Bato drove a brutal punch into her stomach.
Connie folded and fell, gasping in pain. He stood over her, fist still clenched. ‘I do not know if you know where he is, or not. But I do know . . .’ He crouched, grabbing her by the hair. She cried out. ‘That you are going to bring him to me.’
CHAPTER 48
Reeve pulled his cap low as he left the train at Waterloo. It was the busiest station in the country – and bristled with security cameras. Most were accessible by the security services. Facial recognition software would be monitoring live feeds. Sooner or later, he would be spotted.
The best he could do was postpone the inevitable – and make himself hard to track.
That meant travelling on foot, in crowds, through places with multiple exits. Basic tradecraft, learned even before he was recruited by SC9. He looked down at the phone’s map. King’s College was less than a mile away, across the Thames. He needed to reconnoitre it. See the layout, find entrances and exits, assess the security—
The phone buzzed. A notification dropped down: a text message.
ALEX REEVE. ANSWER THE PHONE.
A jolt of fear, and confusion. Who would be sending him messages through Jammer’s phone? Even from just five words, he knew the text wasn’t from Connie . . .
Before he could do anything more, the phone rang. The caller’s name appeared: Uncle. Someone in Jammer’s contacts. But how would they know who he was?
Connie. Shit—
He hurriedly answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Reeve.’ A man’s voice, accented; Eastern European. The controlled arrogance of power behind it – and also restrained anger. ‘My name is Valon Bato. You took something from my nephew, Jahmir Haxhi. You will bring it to me. Now.’
‘I’m busy,’ Reeve replied, navigating the crush at the platform’s end. He surveyed the station’s concourse. No police in sight. ‘You give me any trouble and the iPad goes straight to the cops. We’re done.’
‘If you hang up, I will kill Connie.’
The words were like a physical shock. Reeve spoke in a taut whisper. ‘If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.’
‘I have already hurt her. And I will hurt her again.’ He spoke to someone in Albanian. Sounds of movement nearby. ‘Here. Talk.’
‘Alex?’ Connie. She was scared, voice quavering.
‘Connie?’ said Reeve. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No. He hit me, they – Alex, they’ve kidnapped me. I’m at a big house somewhere, I don’t know—’
More Albanian – and she screamed.
He flinched at the awful sound. ‘Listen, you fucking—’
Bato returned. ‘You listen. Bring the iPad to me. I hope you are in London, because you have until midnight. If it is not in my hand by then, she dies. My house is on The Bishops Avenue, in Hampstead.’ He gave the exact address. ‘Do not involve the police. My people will kill her later if I am arrested.’ In the background, Reeve heard Connie sob. ‘You have made a mistake by interfering in my business, Mr Reeve. You have one chance to correct it. If you care about your girlfriend, do not waste it.’ The call ended.
Reeve stared at the silent phone. It trembled; he realised he was shaking. Fear – and fury. At Bato, and at himself. It was his fault Connie was being hurt. He had to save her . . .
But he also had to find Parker. If he really was targeting Elektra Curtis, there was only a limited time to stop him.
The Bishops Avenue. He looked it up. Over seven miles away. The Tube was the quickest way there – but he couldn’t risk using it. More chance of his being spotted, and tracked. The thought prompted him to move faster. He had to get out of the station.
And then what? Save Connie, or stop Parker? His friend, or his country?
He made his decision.
‘Alex has been spotted,’ Maxwell announced urgently, lowering his phone. ‘Facial recognition caught him at Waterloo four minutes ago. He was tracked leaving the station, but then the cameras lost him.’
Locke hurried to the map on the safe house’s wall. ‘So where’s he going? Back to Connie’s?’
‘Maybe.’ Maxwell joined him. ‘But she hasn’t called him; she hasn’t called anyone. GCHQ would have alerted us. You spoke to her. Do you think she was genuinely pissed off at him?’
Locke nodded. ‘I would say so, yes. She may have concealed information, but she couldn’t hide her emotions.’ A moment’s thought. ‘Reeve would surely think we were watching her flat. Would he risk it?’
