The London Cage

by Mark Leggatt

  Wolff finished his burger. “You know, I had a feeling I’d be getting a visit.” He took a pull on the cider. “I thought it was going to be one of those days, you know? You wake up lying in your own piss and think, yeah, it really is one of those days and it’s only going to get worse.”

  “Look, Captain Wolff. I don’t have time to dick around. Our countries are involved in a mission of the utmost importance. We need to work together on this and fast. Tell me what I can do for you and it will be done. But I need that information. Then I can get you out of here. Back on your feet.”

  Wolff shook his head. “My dear boy, my previous visitors were not so gauche as to patronize me in such a manner. A bath and a suite at the Ritz won’t heal this.” He tapped his head. “And if our two countries are working together on this, you wouldn’t be here standing in my piss and spouting nonsense. It would be some pompous twat from MI5.”

  “Captain Wolff, I have been given both the responsibility and the authority to work on behalf of the United Kingdom, straight from Downing Street. This is for your country, sir.”

  “I’ve had the honor of fighting for my country and, quite frankly, it can go fuck itself.”

  Kane shook his head. “Roger Warrender. Where is he?”

  Wolf shrugged. “No idea. Do I look like I frequent his social circles? Frankly, old boy, I struggle to remember what happened yesterday, so you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Kane heard heavy footsteps and turned away from Wolff who was opening a new bottle. “What is it?”

  The operative spoke in a low voice. “Sighting in Westminster, sir. Sixty percent facial recognition on a traffic camera. If it is them, they’re north of the river and heading west. They’re not showing a phone signal.”

  “What the fuck does sixty percent mean?”

  “It means highly likely, sir. The camera was high definition, on the outskirts of the Westminster containment sector. The teams are combing the other cameras. The cops are on the way.”

  Kane stared into the darkness for a moment. “Fuck the cops. Keep them clear. And those MI5 assholes. I don’t want any witnesses. They’re going for Warrender. Find them first and send in a team. You know, knock knock, who’s there, bang bang. Get me?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Wait for me in the car.” He pulled the bottle of whisky from his pocket. “You know, I don’t think we’ll need to trouble you anymore, Captain Wolff.”

  Wolff belched and replaced the cap on his cider. “Really? Just when my social life was taking off. I was so looking forward to getting to know you.”

  “Perhaps I can offer you something stronger?” Kane unscrewed the top of the whisky bottle and palmed a tiny tablet into the upturned cap. He poured in the whisky and held it out. “Here, no hard feelings. Have one on me.”

  Wolff’s trembling fingers took the cap and knocked it back in one. “Good God. What the hell was that?”

  “Cask strength Scotch, 120 proof. Straight out of a Highland distillery. Strong enough to forget all your woes. Fancy another?”

  Wolff held out the cap, his eyes flickering between his hand and the bottle. “Alba gu bràth.” He threw the whisky down his throat then leaned forward, gasping as he tried to catch a breath. “Strewth, that’s strong, even for an old matelot like me.”

  “Believe me, Captain Wolff, it’s absolutely lethal.”

  A hacking cough burst from the old sailor’s throat, but his gaze didn’t leave the bottle.

  “Think of it as a parting gift,” said Kane.

  Wolff began to wheeze.

  “Incidentally, what do you know about Operation Red Star?”

  “Red Star?” spluttered Wolff. He sat for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to breathe slowly. “As in ‘I had an uncle who once played for Red Star Belgrade’?” He tried to sing the line, but bent forward as his chest tightened.

  Kane laughed. “You know it? Operation Red Star?”

  Wolff pushed a hand against the wall, trying to steady himself. “Never heard of it. Now, how’s about some more of that firewater?”

  “Sure you can handle it?”

  “I relish a challenge.” Wolff tried to reach for the bottle, but slumped back against the bricks. “What, what did you just give me?”

  Kane held up the bottle. “Meet my friend. Mickey Finn. And he had to be at his best for a drunken old shit like you.”

