The Englishman

by David Gilman

  Héritiers de ses traditions,

  Nous sommes avec elle.

  The chorus and following verses mellowed, rose and broke in a final impassioned confirmation of their pride at having served with the Foreign Legion’s 2nd Parachute Regiment. As the men fell silent the women rose as one to their feet and applauded their men. Abbie spontaneously joined them, a lump in her throat. Tears threatened to sting her eyes at any moment. Too much wine, she told herself. But a pang of envy stabbed her. It was, she realized, the privilege of being allowed to witness their tight-knit camaraderie.

  Sammy saw her reaction. ‘It’s all right, Abbie. It gets to us all.’

  The ex-legionnaires had somehow drawn her in and she did not understand how. They were a family and it was clear from what she heard in the conversations around her that this closed fraternity had a bond that no outsider would ever break.

  The men at the table charged their glasses and broke easily into Arabic.

  ‘God knows why such a doll comes all the way here to chat up Raglan,’ said Ansell.

  ‘Maybe they had something going he hasn’t let on about,’ said Baptiste. ‘He’s a dark horse is Raglan, the randy bastard, and who wouldn’t want to keep her a secret? Give me half a chance.’

  ‘I’d keep her under lock and key and keep the wine flowing.’

  Sammy told them to cool it and brought her back into the general hubbub of conversation. The laughter and bonhomie returned. The wine tasted even better with such convivial company and by the time Didianne escorted her to a brightly coloured, warm room whose shutters were already closed, she sank gratefully on to the comfort of the bed. Her final thought before falling asleep was that she was grateful not to have been plunged into danger but, instead, welcomed by Raglan’s friends.

  She awoke with the chill of the evening when the sun had already slipped behind the mountains. Her mouth was clammy from the wine and she stumbled her way to the small en-suite bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, pulled a brush through her hair, and stepped out of the bedroom into the living room where Sammy was sitting with a girl of about ten years. They were doing homework together.

  ‘Hey. You sleep OK?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Yes. Too long it seems.’

  ‘Didianne is in the kitchen. This is my daughter, Cadice.’

  Abbie introduced herself, but sensed that something was wrong. She should not have slept away the afternoon. They had to get back to London.

  ‘Listen, Abbie. Take it easy, yeah? Don’t throw a wobbly. Raglan’s gone. He took your car. He’ll be in London pretty soon. He’ll speak to your boss.’ Sammy shrugged. ‘It’s the way he is. He doesn’t like chaperones. He works alone.’

  Abbie felt the pit of her stomach drop. ‘Christ, I’m in trouble.’ She sank into one of the chairs, glanced at the child, saw the crucifix on the wall behind her and regretted her careless blasphemy. ‘I am sorry. Forgive me.’

  The child shrugged and picked up her books. ‘No problem. Papa says much worse things when he thinks I cannot hear him. I will see you at dinner, madame.’

  Abbie stared at the ceiling. Raglan had conned her. ‘Can I phone London?’

  Sammy’s face was a picture of regret. ‘We’ll get you on the morning flight. Didi will sort you out with anything you need. You have to let Raglan do his thing.’

  Abbie knew she had no choice. She was a prisoner made welcome.

  Legio Patria Nostra.

  10

  The British Airways flight from Toulouse to London Heathrow landed ten minutes overdue at 6 p.m. Raglan had no luggage, not even a holdall. He had no need of clothes where he was heading so he got through passport control and was out of the terminal long before any of his fellow passengers. The cabbie had an effortless run down the M4 and in just under forty minutes dropped him off outside Marks & Spencer in King Street, Hammersmith, less than a ten-minute fast-paced walk to Weltje Road and the ambush site.

