He took something out of the pocket of his open robe. His face was pure evil now. Pinning her to the bed with his legs he brought the syringe in front of her face. A flash of recognition and horror knifed through her. Her heart beat wildly, slamming against her ribcage like a sledgehammer. Suddenly, she knew. It was the eyes; those icy blue eyes. She had seen them before.
Plunging the needle into her soft flesh, he waited until her arms dropped limply onto the bed. Joanne opened her eyes wide, but she couldn’t seem to focus. Gradually, she felt herself slipping away; down, down into a dream-filled sleep.
Campbell opened the bedroom door quietly. Joanne lay sprawled out, one arm dangling over the side of the bed as though in a deep sleep. Such a shame, he mused. A renewed lust stirred in his loins at the sight of her naked body gleaming white in the dim light.
Hurriedly, he rummaged through her wardrobe picking out a navy trouser suit and matching shoes. He combed her hair, applied a touch of lipstick then forced some brandy down her throat. Roughly, he wiped a trickle of liquor from her mouth. Finally, he put a party popper in her pocket and pulled out the release cord of a second one. With a loud pop, coloured streamers burst into the air settling on her hair and shoulders. Campbell couldn’t afford to kill her at the cottage, not with a nosey neighbour about. Besides, she had seen him running inside out of the rain.
It was pitch-black outside. Not a glimmer of light. Jennie Blake’s cottage was shrouded in darkness He hoisted Joanne over his shoulder, carried her out to the car and pushed her into the passenger seat. He jumped into the driver’s seat, released the handbrake, and let the car slowly slip backwards down the slope. He didn’t dare start the engine until the car slid out onto the road.
Dark, rain-sodden trees swayed either side of the road almost touching the roof of the Jaguar. Fog hung low, obscuring the road ahead. Intermittently, the mist lifted for a few yards before enveloping the car in a grey, impenetrable blanket again.
As predicted, it wasn’t long before he hit a flood warning sign. Orange warning lights flashed rhythmically from vehicles parked alongside the road. A queue of cars and lorries waited while a young policeman halted the line of vehicles for oncoming traffic to come through. Spotting a break in the flow, he turned to the waiting queue and waved them on. Campbell stopped as he passed and stuck his head through the window.
“What’s the trouble, officer?” he queried politely.
“The road’s flooded up ahead, sir. We’re diverting all traffic.”
The policeman leaned into the window. He looked at Joanne who lay sprawled on the seat with her mouth wide open.
“A bit too much to drink,” Campbell said, plucking at the streamers, “a girlfriend’s hen party.”
“Please get out of the car, sir,” the policeman ordered. He produced an SL500 Alco meter.
“Blow into this.” The constable studied the reading. “Okay, sir. I suggest you get your lady friend home as soon as possible. Have a safe journey.” He waved them forward and turned back to the traffic building up behind him.
Campbell drove leisurely. He had no need to hurry now. His ruse had worked beautifully. He gazed at Joanne who was beginning to stir beside him. She groaned and shifted in the seat. Reaching out he ran his hand along the inside of her thigh feeling a hot flush of desire stirring in his loins. She was a beautiful woman. Such a pity they couldn’t have longer together.
Near Shrewsbury, Campbell drove up a country lane stopping close to the Severn River. He pulled on a pair of Wellingtons and hauled Joanne over the wet ground to the edge of the riverbank. Slipping on thick mud he pushed her head first into the fast-flowing river. Contact with the icy-cold water seemed to revive her. Suddenly, her eyes opened wide registering disbelief and terror.
Frantically, she rose up and clawed at his face trying to free herself from his vice-like grip. He put his hand over her face and thrust her head back under the water. She was sinking, sinking into an abyss; swallowed up by the black, swirling waters. Campbell waited patiently for a few more seconds until he was satisfied she was dead.
