by Mark Leggatt
“Well, that’s sweet, but I can look after myself. And right now, you can’t. So shut up and do what you’re told. They’re going to move containment sectors very soon and you’ll be trapped like a rat up a drainpipe.”
The sirens had stopped and he pushed himself from the wall. The street behind him seemed calm. He stopped at the archway and looked along the road. It seemed normal, except for the neon signs offering peepshows and porn shops. “Kirsty, I don’t want to sound like an idiot, but we’ve never actually met.”
“I know. If we had, you’d remember. I’ll be looking out for a panicking Yank in moist trousers.”
“Just give me a clue in case I don’t spot you.”
“Oh, you’ll spot me. Besides, I’ll be the only chick there. And I don’t dress like other people.”
He left the alley and stepped out onto the street where the smell of fried food and exhaust fumes surrounded him.
“Twenty yards. And get rid of your watch. They’ve had enough time to track it down. It’s got a MAC address like a phone and once they get it they can tell your heartbeat and nail your location to a few feet. Turn into the bookshop on the left.”
He pulled the watch from his wrist and strode forward, glancing into the windows framing the doorway. A display of vintage London books were scattered around, faded with age. Inside, the shop was deserted, only one bored assistant tapping on his phone. The shelves held stacks of haphazardly arranged coffee-table books. On a table beside him a thick layer of dust covered a large hardback edition on sixties fashion. Montrose slipped the watch under a book. He shot a glance around the room. No doors. He saw a steep staircase in the corner. The assistant ignored him as he walked past the desk and down the stairs. The lights became brighter and porn posters adorned the walls. He shielded his eyes against the glare and spotted someone at the bottom of the stairs. She wore a long black leather coat and boots, midnight blue lipstick, and her hair was shot through with purple streaks..
Kirsty tapped a jet-black fingernail on the screen of her iPad. “You’ve got a tail. Follow me.” She turned and threaded her way past several stands of latex suits and rubber masks.
He hurried behind her, through a series of small interconnecting rooms lined with DVD boxes and racks of luridly colored objects that he couldn’t identify.
She stopped in what appeared to be a dungeon with black paper lining the walls and medieval stocks in the middle of the room. Whips of all sizes hung on metal racks. “Check this,” said Kirsty and she held out the iPad, showing a two-camera view split across the screen. “They’re at both ends of the street.”
He watched a two-man team at each end, talking into their radios. One team took up position and the other made their way towards the bookshop. “Kirsty, they know where they’re going.” We’re trapped.
“Well, I hope they know where they’re going. I don’t want to have to go upstairs and wave to them.”
We can’t stay here. They’ll kill her without thinking about it. Give yourself up and let her run. “Kirsty, they used a sniper. He nearly took my freakin’ head off.”
She ignored him and concentrated on the screen. “C’mon, boys, stick together.”
The men checked their phones and headed for the bookshop. I need a weapon. He scanned the room quickly. I’m in an armory for perverts. He noticed a long pole with a rubber grip. That’s a fucking cattle prod. A pair of fur-lined handcuffs seemed the least offensive item. On screen the two men slipped their hands inside their jackets and entered the bookshop. They’ll work it out in seconds. “Kirsty, we can’t hide here. Run for it. I’ll take care of them.”
“Oh, very macho,” she said, concentrating on the iPad. “What are you going to do? Fight them off with a massive dildo?” Kirsty looked up. “They’re here. Follow me.” She swept a curtain aside and headed along a narrow corridor. “The basements of these shops are over three hundred years old. They go right under the street. The Russian Mafia that own this place have shops either side, so they knocked through. The entrance you came in is a cover for the more discerning pervert.” She stopped and pulled a T-shirt, fleece jacket and combat pants from her bag. “Trousers off.”
“In here?”
“You shy, Connor Montrose?”
Holding the combat pants in one hand, he tugged at his waistband, pushing down the wet cloth sticking to his legs.
