by Adrian Wills
Okeke hesitated, then shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening, opened his jacket, pulled out a Glock 17 with the tips of his fingers and offered it to Fletcher.
‘Where is he?’
Okeke nodded at a door at the far end of the hall.
‘Show us in.’
Behind the door was a snug but comfortable study with a desk in the window, shelves groaning with books and an open fire next to a matching pair of sofas in expensive-looking fabric. Henry Bowater glanced up from behind the desk, his pen in mid-air. ‘What the hell?’ he said, clocking Fletcher’s gun.
Bowater put his pen down and pushed his chair back as Fletcher waved Okeke to one of the sofas by the fire.
‘No need to stand,’ said Blake, aiming his Browning at the politician’s head. ‘Is there anyone else in the house? Your wife? Your daughter?’
Bowater shook his head. ‘We’re alone. My daughter’s out,’ he said, then added, ‘Ryan, I’m disappointed in you.’
‘Shut up,’ Fletcher snapped.
‘Of all of them, I never thought you’d be the one to betray me.’
‘Shows how little you know about me then, doesn’t it?’ Fletcher spat out the words with a venomous hatred.
Blake placed his phone on top of a pile of paperwork on Bowater’s desk. ‘We don’t have much time, Home Secretary,’ he said. ‘I’m here to take your confession.’
‘Confession?’ he laughed. ‘Are you insane?’
‘I know what happened to Kyle Hopkins, and I know what happened in Iraq. But I want to hear it from you, in detail, in your own words. Think of it as counselling.’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Enough,’ Fletcher shouted, rushing across the room. ‘He knows what you made me do, what you made us all do.’
Bowater’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that right, Lieutenant?’
‘Just tell him!’
Bowater sat back in his chair and looked Blake up and down. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You’re the guy who brought my daughter home.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So you know who I am.’
‘Of course.’
‘In which case you’ll know the seriousness of the offence you’ve already committed by breaking in here and threatening me.’
‘I don’t see it that way.’
‘Oh, really? How do you see it?’
‘I’m here to bring you to justice.’
‘Justice?’ he laughed. ‘You’re hardly in a position to lecture me on justice. You’ve spent your whole life living above the law.’
‘This isn’t about me,’ said Blake.
‘I know about Echo 17 and all those grubby illegal overseas operations. Why don’t you tell us about the death squads you commanded?’
Shit. This wasn’t going the way Blake had planned, but he wasn’t going to be derailed. ‘Don’t try to twist this.’
‘I’ve seen the files. They’re heavily redacted, but there’s more than enough to bring charges.’
‘Everything I’ve ever done was in the national interest.’
Bowater steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘Northern Ireland, Libya, Iran, the Balkans, North Korea, Cuba, Sudan. The list goes on. Was there anywhere safe from your barbarity?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘But I do. My position gives me access to all sorts of information. I know, for example, that the army feared the behaviour of Echo 17 was in breach of the Human Rights Act and decided to shut it down. Sadly, that didn’t stop MI5, in its misplaced wisdom, taking control and giving you the false authority to operate under a civilian guise.’
‘Hunting terrorists,’ said Blake, ‘and protecting this country from the kind of threats that would see you out of a job.’
‘You’re a rogue agent, Mr Blake, unaccountable and acting outside of the law. So don’t talk to me about justice.’
‘I’m an interrogator, not a killer.’
‘Call it what you like, you’re finished. I’ve already terminated the unit. There’ll be a public inquiry in due course, but not until you’ve been convicted and put away for a very long time. And now you can add abduction, threatening behaviour and terrorist activity to your charge sheet. You’re nothing but a disgrace to your country.’
Chapter Fifty-One
Blake refused to get rattled. He’d dealt with bigger scumbags than Henry Bowater and wasn’t going to let him get under his skin. ‘Have you finished?’
‘If you’re wondering about Harry Patterson by the way, he won’t be able to help you either.’
Blake’s heart rate quickened as he thought about his friend, and his last desperate phone call.
‘There was nothing the emergency services could do, I’m afraid.’ A sly grin slid across Bowater’s smug face. ‘He and his wife - a lovely woman by all accounts - were killed outright. A terribly unfortunate accident.’
‘Bastard.’
‘There’s nothing left for you, Blake. So why don’t you put the gun down. There’s a good lad.’
Blake took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Time to seize back the initiative. ‘It’s your family I feel sorry for. There’s your wife, and Jenni, of course, but you don’t really care about them, do you? But how’s your father going to react when the truth comes out? It’ll probably destroy him.’
A flicker of uncertainty flashed across Bowater’s face. It lasted less than a nanosecond. But it was there, nonetheless. Blake had found the right pressure point at the first attempt.
‘I imagine he’s as proud as any father could be of a son. You’ve risen to one of the most powerful positions in government when you had such potential to disappoint.’
‘Don’t try playing your pathetic mind games with me,’ said Bowater.
‘I don’t suppose he thought you’d amount to much, and yet here you are, proving him wrong with some even saying you could be the next Prime Minister. I bet it’ll break him when he finds out what you really are.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Blake,’ said Fletcher. ‘You said you could get him to confess. Get on with it!’
