“He was. I’ll leave it up to your imagination.” She looked at Roberts.
“You and him? What did he have to gain?” asked an incredulous Cade.
She looked at Jason Roberts. “I’m sorry.” She meant it.
“Film?” asked Cade. He’d seen it all before. The oldest new trick in the book.
“Yes. A few hours of it. Steve set it all up. That night at the Premier Inn at County Hall Jason. Look, it was wonderful, and I meant everything I said and did. Please believe that. But he threatened to show our bosses, and I was worried I’d lose the job I loved.”
Cade shook his head. His own wife Penny, ex-Mrs. Cade that she was now, had tried to set him up once with a load of his colleagues, that was a memory he had tried to erase, one that nearly lost him his job too. Ironically, it opened the door to a new life via a chance meeting with a Bulgarian redhead, then London. He shook the thoughts away.
“Kate, listen to me, stay here. Don’t move. We’ll go and find JD and Tom and get back to you. It’s dangerous outside now. We’ve just turned up the heat and a few people are going to get ever so slightly charred.”
“I’ll wait right here.” She pointed needlessly at the spot on the carpet next to a dry riser pipe and a sign that meant nothing to her. Seconds later she was gone, up and out into the street.
Briton ran towards Trafalgar Square then turned right on Whitehall. Moments now, that’s all she needed.
‘Meet me in Craig’s Court. Beneath the Telephone Exchange.’
That was all she had been told.
Craig’s Court is one of those places, like so many in the city of London that tourists and locals alike, either miss completely, or knowingly ignore. A small, discreet cul-de-sac between a grey stone officious-looking building and the Silver Cross pub which was within spitting distance of The Old Shades. They were competitors in more ways than one. If you worked on a certain police team you drank at the Cross, on another, the Shades.
The court was once home to a splendid inner-city mansion, latterly a much-rumoured secret building that connected the inner sanctum of Whitehall and its spies, and an old telephone exchange that had its name inscribed in stone on a lintel over the door, that was hardly ever seen.
And that was where she waited, huddled into the shallow doorway out of the rain.
No one ever answered Daniel’s knocking. The inhabitants of the tunnels had long left. Q Whitehall was part of the incredible and still secretive underground network that exists beneath Whitehall and Trafalgar and could easily be used again at short notice. It seemed that Lieutenant Commander Tom Denby had locked the corridors of power deeper inside his own mind – ready for when he might need them. It would be ten more years until the public would find out the answers to the many secrets that flourished in the pubs and darkened corridors.
“Kelvedon Hatch, Pear Tree House and Q Whitehall! I remember as if it were yesterday. They were all secret bunkers, made to look like normal houses or blocks of flats. I can see them now. I can hear the two-minute warnings, sense the isolation and taste the rations. And, it was very sad, but only certain people would have been allowed down here you know.” Denby was speaking more freely than he had done for weeks.
“And with what I knew, I was one of them. Whitehall was a very special place back then.”
“I bet it was. I remember some of it Tom, I only ever got so far below the surface, but as a young copper it was fascinating. Tell me something, earlier you said Kate reminded you of your granddaughter. In what way?”
“Did I? I don’t remember that.”
Daniel saw two people approaching. Friends not foe.
“Jack! Jason!”
The pair got to them as quickly as they could. “Do you need an ambulance? Kate said you might. Looks like he doesn’t. That was some shot.”
“Kate shot him. Then ran off.”
“We know,” said Roberts meekly. “We met her down the corridor, she’s waiting for us.”
“Chaps, call me paranoid…”
“You’re paranoid.” They both replied in perfect time.
Daniel walked down the corridor a little, leaving Denby to stand and stare at Hancock’s cooling body.
“As much as you’re both natural comedians you need to listen. Kate could be related to Tom. Just something she said after she shot Hancock, and Tom mentioned that she looked like his granddaughter. He can’t remember saying it now, but my radar has gone berserk.”
“Related? In what way? I don’t get it John. Not at all. She came to our unit from another force, passed all the vetting…”
“Not entirely…” Roberts was almost blushing.
“Jason?”
“I interviewed her. She was outstanding. Her CV was world class, she interviewed so well, I just…”
“Just what?” pressed Cade.
“Put her through, recommended her for the position.”
“Without vetting?”
“Yes.” Roberts hung his head. “Jesus what have I done?”
“My friend I have no idea. OK, ask yourself what did she have to gain?”
“I can help there.” JD cleared his throat. “Hancock mentioned something to her before she shot him about a vault. Christ, Jason this was all set up from the day she applied to join us. She worked with Hancock, literally getting into bed with him by all accounts, gathers what she needs from him, then us, and now is swanning off somewhere to cash in and piss off to God alone knows where.”
“Cashing in?” Cade was paying more attention than ever. “Go on…”
“That’s all he said. Ideas?”
“Better than that. Hatton Garden. She’s got the key to a box that Hancock has owned for a while now. And we happen to know what might be in it. It’s been put under surveillance but so far nothing.”
“Why wasn’t I told this?” Said Daniel, rubbing his neck, trying to release the inevitable bruising.
