Red Wolves

by Adam Hamdy

  Eddie and Kirsty Fletcher, the husband and wife psychopaths who led the local chapter of the Red Wolves, were blinded by promises of riches and power, and had kept up their end of the bargain, bringing connections with the men who sat in the front of the police car. They too were motivated by greed, and it surprised Elroy how unimaginative people were, as if money was the only thing that mattered. They never saw the bigger truth that lay beyond the dollar bills.

  Ziad had given them the consignment details and one of Fletcher’s men had been posted to keep watch on Jefferson National Trucking, the transportation company that was ultimately owned and controlled by Rasul Salamov. Jefferson National ran three big rigs and employed five contract drivers, and when the spy had contacted Fletcher and told him the identity of the driver who’d be collecting the consignment, Elroy had been very pleased. The container would be collected by Jake Lowell, an ex-con with a substance abuse problem, a man who could quite plausibly have formed an alliance with the East Hill Mob – a rival outfit to the Salamovs.

  Elroy heard the low rumble of a large engine and saw the lights of a big rig flare as it turned right off Marginal Way. The eighteen-wheel truck rumbled slowly onto Horton Street, and drove beneath the highway overpass that dominated the western end of the road. They were less than a mile from the port, but it was late and Horton Street was devoid of traffic. Elroy could see the lights of vehicles on the Highway 99 overpass, but none of the drivers would see what was happening beneath it.

  ‘Go,’ Elroy said, and the police car shot forward.

  Another car parked on the other side of the road surged towards the truck, and Elroy saw the uniformed driver and his passenger pull down their ski masks to cover their faces. Elroy and the men in his car did likewise as the big rig came to a shuddering halt. The police cars blocked the vehicle’s way beneath the eastern edge of the overpass.

  The two men in the front of the car stepped out, and Elroy watched as one drew his weapon and covered his partner, who approached the truck.

  ‘Get out! Get out now!’ the man with the gun yelled.

  Elroy had wanted them to use police-issue pistols, but Fletcher had told him the dirty cops on their payroll preferred MP5s for their out of hours work. The MP5 was a nasty little gun favoured by people who like to make a lot of mess, but Elroy didn’t think the decision worth fighting.

  The gunman opened fire and a volley of bullets chewed the asphalt around the truck, the noise echoing beneath the overpass.

  ‘Get out!’ the man shouted again.

  The masked men from the other car were also out, and they both brandished their machine guns in the direction of the truck.

  Jake Lowell looked every bit the dishevelled oxy addict as he hauled himself out of the cab. He clambered down the steps and stumbled nervously as he reached the road.

  ‘Go,’ the shooter instructed, and his masked colleague pushed past Jake and climbed into the truck.

  The shooter glanced at Elroy, who nodded. No witnesses. The truth had to be kept a mystery. No one would miss Jake Lowell, not even his estranged teenage daughter.

  The shooter turned to face Jake, who was walking forward with his hands raised.

  ‘Take it. I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I’m just the driver, and I never saw your—’

  Jake was cut off by a volley of bullets hitting him in the abdomen. Elroy saw the familiar look of horror and disbelief common to most people when they realize death is upon them.

  Jake took a step forward and survived another heartbeat before his eyes went blank and he toppled over, dead.

  The shooter returned to the car, tossed his gun on the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel.

  The other car pulled a U-turn and headed east on Horton Street. Elroy’s driver followed, trailed by the large, lumbering truck which traced a crescent to avoid Jake’s body.

  Elroy felt a flash of satisfaction. They’d successfully concluded a critical part of their plan. His next move was to go to China to ensure they capitalized on the opportunity their success would create.

  Part Two

  Chapter 35

  She’d been known as Brigitte Attali for years, but the name still didn’t fit. Perhaps it was permeated with the hatred and anger of the groups she’d infiltrated as an agent of the DGSE; first the Crois-de-Feux, then Progress Britain. She was all too familiar with the snarling lips, fiery eyes and red faces of hate. As someone with albinism, she’d drawn animosity and derision for being different throughout her life, but the far-right extremists had welcomed her and embraced her condition as a visible sign of her racial purity. Perhaps it was their idiotic view of her genetics that had tainted the name; it would forever be associated with her acceptance by the peddlers of hate.

