Jago pointed his pistol at the man and looked at Rafa.
“What have you got to tell me?”
“I’m telling you no—”
Rafa was cut short by the popping of a suppressed firearm, and his right-hand man reeled backwards off the chair. Rafa went to get up.
“Stay!” commanded Jago. “It’s only a shoulder wound. He’ll live … for the moment.”
Rafa looked at his grimacing friend rolling around on the floor in agony. He stilled himself, thinking of a way out.
“I know what you’re thinking, Rafa, but you have little choice. Now tell me what I want to know, and I’ll get going. It’s that simple.”
Rafa remained silent, and Jago calmly shot his friend in the lower leg. Blood splattered against the wall as he screamed in pain.
“Okay, okay. I bought some …”
Jago pointed the pistol at his friend’s other leg.
“You were saying?”
“I bought four M72s and a couple of cheap Berettas, that’s all.”
“Are you sure, Rafa? I mean, your friend here will be limping for a while now, but if I shoot the other leg, he’ll be out of the game for quite some time. Do you want to tell me anything else?”
Rafa looked at his friend and then looked down at the table.
As Jago dialled his mobile, he spoke to Rafa. “Let me help you out.”
Abi answered, “Yes, Boss?”
“Listen, I want you to send two ambulances to this location in ten minutes. Tell them to expect two males with gunshot wounds.”
“Will do.”
“Now Rafa, it’s now or never. Your choice.”
“Okay, who are you?”
“Never mind, stop stalling and tell me what I need to know.”
“Okay, okay, I bought six claymores from some guy.”
“What did you want six for? Starting a war, are we? Or were they destined for someone else?”
“They were for some guy. I don’t know his name, I never saw him. He just called me.”
“Tell me about the guy you got them from? Where’s his place?”
“I don’t know. He literally appeared here one night, wearing all black and a balaclava. Told me that he had six claymores for sale. As it happened, I had a customer waiting. He said that he needed to offload them within a week. When he called to deliver them, he told me that he didn’t want paying in cash. He needed a favour.”
“Interesting, and what would that favour have been?”
“He wanted me to arrange an accident for someone. I told him that I couldn’t, but I knew someone who might be able to help him. It was in Spain, you see. I can’t go back there, I have issues. You understand?”
“Yes, Rafa, I understand. Now, who would this person be? And who was in need of an accident?”
“I can’t—”
Two shots rang out from the silenced pistol and the rounds slammed into the thigh of the man on the floor.
Rafa spoke rapidly. “Diego. Diego Castella. He’s in Valencia. His numbers on my phone. Take it.”
“Oh, I will, I’ll take the phone. But you didn’t tell me who was going to have the accident, or when it was?”
“Some Russian guy. It was a money issue, a debt I guess. I don’t know, really, I don’t. It was sometime around last Easter, March time I think.”
“You did good, Rafa. Is there anything else that you want to tell me while I’m here?”
“What are you going to do with us?”
“Well, that depends on you and what you do. Firstly, an ambulance will come and collect your friend here. The local police will likely get involved, and you can claim it was a gang thing. If I let you loose, I might need to contact you again, but I don’t want this hassle. If you don’t help me, you will stop operating, because you will cease to exist. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I understand.”
Jago backed out of the door and descended the stairs. He saw in his MPD lens that Rafa had picked up a pistol and was heading his way to the top of the stairs. Jago turned, paused, took aim and, as Rafa emerged, gun in hand, Jago shot him twice. The crumpled body rolled halfway down the stairs. Jago could hear the ambulance sirens approaching. Leaving the area the same way he’d entered, he sent his latest intel and instructions to Abi.
Start of Message
Task Rob to meet José Luis Rodriguez of the Guardia Civil in the Comandancia de la Guardia Civil de Valencia, the address is: Carrer de Calamocha, 4, 46007 Valencia. Tell him to mention my name and the word ‘Tomatina’. He’ll know what that means and help you. Rob’s after a guy called Diego Castella, of Valencia. You can trace his mobile, which is 645329162 and send Rob the details. He was approached to arrange an accident of a Russian around last Easter. See what they can find. They have little time.
End of Message
After donning his helmet, he synced his mobile with his headgear and started up his bike before riding into the night.
***
Jago called Dom using the helmet microphone, and he answered almost immediately.
“Dom, are you secure?”
“Switching now, Boss. Okay, secure. What’s happening?”
“Are you free at the moment?”
