The London Cage

by Mark Leggatt

  “Think of it as a very private gentleman’s club. Now, check this out.” She patted the bench beside her. “Sit beside me.”

  He glanced around as he slid into the booth. No one looked over, but he could feel the barman’s eyes boring into him. “Kirsty, we should be going. Right now.”

  “Don’t be such a prude. Connor, there’s nowhere better in London than right here. The whole of Soho will be locked down and they can’t find us in a place that doesn’t exist.” She placed the iPad on the table. “I’ve tracked the old man in the restaurant from his rental car. His flight records show that he flew in from northern Norway, connecting through Oslo. He’s a copper. Or was. Retired a few years ago. His station was up near the border with Finland.” The first photograph showed a close-up of a crumpled and broken body, half-buried in ice. She flicked her finger across the screen and the photos continued, showing the corpse from a distance, jutting out of the wall of ice above a blue-green lake. “God knows how long he was in there,” she said. “He must be about fifty feet from the surface. I heard about a story like this. A few years back, in a different glacier, they found two Italian climbers who had disappeared thirty years before.”

  “Makes sense. He must have been buried in the snow, further up the glacier. Who knows where. And every year, a fresh layer of snow falls and the glacier slowly advances down the valley to melt into the lake.” He flicked through the photos on the screen and stoppped at the naked, twisted body of the man lying on an autopsy table. The glacier would have smashed his bones to a pulp. He tried to expand the photo, but the resolution became fuzzy. “There’s something not right here, Kirsty. Look at the hair on the right side of his head.”

  “I know. The darker, matted area. It could be blood. Maybe he was a climber? Smashed his head falling from the rocks?”

  Montrose shook his head. “No. I can’t see any ropes or equipment.” He flicked through the photos. “Can you make these clearer?”

  “Not yet, I’m waiting for an app to download.” She checked the iPad. “This wi-fi is killing me. But look at his arm. Are those words?”

  He leaned in closer. He could make out what seemed to be words scrawled across the skin, but the letters were too fuzzy. He expanded the photo, trying to decipher the symbols. “I can make out Ekland and maybe numbers. The other word looks like pichaq. An acronym, maybe? I’ve no idea what that means.”

  “Arkangel might.” She flicked to another photo, showing Arkangel with his finger on the word.

  “It’s not making sense. We need to know more about how the old guy was involved and why Arkangel killed him. Maybe for the money, or Arkangel might have been covering his tracks. Wait.”

  “What?”

  Montrose pointed to the edge of the photo, at a dark, rectangular shape sticking out from under a scrap of clothing. “That’s the butt of a pistol.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe a Browning. I need more detail.”

  Kirsty checked the app download. “This is going to take too long. I need a better signal. The walls in this building are four feet thick.”

  He sat back against the hard wood of the booth. “Kirsty? You installed the wi-fi, right? Is it always this slow?”

  Kirsty shrugged. “It’s a big file. I’m not too surprised.” She nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. I’ll run a monitor. We can’t take any chances, but this place is as secure as you’ll get.” She bumped her hip against him. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” He slid out from the booth.

  “To get a better signal. Don’t worry, nobody will track this wi-fi. It changes identity every few minutes.”

  He followed her up the stone steps and along the corridor into a wide hallway lined with polished antique furniture. Bright sunshine came from an open doorway.

  She typed into the iPad as she walked. “Ekland. It’s a common Nordic name. And it’s international. Does it mean something or someone? And pichaq? French, no? There’s nothing on Google. It doesn’t exist.”

  He shielded his eyes from the sun as they approached the doorway and could make out a high wall around five meters away. That’s the way out. I get that iPad and I’m gone. She’ll be safe here.

  *

  “Open it,” barked Kane.

  The British Army sergeant pushed back the cell door.

  In the middle of the room the fat guy sat in a chair, flanked by two men. He jumped up and strode forward. “This is an outrage! I have a diplomatic passport and you must…” He was silenced as Kane punched him full in the face. He toppled back over the chair and lay spread-eagled on the floor.

  Kane turned to the MI5 officer beside him. “So, what did he say?”

  “Sir, he has a…” The first officer held out a passport.

  Kane took it and threw it across the room. “Fuck that. It’s fake, right?”

  “Actually…”

  “If I say it’s fake, then it’s fucking fake. What did he say?”

  “Well, he refused to talk until he was allowed to speak to his embassy.”

  The fat guy rolled on his side and pushed himself to his knees. Blood streamed from his nose and spilled onto the floor. He stood up, holding his face with both hands and was about to speak when Kane ran over and booted him in the balls. Blood sprayed between his fingers as he toppled backwards and landed on his ass.

  Kane turned to the doorway where two men in suits filled the frame. “Get this prick over to Grosvenor Square. Then he’ll talk.” He looked down. “Yeah, Chubby, afternoon tea is over.”

  The fat guy retched and curled into a ball.

  “You’re coming to our place for some fun,” said Kane. “We’ve got the visitor’s suite all set up. And I’ve got to tell you, we’ve got some really nice toys for you to play with there.” He stood over him, then lifted a leg and placed the heel of his shoe onto his ear. “Can you hear me?” He brought his full bodyweight down and twisted his shoe around.