He stripped off her wet clothes then pulled a Stanley knife from his pocket. Holding the body by the head he carved a criss-cross of deep cuts on the face, penetrating the flesh to the bone. Not satisfied, he slashed the skin on her fingertips, picked up a stone and hammered at the face until the skull caved in. He threw the bloodied stone back into the river. The water would soon wash off the blood.
He pushed the body towards the middle of the river waiting for the current to catch it and take it downstream. After washing off the blood he tramped back to the Jaguar, took off his Wellingtons and deposited them into a black bin liner. Back on the main road he called into the car park of a closed store and disposed of them in one of the large recycling bins.
It would be days before they found Joanne, but they wouldn’t be able to identify her easily. He hadn’t wanted to cut up her lovely face like that, but it was unavoidable. By the time her body was discovered he would be long gone. It would be quite some time before a link would be made between Joanne Howard, the beautiful young travel agent from Oswestry, and the mutilated corpse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gloucestershire, England
Lynes took a last glance at the flickering computer screen. Yawning loudly, he grabbed his briefcase and jacket.
“I’m whacked,” muttered a colleague.
“Me and you both, mate,” Colin replied. “Footie on telly and feet up for me tonight.”
If the clod only knew what was going to happen. He imagined the faces of his colleagues when GCHQ was thrown into complete panic. A delightful shiver of anticipation coursed through him. Soon he would have everything he had ever dreamed of; everything they had promised. It was all arranged. As soon as he handed over the documents the organisation would fly him to Brazil. His heart fluttered with anticipation and fear. He had to be very careful not to raise suspicions in Moscow. He would give them all the information they wanted except the last batch.
As he drove home a black van pulled out from a side street and squeezed into the line of traffic. The driver picked up a mobile phone from the passenger seat.
“He’s on his way. It should take about twenty minutes.”
“We are in position.”
“The parcel must be wrapped and dispatched immediately. Don’t make any mistakes.”
The man shuddered at the thought of what would happen to him if he failed.
Negotiating the snarled traffic, not even the grey drizzle dampened Lynes’s spirits. He whistled a little Russian folk song, his heart dancing to the rhythm. It would be dark soon. He could draw his living room curtains and shut out the decadent world he lived in. The obnoxious, overpowering Mrs Jepps had gone to visit her sister in Cirencester. At least she wouldn’t be waiting ready to pounce, as usual. He drew up to the curb outside his house taking a surreptitious glance at the house next door.
He didn’t notice the man sitting huddled in a dark-blue Volvo, baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. Lynes inserted the key into the lock, pushed open the door and stepped inside. It took him a few moments to adjust to the gloomy hallway. He pushed the door shut and stretched out to turn on the light. His hand never found the switch.
Out of the darkness an arm grabbed him around the neck. His assailant’s grip was so tight he could barely breathe.
“If it’s money you want take it. There’s sixty pounds in my inside jacket pocket, more in the drawer under the television. Take it! Take it! Please!”
“I don’t want money.” Lynes kicked out with his foot, but his attacker just tightened his grip. “We know about your friend, Foley. You have betrayed us.”
The headlamps of a passing car shone through the half-glass door glinting on the razor-sharp wire. The garrotte sliced through his throat turning his scream into a muffled gurgle. Blood poured from the wound. He tried to cover it with his hands as he fell onto the tiled floor. From somewhere far away he heard a harsh voice before
he drifted into eternal oblivion.
“Your work here is done, Igor. The Motherland thanks you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Geneva, Switzerland
The plane suddenly emerged from a blanket of low cloud and started its descent into Geneva Airport. Lazily, Conrad surveyed the scenery unfolding below him. Snow-capped mountains gleamed in the silvery light. A weak sun glinted on a scattering of clouds hanging beneath the peaks. In the valley below swollen, aqua-coloured rivers snaked through the countryside.
Ten minutes later, the aeroplane kissed the tarmac, hurtled down the runway, and taxied to a stop. He hurried through customs, made for the taxi rank and instructed the driver to take him to the Grand Hotel. A burly man pushed his way into the taxi before he could protest.