“Yeah, I’m heading out to The Ranch, why?”
“I won’t get in all of my visits. Can you take number three, Temple? Abi will fill you in. I’m en route to number two before it gets any later.”
“Sure, no problem. Is there anything that I should know?”
“No, not really. You know that number three’s recent shopping spree comprised of twenty MP5Ks, don’t you?”
“Oh, so that’s number three, is it? Thanks a bunch, Boss.”
“No problem, Dom, he’s all yours. You ought to know that I may have a lead regarding our Spanish incident. Abi is contacting Rob.”
“Okay, speak later, Boss.”
***
Jago arrived in Floral Street, adjacent to the opera house. He took out some shiny black shoes from the pannier and ducked into the dim lights of Hanover Place. He quickly took off his bike kit, put it into a bag and clipped a dickie bow on his shirt. He replaced his boots for the shoes and placed the kit in the bike’s pannier. Impeccably dressed, he headed for the opera house entrance. Turning the corner, he brushed past a passer-by who skilfully slipped a ticket into his pocket.
Jago entered the foyer and noticed a tall man with short, brown hair in a grey suit. He was wearing a black shirt, a black tie and a bulge on his right side. The man was loitering in the lobby; he wore no earpiece, plus there was no sign or sound of a radio link. Jago made a mental note that he was a left-hander and displayed no evidence of overt comms.
Jago handed the usher his ticket. “I’m afraid I’m frightfully late, will they let me in?”
“Of course they will. The staff will open the door for the next scenery change. It should be in about ten to twelve minutes. Oh, I see that you’re in a box. Are you sharing?”
“No. I’m not sharing. I do apologise, perhaps I should have said. Is it a problem?”
“No, Sir, not at all. Why don’t you go on up and by the time you get there it will be time to go in. Do you need directions?”
“No, no, thank you. I know where to go. Thank you for your help.”
Jago started to walk and then stopped and turned to the young woman.
“I’m sorry, but would you care to come here for one moment, I’ve just forgotten which staircase to use.”
“Certainly, Sir. I’ll be right over.”
When she arrived beside him, he whispered to her.
“Please keep calm and listen to what I have to say.”
She looked at him blankly.
“There is a man over there in a grey suit, black shirt and tie. Do you know what he’s doing there?”
“We thought that he was waiting for someone. Why?”
“Well, he could be waiting for someone, but I don’t know what his intention is. You see, he has a gun in a holste
r under his right arm.”
“How would you know that?”
“Oh, I’m a tailor, and I used to do all of the suits for Scotland Yard detectives and the Royal Protection teams. They have a special cut, you know. And his most certainly does not. I take it you have a protocol for this type of thing, do you?”
“Err, yes, we normally evacuate the building if there’s a threat.”
“Perhaps I may suggest a discreet call to the police and ask for their advice. They’ll ask if you have seen the gun. Just tell them that a member of the public saw it. I don’t want to miss any more of the opera, you understand?”
“Yes, of course, Sir. We couldn’t have that, could we? I’ll make the call. Can I send them up to you, if need be?”
“Yes, no problem. You know where I’ll be, don’t you? I think that it’s Box 70.” He glanced at his ticket. “Yes, that’s it, Box 70.”
Jago made his way to the entrance to Box 70. There was another grey- suited man, smaller than the one in the lobby but slightly wider. He looked at Jago with suspicion.
Jago approached him. “I wonder if you could help me. You see, I haven’t got my glasses with me. They’re in my wife’s handbag, and she’s in the ladies. Would you check my ticket and make sure that I’m going into the right box, please? I wouldn’t want to upset anyone.”
The man in grey paused to think about it for a moment. “Sure, I can do that. Let’s have a look.” He checked the ticket. “You’re on the right track. I’m outside Box 71. Assuming they’re in order, the next one on the right is yours. You know that you have to wait for a break before you can enter, don’t you?”
“Why yes, that’s what they told me downstairs. Thank you for your help.”
“No problem, enjoy the show.”
Jago waited for a moment, and then the light came on, indicating it was time to enter. Jago made out that he didn’t see it.
The grey-suited man tried to attract his attention in a low voice. “Hey, you can go in now.”
Jago was facing away and didn’t respond, and the man drew closer and tapped him on the shoulder. “I said, you can go in now.”
Jago looked startled, and the man pointed to the lamp.
“I’m sorry, I’m a little hard of hearing these days,” said Jago in a vulnerable voice.
The man opened the door to Box 70 and gestured the way for Jago.