“Just think yourself lucky I didn’t buy you underwear. They’ve got quite a selection in here, if you like leather and your tackle hanging out. Anyway, that was the only decent thing I could find in Soho. Army surplus. It was either that or a gimp suit.”
“A what?” He stepped into the combat pants and pulled the damp shirt from his shoulders.
She stopped at the foot of another staircase and watched him struggle into the T-shirt. “You’re bigger than you look in the movies. Let’s go.”
He followed her up the steps and into a brightly-lit room lined with manga comics and magazines. “Kirsty, we should split up.” You have no idea what you’re up against.
She grabbed his hand. “Are you ashamed, Connor Montrose? They’re looking for one person, not two lovers.” She held on tight and pulled him into the street. “Make sure they can see this. Big Brother is watching. There are half a million CCTV cameras in London, so be cool and just walk normally.”
Montrose resisted the urge to look behind. They’ll ID me before we get to the end of the street. “Kirsty...”
She pulled him into a long doorway, past a line of glass displays showing faded photographs of showgirls.
A blinking neon sign let him know where she was going. Peep show.
“In here,” she said and shoved some money under a window at a squinting old man. She pushed open a faded red velvet door, studded with grimy brass.
“Kirsty, this is a…” How do I say it?
“Yeah, I know. It’s also very dark, has over thirty massage booths, several cinemas and some very attractive fire exits. If the coppers follow us in here, it’ll take them all day to search the place and find the escape routes. Places like this need discreet exits. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I can guess.”
She pulled him by the hand into a stairwell that led down into a dimly-lit corridor lined with identical doors, all closed. At the end was another door, indistinguishable from the others. It opened to reveal a room full of semi-naked women lounging around on cheap wooden chairs, some gazing into brightly-lit mirrors, adjusting their make-up. “Eyes front, Connor.”
Montrose locked eyes with one girl. She blinked slowly, her dilated pupils trying to focus on him. He followed Kirsty as she weaved through the chairs to a door at the far end of the room. She flicked a switch by the door and pushed it open into a stairwell. A stone ashtray filled with sand and studded with cigarette butts stood to the side. He looked up. Grimy brick walls towered above him into a clear patch of blue. The faint contrail of a jet traced slowly across the sky.
She kicked the door closed behind her. “That’s how you lose the cops. The girls use it when they get a signal.” She ran up the worn stone steps, then through an alley so narrow they had to shuffle sideways, brushing past lichen-covered walls. They emerged into a cramped courtyard, with the scent of Indian food coming from an extractor fan. Several covered alleys led off each side into darkness. “If they make it this far,” she said, “they’ll spend the entire day chasing their own arse down these alleys. Every one has a different exit. Except this one.”
He followed her and watched her push open a heavy wooden door set into the wall. He could smell rotting wood, but saw that it was six inches thick.
Kirsty shoved the door closed, turned and set off through a stone archway and into a narrow lane.
The faint noise of traffic and police sirens drifted over them, and through the dim light he saw a metal gate fixed across the exit. “Kirsty, this is a dead end.”
“That’s exactly what it is, but since this place hasn’t appeared on a map since 1745, we’re safe.” She stood before the gate and pushed the buzzer.
“They’ll find the door.”
“Sure they will. But they think we’re running from Soho. We’re not.”
He saw the camera. The grate clicked and opened and he followed her through. Now I know why she works for Mr. Pilgrim.
*
Kane dropped onto the seat of the Mercedes, water dripping from his hair and his wet pants sliding on the leather seats.
The driver glanced around but said nothing.
“Thames House,” said Kane. “Right now.”
Campbell got in the other side, looking down in disgust at his suit.
Kane punched the headrest in front of him. “Fucking MI5! I knew those assholes would mess this up. We should have had our own team doing this. From now on that’s how it’s going to be. They’ll do what they are damn well told. Get a message to Downing Street from Washington. They’re our bitch and they better get used to it.”
“Sir, Special Branch cops and Met Police have locked down the area,” said Campbell. “MI5 have tracked Dionysus on CCTV to Soho and have passed the information to our teams. They’ll find him, sir.” His phone buzzed with a text message. “I have another contact for Dionysus and his real name. Connor Montrose.”