‘You’re making a huge mistake. And Fletcher, I’m disappointed in you. I suppose they’ve offered you immunity to testify against me?’
‘Nobody’s testifying,’ said Blake, stepping around the desk and moving behind Bowater. He took a moment to look out of the window, into the dark sea beyond the cliffs reflecting the heavy moon hanging low over the horizon. ‘They won’t need to after you’ve confessed.’
‘I’m not confessing to anything.’
‘I thought you might say that.’ Blake turned his back on the window and tossed his gun to Fletcher, who snatched it out of the air with one hand. Blake grabbed Bowater’s shoulders and felt the politician tense. ‘Fortunately, it’s my job to extract information from men like you who don’t want to talk.’ Blake kneaded the tight muscle at the top of Bowater’s spine. The guy was seriously wound up, if the knots in his upper trapezius were anything to go by.
Bowater shrugged off Blake’s hands. ‘I’ll give you one opportunity. Walk away now and that will be the end of it. I’ll forget you were ever here. No recriminations and no prosecution. You have my word. But it’s a time limited offer, so think seriously about your next move.’
‘The problem is I don’t trust you. Besides, where would I go? What would I do? You’ve taken Echo 17 away from me. There’s nothing else. Either I leave with your confession, or I don’t leave at all.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Bowater, like a petulant child.
Blake clamped an arm around Bowater’s throat, yanked hard and tipped his chair backwards. Bowater’s eyes opened wide with surprise, his arms flailing, and as his orientation response to the shock of the fall triggered a massive electrical spike in his brain, Blake spoke in his ear. ‘Sleep,’ he intoned, clicking his fingers in front of his face. The politician’s eyes fluttered closed and his head drooped to one sid
e as Blake righted the chair. ‘Feel yourself going deeper and deeper into sleep, feeling totally relaxed and at ease.’
Fletcher and Okeke gawped at the performance, as if they could hardly believe the sorcery being performed before their eyes. Blake reached for his phone and set it to record. ‘This is how it’s going to work. I’m going to ask some questions about Iraq and you’re going to tell me the truth. No lies and no embellishment.’
Bowater’s eyelids fluttered and his Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed.
‘Let’s start with your name.’
‘Henry Bowater.’
‘Very good,’ said Blake. ‘See how easy this is? Now let’s go back to 2004. You were a captain with the Duke of Yorks Royal Regiment posted to Iraq. You remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were assigned to a patrol called out to tackle some unrest at a police station in the centre of Basra. Do you remember the day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your vehicles came under heavy fire and you took shelter in a house while you waited for rescue. There was a family living there; a couple and their three young children.’
Bowater screwed up his face as if he was being tortured by the memory. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘And one of the soldiers put them in the cellar to keep them safe. Tell me what the team found in that cellar.’
‘Assault rifles and equipment to make bombs,’ said Bowater, deadpan.
‘A bomb factory?’
‘Yes.’
‘And evidence the inhabitants of the house had been manufacturing IEDs?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Angry.’
‘Angry enough that you ordered the execution of the entire family?’ Bowater’s head twitched. He pressed his lips tightly together. ‘Home Secretary,’ Blake continued, ‘did you order the execution of that family?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who died first?’
‘The girl.’
‘Why?’
‘She tried to attack me.’
‘She kicked you in the shins.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you shot her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And after you’d killed her, her father grabbed a loaded assault rifle? What happened?’
‘Dobson shot him dead and Fletcher shot one of his sons.’
‘It was an accident,’ said Fletcher, jumping forward.
Blake waved him away and took a deep breath. ‘And what happened to the woman and her surviving child?’
Bowater’s head thrashed left and right, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. ‘I ordered Fletcher to have them killed,’ he said.
The door of the study crashed open, thudding against the wall. Blake reached for his gun, forgetting he’d tossed it to Fletcher.
‘Stop!’ screamed Jenni Bowater storming into the room. ‘Daddy, tell them that’s not true!’
Blake moved to reach for her arm, but she shrugged him away. ‘Tell him it’s a lie,’ she pleaded, moving towards her father. She spun the chair around but frowned when she saw his eyes were closed. ‘What have you done to him?’
‘Jenni, I’m so sorry you had to hear that. Your father said you weren’t here,’ said Blake.
She turned on him, her eyes red and puffy. He caught the unmistakable tinge of alcohol on her breath. ‘I was out,’ she said. ‘When I came back I heard voices.’
‘How long were you listening?’
‘Not for long,’ she said, defensively. ‘Tell me what you’ve done to him.’
‘Your father’s in a deep hypnotic state. He can hear you, but he’s under my control for the time being.’
‘Let him go. You’ve got no right.’
‘Sit down. Let me explain,’ said Blake, wondering how he was going to deal with her.
She backed away, towards the door, but Fletcher had already moved to block her exit. They both knew they couldn’t allow her to raise the alarm before they were done.
‘I should have listened to you before, when you said your father was a monster,’ said Blake. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I didn’t mean it!’
‘If you were listening at the door, you’ll know now what he’s truly capable of.’
Jenni shook her head, as if she couldn’t bring herself to believe what she’d heard. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not true. You made him say those things.’
