by Dan Latus
SAVING
HARRY
A gripping crime thriller you won’t want to put down
DAN LATUS
Frank Doy Book 6
Revised edition 2020
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2019
© Dan Latus 2019, 2020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Dan Latus to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN 978-1-78931-552-3
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
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Chapter One
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Risky Point, Cleveland coast, UK. Early September 2018.
You always wonder what it will be this time. As I watched my visitor ease himself out of the Volvo saloon and slip on his jacket, I guessed he was going to tell me about the worrying losses of expensive equipment and materials from his hi-tech unit on an upmarket industrial estate, probably located in green pastures somewhere south of Durham, perhaps between Stockton and Darlington.
He had that sleek look about him. Silver-haired but not elderly, a well-fitting pale grey suit, highly polished, expensive-looking brown leather shoes, and a chiselled, handsome face that had recently been somewhere exotic, judging by the tan. Something to do with IT, I guessed. Or pharmaceuticals perhaps. Modern industry, anyway.
I was wrong about most of that, of course. I usually am. Just ask Jimmy Mack, my neighbour. He’ll confirm it.
‘Mr Doy?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘We spoke on the phone a little while ago.’
I strode forward to meet him. We shook hands in a business-like way, without him offering me his name. Then he stepped back and looked around with apparent interest.
‘Wonderful spot,’ he said.
‘It suits me,’ I admitted.
Risky Point, my cliff-top location a few miles north of Whitby, wouldn’t suit everyone, but even the ever-growing danger from coastal erosion hadn’t persuaded me to think of abandoning it.
‘Let’s go inside,’ I suggested. ‘We can talk over a cup of coffee, if that would be all right with you?’
‘Perfect. Thank you. I would appreciate that.’
So far, he had given nothing away. He hadn’t on the phone either, an hour or two earlier. All he had said then was that he would like to meet to discuss an urgent matter in which he thought I might take an interest. A precise use of language. My curiosity aroused, I had invited him to pay me a visit.
* * *
‘Come far?’ I asked, ushering him to a chair at the big kitchen table I use for all purposes, including as my office desk.
‘London.’
That wrong-footed me. It was an answer I hadn’t anticipated.
‘And I came specifically to see you, Mr Doy.’
Another surprise, although I made an effort not to show it as I produced a couple of mugs of instant coffee and sat down to join him.
‘Let’s not do the small talk, Mr Doy, if you don’t mind. Time is pressing for me, I’m afraid. And no doubt for you too.’
I shrugged and smiled. ‘Over to you, in that case.’
‘My name is Henderson, Giles Henderson. For the moment, you will have to accept that I am limited in what I can tell you until, or unless, we can reach agreement. The reason is that I work for one of the national intelligence services and what I want to discuss is a sensitive matter that cannot be disclosed in the public arena.’
He paused and looked directly at me. I was intrigued. It was an unusual approach, but I was ready to hear him out.
‘I’m all ears,’ I said.
He nodded with apparent satisfaction and resumed.
‘Part of my role is to safeguard people who have been useful to Her Majesty’s Government and who now find themselves in need of protection, protection that Her Majesty is committed to providing.’
‘Sugar?’ I murmured, pushing a bowl of sugar cubes in his direction.
He shook his head, declining the distraction and seemingly not prepared to allow me the luxury of thinking time.
‘I assume you’ve come to the right place?’ I said then. ‘It isn’t some other Frank Doy you had in mind?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re the one,’ he said, firmly. ‘Bear with me a little longer, if you will.’
He took a sip of coffee, seemed to try hard not to gr
imace and resumed.
‘Many years ago, you knew a man — knew him well, apparently — who is now in that position of needing protection. In fact, he is in grave danger. It is my responsibility to safeguard him and I came here in the hope that you would agree to help.’
It didn’t sound like much of a business opportunity for me. That was my first thought.
My second thought, of course, was to wonder who the hell we were talking about.
‘Who is it?’
‘You knew him as Harry Stone.’