“You were busy with Tom. He’s still the key to more than a vault box John. Have you learned much from him?”
“Some things. Some I sort of knew about already, others were more enlightening. Did you know there’s a possible shed load of goodies stashed in the wreck of the Richard Montgomery just off the coast of Kent?”
“The doomsday ship?” asked Roberts desperate to re-gain some respect.
“The same. Tom reckons they sent a diver down there to stash some jewels and paperwork back in the day, sounds to me like the diver cocked up and dropped it in the turbulent waters. And who could blame him? No one has been near that thing for years. If it blows up, you’ll want to be in Scotland, in a bunker!”
“Indeed. And what else do you know?”
“Slaves. Lots of them. Coming here for a better life. The males were more expendable, the females, already scarred from their ritualistic upbringings were almost always carrying diamonds in their body cavities, the rudimentary surgical scars easily blending with the tribal ones. The almost perfect courier.”
“Almost?”
“You’d want to use a good one twice wouldn’t you?”
“I guess it depends on how expendable the good ones are. What are we talking about here, a few diamonds per girl multiplied by twenty years? It’s a lot of gear, but hardly the crime of the century.” Roberts was already thinking about the handful of diamonds he had seen at Westminster Mortuary and beginning to doubt his own words.
“What if I told you that it’s more likely to be a handful? Then multiply that by twenty years? Make it more enticing?” he asked his two colleagues.
“What if I told you that you are out by about twenty years and the handful in each is multiplied six-fold – we have no idea how many of these girls have entered the country. We barely struggle to keep records of legal entrants, let alone those that come in hanging on the bottom of trucks, or stowed away on ships, crossing the border on fraudulently obtained genuine South African passports.” He had their attention.
“But hold everything, as they say on the TV commercials…what
if I told you that senior military aides in this country were getting richer by the month and the arms stores they control were reducing at the same rate – and all of this was happening under the noses of the current government, and also involved diplomatic sources in London?”
“I’d say keep talking because I believe you. Still doesn’t help us find Tom’s long-lost treasures and help his much-loved girls does it?”
“How many do you reckon are left?”
“I’m hoping to know later today,” offered Roberts. “My teams were ordered to strike a short while ago.”
“Premature?” asked Daniel, now moving more freely.
“Probably, a bit like everything these days. Bloody hell guys I’ve been stupid.”
“Jason you’re not the first. Let’s deal with that pile of dung another day. For now, we need to get the teams down here to sort this lot out, find someone to notify his loved ones, if indeed he had any, and then get up top and hunt for three groups. Miss Briton. The West African syndicate and the missing link from within the government, all within the SOPs that mean we work off script and without the frontline staff that keep this city safe, so much as even partially informed.”
“Yep agreed.” Roberts looked down the corridor to see a barrel of a firearm pointing at him. Then a loud and confident shout.
“Armed police! Put down your weapons! Do it now!”
Roberts placed the Glock carefully on the carpet and called back.
“DCI Roberts Op Orion, with two colleagues.” He held up his warrant card, nice and slow which caused the barrel to become a gun, then a person, as the officer revealed himself from around the edge of the doorway some fifty metres away. At that range all three wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The Trojan team edged forward, now was the most dangerous moment, any sudden moves…
“Guv, do you need an ambulance? Shit, that’s Steve Hancock.”
“Sadly, the inspector doesn’t need one boys, but can you get a CSI, the Crime Manager and whoever else needs to attend, but I insist this is need to know at this time. Do you understand?” Roberts was back in charge once more.
“I hate to say I’ll leave it with you but we need to go. One of you make sure that Mr. Daniel and this wonderful old man get up to the surface in safety please. JD, Jack and I have an appointment at a jeweller’s to keep.”
“You do? Perhaps give me a ring later?”
“You, sir, are a true comedian…”
She ran as fast as she could to keep her appointment. The rain was borderline torrential. All the better to blend in with all the other office to office runners, misplaced tourists and those that were cursing that they had left their umbrellas at home, on the bus, the tube or next to the coffee counter.
She swept the hair from her eyes as she waited.
Craig’s Court she had said. Don’t be late.
“You’re late. Come with me, walk, say nothing.”
“Now hang on a moment. I’m late for a reason.”
“I said say nothing. Get in.”
A black Mercedes E Class had quietly entered the Court, turned around and was now facing Whitehall once more, its wipers sweeping the persistent rain away.
Briton opened the rear door and got in, followed by the muscular black male in black business trousers and a very damp white shirt. Any other day he would have resembled a dancer from a male act and was very easy on the eye. But not today.
“Where is she?” asked Briton, wringing the rain from her dark blonde ponytail.
“She is where she needs to be, thanks to you.” The voice was deep and crisp and even – and sexy, but she feared the owner, he could snap her in two with those arms. Chance would be a fine thing. She tried to keep the upper hand.
“I’ll take that as a compliment – seeing as though it was my intelligence that saved her arse.”
“We don’t talk about our boss in those tones. I’ll thank you not to either.” He cracked a knuckle then leant back in the ivory leather, which warmed him, on what was becoming a tediously cold day, then placed his right arm on the darker brown complimentary trim and stared at her via the darkened glass. She had an obviously fit body, and he liked her hair very much, but she spoke too much for his liking.