  “But…” Wolff’s mouth dropped open and his head began to drop.

  “We know where your friends are. And who they’re going to see.” Kane held the bottle high, dousing the blankets with whisky. “I’m afraid, as my old drill instructor used to say, you are one man surplus to requirements.”

  Wolff tried to push himself up, but slumped down, whisky splashing across his clothes and beard as he tried to shove the blankets back.

  Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Kane poured the last of the whisky onto the cloth.

  The trilby fell from Wolff’s head and rolled across the filthy ground. “No, don’t… I’ll tell...” He tried to roll away, his breathing turning into a high-pitched whistle. He fell back, his eyes wide open, saliva and whisky dripping from his beard. “Please.”

  Kane took a lighter from his pocket, stepped back and lit the handkerchief. He waited until flames began to creep up the cloth, then threw it at Wolff. The whisky erupted into a pale blue flame, turning to yellow as the blankets ignited.

  Chapter 14

  Montrose jabbed continuously at the window button. The smell of damp and mold was overwhelming. Eventually the window opened a few inches. He looked back into the rear of the van, covered in dust and unidentifiable debris. “How much did you pay for this?”

  “A hundred quid.”

  “You were robbed.”

  Kirsty laughed. “It’ll do for a few miles before it grinds to a halt. Someone brought it into the junkyard this morning which means it’s probably still insured and registered for the London congestion charge. The cop cars and traffic cameras scan the license plates of every car that passes them so they’ll ignore us.” She pointed out the window to where an identical van was parked. “That’s what I’m looking for. Let’s hope it’s unattended.”

  “Why? You going to steal it?”

  “Nah, it would take too long and I’m not driving about in a stolen van when the cops are looking for us.” She reached down and brought up a screwdriver. “Take this. Get the license plates. You do the front.”

  “What for?”

  “Just a bit of insurance. If the cops start sniffing around Southwark, it won’t be long before they give the junkyard a visit. That’s why I picked a white van. London is full of them.” She pushed the door open and headed towards the parked van. “We’ll use them later. The old plates got us through Westminster. These plates will get us out of here.”

  The plastic bolts came away easily. Montrose pulled off the license plate and shoved it into his jacket, then walked back to the first van. “How far?”

  “Five minutes.”

  *

  The van swung into a wide road lined with white-painted Victorian apartments, four storeys high. Montrose placed his mouth against the gap in the window and took a deep breath. “Anything from Zac or Pilgrim?”

  “I’ll check.” She shoved her hand into her bag and switched on her phone, then craned her neck forward, scanning the buildings. “There’s the address.” She swung the van into the curb.

  “Not here,” said Montrose.

  “Why?”

  “There’s one road in and one road out. All we need is a delivery truck in the wrong place and we’re boxed in. Go down to the end, around the corner, we need a T-junction.”

  “Okay, super-spy.” Kirsty pulled out and accelerated to the end of the road, turned right and stopped just before a junction.

  Montrose got out of the
van and looked over a wall to a garden at the rear of the building. Exit route. Just in case. I doubt he’ll be pleased to see us. Kirsty was already walking towards the corner and he hurried to catch up with her. “Let’s hope he’s at home.”

  “We’ll soon find out. But I’m going in anyway.” She led the way up the steps. There were four names on the intercom, but none was Warrender.

  “Pick a name,” said Montrose.

  “Nope,” said Kirsty and pushed the button marked ‘Services’. “Post.” The buzzer clicked and she pushed the heavy door open into a marble-lined hall.

  “Fancy place,” said Montrose. “Beats the crap out of Southwark.” Before them was a wide staircase and two doors either side of the ground floor. Several pairs of kids’ shoes lay scattered around outside one of them.

  “Not that one,” said Kirsty, approaching the other, looking closely at the lock. “One Yale lock. This isn’t a person in hiding. He’d have better security than this.”

  Montrose followed her up the staircase to the next floor. Another two doors, one with potted plants standing sentry. “You think he’s a gardener?”

