BLOOD DRAGON

by Freddie P Peters

  Ollie Wilson would be in high demand. A newly formed high-tech company that entered the fray and wanted to make its mark would not hesitate to place Ollie at the centre of its research team, granting him full access to the high profile projects the company was working on.

  Ollie Wilson was right … he had access to information that was worth more than a second look.

  Chapter Nine

  “Where are you?” Harris’ voice was more inquisitive than annoyed.

  “Be with you shortly.” Pole parked his bike near Liverpool Street station and was finishing the journey on foot. He was not bringing his brand-new Ducati to Whitechapel. It would attract unwanted attention and Pole did not need that whilst meeting with Harris.

  He finally turned into the small alleyway Harris had indicated in a text. It had the requisite qualities … Garbage strewn on the floor in various states of decomposition, discarded objects lying against the walls of the buildings or simply abandoned in the gutter. Harris certainly knew how to choose his venues to create the right ambience.

  “Hey … I like the biker look.” Harris grinned, stepping out from the doorway in which he had been sheltering. The wind blew his untidy hair as he walked towards Pole.

  “Appropriate to the area,” Pole grunted.

  “Except that you left your bike somewhere else … Very wise. I nearly had to headbutt a couple of little punks who noticed I was waiting for someone.”

  Pole gave him a look.

  “I know … the old shabby leather jacket ain’t worth any trouble … They probably thought I had some drugs on me.”

  “Do you really meet your operatives in these crappy streets?”

  Pole had reached Harris. He was almost a full head taller and yet he wondered whether he could overpower him in a fight. There was something alert and unyielding about Harris that Pole had learned to be wary of.

  “We could meet at the Savoy if you wanted, but I’m not sure that would be as discreet as you might want it to be … Marsh goes there quite often.”

  “You’ve heard about the latest in the Ferguson inquiry?”

  “Yep …” Harris took out a packet of chewing gum and popped a couple of tablets into his mouth. He started chewing. “Marsh won’t get anything from MI6 and neither will Ferguson, I can guarantee that.”

  “I’m mildly reassured.”

  “But …” Harris kept chewing for a short moment, the muscles of his jaw working overtime on the piece of gum. “It will all depend on how careful you have been … Inspector Pole.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Did anybody in your team notice anything? Was the delay in calling Ferguson when you had some data justified? That sort of question.”

  Pole clenched his fists, but Harris was right. Was he now assessing whether he should throw Pole to the wolves if push came to shove?

  “Don’t worry, Inspector … I’m only telling you this because I find working with you pretty good on the whole. You deliver when I need it the most and you don’t mind taking risks without overdoing it.”

  “Now that makes me really anxious, Harris.” Pole ran his eyes over the other man’s face. “When was the last time you paid a compliment to one of your …” Pole hesitated for a moment. The word source stuck in his throat and he would certainly never be one of Harris’s operatives, whereas an informant … if Harris spoke the word Pole would most certainly whack him one.

  “… contacts?” Harris suggested, pursing his lips in amusement. “When I need something from them, of course …”

  “The Ollie Wilson case.” Pole heard a noise coming from the top of the alley. He half turned to see what had caused it. Four youths had turned up at the corner of the main road and the small lane. They stopped for a moment, talking among themselves.

  “Fuck.” Harris frowned. “The little shits have come back with some friends.”

  Pole turned to face the small crowd head on. Their hoods were up. Two of them had their hands wedged in their trouser pockets, shoulders hunched forward. He assessed the alleyway quickly.

  Derelict houses, squats, most of them occupied or boarded up. The top of the lane seemed slightly more promising. Still, there was little hope of getting the inhabitants to open their doors to strangers being chased by a group of angry youths.

  “Where does that lead?” Pole jerked his head towards the top of the alley.

  “One of the estates. You don’t want to get lost in there … I can tell you.” Harris had moved alongside Pole.

  “This is the moment I perhaps wish I had a gun.”

  “Nah, if cops had guns, these guys would have more and better ones. The only thing I can see at the moment is a cricket bat and a lot of attitude.”

  Pole straightened up. Harris was right. The smallest of the group was holding something close to his leg. It rested on the ground and was half hidden by the baggy trousers he was wearing.

  “So much for discretion.” Pole muttered. It would be a little tricky to explain a black eye and broken ribs to Marsh.

  Harris stepped back a little and looked around, getting his bearings.

  “When I tell you to run, just do as I say.”

  “Why?” Pole was deciding whether to use his bike helmet as a weapon or put it on for protection.

  “Pole, just be a champ … and do as I say.” Harris was not joking. His focus was real. It galvanised Pole .

  “Now …” Harris turned around and started to sprint towards the top of the lane, away from the gang. It took Pole only a fraction of a second to follow.

  The shrieks that came from the far end of the alley told Pole that four young men had moved as one. The pounding of their feet on the ground reverberated between the walls of the shabby houses.