“Okay if I share? I’m going to the Grand!”
By the time they reached the hotel Conrad had reluctantly agreed to meet him for a drink that evening.
The middle-aged American was already sitting in a discreet corner of the bar when Conrad walked in.
“Ethan Bateman,” he introduced himself.
After they had ordered their drinks Conrad asked, “Are you here on holiday?”
“Business, I’m expanding my empire.” Bateman chuckled. “I’ve got my finger in a lot of pies. Sportswear, roller blades, you name it.”
Conrad learned that Bateman was investing large sums of money in Eastern Europe. Manufacturing costs were cheaper and there was a ready workforce. He had already accumulated a substantial fortune. He studied the American. Shrewd eyes, jowls hanging onto his thick neck; thinning, grey hair combed in wispy strands revealing his sunburnt scalp underneath. He had a large gap in the middle of his upper teeth. It gave him an almost comic appearance when he grinned.
He noted the heavy rings on his fingers, the expensive gold watch. Friendly enough, but a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
“Is this your first trip to Europe?” Conrad queried.
“I came here a few of months ago with my wife en route to London. We decided to do some sightseeing before we went back to the States. We met up with one of your lot.”
Conrad shuffled uneasily, but he looked Bateman straight in the eyes.
“There are scores of British here all year round. You’re bound to bump into one sooner or later.”
“Yeah, this guy was staying in the same hotel in Interlaken – pretty place.” Bateman ran his tongue over his lips nervously. He was sweating profusely now. His hands trembled slightly when he reached over to pick up his bourbon.
He lunged into a story about a sick Englishman who was going to a clinic in the Alps to recuperate after an operation. He had accompanied Bateman and his wife on a trip as far as Mürren.
“The guy looked very scared,” Bateman continued. “His hands were shaking and he was sweating like a pig. He pushed a note into my hand and ran off. It was a telephone number. That’s the last I saw of him.”
Could it have been Foley? Why was Bateman telling him all this? He was all attention now, tuned in at high frequency.
“Do you know who he was?”
“Only his name – Bruce Foley.”
A rush of adrenaline surged through Conrad’s chest. His meeting the American was no coincidence.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Bateman related how he rang the number and discovered it was Conningwell Barracks. He contacted the commanding officer on the pretext of making a film about American Gls stationed there during the war. He was at the barracks when Conrad arrived.
“I was in the ‘john’. When I came out I noticed the squaddie had accidentally left the door open. I only heard the beginning of the discussion before he closed it, but it was enough. It didn’t take me long to put two and two together. From then on it was easy to keep tabs on you.”
Abruptly, he stopped talking. His eyes followed a well-built man casually ambling into the bar. Nervously, he took out a large handkerchief and wiped his face.
“When we got back to our hotel the room had been ransacked and my laptop had disappeared. I’m being followed, I’m sure of it. Foley must have had something they wanted and they thought he passed it to me.”
Bateman struggled out of the chair and looked at his wristwatch. He glanced nervously towards the bar and then leaned over to shake hands. Clasping Conrad’s shoulder he whispered,
“The note also said ‘Contact Mac’.”
Conrad watched him barge like a hippopotamus into the foyer. The bearded man sitting at the bar appeared engrossed in the light-snacks menu and paid no attention to the overweight Texan. But Conrad had been observing him closely since he arrived. He had been watching Bateman’s every movement in the large mirror over the bar.
Sipping the last dregs of his whisky he ambled into the reception area, pausing at a stand of tourist information and maps near the entrance of the hotel. Through the glass revolving doors he saw Bateman get into a taxi. Seconds later, the bearded man appeared and swiftly walked through the foyer into the street. As the taxi pulled away, he yanked at the locked rear door then ran towards a 4 x 4 parked in one of the bays. Conrad approached the doorman and discreetly slipped him a ten-franc note.
“My friend dropped his wallet in the bar. He’s just gone off in a taxi… an American”
“Ah, yes, Mr Bateman. He was going to the airport.”