  ‘So what do you want to discuss, Chloe?’

  She hadn’t used her real name, Chloe Duval, for so long, and was surprised when Echo said it. They’d known each other in Paris, long before Brigitte Attali had been born.

  They were in a busy restaurant fifteen minutes’ walk from the bugged apartment. It was a place that took health seriously and Brigitte had been subjected to a rapid virus and temperature check before she’d been allowed inside. She was the only foreigner in the place, which was alive with the buzz of conversation, the clatter of dishes and shouts from the kitchen and waiting staff. It was wild and chaotic, but the food smelled delicious. All around them people dunked meats into their hotpots, cooking at their tables and filling the busy room with rich aromas.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ Brigitte asked, leaning across the empty table.

  ‘I told you,’ Echo replied. ‘We manufacture—’

  Brigitte cut her off. ‘My friend and I took a walk today. We went to explore the industrial district.’ She and Wollerton had decided the only way to conceal their intentions while they were under surveillance was to visit a number of factories, so that Qingdao Consumer Products would simply be one of many places they were interested in. They’d started the day by attempting to lose the two men who followed them from their apartment, but it became apparent they were the subjects of a much more comprehensive operation. They lost the first two tails, but became aware of a third, and when they’d shaken her, a fourth, fifth and sixth. Brigitte suspected aerial support, possibly satellite, or a tracker hidden in their clothing. She’d lost count of the number of people who’d brushed past her as they walked the busy streets of Qingdao. She and Wollerton had agreed they couldn’t proceed any further under the circumstances. Attempting to infiltrate the factory or question its employees would reveal their true intentions and put their mission at risk, so Brigitte had persuaded Wollerton to let her invite Echo out to dinner alone.

  ‘We were followed,’ Brigitte continued, ‘and we found some artefacts in the apartment.’

  Echo smiled wryly, and the mask of innocence fell away.

  ‘So I want to know who you’re working for.’

  ‘Why?’ Echo asked.

  ‘You want the truth? Or do you want to keep playing this bullshit game?’

  ‘As you prefer,’ Echo replied.

  ‘I’m tired,’ Brigitte said. ‘I’ve spent too long in the shadows, trying to outsmart people like you, pretending to be friends with scum . . .’

  Echo scoffed.

  ‘Other scum, not you,’ Brigitte remarked.

  ‘Thank you,’ Echo said sarcastically.

  ‘During my last operation,’ Brigitte hesitated, ‘I . . . I was going to murder an innocent man to get closer to my objective. This job . . . you know what it does to us.’

  Echo nodded sombrely.

  ‘And for all my service and sacrifice, what did I get? Ejected from Mortier for one perceived failing,’ Brigitte said, recalling her dismissal from the service’s HQ. ‘I want out. I’m finished with this life. I’ve had enough of powerful men sending me to face death. So if you’re working for your old employer, we don’t have a lot to talk about. But if you’re in the private sector and can access funds, we can continue.
’

  Brigitte leaned back as a waiter deposited their order on the table; a medley of roasted meats, rice and vegetables. It smelled delicious, but Brigitte had lost her appetite. Of all the questionable things she’d done in her life, this was one of the most difficult. She wasn’t just gambling her own life; she was risking someone else’s.

  ‘Continue,’ Echo said, once the waiter withdrew.

  ‘OK,’ Brigitte replied. ‘We’re here to investigate a factory.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Qingdao Consumer Products.’

  Echo’s eyes lit up with unmistakeable recognition. ‘Why?’

  ‘We found a chip in a device used in a prison escape. It was made there,’ Brigitte replied.

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just a drone, hired for a fee,’ Brigitte said. ‘The factory is yours?’

  ‘It belongs to people I know,’ Echo responded.

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘Do you really want this?’

  ‘I want out,’ Brigitte reiterated. There was truth in her words. Her life was wearing thin, and ever since she’d started working for Blaine Carter, she’d questioned where she was going. She’d joined the DGSE out of a sense of patriotism, but the light of honour had been extinguished by the dark things she’d seen and done, and now she didn’t have the memory of her intentions to cling to. She was a mercenary.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Echo asked. ‘These people . . .’ She tailed off.