  Harris almost reached the top of the street, came to an abrupt stop in front of one of the doors, the colour of which had disappeared under layers of grime and graffiti. He pushed the door handle and to Pole’s amazement it opened.

  They both dashed through it, slamming it shut and drawing the solid bolts across. Harris ran along the narrow corridor. Wallpaper had been pulled off the walls, some of it still littered on the ground. Pole hesitated. The force of the blows against the door and loud yells made him follow as quickly as he could.

  He ran and found Harris going through another door at the back of the house. It led to a small yard. Harris walked over to the low wall that separated it from another street.

  Pole could hear the slams against the front door, it would not hold for much longer. Harris climbed onto the wall that led to the street. He disappeared with one jump on the other side.

  Pole followed. From a distance he heard the front door break open and the thunder of feet and screams of anger engulfing the house they had just left. Harris was waiting for him on the other side of the wall. Pole jumped without hesitation. Harris was already moving ahead. He took a set of keys out of his jacket pocket and activated the release button.

  A small beep indicated a car had just opened. He got in and moved a water bottle and the wrapper of a biscuit packet from the passenger seat, making room for Pole. Harris drove off as soon as the other man had closed the door, untroubled by what had just occurred.

  “Did you know it would happen?” Pole had settled his helmet on his thigh, amazed he had not dropped it during the chase.

  “Always a possibility in this neck of the woods …”

  “Did you know the door would open?”

  Harris smiled, looking straight at the road. He tapped his index finger a few times on the side of his nose. “I ain’t gonna be defeated by the little gits that live in these parts … though to be fair I also feel sorry for them.”

  “Why … because they haven’t been able to beat the hell out of us?”

  “Nope … I could have been one of them.” Harris was not being flippant. He stopped the car at
the next set of traffic lights and turned towards Pole. “But not your concern … I’m impressed, Inspector Pole. You can get a move on when you have to.”

  “What do you take me for?” Pole rolled his eyes. “I’m with the Met and that means dealing with unsavoury characters just as much as you do.”

  “Not saying otherwise … still …” Harris drove through a few streets that Pole did not recognise to finally end up in Brick Lane. He relaxed a little now he knew where he was.

  “Coming back to our conversation.” Harris parked the car in front of an old sari shop. “Ollie Wilson has become of interest to me.”

  “Good.” Pole half turned his tall body towards Harris. “And I need a lot more information about a certain Chinese artist we once discussed.”

  “I have given you a lot already.” Harris frowned.

  “What is it you said, Harris? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. I have a very sore itch that requires attention. I’m sure you can do a lot better then what you’ve delivered on Nancy Wu’s father so far.”

  * * *

  DS Branning slowly placed his large hand on Nancy’s shoulder, moving her gently out of the way.

  He stepped in front of her and in front of the gun that was pointing at them.

  The other two men had stopped rummaging through the props that Cora had stored in the studio part of the loft.

  Nancy moved her head slightly to the side to measure the distance to the only exit route. Branning and she were not very far from the front door of the flat. She could certainly reach it but she doubted the police officer could.

  The man with the gun was considering the options. He could gun them down now but this would alert the other police officers guarding the entrance from the unmarked car he must have spotted.

  On that basis, Nancy was making an educated guess he did not want to shoot them. Then again, it would take a few minutes for reinforcements to arrive and the only thing they would see was a van and its SOCO team.

  Branning was not moving, and his calm manner seemed to have defused the situation. The man with the gun moved it sideways a few times.

  “Hands over your heads … kneel down, both of you.” The accent was foreign, but Nancy could not quite distinguish its origin.

  Branning raised his hands in slow motion and started to kneel down. Nancy followed. She cast her eyes around for something she could use as a weapon.

  Ridiculous, of course … but she was not going to give up without a fight.

  As she knelt, she noticed the proximity of the low kitchen wall that served as a breakfast bar. Before her knees touched the ground, she shuffled closer to it. Branning’s eyes quickly slid towards her. She hoped he had noticed her movement.

  The two men put down the props they were holding and made their way swiftly across the wooden planks. The charred wooden floor had started to cave in and the groaning of the broken wood under their weight made them hurry. The exit route led them dangerously close to where DS Branning was kneeling.

  They edged their way past him, ready for a fight. The man with the gun had started to move too, picking his way carefully through the rubble.

  Branning had not moved. His heavy body looked more like a sack dumped there to collect the rubbish than a threat to life. The two men had now disappeared. No doubt readying their van for a speedy departure … it would now take only a few seconds for Branning and Nancy to be gunned down. The gunman would make his exit swiftly and as soon as he had entered the van one of the other thugs would floor the accelerator before the police car could chase after them.

  The gunman’s phone rang. He nodded and raised his gun.

  The man is laughing. His machine gun held against his side. His army boots only inches away from her knees. She can’t see his face, but she can smell the stale odour of sweat and greasy food on his skin. She’s kneeling next to her father, in the middle of the road. The doors of the old truck they have been driving in, are wide open.