  Raglan paid in cash. He had no intention of contacting Maguire until he’d determined what had happened to Steven Carter. If he had survived the ambush and not been abducted then there was one place he might be hiding – the odds were his father would have sent him to a safe place. Raglan crisscrossed the street twice, stopping now and again to look into the small shopfront windows, using their reflection to check for any watchers. There was no sign of anyone staking out the building he was heading for. He was certain that no one except Jeremy Carter knew of his one-bedroom flat in the two-storey block whose unassuming passage door was scrunched between a hair salon and a funeral care shop. The modest-looking brick-faced building had been renovated ten years before: two apartments separated by a common landing on the first floor. Raglan had bought one of them furnished, modern and functional, from a young city trader who had burnt his fingers on a speculative trade. He walked down the street on the opposite side of the entrance door and when traffic came to a halt in the narrow road he dodged between the vehicles and disappeared from view into a convenience store. He bought milk, bread and a bag of sugar.

  Raglan checked the street again and moved to the entrance to his building. He waited in the low-lit passageway to be sure that no one had followed him. A dozen strides further and he punched in a security code that opened the main hallway door. At the top of the stairs, he could hear his neighbour’s television. He pressed his ear against the door to his apartment. Silence. His fingers traced the door frame, found the narrow split between frame and wall and let his fingertips tell him that the hidden key had been taken. Using his own key, he turned the lock slowly and stepped silently inside.

  The kitchen cupboards had been raided, tinned food opened; empty soft drink cans and packets of spilt potato crisps revealed someone’s hunger. He walked quietly to the bedroom door. The curtains were closed but there was sufficient light for him to see the curled, sleeping figure beneath the duvet. Raglan retreated to the kitchen and prepared two mugs of tea, spooning two measures of sugar into one of them. The violent attack and murder had happened less than thirty-six hours ago. The boy would still be in shock and sleep was the best thing for him, but he’d need his glucose level boosted. Raglan put the two mugs on the bedside table and squatted next to the sleeping boy, whispering his name, increasing the volume of his voice so it gently penetrated the boy’s consciousness. Steve Carter’s eyes flickered open and he gaped at Raglan’s smiling face close to his own. He squirmed upright, grappling with a sudden onslaught of confused emotions. He stammered, gasping for air.

  Raglan reached out to place a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Hello, mate. I made a cuppa.’

  Steve Carter reached for him and held him tightly. Raglan waited, letting the boy’s shock subside and, in his own time, Steve released him. He handed the mug to the boy.

  ‘Dad said you’d come. He said they’d find you,’ Steve blurted, hands embracing the mug’s warmth.

  Raglan nodded. ‘Drink some of that and we’ll talk.’

  The boy grimaced at the tea’s sweetness. They never had sugar at home.

  ‘You need it,’ Raglan insisted, sipping his own tea, his eyes checking the boy for any sign of injury. There were no blood splatters on him, which was a good sign. It meant the boy had escaped before the killing had taken place. ‘Did you phone your mother?’

  Steve shook his head. The tea seemed to be working; the kid’s hands had stopped trembling. ‘I dropped my phone in the car and Dad said not to. Said to wait for you. Said you’d come. Said I should wait two days before going home or until you came. Why wouldn’t he let me go home?’

  ‘In case there was an attack.’

  There was a surge of panic in his voice. ‘Are Mum and Melissa all right?’

  ‘They’re fine. I’d have known if they weren’t. Your dad wanted you here so you’d be safe.’ Raglan knew there was a reason for it that went beyond the boy’s safety. Carter would have relayed information through the boy. Now wasn’t the time to press the distressed kid. He’d wait. The youngster would
get to it soon enough.

  The boy’s lip quivered but he bit it, squeezing closed his eyes to dam the tears that threatened. ‘Did they kill Dad?’

  ‘It’s not good, Steve. You know that. No, I don’t think he’s dead but Charlie Lewis was shot. He didn’t make it.’

  The news of Lewis’s death had a numbing effect on the youngster. He fell silent and then whispered: ‘It was terrible... I was really scared. I was so scared I ran and left Dad.’