“Why, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
As the man was closing the door to leave, the music had restarted. Jago beckoned him to come close and pretended to get out a business card. The man drew close and Jago leapt at him, thrusting his hand into his throat and smashing him on the side of his head with his own pistol that Jago had just relieved him of. He was out cold. Jago removed the magazine from the gun and stuffed both separately behind the curtain, either side of the box. He closed the door quietly and headed towards Box 71. He waited for a crescendo in the music and didn’t have to wait long. He slipped into the box, and the only occupant of two seats continued to face forwards, glued to the stage. Jago boldly sat in the empty chair. Sir Arthur Green didn’t move a muscle. He wasn’t at all perturbed.
They sat in silence until the next lull, at which point Green turned to face Jago.
“You’re not the police. Maybe MI5 but I doubt that seeing as you’ve got past two of my men to get here and you’re not bothered about your fingerprints. The likelihood is that you don’t exist.”
“Outstanding, Sir Arthur. I’m impressed. I’m here because I need some information.”
“I thought as much.” Sir Arthur gestured towards the door. “Shall we walk a while? It was awfully boring, anyway.”
They left the box and walked down the passageway in silence towards the central stairway. They headed for the Paul Hamlyn Hall Champagne Bar which was virtually empty. The bar staff were busy preparing for the interval.
“Can I get you a drink?” Green asked Jago.
“I’ll have a small Shiraz.”
Green ordered the Shiraz, and a G and T for himself, and the barman said that he would bring them over.
“Let’s sit over here, it’s a little more private,” said Green, extending an arm outward towards the far side of the room.
The seat was tucked slightly under the stairway of the South Balcony and next to one of the vast pillars that supported the glass arched roof. Jago sat where he could best observe the entrance to the bar.
He watched as Green stared intently at the bar area.
“You know, they’ve refurbished this place brilliantly. I love the quilted effect of the bar and how it contrasts with the wooden flooring, don’t you?”
Jago looked over at the bar. “I hadn’t noticed. Well, I just didn’t pay attention to it. But now you mention it, yes, it does work well together. I must remember that for my flat. Mind you, my flat is a considerably smaller space.”
“May I ask the reason for this unexpected visit? Oh, and before you answer that … are my staff well?”
“I can only speak for one of them, and he’ll be fine and in need of a paracetamol or two, nothing more. His pride will probably hurt more than his head.”
“I see. Is that what’s in store for me?”
“I shouldn’t have thought so, not with your intelligence. I only want to know a little about one of your recent purchases, nothing more than that. I want to know why you purchased three kilos of Semtex and a dozen detonators?”
“My, my, you are well informed. I’m not sure that I should divulge my clients to complete strangers, but in this instance, I’ll gladly tell you. You see, I ordered the goods for a long-standing client of mine who appears to be a little off the rails at the moment. And they haven’t paid me yet. You must understand that it was a mere business transaction, nothing more.”
“So, who is this derailed individual, and why did he want the goods?”
“Oh, my dear chap, it’s not a he. It’s a she, and she’s rather well connected, if you know what I mean.”
“Okay, so who might that be then?”
“Her name’s Irene Grimshaw.”
“Grimshaw. Why do I know that name?” Jago paused. “Oh, I know. Don’t the Grimshaws run a shipping company?”
“Amongst many other things, yes they do. And Irene has a few, shall we say, sidelines. And let us not forget good old Lord Grimshaw. He’s a formidable chap. I take it that you are aware of his reputation?”
“Err, not really, no. Should I be?”
“My dear chap, you have some homework to do.”
Jago’s eye caught the entrance of Sir Arthur’s man from the box. And apart from looking displeased and nursing the side of his head, he was searching, scanning the area for either Jago or Sir Arthur, or both. His eyes met Jago’s, and Sir Arthur felt the tension rise.
“Oh dear, I do hope that nothing unpleasant is going to happen.”
“That’s rather up to you, Sir Arthur. He’s your man. Can you control him, or are you happy for us to wreck the place?”
Sir Arthur stood and beckoned his man to come over. The man walked over and placed one arm under his other, as if he were about to draw his pistol. Jago was already prepared as Sir Arthur walked towards the man, meeting him halfway across the floor. He appeared to speak with the man calmly, and the man was flailing his arms around as he remonstrated with his employer. It seemed that Sir Arthur wanted his man to leave and walked with him back towards the entrance. Jago took the opportunity to slip away through the dimly- lit passageway, through the kitchen and out the back, past some employees who were out on their smoke break.