  ‘What?’ Brigitte asked.

  ‘I have a husband and two children,’ Echo said hesitantly. Was she crying? ‘Certain decisions aren’t ours to make.’ Had she just admitted she was being blackmailed by her new employers? Were they using the lives of her family as leverage? Such things were commonplace in their world, which was why Brigitte had chosen to travel through life without any baggage.

  ‘I want money,’ Brigitte said. ‘Enough to retire on.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘I’ll give you the people I’m working for, starting with the man I’m with.’ Brigitte thought of Wollerton pacing the apartment, trusting her to do the right thing. She hadn’t told him what she had planned, because there was no way he would have sanctioned it.

  ‘How much?’ Echo asked.

  ‘Four million euros.’

  Echo glanced away, and Brigitte followed her eye line to see two men who looked like street thugs, seated at a table across the room. One of the men nodded.

  ‘We will pay that on the condition your companion is able to identify your ultimate employer,’ Echo said.

  Four million for Blaine Carter’s name? Brigitte wondered exactly what the Silicon Valley billionaire had drawn them into.

  ‘No,’ Brigitte said. ‘Half up front, sent to a Cayman bank.’

  Echo checked with the men, who were obviously her superiors. ‘OK.’

  Two million just for the prospect of learning Blaine Carter’s name. He can’t have been honest about who he really was and what he’d hired them to do. There had to be more to it. Was Blaine Carter working for someone else? Brigitte was glad she’d presented herself as an ignorant foot soldier. Ignorance was probably the only thing that stopped the two men trying to drag her off to be tortured in some dark place. That and her reputation. She had no doubt Echo would have fully briefed them on who they were up against.

  ‘When I’ve received confirmation the money has been transferred, I’ll drug him,’ Brigitte said, and her stomach twisted into a knot at the thought of dosing Wollerton. ‘Come at night. I’ll help you take him.’

  Chapter 36

  Pearce could see it in the way she lingered. Moments too long to reply, seconds spent drifting in thought before suddenly recalling what she was doing. In anyone else, these might have been early signs of a neurological disorder, but Pearce knew the cause of Leila’s distraction. She was wrestling with the thought of her sister being out there somewhere, and trying to come to terms with her guilt at not racing to pick up her tail. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d abandoned the assignment. Family was family after all, and unlike his own parents, Leila hadn’t given up on her kin. But she was a woman of principle and was also smart enough to know she stood a better chance of finding Hannan with Huxley Blaine Carter’s help.

  Pearce crossed the road opposite their building, carrying two cups of coffee – his with cream and sugar, hers unadulterated. They were in the heart of Seattle in a thriving neighbourhood full of shops, restaurants, hotels and office blocks. People thronged the streets, particularly around the pedestrianized zones that offered a view of the bay, but in a mark of how much life had changed since the pandemic, they generally took great care to keep a safe distance from each other. Pearce picked his way through one such widely dispersed crowd and entered the building. The security guard and receptionist accepted his presence without question. One of Blaine Carter’s people must have briefed them about the new tenants on the fifteenth floor. He rode the private elevator and stepped into the vast open-plan space to find Leila where he’d left her; hunched over a computer at the desk she’d claimed as her own. The other desk was covered in gear from the flight cases Robert Clifton had provided.

  ‘White, six sugars,’ Pearce said, putting the coffee down beside Leila.

  She smiled. ‘You know what would happen if you gave me something so disgusting? It’s better you never find out,’ she said. ‘Have you seen the news?’

  She turned her laptop so Pearce could see the screen, which displayed a Seattle Star article. The headline read, ‘Man Shot Dead at Seattle Port’.

  ‘A trucker was murdered last night,’ Leila said. ‘His vehicle was stolen.’

  ‘Our targets involved?’ Pearce asked.

  Leila shook her head. ‘Neither of them left the house.’

  She switched to another window which broadcast live footage from the buttonhole camera Pearce had installed on Kenyon Street.

  ‘I reviewed last night’s footage,’ she said. ‘Couple of passing cars, a resident walking a dog. Couple of passing drunks staggering along the street. Nobody went in or came out of the target house.’