  “Nope.” Kirsty turned to the other door. It had three locks: a Yale, a mortise and a deadlock. “This is it. Got to be.” She looked at the spy-hole and held her face close as she knocked on the door. “Let him see my face. I’m slightly less threatening than you are.”

  After a few moments, a voice boomed out. “Who is it?”

  “Kensington Council. Can we speak to the home owner, please?”

  He noticed her accent was back.

  “I’m busy.”

  She held up her iPad. “Sir, if you please, we only need two minutes of your time.”

  A bolt shot back and the door opened. A tall, elderly man with a tired, lined face and a shock of white unruly hair peered at them. “Make it quick. The council, you say?”

  “No, Mr. Warrender. Not the council. We really need to talk to you.” Kirsty pushed open the door and walked past him before he could reply.

  Montrose saw the fury on the man’s face and followed quickly behind, holding up his hands. “Sir, we come in peace. We just need to talk to you. We are unarmed.”

  Kirsty held out her arms and purse. “You can check.”

  “Feel free, sir.” Montrose held open his jacket.

  Warrender stood, his grey face reddening. “I don’t know what all this is about, but if you don’t leave now, I shall call the police.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Montrose. “Look, can we talk? That’s all we want. We’re not from the government. We’re not journalists and we’re not crazies. We have a situation. We really need your help.” Through the open door, Montrose heard voices on the stair. “I’m sure your neighbors don’t want to hear this.”

  Warrender closed the door. He glanced around for a moment, unsure. The apartment smelled musty and neatly stacked piles of newspapers ran along the corridor. “Follow me,” he said and led them to a large sitting room. Every surface: floor, tables, chairs, was covered in neatly stacked newspapers.

  “Now, listen to me.” Warrender stood in the corner of the room and crossed his arms. “I have absolutely no idea why you’re here and I do not have the first bloody clue what you’re talking about. Whoever you are, if you intend to rob me, you’ll find very little of value, so get it over with.”

  Montrose sat down on a pile of newspapers. “Mr. Warrender, Captain Wolff told us where you live. He has seen you many times in London, although he said you’d changed your appearance. He said your walk gave it away. Long slow stride, like a legionnaire. The same way you walked when we came into the room. But Wolff never told anyone. You’re safe.”

  Warrender raised an eyebrow. “Safe, eh? That’s mighty big of you.”

  “You might want to check with your contact in MI5,” said Montrose. “That’s where we think the information about Captain Wolff came from and led us here. But I’ll be straight with you. We don’t really know where the information came from. If I did, I’d tell you. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Oh, laddie,” Warrender gave a bitter laugh. “We’ve all got something to hide.”

  Montrose shrugged. “Yeah. Guess that’s true.”

  “You’re not wrong,” said Kirsty. “Mr. Warrender, would you mind if we sat down? It’s been, uh, an interesting morning. And if there’s one thing I would kill for, it’s a cup of tea.”

  Warrender’s shoulders dropped and he slowly lowered himself onto a chair next to an ancient bureau, strewn with paper and worn down pencils. He stared into a fireplace, empty except for a pile of grey ashes in the grate. “The kitchen is through there.”

  “White with?” said Kirsty.

  Warrender nodded. He sat for a moment, head bowed.

  Montrose was about to speak when he saw the wallpaper. It hadn’t struck him at first, but the entire wall was covered in tiny writing. Pencil stubs lay strewn across the stacks of newspapers. He looked closer. Every wall surface was covered in long lists of numbers grouped together in five digits. He was so transfixed, he forgot to speak.

  “Well, get on with it,” said Warrender. “Ask your questions. Tell me what happens next, although I think I know.”

  “I’ll be frank with you, sir, I have no idea what happens next.” He tore his gaze away from the faded wallpaper.

  Warrender looked up at him. “That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. So cut to the chase. What do you know about me?”

  “Not much, sir. But one thing we do know, is that the body of Michael Pilgrim turned up this week in a glacier in Norway.”