‘Would you?’ The other man shook his head. ‘I agree.’
‘Then what do we do?’ said Locke.
Maxwell stared at the map. ‘As soon as we get an idea of where Alex is going . . . we move.’
Craig Parker paused at the street corner to don a hi-vis jacket. Under it, he wore an off-the-peg dark grey suit. A private company was handling security for the Institute of Middle Eastern Studies. Their website helpfully featured pictures of its ‘operatives’ on duty. He was now dressed like them.
A mocking smile. Operatives. He knew who the security personnel would really be. Ex-squaddies, burned-out cops, losers who couldn’t even qualify for the police. Compared to a real Operative, they were jokes. But he still had to be careful. They had the advantage of numbers. And if they called the real cops, things could escalate quickly.
The finishing touch was an identity card on a lanyard. It had been fabricated and delivered to him by MI5. Ironic; an agency protecting the state he hated was helping him bring it down. He had taken full advantage of the broad leeway given to complete his mission. SC9 had access to the services of all the other British intelligence agencies. MI5 didn’t know why he needed the card, only that he was authorised for it. So they had given him what he needed, no questions asked. SC9’s behind-the-scenes power would bring about its own downfall. And with it, the entire rotten British system.
Another irony was that he would have sided with Elektra Curtis. Not on everything, admittedly. She was soft, way too touchy-feely. But bringing down the establishment? The politicians and the judges and lawyers and all the other rich, public school cliques? He was all for that. Drag the posh bastards from their mansions and burn them down. Burn it all down. She would help bring it about. It was almost a shame she wouldn’t live to see it happen.
He started down the Strand. King’s College sprawled through numerous buildings along the famous London street. The event was being held in the Great Hall of the King’s Building. It was not directly accessible from the Strand. He had to go through an adjoining building, or the courtyard of nearby Somerset House. The latter was where the VIP guests – including the Iranian ambassador – would arrive. The ambassador was his secondary target. If he could be eliminated too, great . . . but Curtis was his primary objective. She had to die.
Just as he had been ordered. But things would not go the way his superiors expected.
Parker reached the university’s Strand Building. It was an unattractive concrete block, obscuring the more impressive architecture behind. He made a show of hurrying in, shaking water from his jacket. The uniformed man at the security desk looked up. ‘God, bloody hell,’ said Parker. ‘Is this rain ever going to stop?’
The guard smiled. ‘Doesn’t look like it. The great British weather, eh?’
‘Tell me about it. I’m with security for the do tonight.’ He held up his ID. ‘I had car trouble. Had to get the bloody bus. Are my mates here already?’
The guard inspected the card, then nodded. ‘Yeah. Some of them came in about twenty minutes ago. Think the rest went through the courtyard entrance.’ He gestured vaguely over one shoulder.
‘They all go to the Great Hall?’ Another nod. ‘Oh, I’m going to get a bollocking for being late. Still, at least the guests won’t turn up for a while. Do I need to sign in?’
‘Not here. I think your gaffer’s handling all of that.
Down through there.’ He indicated a corridor at the lobby’s rear.
‘Cheers, mate.’ Parker set off deeper into the building. His smile vanished the moment his back was turned.
He had explored the building on a prior visit, passing himself off as a student. Seeing the university’s layout had let him devise a plan. The security company would establish a perimeter to protect their VIP charges. But he would already be inside it. Just another anonymous figure in hi-vis.
Then, by the time the event began . . . he would be someone else.
CHAPTER 49
The black cab pulled up outside Connie’s house. ‘Wait here,’ said Reeve. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He was taking a huge risk coming here – SC9 could be staking the place out. But he had no choice. A light was on upstairs, so Jaz was home, at least. He ran to the front door and pushed her buzzer. To his relief, she answered. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Alex,’ he said. ‘I need to come in.’
‘Alex? Oh, my God.’ Was that fear in her voice? ‘Are – are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Can you open the door?’