He called Abi.
“Abi, I want to know everything there is to know about an Irene Grimshaw. Part of the Grimshaw Empire. It seems that she has an unhealthy sideline that we need to know more about.”
“Okay, I’ve got that, Boss. I’ve had no news yet from Dom. And Rob hasn’t arrived in Spain yet to meet with this José Luis Rodriguez of the Guardia Civil in Valencia.”
“Right, it’s 22
00 hours, and I’m going for some food, I’m starving. I’m available if you need me. Let me know when Rob does get there.”
“Righty-o, Boss. What are you eating? Italian?”
“Not sure yet. Mind you, there’s a nice French place nearby that serves some great food and a decent red.”
“Enjoy, Boss, and think of us slaving away here with our cups of soup.”
***
“Boss, have you finished your meal?”
“Why, Abi?”
“It’s just that I need to tell you that Rob can’t make the trip to Spain. There’s been an incident at the airport, and he’s helping the authorities with a known player. Do you want me to task Dom?”
Jago thought for a moment.
“No, book me on the next flight. What time does it take off?”
“Wait one second, Boss, I’ll check. The next flight to Valencia from Gatwick is at 07:40 arriving at 11:00.”
“You want to be careful, old Hot Brain there could do you out of a job. Book me on it, and I’ll be back soon to get some shut-eye and pack.”
Chapter 12 – The Temple
Dom arrived at the address Abi had given him for Brian Temple. The target property was a large detached house set in a couple of acres of land on the edge of Richmond Common. It had a number of outbuildings, possibly stables or accommodation for the security staff. The house and buildings surrounded a central gravel courtyard. There was a manned gatehouse at the entrance and a locked side door in an adjacent wall. There were no neighbours for miles. Dom passed the property and discovered that circling the house wasn’t possible unless he was on foot, as rear access was through a substantial amount of woodland and over a couple of fields. Dom assessed the rear approach and found it to be monitored by infrared sensors and security lights. Dom couldn’t see the other side of the door so he launched a couple of MPDs to establish a better view while the light lasted. He watched the picture on the lens in his right eye. The door was situated in the west corner of the courtyard, hidden from view of the gatehouse, and nobody seemed to be patrolling in that area. He considered scaling the wall, but it was overgrown and coated with damp lichen, making it difficult to assail. He chose to pick the lock instead, knowing that a camera was positioned in the corner brickwork above the door. Once inside, he took the chance that no one would be monitoring a screen from a comfy console inside the house twenty-four seven. Dom saw that the camera was basically a home-installed kit, nothing sophisticated, and took out his laser pen. Holding it steady in his hands, he pointed it at the camera lens and stepped back a couple of feet. His intention was to overload the light-sensing components and render it useless. Once satisfied, he stepped into the shadows against the wall and slowly advanced towards the main house. He watched the interior lights through the draped curtains of the large patio doors. He stopped and looked over to the gatehouse where its occupant was busying himself on his mobile phone. Whatever he was doing required a lot of concentration. Dom took full advantage and proceeded with caution. He had no way of knowing how many people were inside the property. Ahead of him, but past the patio doors, was another entrance. It looked like an entrance to a passageway alongside the house. Rather than go in blind, he threw up an MPD and set it to night vision mode. He crouched down and, with his mobile phone control, guided the MPD to both the entrance and the rear. The passage was clear so he guided it down at height. Twenty metres to the left was a door that had been left ajar. Farther still was an opening to a well-lit open space. Turning left revealed another patio door and this one was half open. Dom had two possible access points and nonchalantly strolled past the doors in the hope that any occupants would think he was a member of staff. He left the MPDs: one perched high on a rafter, the other on the guttering, just in case. After a few metres more, no alarm had sounded and the gatehouse guard was still glued to his phone screen. Dom slipped into the passageway and rapidly covered the five metres to the first door. He could just make out Pachelbel’s Canon playing in the background. He heard footsteps on the hardwood flooring. Someone was coming. They stopped, and Dom slipped inside, moving off to the right into a laundry room. The music got louder as a door opened. Footsteps could be heard once again, closer, and then closer still. Dom hid in the room. The footsteps stopped — the main door that he had just used for entry was closed shut — then followed the audible turning of a key. The sound of footfall disappeared into the distance, accompanied by the closing of a door and the lowering of the music once more.
Shades of Loyalty Page 10