She remained quiet for the rest of the journey to the vault.
What if? Then what? And how?
The Merc whispered through the streets, its modesty glass depriving anyone that cared a look inside. Cars like this one were ten-a-penny in London, so hardly anyone looked, or cared.
She knew she was along for the ride now, but hoped she would pop up on the other side richer and wiser.
“We are here.” The ‘male stripper’ was clearly on edge, checking the perimeters like the bodyguard that he was.
“When I say go, you go. If I say stay…”
“I get it. I’m a big girl.”
He put his hand on her thigh and squeezed. “You do as I say.”
His eyes were pits of anger; deep, dark pools of years of pent up aggression, of hatred surrounded by the face of a voodoo devil.
He took a call. They slowed slightly, to their right a shutter opened.
“Go!” shouted the voodoo stripper.
She was trapped inside the car and now heading into an apartment block through a camera monitored shutter system.
A rabbit under the wheels of a truck.
Good job the truck was being driven by a friend.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Whitehall, London
Doto was waiting. She hated waiting for anything. Did these people not realise how important she was? She checked her jewel-faced watch. Time for a lesson to be taught.
“Come on, we’ll go and meet them downstairs.”
The three men followed. All wearing expensive suits and cheap looks they proceeded to the lift and selected B3.
“Time to show this jumped up little bitch who the real boss is. Hope you boys are ready for some fun tonight? I’ll have mine first of course, see if she tastes as good as she looks.”
The mirrored lift meant the three men all looked down whilst their boss examined herself in a series of mirrors that provided an infinite view.
“Depending on how clever this little girl is will depend on where she ends up. Either as part of our team or fed to the pigs somewhere. The clock is ticking, another week and I need to leave this place, you must all disappear too. We can come back in a month or so once the dust has settled and our bank accounts have swollen a little. Or in my case a lot.”
She laughed. They all laughed in the awkward and confined mirrored space where you could see forever if you tried. The orange light indicated that they were in the basement. The door opened.
The door to the Mercedes was being opened as the group approached the car. Other similar vehicles were lined up, immaculate and all parked perfectly. They all had diplomatic plates too. Just like the blue Bentley that took the nearest space to the lift.
“So, we meet at last Miss Briton. You’ve done everything I asked of you. How you managed to get into Scotland Yard was very impressive. Getting us the data was even more exciting. You didn’t quite lead us to all of the women we need to trace though. Now here’s my deal. You get to keep two percent of the total amount we recover. That is extremely generous. Do we have a deal?”
She held out a strong left hand which threw Briton for a second, not sure which one to use to shake back.
“What’s the catch?”
Doto sniffed her hand. Issey Miyake if she wasn’t mistaken. Fresh, crisp notes of citrus and musk. She made a thing of rubbing her palms across her own neck.
“The catch? My dear, there is no catch. I am a woman of great honour. I am respected here in London and back home people fe…”
She stopped herself from saying fear.
“Back home, I am revered as a leader of people. Therefore all you need to do is provide me with what I asked for.”
“OK, so all you want from me, for three percent, is the ide
ntity and location of the remaining girls, the location of Tom Denby and the home addresses of Jack Cade, Jason Roberts and John Daniel. The latter I can do easily, right now actually. Tom is being held very close to the Orion team, but as we speak is in an underground location beneath Admiralty Arch, with two of your men and Steve Hancock.”
“Then we have Denby too! This is good news. Farin Mala’Ika has eluded us for far too long. His days are numbered, but first we need to learn what he knows and the only way to do that is to get him here. You have one week. We all do. Get him here. See if he likes your perfume as much as I do.”
“Why is the time so critical? I may need longer.”
“You have a week. I have a week. Rumour has it Denby has a week. Therefore, seven days are all we have.”
“I’ll ask again Miss Adesida. Why is the time so important?”
“You are a brave girl, coming to the Pride Lands and making demands. The last one that did that drowned in my bathtub among the bubbles.”
“Then remind me not to take a bath here. Bubbles or otherwise.” She smiled, hoping her confidence wasn’t misplaced.
“I’ve heard enough. Take her upstairs and run the bath.” Doto smiled back as the three men stepped forward to grab hold of the diminutive woman. “Fresh towels too. New ones.”
Kate was quicker, she stepped backwards three paces, creating some room and swept the Glock from the back of her trousers. Amateurs. First of all, they didn’t search her, too busy trying to look like gangsters, secondly, she had fifteen rounds left, with five targets, that meant three each and as she couldn’t afford one of those Hollywood standoffs where everyone points the weapons at each other and yells. She needed to shift up a gear.
This was real. She swung the pistol up into the aim and fired, then fired again. Two down. The shock was real. Doto was already moving, being almost dragged to the staircase by her most trusted and newly promoted protector who was now firing back with a weapon of his own, inaccurately over his left shoulder. The noise was intense but Kate could hear another weapon firing. She tucked in behind one of the cars, counted her friends, then the rounds that she had left. Ten at best. It was enough to finish the job or allow her to escape.
The Angel of Whitehall Page 43