Silence. Seconds passed. He was considering kicking it open when the buzzer sounded. He entered, going to the radiator. The iPad was still behind it. He started to fish it out.
Jaz’s door opened. He glanced up as she rushed out, carrying Hallie. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘You – you shouldn’t have come back here,’ she said, hurrying to him. ‘The landlord beat up Mr Brownlow. He’s in hospital.’
Reeve felt another wave of appalled guilt. Someone else had been hurt because of him. ‘Will he be okay?’
‘I don’t know.’ She sucked in her lips, tearful. ‘They were going to hurt me too. And Hallie. I had to tell him about you, I had to. He wanted—’ She saw what Reeve was retrieving. ‘Oh God. That’s what he was after, isn’t it? That’s why he beat up Mr Brownlow.’
‘He’s hurt Connie too,’ he said, to her shock. The tablet finally came free of its hiding place. ‘If I don’t give this to him, he’ll kill her.’
Jaz looked sick. ‘Oh, God. Oh my God. And – you’re going to do it?’
‘I have to.’
‘But he’ll kill you.’
‘He’ll try.’ He tucked the iPad into his coat.
‘There’s . . . there’s something else.’ She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘He told me to tell him when Connie came home. It’s – it’s my fault that he’s hurt her, isn’t it?’
Reeve put a hand on her shoulder. ‘No.’ She looked up at him. ‘It’s his fault. I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.’
‘You’re going to kill him?’
He didn’t answer. Instead he went to the door. ‘I’ve got to go. Stay safe, Jaz. Look after your baby. I’ll be in touch.’ Then he was gone.
Parker stood in the long courtyard beside the King’s Building. A stone archway led to the much larger quadrangle of Somerset House. Through it, the VIPs would soon arrive. Parking spaces had been set aside for their vehicles – once they cleared security. With several ambassadors attending, everyone coming in was carefully checked.
They were looking in the wrong place. The threat was already inside.
He had spent his time ‘patrolling’ the secured zone. All entrances now had hired guards stationed at them. The company providing security was a well-known multinational, often used by the government. Its reputation and size had made it an obvious choice.
It also provided a weakness that Parker had exploited. It had over twenty-five thousand employees in the UK alone. On a job like this, the odds of one guard knowing every other were minimal. He’d counted at least thirty people handling ground-level security. None had realised he wasn’t part of the team. He had the right clothing, the right accessories, the right badge. Just another one of the lads.
Nor did the university staff pay him attention. As far as they were concerned, he was invisible. A hireling in hi-vis; their eyes slid right past him. As he’d hoped.
A queue had formed at the archway. Not important guests; they wouldn’t have been made to wait in the rain. There was also a hardscrabble scruffiness to them. The press.
He knew why they were here. Love her or hate her, Elektra Curtis made headlines. He suspected most of those waiting worked for the hater side of the media. They would be salivating for a photo of her shaking the Iranian ambassador’s hand. On a slow news day, accompanied by outraged headlines, it would dominate the front pages.
But tomorrow would definitely not be a slow news day.
The reporter at the queue’s head was summoned to the security checkpoint. He was scanned, had his identity checked against a list, then was let through. Parker waited until half a dozen people were cleared, then headed inside. He had checked the itinerary. The event itself started at nine o’clock. Beforehand, the organisers would address the press in the lobby outside the Great Hall. Certain attendees would also speak. Elektra Curtis was one. That was when she would greet the ambassador.
That was when he would strike.
He entered the lobby. The doors to the Great Hall were at the far end. A red carpet ran to it. Broad stone stairs doubled back upwards on each side of the large space. University employees were setting up a lectern and microphones. A few people milled around, chatting in anticipation. He passed them to ascend the stairs, looking back at the entrance.
Before long, the press began to file in. Parker regarded each one in turn. He needed a suitable candidate . . .
There. A man bearing a camera, a large shoulder bag and a smaller case. His face was creased by perpetual sneering cynicism. He was roughly Parker’s height, brown hair unkempt. Little facial resemblance, but that didn’t matter.