“Montrose? Never heard of him. And what contact? The Langley dickwipe on the other end of the phone said to kill him on sight. But I need to know what the fuck he was doing there. Whoever this asshole might be.”
“Sir, it says Director Spinks must be informed of any new information.”
“Spinks, yeah?” Kane tugged the soaking shirt collar from his neck. “Last I heard, he was in a trauma ward. Heart attack.”
“That’s correct, sir, we think that’s why the contact was changed. But the instructions are code red and that Director Spinks must be informed immediately.”
“Dial his number. If he wants to know, I’ll tell him. You concentrate on bringing Montrose in alive. I don’t shoot people because a desk monkey tells me to.”
“Uh, the orders are pretty clear, sir,” said Campbell. “Terminate with extreme prejudice. At the first opportunity.”
Kane turned and jabbed a finger at Campbell. “He’s the only lead I’ve got apart from that rag-head we caught in the restaurant. Bring him in.”
“How do we know Montrose is involved, sir?”
“We don’t. But he was there for a reason. And Arkangel must be that reason. You know what this means? If Arkangel and his Russian goons have diplomatic passports then we’re up against the Kremlin too.” He stared out of the windshield at the queue of traffic on Piccadilly. “And that isn’t good. Break out the big guns. And I don’t mean metaphorically.” A ringtone sounded and Campbell handed him a phone.
“Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Mr. Spinks’ room.”
“Get me Director Spinks,” said Kane.
“Sir, Mr. Spinks can’t take calls, he…”
Kane heard Spinks’ Brooklyn accent, above the beeping of medical monitoring equipment, telling the nurse to give him the phone.
“This is Spinks. If you’re calling this number, it better be goddamn important.”
“Director Spinks, this is Director Kane in London. We have made contact with a man, ID verified and the instructions say to call you immediately.”
Campbell began to raise a hand, but Kane waved him away.
“Yeah?” said Spinks. “Who?”
“Connor Montrose.”
The line was silent for a few seconds then Spinks began to wheeze, forcing out the words. “Kill that fucking traitor! Kill him and bring me his balls, I’m gonna…” the beeping in the background became shrill.
Kane heard a crack, followed by the shouts of medical staff. He waited for a moment then hung up and stared at the phone in his hand.
“What did he say, sir?”
“Not much.”
“Is he going to let us know any more about Montrose?”
“You know, I don’t think so.” He turned in the seat, leaning over until the water dripped from his face and hair onto Campbell. “Listen to me, I don’t know who the fuck this Montrose is, or what he’s done and right now I don’t give a shit. If we can’t get to Arkangel, Montrose is our man. Tell him we’ll give him protection, but I want him to talk.”
“And then, sir?”
“And then what?”
“Montrose, sir?”
Kane gingerly touched the bridge of his nose. “Shit, if it makes you happy, you can shoot him yourself. And make sure it really fucking hurts. That okay with you?”
“Just following directives, sir.”
Chapter 4
The ancient stonework ascended forty feet into the air, bereft of windows. The carving above the doorway was pitted and worn away, but he could make out the words Lord have mercy on us.
Montrose followed her through a wide door, dark with age and studded with bolts. The temperature dropped as he stepped into a long hall, stretching left and right, with a floor of uneven, cracked flagstones. At each end sat a huge blackened fireplace, nearly as wide as the hall. The only furniture was ancient wooden benches lining the walls. “Kirsty, what the hell is this place?”
She didn’t turn around and headed for a small door in the opposite wall. “It’s a sweat shop. Or it was, anyway. Wait here.” The door closed behind her.
Montrose stared up at the ceiling, lined with sagging oak beams stained by centuries of soot and saw the faded remnants of colorful frescos behind the grime. This place is medieval. Where the hell am I? He walked forward and tried the door that Kirsty had used, but it was locked. He looked around. Cameras? Yeah, I’ll bet. He stepped back, cleared his throat and could hear a faint echo through the room. Okay, give her five minutes. This is her territory. Shit, by that time the cops will have the whole of Soho shut down. And the goons in the sex shop will be on the street, waiting for me to make a move. The cameras will spot me a mile off. But it isn’t just me. I wasn’t alone.
