Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but that’s not exactly covert,’ Mel said. Not in garish red and white, she thought.

  ‘Hiding in plain sight, Chef. I also don’t want a military helicopter featuring on the news bulletins tonight. You clear it all up in under twenty minutes.’ He narrowed his eyes under greying, strangely thin eyebrows. ‘I don’t want to know why you in particular are here or who the target is, but don’t leave a mess on my doorstep, Sergent-chef.’

  ‘No, sir.’ He really wasn’t happy at her parachuting almost literally into his domain. Stevenson must have loaded the pressure on.

  ‘I’ve assigned you Barceaux, Gautier and Morin. The regional gendarmerie is on standby. Try not to call on them. You should be able to catch one man between the four of you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Mel said and saluted.

  In the ready room by the helicopter hangar, Mel assembled the three other soldiers. Unlike Barceaux, the other two were medium height and medium build. Good thing, given the small transport they’d been given. Morin and Gautier were dressed in workman’s blue trousers and hi-vis jackets over their combat fatigues. They would carry handguns only.

  ‘Our objective is to apprehend a British national, Ellis, before he crosses the Swiss border,’ Mel began. ‘He’s travelling south-south-eastwards from the Channel Tunnel in a private car which, when last spotted, was identified as a Peugeot 208, silver grey.’ Barceaux rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, I know, half of France drives one,’ she continued. ‘Last time we saw it, it had British plates. Ellis is a clever bastard and has been deliberately taking a circuitous route. At his current rate of travel he should be between here and Colmar. We know the car sighted in Luxembourg hasn’t been spotted on the autoroutes or main roads in the Franco-German border region, so we presume he’s taking minor roads as he did between the Channel and Luxembourg. He may have changed vehicles, of course. Police colleagues in Germany are watching for him as are the gendarmerie and municipal police this side of the border. We are waiting for their call.’

  ‘What happens, Chef, if there is no sighting?’ Morin asked. She looked composed, as if she was planning a holiday trip.

  Mel glanced at where the pilot was sitting several metres away, and busy reading a magazine. He’d confirmed to her that he’d run through his operational start checklist by the time she’d arrived at the unit and made a first test start. Their equipment was already on board. Waiting to go was almost unbearable.

  ‘If there’s no reported sighting within the next hour, then we go up and look,’ Mel said.

  * * *

  The sun pierced the windows of the ready room. Mel stepped outside onto the tarmac and breathed in the hydrocarbon-scented air. It was warm for mid March, around fourteen or fifteen degrees even in the afternoon. Barceaux joined her, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. He tipped it towards the training helicopter.

  ‘We’ve only got a few hours’ flying time left today in that pissy little helo. What happens if we don’t go?’

  ‘Vasseur growls at us, my boss hides his immense disappointment behind British politesse and a murderer gets away. On top of that, the paperwork will be hell.’

  Barceaux chuckled and they meandered around companionably killing time. Nine minutes later, Mel’s phone pinged. She jabbed at it. Andreas. Video sent over secure net to your unit location. A minute later, Colonel Vasseur’s assistant came running out with a tablet.

  ‘Chef. From London.’

  Mel nodded and seized the tablet. The video showed a figure of Ellis’s stature and way of moving refuelling again, this time in a supermarket on the outskirts of Haguenau an hour ago. Still in the right-hand drive Peugeot 208, but different plates. Then some footage timestamped at ten minutes ago of a car travelling beside the river on a country road. She swiped it for the notes attached. Helicopter patrol from Freiburg/Breisgau spotted silver grey car travelling down riverside road from Strasbourg D20.

  She stopped reading for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Barceaux, get that helicopter pilot off his arse and the troops ready to board. We’re on.’

  They ran for the helicopter as soon as the rotors were going. Gautier and Morin scrambled in the back followed by Barceaux. The pilot was carrying out his through-flight checklist at emergency speed as Mel buckled on the harness in the seat next to his.

  Live feed continues: Vehicle spotted entering Rhinau, she read further on the tablet.

  Putain. Five minutes away.

  Whump-whump, then the red and white wasp rose gracefully and veered south-west.