  The fat man shrieked.

  “I said, can you hear me? Ah, who gives a shit. One ear will do. You know, I’ve got an ex-marine drill instructor in Grosvenor Square with a baseball bat, just waiting for you to arrive. He’s never in a good mood. He lost two of his brothers in a terrorist bombing. I’ve never seen a guy break bones so fast. It really is a gift.”

  The fat guy turned his head towards Kane and growled, “Fuck you.” He placed both hands under his jaw and twisted until a sharp crack came from his mouth. He screamed and his head jerked back as his body began to spasm. His arms thrashed around and a dirty white froth bubbled from his mouth.

  Kane grabbed him by the hair to pull him up, but his eyes rolled back into his skull and his arms dropped lifeless by his side. “You bastard!” He kicked the man in the face, then pointed at the MI5 officers. “One fucking lead, and...you assholes. You can’t even do one job without fucking up.”

  “Look, sir, he had a diplomatic…”

  “Shove that passport up your ass and get me the head of MI5 right now!”

  “Sir, we’ll let her know…”

  Kane marched forward until their faces nearly touched. “Listen carefully, because I don’t think you understand. You work for us. You’re just a shitty little island off the coast of Belgium. You think you’re a nuclear power? You can’t fire a fucking missile unless we say so. We hold the codes, not you. So you do what you are told and you do it right fucking now.”

  A cough came from the doorway. Campbell was just visible between the two men in suits. “Sir? It’s Montrose. I think we have a lead.”

  *

  Nervous glances followed Kane as he strode between the desks.

  Campbell scurried after him. “We’ve got the numbers of all the phones that were switched on in the restaurant and we’ve discounted the Russians and the staff. One was an Apple watch. We found that in Soho. That leaves only one other number
and the last place it connected to a network was right beside the watch. It must be Montrose.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “No signal, sir, it must be switched off.”

  “Send him a message. And make sure it’s loaded, right?”

  “I understand. This desk, sir,” said Campbell and stood behind a seated technician.

  “Show me.” Kane pulled the chair back and leaned into the screen.

  The technician tried to stand up. “Hey, what the hell?”

  “Shut your mouth.” Kane pushed him back into his chair.

  Campbell ran his finger down the screen. “Where is it?”

  The technician shrugged. “It’s gone. Must have been a false signal.”

  “Bring up the signal monitor.”

  The technician shrugged. “I didn’t start the monitor.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” said Campbell.

  Kane grabbed the back of the technician’s chair and pushed it away from the desk.

  “Hey, you can’t…”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  Two CIA goons in suits moved over and stood either side of the desk, facing the room as Campbell grabbed the keyboard.

  A woman ran over from a nearby desk. “Stop this right now! That is a security breach and I’ll…”

  One of the goons pulled her to the side.

  “Listen, sweetheart,” said Kane. “If you can’t do this shit, then we will. Just don’t forget who’s in charge.”

  Campbell pointed to the screen. “This IP address keeps changing. And it’s an unregistered wi-fi.” He turned to the technician. “Why did you take it out of the monitor?”

  “It’s a false signal… There’s no… It’s probably faulty equipment.”

  Campbell looked up at Kane. “This is the only signal in that area that’s behaving weirdly. And it has no address details, no registered owner and it’s right in the heart of Soho. The place is full of small apartments and businesses. It’s well-hidden.”

  “I want to know exactly where it is. To the nearest inch.”

  “We can ping it and measure the response times against the speed of the transmission, then triangulate from the other signals. That gives us location and distance.”

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes. We’ll find it.”

  Kane pointed to the two men in suits. “Get the team ready. I want two hundred cops to close that place down. You go in first. I want Montrose alive. Fuck anybody that gets in the way.”

  Chapter 5

  Montrose stood in the doorway to the garden. The tinny sounds of a cello symphony came from speakers above the door and several groups of elderly, well-dressed men sat around tables, nursing their drinks. Five yards in front, the brick wall surrounding the garden rose to around twelve feet high. Not much of a run up. And I’d have the iPad in my hand. She’s not going to let that happen. A heady scent of flowers permeated the air. He turned and behind him was the barman, filling the whole doorway with his bulk. Montrose nodded. “Nice dress.”

  The barman said nothing.

  Montrose walked over to where Kirsty was seated at a cast iron table in the shade of the wall. The table wobbled around as she laid the iPad in front of her. If I try and stand on that I’ll end up on my ass.

  “Sit down,” said Kirsty. “I’ve got more on the old man in the restaurant. I was right, he was a senior copper. He’s mentioned in old news articles.” She pointed to a map on the iPad. “And he was based here. It’s a town not too far from the Finnish border. If the word written on the stiff’s arm is Ekland then Finland could be the connection. Or Sweden.” She blew out a breath. “This is bollocks. It could be any Nordic country.”

  “Yeah, but check this.” Montrose pointed to the map. “It’s also not far from Russia.” He glanced up at the top edge of the wall, checking for embedded glass. “I didn’t know Norway had a border with Russia. Okay, let’s step back a bit. The restaurant. Why did the old man fly all the way to London with some autopsy photos? And why did Arkangel pay a shitload of money for them?”