  ‘You get anything on Malek?’ Pearce asked.

  Leila nodded. ‘Only child of Hosni and Falak Malek, residents of Cleveland, Ohio. Pulled in on a few misdemeanours as a teenager, but no record since then. He’s one of the smart ones. Too cunning to get caught.’

  ‘Except in Egypt,’ Pearce remarked.

  Leila handed Pearce a sheaf of papers; port personnel records, school transcripts, official state and federal documents – everything she’d found on Ziad Malek. It was pretty standard stuff, and didn’t mark him out as a dangerous international criminal.

  ‘And Angsakul?’ he asked.

  ‘Wala haga,’ Leila replied. Nothing. ‘I can tell you he exists, because I’ve seen him, but as far as a digital footprint goes, he’s a ghost.’

  Pearce thought for a moment. ‘Ziad needs his identity for his job at the port. His employment creates records—’

  ‘Yeah,’ Leila cut in. ‘He had the same job before he was arrested in Egypt.’

  ‘So they broke him out to get his old job back,’ Pearce observed. ‘A false ID would have been pointless, so they couldn’t entirely wipe his digital presence like they have with Angsakul.’

  ‘Right,’ Leila agreed. ‘Just remove any photos to prevent people like us running a recognition programme that would link Ziad Malek, the port employee, to Ibrahim Mahmood, the prisoner who escaped from Al Aqarab.’

  ‘If we find out why they wanted . . .’ Pearce fell silent as he registered movement on screen. Ziad Malek left the house and walked to the old Buick.

  ‘He’s on the move,’ Pearce observed.

  ‘Can’t be work. I pulled the rota and he’s on the late shift today,’ Leila said.

  ‘They might have called him in because of the killing.’

  They watched Ziad drive out of shot.

  ‘I’m going to follow him,’ Pearce said,
‘find out where he’s going.’

  His attention was drawn back to the screen when a Ducati Scrambler stopped in front of the house. Narong Angsakul emerged in jeans and a leather jacket, helmet in hand. He mounted the bike, put his helmet on and tapped the unidentified rider’s lid to signal he was ready. The motorcyclist kicked into gear and the bike left frame.

  ‘I’m going over there first,’ Pearce said. ‘We need to bug the house.’

  Leila looked at him with disdain. ‘Let me know when you’ll be back. I’ll have your pipe and slippers waiting and a nice home cooked meal, ya ghabi,’ she said, calling him an idiot. ‘Malek could have met twenty people in the time it takes you to rig that house properly. I’ll do it. You stay with Malek.’

  Pearce smiled. ‘And if I argue?’

  ‘It’ll be worse than if you’d brought me a coffee with milk and six sugars,’ she replied with a sardonic smile. ‘I’ll be fine, Scott. I know how to take care of myself. Get out of here,’ she commanded.

  Pearce nodded, grabbed his gear, and hurried to intercept his target.

  Chapter 37

  This was the dangerous part. Ziad had been summoned and knew what he’d face. He parked outside the community centre and tried to still his thundering heart as he crossed the lot and went inside the Haqeeq Bookstore. A soft tone sounded and the manager peered out from behind a rack of shelves and nodded a sombre greeting. He tested Ziad for coronavirus, and when he saw the negative result gestured towards the back of the shop. As he walked on, Ziad took a moment to calm himself. If Deni Salamov saw him like this, he’d assume guilt, and Ziad had no intention of giving up the game so easily. He’d endured the pain of Al Aqarab, the misery of betrayal, and the loss of Essi, and the thought of all he’d suffered stirred his anger. He pictured Essi in the arms of her new lover, and imagined Deni and Rasul laughing at how easily they’d framed Ziad. The fury burned away any nervousness, and when he turned and crossed the shop, he was calm, like the eye of a storm. Deni, Rasul and the old man Abbas Idrisov, the Abacus, were seated in the small reading area at the back of the shop, and with them were Osman, Ilman and Surkho, three of Deni’s most fearsome enforcers. They were big, brutish men who relished any opportunity for violence. They stood in the corner and watched Ziad with hungry eyes. If there was ugly business to be done today, they were eager to get to it.