‘I was there,’ said Fletcher, softly. ‘It’s all true.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Your father shot and killed a young Iraqi girl and ordered the execution of her mother and brother. Then he had the deaths covered up,’ said Blake. ‘Your father has to be punished for what he did.’
‘You can’t. He’s the Home Secretary.’ A note of panic rose in Jenni’s voice.
‘I know this is tough. And I’m sorry for that, but —’
‘Are you going to arrest him?’
‘I have his confession recorded on my phone,’ said Blake, picking up his mobile from Bowater’s desk. ‘It’ll go to the police who’ll decide what action to take.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘Of course you do. It happened so long ago. Why bring it all up now?’
‘Innocent people died. Your father has to face justice for what he did.’
‘Please don’t do it.’ With her gaze locked on Blake’s face, she reached into the top of her scuffed boots, almost losing her balance and having to grab the wall to steady herself. Blake wondered just how much she’d had to drink.
When she stood up, she was holding the same flick knife she’d pulled on Blake the first night in the squat, when he’d tried to wake her in the middle of the night. ‘Give me the phone,’ she demanded, as she pressed the blade to her throat.
‘I can’t do that,’ said Blake.
‘I’d rather die than have my father accused of something so awful,’ she said. ‘Give me the phone or I’ll kill myself right here, and you’ll have to live with that forever.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Blake had no doubt Jenni was deadly serious. The way she had the blade pressed hard against her throat, near her carotid artery, suggested she knew exactly what she was doing. And the look on her face was the same one that had flashed across Jake Stone’s face seconds before he took his own life in Blake’s hotel room in Tavistock.
‘Put the knife down, please,’ he said.
‘I’m not joking.’ Jenni’s blue eyes opened wider. ‘I’ll do it. You know I will.’
‘Your father did a bad thing —’
‘Just give me the phone!’
Jenni’s naked aggression scared him. Blake hesitated, thinking of something, anything, he could say to persuade her to drop the knife. ‘A family is dead, wiped out without trace because of your father,’ he said.
A single tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I don’t want him to go to prison.’
‘I can’t stop that happening, but I’ll make sure you, and your mother, are taken care of.’
‘I don’t need taking care of, I need that recording.’
‘Blake, what are you doing?’ asked Fletcher, levelling his Glock at Jenni’s chest.
‘Stand down, for Christ’s sake,’ said Blake. ‘She’s only a child.’
‘You promised to get Bowater to confess. I can’t let her get in the way of that.’
Jenni backed away with her nostrils flaring and her gaze fixed on the barrel of Fletcher’s gun. ‘I want that phone,’ she said.
‘If you give it to her, all this has been for nothing,’ said Fletcher.
‘I’ll find another way, I promise,’ said Blake. ‘Please, Jenni. I’m begging you, put down the knife. Let’s talk about this.’
‘The phone,’ she demanded, holding out her free hand.
Behind Fletcher, Blake noticed Okeke’s body tense as he perched on the edge of the sofa, his muscl
es coiled like a cobra ready to strike. ‘Ryan, I made a promise that I intend to keep,’ said Blake. He looked from Jenni to Fletcher and finally to Okeke, trying to weigh up which was his biggest problem.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Fletcher. ‘I’ve betrayed the man I promised to protect. What do you think happens next?’
‘I won’t let anything happen to you. You have my word.’
‘Words are cheap.’ Fletcher suddenly swivelled at the hip and turned his gun on Bowater. Okeke sat up a little straighter, his bald head glistening with sweat. ‘Maybe I should just kill him now and have done with it. Maybe it’s the only way to end this.’
‘Don’t,’ said Blake. ‘It’s not the way.’
Fletcher’s breath came in ragged gasps. ‘Death’s too good for him though. I want him to suffer, like I’ve suffered. I want his conscience to eat away at his insides and his sleep to be plagued by the kind of nightmares I’ve had ever since Iraq.’
Blake studied the tension in Fletcher’s trigger finger. If he killed Henry Bowater, there was nothing he could do for him. ‘Ryan, let me deal with this.’
‘So if death’s too good for him, what am I supposed to do?’
‘I’ll make sure he pays for what he did and you’ll be protected. We talked about this.’
‘You can’t protect me. Don’t you understand? He’ll always be there, around every corner, lurking in the shadows. There is nothing you can do.’
‘I can help you, and I will, but not if you pull that trigger. You’ll be beyond anyone’s help.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Fletcher’s eyes took on a sudden faraway look as he snapped the gun under his chin. His finger tightened on the trigger and he fired a single shot. As a spray of blood peppered the ceiling and his body hit the ground, Jenni screamed. Blake momentarily froze and Okeke sprang from the sofa, prising the Glock from Fletcher’s warm hand and smiling with self-satisfied smugness as he aimed at a point between Blake’s eyes.
‘Check mate,’ he sneered. ‘Put your hands where I can see them.’
As Blake raised his arms, palms facing out, Okeke rolled Fletcher’s body over with his foot and stooped to pluck Blake’s Browning from the waistband of the dead man’s trousers. ‘Give me the phone,’ he said, extending a hand.