  Kirsty brought up the webpage for a Norwegian newspaper. “Check this out.” She pointed to the screen. “The old man was retired, but the glacier where the body was found is near where he was originally based.”

  She’s piecing it together. I can take this to Kane. Maybe it’s enough. No, the CIA will hunt her down. They’ll want everything. The iPad is the bargaining chip.

  “It’s only in local news, but not in the nationals,” she said. “Why not? That would make a great story. Body stuck in the ice for God knows how many years. You’d want to get that out, right?”

  “Yeah, would make sense. The guy would have been reported missing, even if he was a tourist. Maybe the old cop told them to keep quiet. Because he knew how much it was worth.”

  “He came all the way to London to hand over these photos personally. He could have emailed them.”

  “Maybe.” He pointed to the webpage of the newspaper. “You speak Norwegian?”

  “No, but I’ll run a Google translator.” Kirsty tapped on the iPad. “It’s crap, but it says a body was found in the wall of a glacier and police took it away for investigation. That’s it.” The iPad beeped. “At last. I’ve got the download.” She opened up a new app and the pictures flashed up, the detail sharper.

  “Bring up the photos of the body.” Montrose leaned in.

  Kirsty shuffled closer towards him, their legs touching as she brought up the first photo of the twisted and crushed corpse.

  “His hand,” said Montrose. “Look at the fancy ring. There’s another photo with a blow-up, check that.”

  “Sure,” she said, “but you’re missing the obvious.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  She expanded the photo to show the man’s face.

  “He’s got a bullet hole in his skull.”

  “Shit.”

  A voice came from behind them. “Ah, there you are.”

  Montrose turned and saw Pilgrim in the doorway, dwarfed by the barman.

  Pilgrim walked over, nodding to several groups of gentlemen who raised their glasses towards him. He took small, neat steps then leaned over the table and kissed Kirsty on the cheek. “Excellent work on the escape and evasion, my dear,” he said, in a long, Texan drawl. “That was a very unpleasant surprise in the restaurant, I’m sure.”

  Yeah, you could say that.

  Pilgrim’s face was flushed as he nodded to Montrose, his shirt tight around his neck and the precisely knotted tie held in place by collar studs. He brushed the seat of the chair then sat down, his hands folded in his lap.

  Kirsty smiled. “It’s my turf, Mr. P. We took an unusual route, but we got here. No idea how we are going to get out, but…”

  “Leave that to me,” said Pilgrim. He held out a perfectly manicured hand. “Good to see you alive, Montrose.”

  Montrose shook his hand. “Next time, I’d like a gun.”

  “A weapon would have done you no good.” Pilgrim took off his spectacles, blew on the glass and carefully replaced them. He blinked behind the thick lenses.

  “Did you know about Kane?” said Montrose.

  Pilgrim shook his head. “I had no idea. And that concerns me greatly.”

  Montrose nodded. Whatever shit was going down, it must be serious if Pilgrim didn’t know about it.

  Pilgrim adjusted his tie, then brushed imaginary dust from his dark woolen suit. “So, what do we have?”

  Montrose was about to speak when Kirsty placed a hand on his arm and cleared her throat. She pushed the iPad across the table. “I couldn’t hear what was said to Arkangel. But you’ve seen the video from the restaurant, yeah?”

  “Indeed. They let him go,” said Pilgrim. “I saw the diplomatic passport.”

  “But the fat guy…” />
  “Let me work on that,” replied Pilgrim.

  Kirsty pointed to a map on the screen. “The old guy in the car was from this small village here, in northern Norway. Ex-cop.”

  Montrose saw Pilgrim tense up. His collar seemed to be choking him. What the hell is going on? “You knew about this?”

  “No,” said Pilgrim. “I did not.”

  Then why is your hand shaking?

  Kirsty brought up a CCTV freeze frame showing the cop’s face. “This guy delivered and sold the photos to Arkangel before he was killed.”

  Pilgrim leaned over the table.

  Kirsty continued. “The photos are different shots of the body of one guy. Found deep in a glacier. All we know about him is he’s got a bullet hole in his head and some writing and a bunch of numbers on his arm.”

  Pilgrim squeezed his eyes shut and his face paled.

  “We have no idea who he is.” Kirsty looked up. “Mr. Pilgrim?”

  Pilgrim ignored her. He sat back and took off his glasses once more. He gently rubbed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. He gazed up at the sunshine for a moment, mouth open, then slowly replaced his glasses. “I know who he is.” He leaned forward, his chin on his chest and then raised his head, staring blankly at the high brick wall. “He is my brother.”

  Montrose stared down at the face of the mangled body and up at Pilgrim. Shit. It damn well is.

  Pilgrim stuck out his chin and gazed calmly at Kirsty. “Go on. The news is not pleasant, but it is not entirely unexpected. I had reconciled myself to his death many years ago. But I never thought…” He closed his eyes.

  “That’s about all we’ve got,” said Montrose. “When did you last see him?”

  “About thirty years ago.” Pilgrim leaned closer and gently touched the photo with his finger.