  Mel peered through the window over to the river. Miniature houses flashed by underneath, forest, fields at odd angles, all different shades of green and brown, small factories, grey sheet retail building roofs. The pilot flicked on the screen for the on-board camera. Gerstheim, Rhinau whizzed past beneath them. The Rhine snaked lazily below. And on the road a single small vehicle drove along.

  ‘Map overlay,’ Mel shouted at the pilot.

  She skimmed down the screen. Schœnau – that’s where they’d trap him, on the D20 when it entered in the woods to the south. She zoomed in, then pointed to the screen and shouted into her mike.

  ‘Land us in the sports field, then harbour over at Saasenheim. I’ll call you in when we’re ready to return.’ He nodded. Three minutes later, they piled out onto one of the two football pitches, picked up the equipment bags and scurried into the woods. The sound of the helicopter faded into a buzz then a hum. Mel looked round. Nobody. Thank God there were no kids on football practice. They tabbed down the road for a hundred metres where the woods were thickest and there was a bend in the road. She glanced at her watch. They had ten minutes to set up.

  Crouching down, they ripped open seven of the long bags, unfolded the metal sections and set about clipping them together. As a mobile barrier it was genius: modular and capable of stopping almost anything, certainly a small car. Born out of a need to prevent terrorists ramming people, the Israeli manufacturer now supplied it worldwide. Eight minutes later, with a yellow sign Déviation – Chantier hung on the centre, it blocked the D20.

  Mel left Morin and Gautier by the barrier to look like workmen; the eighth bag had contained collapsible long-handed tools and a small broom. Morin had rammed a navy baseball hat on to cover her hair. Mel and Barceaux trotted back fifty metres on each side and crouched in the trees, Barceaux slightly forward on the concave side. Now they had a box trap. All they needed was the rat to catch in it.

  ‘Heads up.’ Barceaux’s voice whispered in her earpiece. In the virtual silence of the woods only broken by the odd wildlife fluttering and bird chirp, she heard a purr and then the growl of the car approaching. It crawled round the bend doing only about fifty, possibly 55 kph on an empty road where the speed limit was 80. What was the matter with Ellis? Or had he been warned off by their helicopter? No, there were loads of tourist sightseeing flights up and down the Rhine Valley.

  ‘Slowing,’ Barceaux whispered.

  God. She could almost stop him by stepping out in the road and holding her hand up like a traffic flic.

  But the Peugeot came on. She crouched on the balls of her feet.

  Nearly at the barrier… Then the car stopped ten metres from the barrier.

  Like a good road repair man who didn’t care, Gautier waved his hand sideways at the driver and shook his head. Mel and Barceaux crept back through the trees until they were level with the Peugeot. Mel eased into position behind a large tree with a direct sightline of the driver’s window. She pulled herself up straight and very slowly peered round the edge of the trunk.

  There was their rat.

  50

  The driver’s door opened and Ellis stepped out, keeping his eyes on Gautier and Morin. He was still dressed in the suit he wore the day he’d tried to strangle Mel. He took a couple of steps towards the ‘road workers’.

  ‘Excusez-moi, mais, um, c’est urgent,’ he said. ‘Moi, passer la route.’

  Mel stepped out onto
the road, porting her rifle at waist level.

  ‘You don’t need to torture us any further with your dreadful French, Ellis. You are under arrest in accordance with Article 421 of the French Penal Code for an act of terrorism during a state of emergency.’

  He turned abruptly in the direction of her voice, his mouth open. He stared at her for a few moments, then his face contorted with anger. He raised his fists.

  ‘I wouldn’t… I really wouldn’t,’ she said.

  ‘You bitch. You just won’t give up.’

  ‘Not when the person I’m hunting has killed. No.’

  Ellis’s head swivelled round to the barrier as Gautier and Morin advanced towards him. Hardly pausing to look at her, he thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out a pistol and fired at Mel. She threw herself sideways and crashed to the ground. A heavy thump on her helmet. Pain radiated through her head. Ellis broke into a run, straight into the woods behind her.

  Gautier and Morin started after him, shucking off their hi-vis jackets. Barceaux grabbed the keys of Ellis’s car and was by Mel’s side a second later. She pulled herself up onto all fours and caught her breath. He put his arm out to help her up.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said and shook her head in an attempt to clear the pounding. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘Bullet hit your helmet.’