Conrad mulled this over. Bateman had mentioned he was going to a business meeting in Bern the next morning, but there was something distinctly suspicious about the way he had rushed out of the hotel. Why had he been so agitated by the appearance of the man at the bar?
He hurried back inside the foyer and made for the bank of telephone booths on the left. They were all occupied. His eyes raked the area looking for a secluded spot where he wouldn’t be overheard. Suddenly, the door of the nearest booth opened. An elegantly dressed woman stepped out. She gave a faint smile as he darted inside and closed the door behind him. He delved into his pocket for his mobile phone and quickly dialled a number.
“Breakdancer.”
“This is Regis.” He outlined his meeting with Ethan Bateman. “I need a full security check on him as soon as possible.”
He was about to go into dinner when his phone rang. It was Pearce.
“Bateman’s squeaky clean. Wife and three kids, a wealthy entrepreneur, country club set, regular churchgoer. Well educated – MIT, Harvard, doctorate in physics.” Conrad raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He owns two factories in Texas manufacturing surgical and optical instruments and a small design facility in Nevada. Right out in the desert, very hush-hush. He’s also a state senator.”
“Why would a US senator take it upon himself to investigate Foley’s disappearance? It doesn’t add up.”
“Here’s the interesting bit. It seems our entrepreneur has connections in the Pentagon. My CIA source tells me he’s been working on some classified stuff for the military. Keep in touch, Jack.”
Conrad snapped his phone shut as the line went dead. What was Bateman involved in? Why was he so interested in Foley?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Geneva, Switzerland
Conrad pushed his way through the lunchtime throng. Le Cygne Noir was always jam packed at this time of day. Most of the tables were occupied with dark-suited businessmen talking in low voices. A few tourists slumped wearily, cameras hanging round their necks, shopping bags crammed full of souvenirs and chocolate. He looked into a smaller side room. Less formal, it was packed with youngsters in fashionable jeans and designer sweaters animatedly talking by the bar. Casually, he took in the whole room looking for his Swiss contact.
A fair-haired man sauntered in and walked to the booth at the rear. Conrad smiled to himself as women’s heads turned to follow him. Alexander Mikhail Leveque, affectionately known as Sasha, was the product of a Russian-American mother and French father. A popular television star, his face adorned magazines all over Europe and the United States.
He had been r
ecruited by Conrad after his sister, Yvette, was caught up in a terrorist bomb attack on the French President. She was an innocent spectator amongst the crowd outside the Élysée Palace. Now, Sasha used his glamorous lifestyle to gain entry to the homes and secrets of the well-heeled and famous. It was part of his cover.
Conrad related the story of Ethan Bateman’s encounter with Foley and the note asking him to contact Mac.
“Any sign of Macaleer?” Conrad asked.
“We’ve checked right across the cantons,” Sasha replied. “We know he went to Interlaken looking for Foley after checking out of the Grand. Since then there’s been no sight of him. We checked the airports, trains, all the car hire companies. If he’d gone over the border by road he would have been spotted by one of our agents.”
“Foley said he was going to a clinic in the Alps, but according to Bateman it doesn’t exist. I think I’ll take a little excursion into the mountains myself. I’ll fly down to Bern tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll come with you,” Sasha offered. “The mountains can be treacherous this time of year.”
“No, you’re more useful here at the moment. Get on the web and look up all the aerial photographers for the Bernese Oberland. Get hold of any pictures they’ve taken over the last few years. If there are any new buildings they’ll show up. Meet me here in two days.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bernese Oberland, November 2016
A glittering white sun hovered in the November sky, partially obscured by heavy clouds that raced above the valley. Clumps of vegetation huddled amongst an avalanche of shale. Higher up clusters of pines stood stark and black against the snow that iced the mountain peaks. No sound except for the whining engine of a motorcycle snaking up the narrow road. Conrad watched it weaving in and out behind enormous outcrops of rock until it vanished from sight.
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