BLOOD DRAGON

by Freddie P Peters

  “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it was a strange mix of moves. Something I have encountered before.”

  “There are only a couple of agencies that craft their own training when it comes to hand-to-hand combat … Mossad and the FSB, or rather, men with military training who join the FSB.”

  Jack pondered. It was not Mossad’s Krav Maga. “I’d say boys from the FSB then.”

  Jethro pulled a face. He couldn’t quite reconcile how the Russians might be involved in Jack’s beating. “Whoever they are, your little escapade into the premises of Viro-Tech Therapeutics did not go unnoticed.”

  “I gather not …”

  “Yep, the woman you spoke about, Nancy Wu. Former pre-eminent QC, retired early, does a lot of pro bono for a university and collects contemporary art. She was involved in a controversial case … Henry Crowne, IRA operative turned investment banker … after that she was appointed as advisor to the Met in London. They must have been impressed with her work.”

  “Do I sense a but …”

  “A few of them to tell you the truth. Her father was a well-known artist, Chinese … supported Mao Zedong, until the Cultural Revolution hit. He escaped with his family but returned under Deng Xiao Ping. We don’t seem to have much about him after that.”

  “You said a few.” Jack slid down the bed again to make himself more comfortable.

  “She worked for a guy called Vergès, a French Barrister … very controversial lawyer, very left wing too … she didn’t stay with him in the end. I’m not sure what her political affiliations are, but I’m looking into those.”

  “Back to her being a consultant with the Met, that’s pretty high profile.”

  “You bet … so she has the means to find information, pass it on. The best part of the story about Henry Crowne is that he escaped HSU Belmarsh. No one had ever escaped the high security unit there before … although if you ask me the Brits are getting soft with their prisoners.”

  “You mean they should reintroduce the death penalty?”

  “Might not be a bad idea … a terrorist is a threat, right?”

  Jack thought better than to disagree with the Station Chief. “So, what’s your take on all of this?”

  “She could well be a player for a foreign power.”

  “What? After years in the country, she suddenly turns into a spy? The Met must have done their due diligence before recruiting her.”

  “Or someone managed to convince her. That’s what we do when we recruit our informants.”

  Jack sank back into the pillows. Steve Harris would not like the way the Station Chief was going about the Wilson case.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Superintendent Marsh was standing in front of the large window of his spacious office. Pole noticed that his silhouette had grown a little heavier, the panel of his uniform jacket looked tight around his waistline. Too many networking lunches and dinners were starting to take their toll.

  Marsh’s eyes followed Pole as he walked in, moving straight to Marsh’s desk and rearranging the single chair that awaited visitors summoned for interrogation.

  The Super finally turned away from the grand view his office commanded … Westminster Bridge that led to the Houses of Parliament on the right-hand side, the London Eye straight ahead and the South Bank cultural centre on the left.

  Marsh indicated to Pole he should sit with a short movement of his head. “I haven’t heard any more news about the progress of your inquiry.”

  Pole pulled the chair further away from the desk to accommodate his long legs and sat down.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. The Ollie Wilson case has been keeping me busy, but we are making progress.”

  “The young man who was kidnapped and is now in hospital?”

  “That’s right.” Pole didn’t volunteer more information, hoping his silence might arouse Marsh’s interest.

  “Anything I should know about this case over and above what you wrote in your report?”

  Between a rock and a hard place … the expression sprang into Pole’s mind. Did he really want to attract his boss’s attention to a case in which MI6 was involved, as well as the CIA, in order to deflect Marsh’s attention from the Ferguson inquiry?

  “Ollie Wilson is a US National.” Pole waited. Marsh came to sit down at his desk. He let himself drop into his leather armchair a little too heavily judging by the complaining sounds the joints made as he did.

  The Super rolled his chair forward, elbows on the armrests of his seat, fingertips joined in front of his mouth. His mind was working on whether there would be anything to gain by being involved. He no doubt reminisced the Henry Crowne days when Pole, in the space of four years, had brought him some of the most high-profile cases of his career.

  Marsh eyes lit up, a mixture of renewed interest and mischief.

  “Is Ms Wu involved?”

  Pole raised a quizzical eyebrow, a slight reproach that Marsh should find a case of interest solely based on the involvement, or not, of their consultant.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact she is, Sir.”

  “And what does the excellent Ms Wu think about the central question?”

  “If you are referring to whether Ollie Wilson was involved with drugs in some extensive way, she’s waiting for DS Todd to complete his research.”

  Marsh nodded. He swivelled from left to right in his chair. How far could he get involved without looking a little too obvious. The change of tack came as a surprise to Pole … he had not forgotten after all.

  “And of course, you have notified her of our need to clarify her involvement in the Mark Phelps case?”

  Pole’s fingers tightened on the armrest of his chair. “Not yet, Sir.”

  It was now for Marsh to raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Are you dragging your feet?”

  Pole managed a lukewarm smile. “No … I’m simply trying to do this sensibly and with sensitivity.” Pole remained serious. “It is always rather difficult to question people’s integrity. I am seeking to approach Ms Butler, one of the best pathologists in the UK and Ms Wu, a former QC of impeccable stature, in a manner that does the job without alienating them.”