  ‘Never dreamt he had a weapon or could even shoot,’ she said. ‘My bad. Let’s get the bastard.’

  They split up and ran into the woods, each twenty metres to the side of the path Morin and Gautier had taken. Mel stopped after thirty metres and crouched down.

  ‘Fox to cubs,’ she spoke into her mike. ‘Advise locations.’

  ‘Cub One.’ Barceaux. ‘By the lake in the trees next to DZ.’

  ‘Reçu. Standard sweep,’ Mel replied.

  ‘Cub Two.’ Morin. ‘Jetty opposite tip of île de Rhinau, 270 view of river and path alongside.’

  ‘Reçu. Check that perimeter then standard sweep.’

  ‘Cub Three.’ Gautier. ‘Fifty metres south-west of Cub Two in the woods towards the dyke.’

  ‘Reçu. Make a line for that track and check the civilian farmhouse.’

  Mel took a deep breath to mitigate her thumping head. No way did she want any civilian caught up in this. She felt enough of an incompetent letting Ellis get away.

  ‘Fox to cubs. Sweep pattern four. Apprehend goose at all costs. Disabling shot only. Terminé.’

  Mel clicked off her radio and came back out onto the D20. Hugging the treeline, she tabbed along the verge and veered left onto the road leading to the village. She ducked again to the left to observe the sports ground entrance. Ellis had to be within their new box. But he was armed and knew how to use it.

  She saw nothing as she slid past the open entrance. To the right of the vehicle track lay a closed pavilion, to the left two football pitches where their helicopter had landed. On one a solitary boy about eight or nine was kicking a ball.

  Putain. Where had he come from? She didn’t want to break cover and frighten the poor little sod, but the need to remove him from the danger zone was greater than a kid wetting himself with fright at seeing a fully armed soldier in battledress advancing on him. Ellis was probably still hiding in the woods.

  She shouldered her rifle but unfastened the flap on her pistol holster just in case. She stood upright, put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. A loud whistle. Barceaux could probably hear it. The boy looked up, startled. And stared in her direction. She smiled, waved and beckoned him. He picked up the ball, carried on staring at her, his head tilted to one side.

  ‘Viens! Viens ici, vite,’ she called.

  He left the middle of the pitch slowly, then sped up, but never made it. A suited figure ran out from behind the pavilion, grabbed the child and held his pistol to the terrified boy’s head.

  Putain dix fois.

  ‘Fox to cubs,’ she muttered. ‘Compromised. Child hostage. Max caution.’

  ‘Drop your weapons,’ Ellis called out. ‘Everything and take that radio off. I don’t want you calling your buddies. You do one wrong thing, Pittones, this child’s brains will fertilise the pitch.’

  Mel’s heart thumped with terror for the child. His eyes were like golf balls. She had to stick to her mission, but the child was looking at her so piteously. Ellis and the boy were a good five metres away. She’d never get to Ellis before he fired the trigger to blow the boy’s brains out. Slowly, she placed her pistol on the ground. Her rifle followed, then her helmet and radio. But in taking it off, she tripped the switch and dislodged the headset jack.

  ‘Let him go, Ellis,’ she shouted, speaking the words more slowly than usual. ‘The poor kid was just practising football.’

  ‘Not a prayer. Now hand over the car keys. I know you’ll have taken them. I need to get back on the road.’

  ‘To see the good doctor in Switzerland?’

  ‘You worked that one out, did you?’

  ‘Oh yes, your escape plan was simple, almost too simple.’

  ‘You cow.’ His grip tightened on the boy.

  ‘Aide-moi,’ the child whimpered.

  ‘Throw the car keys over,’ Ellis shouted.

  ‘I haven’t got them.’

  He jabbed the boy’s head with the barrel of his pistol.

  ‘Don’t piss me about.’

  ‘No, really. One of my colleagues took them.’

  ‘Then call him. And do it in English.’

  ‘He doesn’t speak English,’ Mel lied.

  ‘Are you being funny?’

  ‘You’ll have to trust me to call him. You have the child. I won’t let him be hurt.’

