downwards, slowly, it was beyond provocative; the effect was instant.
She stepped into the dress with its swathes of blue silk.
“How do I look?” She knew already.
Blue was her favourite colour. Her friends always chose green. Her skin tone meant that almost without exception, she could wear anything. She was one of those women that others liked to hate. She had a great figure that would look good in a sack, a dazzling smile, deep, soulful eyes, perfect hair, and yet her back was covered in scars. Sometimes she chose to hide them. Tonight, they were displayed for all to see as the back of her dress consisted of just two fine blue straps that ran from her shoulders to her hips.
The dress clung to her. There was no place for underwear, no need. That in itself made her even more confident.
“We leave in thirty minutes,” she called out from the bedroom.
“Yes, boss. I will have the car ready,” came the muffled reply.
“Good and make sure you look presentable. This is an embassy function.”
She turned to face her bodyguard.
“Have you sent out the team to find some more of the wretched little creatures?”
“Yes, boss. They went from their place about half an hour ago.”
“Good. You have done well. Just make sure I get some more proof. The more we have, the less they have!”
“Of course.” He was sheepish, a big, powerful object of a man, cautious and hesitant in her company. She came with a reputation, and he wasn’t in the mood to prove whether it was worthy or not.
“Don’t think I don’t see you watching me.” She knew he couldn’t reply, he daren’t.
“But I understand why. I am rather beautiful. Am I not?”
“Yes, boss.”
“‘Yes boss’s what?”
“Yes boss, you are very beautiful.”
“And what do you want to do to me?” She was holding him again, this time subtlety wasn’t on show.
“Whatever you wish, boss.” The six-foot four bodyguard was the oldest of the males in the building, and Doto always ensured that the eldest got to experience the perks of the job.
“Stay like that later tonight and you can join me in here for an hour.”
“Thank you, boss.”
“Trust me, Bayo, you will be thanking me later.”
Bayo was a popular African man’s name. It meant joy. She hoped so.
At her flat ten minutes from her work, Captain Susan Reddington was also looking in a mirror. Hers was antique, and the glass was in her opinion all the better for being aged. Patina, they called it these days.
She looked at her reflection. Her blonde hair was neatly in place, held up in a braided bun it suited her, as it did when it was down and natural, a slight
wave that accentuated the colours.
“You look beautiful, Red.”
“Thank you, Monique. And thank you for helping me with my hair.”
“It was my pleasure, boss.” The Frenchwoman gazed at the woman in front of her. Her green, short mess jacket, with its grey detail and golden insignia of the Intelligence Corps, made the army officer look even more striking.
Beneath the jacket she wore a flowing black dress, which was complimented by a matching dark green cummerbund. She chose very simple ear studs and no other jewellery.
Monique leant forward and kissed Red’s neck.
“I’ll miss you tonight.”
“But you’ll be there too.”
“I know, but it won’t be quite the same, you, surrounded by all of those handsome men.”
“And you know I am not interested in any of them.”
“But Red, I know you are, it only takes the right one to come along.”
She was right. Susan Reddington was on the surface, as bi-curious as they came. She looked good, a shade over forty, and had kept her figure via an almost ruthless diet and exercise regime.
“I’ll try to meet up later. You know the sign. Find somewhere and I’ll meet you, but don’t make it too obvious.”
She stood, kissed her French subordinate gently on the lips, picked up a small handbag and then walked confidently to her car. Her new dark green underwear felt incredible. Chosen for her, as always. It made a change to wear some to a formal function. These were the evenings she enjoyed the most, stood chatting to a consular representative in military attire, a hint of Chanel No. 5 and a radiant smile. Nothing else.
She had all she needed. A developing career, a sensitive and secretive lover, and for tonight, her confidence, her charm and her cherished handbag. The latter contained all she literally needed for the evening at the embassy.
Chapter Thirty
Brixton, London
The team moved naturally, with a lack of perceived effort. Six males, all dressed in keeping with their location. Fit, healthy, well-fed, their physical demands met. Three were ex-soldiers, one a corrupt police officer, one a career criminal and the last, in comparison, just a boy. Most teams needed a sacrificial goat, now and then.
They were already south of the river. The Thames, the lifeblood for centuries upon which the city of London was built. Unlike their master, or in their case, mistress, the team were south of the river because it was cheaper; they blended well and above all that was where their prey was mainly hiding.
She called them her hyenas. A pack of hunting animals, able to adapt and work together. In the wild the hyena is a feared creature, known for its ability to inflict a slow and painful death on any human that they catch. It is often said that once they have bitten a human, they just keep eating them, alive, until they succumbed.
This was how she saw her team. Quiet, pack creatures that hunt until they are sated.
In that respect they were no different to their leader.
“Down here for two K – then turn left at the roundabout.”
They worked on current human intelligence – directly from the source. Why do things differently to the law enforcement teams if it worked? The biggest difference was they had money to burn and gave it generously to those that helped. Failing that, they had fear, and that worked equally well in extracting information.
The day before had seen the youngest member of their team walk a mile to meet another young African boy. The team had heard about him from a source that was even closer, a market trader who had made something of himself but still believed in the old country, and rules were rules. You never betrayed your country – even if you chose not to live there anymore. He had made his way to Britain the hard way. And now he was hearing stories, each day, of young people flooding across the border. And he did not like it. Not one bit.