He strode over to one end of the room, his footsteps rebounding off the rough stone walls and stood before the fireplace. The mantelpiece was level with his head. At the side he saw thick rods of iron jutting from the stone, blackened and bent with age. They could have roasted a whole bull in there. He ducked his head, stepped into the fireplace and brought up the torch on his iPhone. At one end were rusting metal rungs, just big enough for a child’s foot, rising up the greasy, soot-black chimney and disappearing into darkness. I’d rather face a CIA hit squad than climb up there. Let’s hope I don’t have to. Is this place really secret? They could come crashing through that door at any moment. Then I’d get a bullet in the brain. And she would be next.
A jolt of anger made him turn and sprint back down the hall. What the hell am I doing? I have to get out of here. They’re gonna tear her apart. He stood before the front door which led to the alley and Soho, then gently pushed the handle. It was unlocked. He pulled the door open a few inches but could see nothing past the metal grate. Go. Right now. She’d be safer here. His grip tightened on the handle. But they saw her on the street. And they know there was someone on the other end of my earpiece. And they will want her. Dammit, she’s not my problem. Pilgrim got me into this shit. He can work it out. I can draw them away. He checked the metal gate and noticed the steel bolts lining the frame. This is a goddamn trap. There has to be another way. He gripped his phone. Tell Pilgrim to look after her. Just go.
The door in the far wall opened behind him and Kirsty stood with her arms crossed. Her voice was low, but it echoed around the room. “Going somewhere?”
“Just checking.”
“No need, we have cameras for the alley. Relax, this is the safest place in London right now.” She pointed to the iPhone in his hand. “Turn tha
t off.” She beckoned him over. “Come with me.”
Plan A is fucked. He looked behind her into a dimly-lit stone corridor. She has the information on her iPad. If the CIA want to chase around London looking for bad guys, it’s up to them. Worse than 9/11, Kane said. Yeah, maybe, but I’m not gonna let her die for it. When they get the iPad, I can buy them off. That’s all I need. She’ll be safe and I’ll hustle a way out. Okay, Plan B. He hit the power button on his phone.
“Close the door behind you.” She led the way along the corridor, then stopped, holding up the iPad. “I have the photos from the restaurant cameras. Connor, you’ve got to see this.” She tapped a code on the screen as she walked.
Just get the information and go. He hurried after her, past small, ornate tables with vases of fresh flowers. Rough masonry blocks arched low over his head and there were openings on either side with steep steps leading down to vaulted subterranean rooms. They were all softly lit, some furnished with antique tables and chairs, others containing Chesterfield sofas. He glanced into one of the rooms as he passed. Several men sat around an empty fireplace, drinks in hand. “Kirsty, where are we?”
She didn’t turn around. “Like I said, it’s a sweat shop. Or was, anyway.” She pointed to one of the rooms. “In old times, these rooms were full of hundreds of men. They rubbed fresh furs down with tallow, then they would trample them in tubs to soften the leather. Like trampling grapes, only with fat and fur. But to make the tallow soft, the place had to be hot.”
That explains the fireplace.
“It must have been forty degrees in here when the place was going. And hundreds of naked men working away, inches from each other in front of a roaring fire. That’s why they called it a sweat shop.”
“And now?”
“Now, it’s a bit different. There are still a lot of men, though.” She glanced back and smiled, then turned down a set of steps into a long room. “Watch your feet.”
The steps were bowed and worn with age. At the bottom, he stepped into an oak paneled room with a long bar at the end. Behind the gleaming wooden surface stood a big man with a full beard, wearing a long silk dress. His bare arms hung from the straps like slabs of meat from a butcher’s hook. The man fixed his eyes on Montrose as he followed Kirsty towards a line of high-backed wooden booths that reminded him of a medieval diner. “Uh, Kirsty this place…”