  ‘Do it.’

  She knelt down, fiddling with the headset she’d laid on the ground.

  ‘Renard à Renardeau Un. Géolocaliser. Apporter clés de voiture ici.’

  ‘Fox? Vixen more like,’ Ellis said. ‘Stay on the ground,’ he ordered as Mel went to stand up. ‘Rohlbert said you were feisty. Not so clever, though.’

  ‘But he turned on you in the end, didn’t he?’

  ‘Shot his bloody mouth off. He told me he was going to tell his damn sister and you all about Fennington, me and that stupid little fucker Duchamps.’

  ‘We identified it was you who sent Duchamps to Brussels – he kept the note you sent him. He’s told us everything, including your part in the bombing.’

  ‘He was a coward, easy to buy. And Rohlbert not much better. You, I’ll give you this, you’re tougher. But you just wouldn’t let go, would you?’

  ‘It was you who set those people on me on the motorway, and those ex-FSB Russians.’

  ‘You were becoming a bloody nuisance.’ Ellis looked around. ‘Where’s your soldier boy with the keys?’ He raised his voice. ‘I hope he’s not going to do anything stupid. That’s what squaddies usually do.’ He looked back at Mel. ‘I could pop the kid then you within seconds, so he’d better not think of coming in all guns blazing.’

  Mel looked at the boy. He was still now. He flopped in Ellis’s grip and was leaning heavily against the man’s body. Had he passed out or was he just paralysed by fear? Perhaps Ellis would let him go now.

  Unlikely.

  Bastard.

  Where the hell was Barceaux?

  ‘Is the kid okay?’ she shouted. ‘He looks as if he’s fainted or died of fright.’

  Ellis looked down and shook the kid, but he didn’t respond. Mel tucked her toes under, ready for any chance.

  ‘Christ,’ Ellis said, taking his eyes off Mel for a second. He dropped the boy who fell to the ground with a thump.

  Mel launched herself at Ellis, but before she could reach him, a shot rang out. Ellis fell, grasping his leg. He raised his pistol at Mel, but she hammered on, zigzagging. She reached out to grab him. Another shot screamed within centimetres of her face. Ellis shrieked and grabbed one hand with the other. Mel kicked Ellis’s pistol away. Then she dropped to her knees and clasped the boy into her arms.

  51
/>   ‘Well, that went well. Very covert. Not,’ Barceaux said as he handed Mel a bottle of water one of the paramedics had brought. They were standing under the trees away from the ambulances and dark blue gendarmerie van. The blue lights were blinding in the fading light. Ellis was being loaded into one ambulance. Gautier and Morin had dismantled the barrier and were standing on the verge giving preliminary statements to a gendarme. Morin was helpfully shining her helmet torch onto his pad.

  ‘We didn’t count on him being armed or snatching that poor little kid.’ Mel couldn’t have felt worse if she’d tried. The boy’s mother had turned up and was now on her way with him to the hospital at Colmar. Ellis would be taken to Strasbourg where he would be under twenty-four-hour guard until he was fit to travel back to the UK.

  ‘Well, the gendarmes will contain it,’ Barceaux said.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah, I know the detail head there.’ He pointed to the senior gendarme talking into the van’s radio. Mel looked round. A couple of the police scientifique were taking photos and checking Ellis’s car; another pair were on the football ground. No reporters or other civilians, at least not yet. If any journos turned up, the four soldiers would melt into the trees. No way did she want to put her sketchy media skills from the British police college into practice. She handed her empty bottle to Barceaux and walked over to the gendarme in charge.

  ‘Chef,’ she started. ‘May I withdraw my detail? I think the sooner we’re out of here, the better.’

  He looked her up and down.

  ‘Agreed. We’ll take the car with us to make a thorough examination – a transporter is on the way. I’ll liaise with Barceaux, but we’ll want a full report from you.’

  As their helicopter rose, Mel watched the car transporter arrive at the nest of blue lights below. Barceaux thought they’d present the whole episode as international forces of law and order cooperating to pursue a criminal. The perpetrator had fled onto the sports ground and frightened the child who had then been rescued. The gendarmes wouldn’t be unhappy to take the credit.