  Warrender didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “You are assuming that I am familiar with this person?”

  Pilgrim’s words. This guy must have talked to his brother before he ended up on a glacier. Go for it. “Sir, both of you were involved in Operation Red Star. That night, you met him at the border between Russia and Norway. He gave you a password and kept another to himself. Then you went your separate ways.”

  Warrender didn’t reply.

  Kirsty appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea.

  “We need the other password,” said Montrose. “And we need it now, because MI5 and the CIA are running riot through London trying to find it. The Russians have already killed the Norwegian cop who brought them the information on Pilgrim. Burned to death in a car.”

  “In Soho? I heard about that.”

  “Yeah, I was there. They nearly got me too.”

  Warrender slumped in the chair and let his chin drop down to rest on his chest. “I am tired. I am so very tired.”

  Kirsty placed the tray on top of the pile of newspapers then knelt beside him and held his hand.

  Warrender recoiled at the touch, took a deep breath and stared blankly across the room. “This is the end of days.” He leaned back in the chair and gently took her hand.

  It might just be, fella. “Sir, if we don’t get the password before they do…”

  Warrender turned towards Kirsty. “I met him at the border. We split up in case one of us was captured. I was the only agent in the area. They didn’t expect him to go north. He told me there was someone on his tail. I hoped the Soviets would follow me on the main road south. I left tracks. They were supposed to follow.” He shook his head. “But they didn’t. Someone must have known. Must have betrayed him.” He lifted a hand and traced his fingers down a newspaper on his desk. “I never saw him again. For weeks, I had no idea whether they had captured him or not.”

  Yeah, but who did you tell? “You reported this back?”

  “I’m not a fool. By the time I got back to London I worked out he had disappeared. I thought he’d be safe. I gave him my gun.”

  A thought flashed into Montrose’s head. “A Browning?”

  “Yes.”

  Montrose thought for a moment. “He had it when he died.” But
what did he tell you? “Ekland,” said Montrose.

  Warrender lifted his hand from the newspaper and rubbed his eyes.

  “Did he say the word Ekland?”

  Warrender looked up. “Pilgrim? No.”

  “I have to ask you. Who did you tell? Who betrayed Pilgrim?”

  “You don’t understand.” Warrender stared up at the writing on the wall. “Pilgrim was betrayed, just as I betrayed Captain Wolff. The stupidity of youth. I was not alone. I thought it was the right thing to do. I was so sure. We all were.”

  Yeah, it’s so sad. Whatever. “Who did you tell? About Pilgrim?”

  Warrender didn’t seem to hear him. “I was only a message boy. I knew nothing of the gravity of the operation. I spent the whole time wondering why the hell they had sent me to a godforsaken border post in the middle of a sodding blizzard. And then Pilgrim came hurtling down the road in an old Soviet banger.” He looked up at Montrose. “I called and told them what had happened… I mean, I let London know. That we had split up. That I was a decoy and Pilgrim was going north. And when I got back I heard that Pilgrim hadn’t made it. He just disappeared. They told me the Soviets didn’t have him and I was the only one he had talked to. It didn’t take them long to accuse me of being a double agent. But it wasn’t me.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t me, you see, Pilgrim was betrayed after we split up.” He straightened up in the chair and smiled at Kirsty. “I’d quite like that tea, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” Kirsty poured the tea and handed a cup to Warrender.

  He sat with the cup in his lap, then fixed his eyes on Montrose. “What do you want with me?”

  “The password. That’s it. The password Pilgrim gave you that night before you split up. The rest is of no interest us.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’ll just let me walk away?”

  Montrose shrugged. “Yeah. If that’s what you want.”

  Warrender sipped the tea. “There’s a suitcase in the hall. I’ve had it there for thirty years. Ready to go at a moment’s notice. And all this,” he waved a hand around the room, “will disappear with me.” He tapped an oil heater under the bureau with his foot. “If I hit that button, this place will be an inferno.”