The photographer staked out a spot alongside the red carpet. Others moved in around him, but no pleasantries were exchanged. Good; he wasn’t with friends. Parker descended the stairs again. He crossed in front of his target, glancing at the badge he wore on a lanyard. His press card. Paul Babcock, photo-journalist. Parker memorised the name, then continued on.
He waited unobtrusively at the room’s side for a few minutes, then returned. ‘Mr Babcock?’
Babcock reacted in surprise. ‘Yeah?’
‘There’s a telephone call for you, sir. They said it was urgent.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know, sir. But they asked for you by name. If you’ll come with me?’ He gestured towards the stairs.
Babcock followed with bad grace. ‘Keep my spot for me,’ he snapped at his neighbours. Neither journalist seemed inclined to help him out.
Parker led the way upstairs, the laden photographer lumbering after. He turned at the top and headed down a corridor. He had surreptitiously picked an office’s lock earlier. ‘In here, please.’ He ushered Babcock inside.
Babcock strode in and looked around as Parker closed the door behind them. ‘So where’s this pho—’
The Operative moved up behind him and with a single swift movement snapped his neck.
The photographer crumpled, rasping for breath through a collapsed airway. Parker lowered him to the floor. ‘Nothing personal,’ he told the dying, terrified man. ‘By the way, that was the first time I’ve done that for real. It’s not something they let you do in training.’ He gave Babcock a crooked smile.
It lasted only a moment. Professional hardness replaced it. He waited for the photographer to fall still, then took his equipment. He removed the man’s damp coat as well. If he looked too smart, he would stand out. He shed his hi-vis vest and the suit jacket, then donned the coat. A quick rub of the hand to mess up his hair. Done. He now looked the part.
The last thing he needed was the dead man’s press card. Parker took it, then produced something from his wallet. A passport-sized photo of himself. Thanks, MI5. He peeled off its protective backing and
stuck it over the ID’s picture. It wouldn’t pass a close inspection – but inside the perimeter, there wouldn’t be one.
He dragged Babcock’s body behind a desk. The corpse hidden, he collected the camera gear. SLR around the neck, large bag over one shoulder. He decided to leave the case. It was placed alongside its late owner. Parker wanted both hands free at all times.
One last thing. His gun was in a shoulder holster. He drew it and gave it a final check. Fully loaded, one round in the chamber. Safety off. He returned it to its hiding place. Ready to rock.
Parker opened the door slightly and looked out. Faint murmurings reached him from the lobby; more people had arrived. Good. Extra cover. Nobody in the corridor. He quickly slipped out and shut the door, heading back to the stairs.
The murmur became a buzz. Most of the press from the queue were now present. Other visitors had joined the crowd. From the attention given to them, some were VIPs. They weren’t his targets, though. He still had some time to wait.
He didn’t mind. He knew the value of patience.
Parker descended and slipped into the crowd. He overheard some of the photographers talking. As he’d suspected, they weren’t there to celebrate international relations. ‘A handshake’ll be good, yeah,’ rasped one beaky-nosed man. ‘A kiss’d be better, though. That commie bitch planting a smacker on the fucking Ayatollah? I’d get usage fees for years for that. Every time some Muslim shithead stabs someone? Boom, here’s the terrorist-lover again! Get more mileage out of it than that picture of Maddie.’
‘He’s the ambassador, not the Ayatollah, you fuckwit,’ said an older, haggard man. ‘And she won’t kiss him. He’s an Iranian. They hate women. We’ll be lucky to get a handshake.’
‘Thought the Saudis hated women?’
‘I don’t fucking know.’ A shake of the head. ‘They’re all the same to me. Long as I get the shot, I’m happy.’
‘Me too. Where do you reckon they’ll stand?’ The beaky photographer surveyed the area before the Great Hall. ‘I don’t want some stupid cunt in a dinner jacket blocking my shot.’
Operative 66 : A Novel Page 29