Another surprise. This one the biggest I’d had so far. Henderson was talking about someone I hadn’t heard of for many years.
‘It’s been a long time since I last heard of Harry,’ I said, with a wry smile. ‘What’s he been up to?’
‘You would probably be surprised,’ Henderson said with a token smile in return. ‘On the other hand, perhaps not. I gather his schooldays were rather . . . heroic?’
I nodded. You certainly could say that. Heroic fit the bill nicely. Trouble sought and encountered, any day of the week. And it was from school, and a few short years afterwards, that I recalled Harry Stone. After that he had disappeared from my life, the way so many people do as you grow older, mostly never to be heard of again.
‘You’re right,’ I told Henderson. ‘It was a long time ago when I knew Harry Stone. We were just kids. Whatever makes you think I can help now?’
‘It’s very simple,’ Henderson said, crisply. ‘He’s asked for you. He says he will accept help from no one else.’
I just stared.
‘What I would add,’ Henderson said, ‘is that if you don’t agree to help, then I’m afraid Harry won’t be with us much longer. He’ll be dead.’
Chapter Two
Starý Smokovec, Slovakia. May 2018.
It was a bloodbath. He stared around the room in horror. For a moment he was too stunned to register any other thought or feeling. Then he came to his senses and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Four bodies. He didn’t touch any of them. He didn’t need to. They were all very dead. One with an exploded head. Another with half a face missing. The other two were reasonably intact, apart from the blood and guts that had spewed out of them and spread across most of the floor.
It looked as if they had been hit with a hail of bullets from a submachine gun, a silenced weapon that nobody outside the room would have heard. Perhaps more than one gun. In a matter of seconds, it had been over, with no hiding place and no way of escape from the hundreds of rounds that had been expended. No chance to respond either. The occupants — who, he knew, should have included him — had been taken by surprise. They had obviously had no warning whatsoever. That told you something, but he didn’t want to dwell on it right now.
How long ago? Judging by the smell, not long at all. An hour, perhaps. This was a fresh-kill scene. The smell of warm blood was overpowering.
He grimaced and turned to leave the room. He didn’t need to look further. There was nothing for him here. Only danger. He had to get out, and fast. The killers were probably still around and still looking for him.
He walked quickly down the emergency stairs at the end of the corridor and cautiously opened the door that led out into the delivery area at the back of the building. There were two vans parked and several little old, well-used cars. But his eyes locked automatically on the big, shiny, black BMW parked at the entrance. Even though it had darkened windows, he could tell it was occupied. And the way two doors were suddenly flung open indicated that the occupants had seen him as soon as he had spotted them.
Heart pounding, he slammed the emergency door shut again and slid the security bar into place. It gave him a small advantage — unless they just shot the door off its hinges.
He swung round. What now? he thought desperately. Where to go?
The front entrance to the hotel would be under surveillance, probably guarded. No good going that way. Where then? Where else could he go?
Just move! he urged himself. Anywhere, anything, would be better than standing here waiting for them.
He raced down another flight of steps on the emergency staircase, down into the dark, concrete bowels of the building. There were locked wire cages, storage places, on both sides of a central passage. He ran hard along it, eyes searching desperately for another way out of the building.
Old, broken and disused furniture filled much of the basement. Chairs and tables and worn-out sofas and mattresses in the main. All gathering dust as they lay in heaps, discarded and by now mostly forgotten. A few of the cages had tiny windows that allowed some light to penetrate the Stygian gloom, but they were barred to stop intruders. None of the windows offered an easy way out, even if he could reach one quickly enough.
A door slammed somewhere behind him, and he heard the sound of feet clattering in pursuit. God, they were close! Only seconds behind.
At the far end of the passage a heavy steel door loomed. He sped towards it with growing desperation, praying it wasn’t locked.
It wasn’t.
He gritted his teeth and hauled the heavy, steel door open, to find himself in the hotel boiler room. Vast metal cylinders, some clad in fabric jackets. Huge stainless-steel sinks. A furnace blasting away. Big, pounding hot water pipes overhead. The almost overpowering smell of heat.