  Marsh rolled the chair further forward towards his desk.

  “I’m not suggesting otherwise, Pole.” His voice was irritated that DCI Pole might think him unsubtle.

  “Commander Ferguson, an excellent officer … may become a little impatient, but I am carrying out the informal investigation as fast as I can.”

  “And what is the outcome of your findings so far?” Marsh leaned forward, his eyes searching Pole for a physical reaction he might not be able to hide.

  “We have found logs of a number of burner phones, active at or near our offices.” Pole exhaled slowly. “But we haven’t tracked down the owners yet.”

  “Isn’t the idea of a burner phone that it is untraceable?” Marsh retorted.

  “That’s the general idea. However, sometimes we can trace them back to the place they were sold, and with the help of CCTV cameras find out who the buyer was.”

  “Who is dealing with this?” Marsh pursed his lips.

  “DS Todd.”

  “But did he not work on the Mark Phelps case himself?”

  “That’s right.” Pole’s words almost stuck in his throat.

  “Don’t you think that amounts to a conflict of interest?” Marsh pointed out, satisfied to have found a weakness in Pole’s approach.

  Pole sat back in his chair. “That would be the case, Sir, if this were a full formal inquiry. In fact, I would certainly not be allowed to conduct it myself, since I too would be compromised. But if we are going to keep this investigation informal, and prevent it from raising unwelcome attention, we need to limit it to a small number of people.”

  Marsh tapped his fingers on the desk. Pole knew he had a point and that Ma
rsh did not want the Ferguson inquiry to get out of hand. Marsh had been involved in the case himself, and, if it came to a formal inquiry, he too would be on the list of staff under suspicion.

  “Then perhaps we should introduce a four-eye procedure?”

  Pole froze for an instant. “You mean …”

  “Well, yes … let’s make sure that each individual finding is reviewed by two people. Since I was the senior officer on the case, why don’t I be the second pair of eyes?”

  Pole nodded slowly, lost for words. Marsh would be looking over one of his shoulders and MI6 the other.

  * * *

  “Fresh cup of tea?” Charlie was telling, not asking. No one around the table looked their best. Cora, Beth and Charlie had dark rings under their eyes. Whereas it could be expected of Beth who was now sleeping in the lounge, and Cora who was understandably feeling the trauma of the past few days, Charlie and Johnny also looked a little fatigued.

  Johnny had opted for a good dose of concealer that seemed to have gone some way towards hiding the shadows under his eyes.

  The doorbell rang and everybody straightened up. Perhaps Branning had forgotten his keys. Johnny decided he looked the most presentable and went to open the door.

  “Darlin’ we missed you.”

  “Obviously not Branning,” Beth grinned.

  Nat entered the kitchen and did the rounds, kissing everyone on the cheek. She bent over Cora, holding her a little longer. She too looked pale. Charlie offered her some tea.

  “I’m just popping in really quickly to see how you are all holding up.” Nat had taken off her bike helmet and was still holding it awkwardly. Her eyes rested on Cora for a moment.

  “Won’t you stay and have a cup with us then?” Charlie had already taken a mug out.

  A shadow crossed Nat’s face, but Cora could not quite make out why it was.

  “All right … Just a quick one.” The cup had already been poured. Nat took hold of it with her free hand and leaned against the worktop, gulping the hot liquid down.

  “Isn’t it a bit hot with your leather jacket?”

  “I’m fine.” Nat drew back a little. “I’m sorry I can’t stay for very long.”

  She held back from finishing her cup, waiting for the conversation she had interrupted to resume. Cora hesitated. She wanted to share the crazy evening she had just had, but wondered whether perhaps she should be more careful.

  The front door rattling as someone tried to open it interrupted her thoughts.

  DS Branning had finished smoking yet another cigarette the whiff of it coming through the door as he opened it and announced himself to the crowd of friends by banging the door shut.

  There was a police car parked at the bottom of their building when he had left the flat late the night before. The woman officer who had replaced him reported a quiet night. Branning walked in with the confidence of someone who knew all had been calm in his absence.

  Nat downed the rest of her tea and made her excuses. Branning took no offence and Cora sensed Nat’s departure had lifted the atmosphere.

  Charlie took another mug from the kitchen rack, a cheerful polka dot Emma Bridgewater. He had refreshed the pot and was pouring a second round. Beth had changed into a well cut, designer tracksuit. Cora had borrowed a pair of expensive jeans and a crewneck black sweater. Charlie was still in his pyjamas, complaining he needed to make a move soon.

  “I’m off to the grind …” Johnny yawned nonchalantly. “I’ll be back at 1pm, as agreed.”

  Branning frowned. “Working part-time now?” He sat in the designated spot he had been assigned by Charlie. It was an improvement on the previous one … as far as possible from everyone else’s seat. He was making progress with the arty gang.

  “Nope, giving moral support to friends in need.” Johnny pursed his lips and gave Cora a little nod. She was not climbing up or down any walls without one of them trying to stop her.