‘More of them, equals less for us’ was exactly how he saw it.
“There is a young guy, hangs around the market, talks like he is a tribal leader. His mouth is in need of a lesson, but if you find him he has a story to tell…”
The young sacrificial goat was more of a jackal than a hyena. Lighter, faster, more of a dog than a wolf. But still equipped with a ferocious temperament when cornered.
He met the market boy as the street lights started to initiate, turning darker corners into sulphur-coloured shadows.
“Are you Matthew?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come with me.”
“But I would rather stay here, in the light.”
“Do you not trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Then come with me.”
They walked a hundred metres then the jackal turned left into a doorway.
Derelict property, away from cameras and street lights and people.
The boy, Matthew knew he shouldn’t follow. He was a street kid too, albeit now living on a more prosperous street – in the scheme of things a bed in a crowded flat was luxurious. But he was still a street kid, and he knew when the hair on the back of his neck raised just very slightly to tread with caution.
“Are you coming? I can’t give you cash out there can I? How will that look, two young boys handing a hundred pounds over in the street?” He laughed, out loud, in the shadows. It sounded sinister, there being no face to attribute the noise to. He laughed, out loud and yet Matthew still wanted to step into the dark.
“A hundred?” That wasn’t a lot of money, it was a whole month’s rent. For what? For telling them where the woman was. This was like taking candy from a baby. And hopefully, no one would ever know.
He stepped into the darkness.
And the money was there, in the jackal’s hand. Twenties. Crisp, clean, purple. Five of them. He counted them. They were there, in the older boy’s hand.
“Ah no. Information first,” said the jackal.
“But I already told you, on the phone.” Matthew was trying to pick out facial features on the older boy – just in case anyone ever asked him to describe him.
“You did, Matthew. But we work differently. We like to look into the face of the man we are doing business with.” He smiled. He had heard it said by his peers and mentors before. Make it sound professional, it simply adds to the fear.
“Well now, you are. Here I am. Before you. I told you where to find her. Nothing has changed.”
“And you know why we want to find her?”
“Of course. She owes you five hundred pounds. It’s a lot of money.”
“It is.”
“Then can I please have my money?”
“Can I please have my money what?”
“Sir?”
“That’s better. Here. Now go and don’t look for me when I leave. Wait ten minutes and then leave the alleyway. Not nine or eight or even seven. Ten. And Matthew?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not mention this to anyone. Not even your little girlfriend, the one with the cute smile and fake red Sketchers.”
“Those shoes are real!”
“Whatever. I’m gone. Don’t even look at me. Not a moment…” He tapped the boy’s face. He was only sixteen and the boy, his informant, just a year younger.
Matthew stood in the dark. Checked his phone. Eight long minutes to wait. He counted the money twice, then folded it and put it in his left sock. He’d seen it on a film once. He looked around in the shadows, his eyes had grown accustomed to the light.
His phone buzzed, front right pocket of his jeans, that hung so perilously low they were in danger of falling down altogether.
He pulled the Samsung out of its home; it was his pride and joy, with its cracked glass and a few dents that each told a story. And there was the picture of his girlfriend, an icon on his phone that lifted his day whenever she rang. She was British, black, of Nigerian descent and had grown up in south London where a few months before she had fallen for the boy after hearing his incredible tales of Africa.
And there she was staring at him on
the screen, eyes wide. An index finger was pressed onto her lips. It wasn’t hers. It spoke volumes.
“What do you want? Please don’t harm her…or…”
“Boy, you are in no position to threaten me. I am just ensuring that you stick to your side of the deal. We find the woman you told us about, your pretty girl goes free. It should only take an hour. If your information is right.” He paused, expertly. “Well? Is it?”
Matthew was becoming frantic. He couldn’t leave the alleyway for another four minutes. It would take at least five to run to his girlfriend’s home. Her parents were on holiday, they had the house to themselves tonight. A chance to be alone.
“And don’t even think of leaving the alleyway.” He glanced at his overly gold, far-too-large watch. “You have three minutes and twenty seconds left. It takes twice as long to get here. I will be in touch when I have got what I want. And Matthew, trust me, if I don’t get what I want I become very bad tempered. The fun I will have, no correct that, the six of us will have with your little girlfriend will blow your mind. She won’t ever want a boy like you again. Blow. Her. Mind. Then after I will literally blow her mind.”
He heard laughter. There was more than one man there.
The screen image widened to reveal a well-used and realistic black handgun, the muzzle pressed into her left temple, nestled amongst her short dreadlocks and her perfectly made-up face. Fifteen, surrounded by a team of men, and alone. Quietly terrified. Her breathing was fast, her heartbeat loud. Her eyes told him to do as he had been told.
“Upset me, that is one thing Matthew. But upset Baki Maciji…”
The name alone was enough to cause the young man’s own big brown eyes to widen, to almost light up the alleyway. The name hit him like the ground hits people who dream of falling. Bang! Heart races, breathing quickens, and then you recover. And you breathe once more. For it was only a dream.
The Angel of Whitehall Page 23