He grabbed a long iron bar and turned to jam it through the handles on the door. The bar was longer than the doorway was wide, making it an effective lock.
Then he sagged, leaning back against the wall, panting heavily and trying to catch his breath. There was a clamour on the other side of the door as an attempt was made to force it open. They’d be lucky! But he mustn’t stay here a moment longer.
His eyes focused on another door, on the far side of the boiler room. It was wedged partially open. Sunlight streamed through the gap. He launched himself towards it.
The doorway gave access to a small, enclosed yard containing a big oil tank and not much else. He made his way quickly across the yard then out through a gateway, over its access road and onto a rough footpath that led into the woodland beyond.
He broke into a run. Only when he reached the cover of the first trees at the edge of the forest did he stop to turn and look back. He doubled over for a moment, gasping for breath yet without taking his eyes off the entrance to the yard.
Nothing. No one coming. Not yet. He straightened up, turned and began jogging along the path, eager to put some distance between himself and the carnage he had left behind.
It was too soon to try to interpret what had happened. Getting away from here was all that mattered. It was going to require all his strength, energy and focus. And luck. Shocked and overwrought as he was, he knew that much. There would be time later — if he survived — for analysis. All he knew right now was that the roof had fallen in, and he had to get out.
He slowed to a walking pace as he spotted a young couple in the distance, coming towards him on the footpath. Close up, they smiled and greeted him warmly in German. On holiday, obviously. Enjoying themselves. Beautiful place. No idea what had just happened back at the hotel.
He did his best to smile back at them and had to hope he hadn’t given them a grotesque grin instead. The last thing he wanted was for them to recall him later as a man who had been in an agitated and distressed state. The effort needed almost cracked his face open.
Chapter Three
It was an attractive small town, Starý Smokovec. Just an alpine village really, set in the Vysoké Tatry, the High Tatras. The buildings, widely spaced and often shrouded by shrubs and trees, clung to the lower slopes of majestic mountains that called out urgently to skiers in winter and climbers in summer. Not now, though. Spring was always quiet. Many of the mountain paths didn’t open until mid-June, and the holiday crowds didn’t arrive until the schools closed at the end of that month.
It should have been a good time and place to meet. Central Europe, not too far to travel for anyone. Tranquil. Safe, even. How wr
ong they were.
At least he’d got it right. He had taken good care to find his own accommodation, guided by a well-honed instinct for self-preservation. A room had been booked in the hotel for him, along with the others attending the meeting, but he had had no intention of actually staying there. He’d been in the game too long for that. Years in the field, living on his wits, meant he knew only too well how little you could rely on others, or on plans working out.
Still, he hadn’t reckoned on things being this bad.
He approached the pension where he was staying with extreme caution, eyes searching for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. Even so, he almost missed it. A light flashing in his room. It was only momentary, but it brought him to a halt. To camouflage his reaction, he brought his arm up as if peering at his wristwatch. Then he resumed walking along the footpath, strolling like a man at leisure, one hand in his trouser pocket, not a care in the world, while he processed what he had just seen.
It hadn’t been the overhead light. He was sure of that. More like a flashlight probing some dark corner or cupboard. Or, even more likely, a glimpse of light from the corridor when the door to the room was opened. One or the other. Which was it?
And what did it mean? Something or nothing? Had they discovered his base and come to lie in wait, so as to finish the job, or had it been a cleaner innocently going about her business? It was a bit late in the day for that. The maid was usually around in the morning. But on a busy day, with guests leaving and others arriving, he supposed the work could stretch into the afternoon.
Was that what had happened? Or was it the other explanation? The killers knew who he was and where he was staying, and were waiting for him? He grimaced. He couldn’t afford to chance going back. His room, and everything in it, would have to be abandoned. The risk entailed by collecting his stuff was too great. If they did know about him, and where he was staying, he had to assume they would also know about his car. That was something else he would have to abandon.