  When they had returned from their Viro-Tech expedition Johnny had indulged in one of his famous meltdowns; surprisingly, Charlie had joined in too.

  Nancy had arrived just in time to drum some much-needed sense into her … Otherwise who knows … Cora might have been thrown into jail for a very long time or trapped in a building without being able to leave … or even used by the evil Jared Turner for his own medical experiment.

  Cora had pointed out the building was neither a labyrinth nor the hideaway of Doctor Frankenstein. She had omitted to mention, though, that Nancy was not at all unhappy about her efforts.

  But she had looked contrite and this had worked. They remembered why she was doing all this … Ollie was their friend too.

  Cora moved to the lounge. Morning TV did not appeal. She could not go back to her own flat. The sky was becoming a little brighter, but the thick clouds were still too dense for the sun to shine through. She stood up again and moved to the window seat. It was cold but she didn’t mind. Beyond the courtyard , she could see people hurrying along the pavement, a couple of men in shabby tracksuits and orange hazard jackets were crossing the road towards her local café.

  Cora smiled, remembering DS Branning’s face when Charlie had offered some of his more exotic teas. He had since corrected the choice of tea available and bought extra strong PG Tips, much to Branning’s delight.

  Someone pulling a large red trolley walked into the yard. She recognised the postman. Cora crossed the room towards the hallway. Beth and Branning stood up.

  “Don’t panic … I’m just going down to check the mail.”

  Branning nodded. “I’ll come down with you anyway.”

  “Time for another fag, no doubt,” Cora grumbled. Beth joined them for good measure. Branning made his way downstairs first and Cora slowed her pace. “What was that all about? Why couldn’t Nat stay for a bit?”

  “Branning makes her uncomfortable.”

  “That’s silly …”

  “Perhaps not.” Beth slowed further and dropped her voice.” Did you notice how she keeps pulling down her sleeves?”

  Cora shook her head.

  “And how she downed her tea so quickly?”

  This time Cora frowned. “You’re not going to start seeing drugs everywhere? I know she used to smoke a bit of dope, but so what?”

  Beth shook her head. “She did a lot more than that, but I agree it was a few years back.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped for a moment. Cora hadn’t known about the hard drugs and this worried her.

  The young postman was standing very still. He had not delivered post to the building for a few days and the site of the charred walls and broken windows made his jaw drop.

  He recognised Cora and shook his head. “I’m sorry … what happened?”

  “Not sure yet.” Cora shrugged.

  He opened his trolley, picked up a wad of letters and a large heavy envelope.

  “I’ll take next door’s as well.”

  A gust of wind reminded her she had walked out of the flat in a light sweater. She pressed the post against her chest and walked back in quickly. Beth had already disappeared back to the warmth of the flat. Branning’s cigarette was only halfway through. “Anything interesting?”

  “Don’t know, haven’t looked yet.” She hurried up back into the warmth of her friend’s lounge.

  She sat back on the couch that faced the large window. Beth joined her with two steaming cups of tea. Cora started leafing through the mail. The predictable assortment of bills and junk mail ran through her fingers. She set aside the pile of correspondence that was addressed to her friends. She absentmindedly dropped the large envelope onto their pile, picked up her mug of tea and held it for a moment, warming her fingers. Charlie had disappeared into his home office. He was on a call to a contact about the latest story he was compiling for The Guardian. He liked being a freelance journalist; it
was hard work and the living sometimes precarious, but it meant he was also his own boss.

  Beth picked up the post in turn looking for something that might be addressed to her. She turned over the heavy packet to read the address and frowned. “This is addressed to Ollie.”

  They both froze. Ollie sometimes received magazines through the post and the occasional bill, but most of what he read, he read online. She had never seen him receive a packet of that size. Cora extended her fingers towards it.

  Beth stopped her. “What if it is dangerous?”

  “What do you mean? It’s too small to be a bomb.”

  “Something chemical perhaps … I’ve read that somewhere. Politicians in the US are sent letters with poison in them all the time.”

  Cora shook her head. “Not all the time … sometimes … and frankly, I’m almost sympathetic when it comes to certain politicians.” But she didn’t open the packet. Beth slid her eyes towards the kitchen. DS Branning had returned from his cigarette break and was reading a newspaper.

  “How about talking to him about it?” Beth whispered.

  Cora shook her head again. If she told him, she would never get to see the contents of the envelope, even if they were important to her. It was evidence …

  She tiptoed to the bedroom and returned with a pair of gloves. She sat down again and pulled the envelope towards her. The stamps were UK stamps and the date of postage was three weeks earlier. Ollie’s name and address were on the reverse of the packet but the original address was in Hong Kong, a name she had never heard before … Randy Zang. The parcel had not been delivered and was being returned to sender.

  She examined the flap of the envelope. It did not seem to have been tampered with.

  Cora took a small breath, held it and started to open the flap, trying not to tear it. It resisted to start with. She took her time to coax it open and finally managed. Beth’s face had followed the operation, forehead creased, one eye on the kitchen.

  Cora tilted the packet, her heart pounding. Perhaps an explanation about the horrendous events of the past 48 hours would be contained in the package.

  The top of a stack of printed papers appeared.