  She doesn’t know where her mother is.

  Her father is speaking very fast, in a language she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know whether it is the words she can’t comprehend or whether it is a foreign language she doesn’t know. But she knows he’s pleading with the man who is still laughing.

  She isn’t scared though she should be. Her father is still with her and he always makes things better.

  Until a scream comes from the back of the van.

  Her heart starts beating faster and faster. Someone is struggling back there. She can hear the thrashing of a body against the metal frame of the truck. She doesn’t want to recognise the voice. She tries not to recognise the voice of her mother.

  Her father lunges at the laughing man. They are on the ground fighting for the gun. The screams have reached a higher pitch. She runs to the back of the pickup and all she can see is a man bending over a body and a pair of legs thrashing uncontrollably.

  She looks around, picks up a rock that lays on the dirt track with both hands and strikes once, twice … so many times she can’t recall … until her hands have turned red and the screaming has stopped.

  The speed of the rugby tackle was vicious. DS Branning’s lunge startled the gunman. The gun discharged when they both rolled onto the floor. The bullet dislodged a piece of wood that exploded into splinters.

  Nancy winced, diving behind the kitchen counter. The two men were struggling, thrashing about on the floor. A deafening noise reverberated around the room … another gun discharge.

  Nancy stood up, seized one of the high stools from behind the breakfast counter and brought it down over the back of the gunman. He arched his back, groaning in pain. Branning threw a punch in his face. The man rolled onto his side towards the centre of the room.

  Nancy stepped forward, raised the chair once more and hit him with all her might. The crack in the floor had widened, with the screaming noise of wood being torn apart. She raised the stool once more.

  “Stop.” DS Branning was half standing. “Stop …” his hand stretched towards her.

  Nancy dropped her weapon as though it was electrified. Branning had just enough time to stand up and drag her out of the room before the floor collapsed.

  * * *

  “When?” Pole had just adjusted his helmet and connected his mobile device to his earpiece.

  Branning sounded shaken. It had been a near miss, but they were both unharmed, apart from a few scratches.

  The Ducati sprang to life under Pole’s angry foot. The bike lurched forward. He avoided with a swerve a couple of absent-minded men crossing the road as though they owned it. They shouted at him, but he was already banking right to turn into the main road.

  He sounded his horn as he sped towards a pedestrian crossing. The traffic lights were on his side and 10 minutes later Inspector Pole parked his bike next to the police van that was blocking the entrance of Cora’s building.

  He flashed his ID card at the PC standing guard outside the building and ran to the ambulance parked at the side. DS Branning was holding a pack of ice against his swollen cheek. His jacket was torn, and blood had dripped over his shirt.

  “She’s safe.” He mumbled. He made a quick move of the head in the direction of the entrance.

  Nancy was sitting on the stairs of the building, wrapped in a blanket. She must have heard the two men talking. She lifted her face, swaying as she stood up.

  Pole strode towards her, dropped his helmet to the ground and then wrapped his arms around her. “Are you hurt?”

  “Rien du tout … Just a few bruises.” She let her forehead drop against his chest.

  Pole placed a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair smelt of Issey Miyake perfume and burnt wood. He gave a nervous laugh that caught in his throat.

  “What on earth happened?”

  Nancy clutched the leather of his jacket to draw him closer. She w
as not ready to talk just yet. Pole moved his hand around on her back a few times to keep her warm. He was in no hurry.

  “Desolée …” Nancy pulled back a little.

  “What for?” Pole loosened his embrace and gave her a kind smile.

  “These people are your colleagues.”

  “You should know by now that it takes a lot more than that to embarrass me. I was not brought up in the stiff upper lip camp, remember … my family are a bunch of artists that wear their hearts on their sleeves all the time.”

  She let go of his jacket and ran her hands over her face. “I almost killed him … If DS Branning had not stopped me …” She started to cry. “… I would have finished him off.”

  * * *

  The taxi dropped Jack in front of an impressive building in the centre of Boston. Large steps lead up to a series of white columns in ancient Greek ionic style. They, in turn, supported a massive granite portico. Jack climbed the flight of stairs quickly, reached a wide wooden door and pushed … The Harvard Medical School looked as impressive as its reputation merited.

  Jack entered a spacious hallway decorated with old and new portraits of the pioneers of medical science. The receptionist, a young man in a dark jumper, welcomed him. Professor Park, the director of the BIG programme was ready to receive him. Jack apologised. He was a little early.

  The young man stood up and accompanied him to the lifts at the back of the entrance hall. He flashed his ID card over an electronic eye and pressed floor six. Professor Park was waiting for him as he alighted, the tall Asian man sporting an intelligent smile and the expected narrow-rimmed glasses.

  They shook hands and Professor Park lead the way. “Let’s get settled into my office.”

  They exchanged a few casual words about Jack’s journey, the cold weather and the Boston Red Sox scores.