  Raglan calmed him. ‘It’s what you were supposed to do. You did exactly right. If they had taken you they would have used you against your dad and then the bad guys would have got what they wanted because he would never have let them hurt you.’

  ‘I didn’t think anything like that could happen. I feel such a coward, Dan.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve been there plenty of times with really tough blokes. Being scared is good. It keeps you sharp.’

  Steve’s lukewarm smile was a candid admission of a shared experience.

  ‘Listen, the police and other people will want to talk to you. I’d rather you told me everything. Everything you can remember. Maybe we’ll find something you’ve forgotten. OK? Our own debrief. With your help, we’ll get the men who did this. Why do you think your dad told you to get away? He relied on you. You did a hundred per cent.’

  ‘Really?’ said Steve, a glimmer of hope that he had, after all, done the right thing.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Raglan, and saw that his compliment lifted the boy’s spirits. ‘I bet you haven’t had a hot meal. How about I get us a pizza delivered? I’ll phone your mum and tell her I’ll have you home later. We’ll eat and then we’ll talk.’

  The boy was definitely calmer now, though he would need counselling for the trauma. But for the moment he was more settled.

  Steve’s brow furrowed as he reached for a thought in the turmoil of his memory. ‘Dad gave me a message... a name...’

  *

  One of Maguire’s men knocked on his office door; Maguire beckoned him in.

  ‘There’s still no signal from Abbie’s phone,’ said the young man. His clothing made him look as tough and streetwise as any of the other twentysomethings on the streets of a sink estate. He wore the suit hanging in his wardrobe only when intelligence-gathering in the business world demanded it.

  Maguire felt the press of doubt. Had he made a huge error after all, sending an untrained young woman into a place of danger? He immediately dismissed the thought. Negative emotions destroyed clear thinking. Abbie was intelligent enough to know what to do. ‘And the airports and points of entry?’

  ‘No record of anyone named Raglan coming into the country in the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I didn’t think there would be. He’ll come, I’m sure of it. If Abbie found him he’ll use another passport to get here. Have them check who was on the flights from Carcassonne or Toulouse.’

  ‘No flights from Carcassonne and one late afternoon from Toulouse.’

  ‘Run down all thirty-something males on that flight. He’s here. I know he is. Raglan is the kind of man who will not do what we expect. He’ll move quickly with or without Abbie.’

  A young woman knocked and walked in without waiting to be invited. ‘Sir, we have intercepted a call on the Carters’ home phone.’ She handed Maguire a transcript. ‘We couldn’t trace it.’

  Maguire felt a glow of satisfaction as he scanned the typewritten account of the brief conversation Raglan had conducted with the abducted man’s wife. ‘Of course not. Raglan knows the game. And if he is going to take her son home then he’s somehow found the boy, God knows how. But now we know he’s here.’ He placed the sheet of paper neatly on his desk. ‘As I thought.’ He nodded his dismissal to the female communications officer.

  ‘Shall we intercept them?’ said the scruffily dressed agent. ‘Before Five gets to him? We aren’t the only ones with a tap on her line. They’ll want to debrief the boy. Be better if we did it first.’

  ‘Five aren’t interested any longer. This doesn’t have the hallmark of a terrorist attack: it’s a murder and abduction so it’s a police matter. Let the boy and his mother have their reunion. The Met’s family liaison officer is still in place. She won’t let the police talk to the boy without social services present. Whatever information the boy has, Raglan will have it by now. We’ll get what we need before the Met interrogates Carter’s son.’

  ‘Then we do nothing?’

  Maguire looked out across the Thames and the darkening city. The days were drawing in as autumn made itself felt. Street and office lights glistened in the cold clear air. Jeremy Carter was hidden where these fairy-tale lights did not twinkle with a false promise that all was well. He was alone in darkness and in pain. Maguire caged his desire to get out on to the streets and take direct action. Old habits, old emotions were now channelled to organizing a rescue plan once they tracked down the abductors or they made a ransom demand. Providing Jeremy Carter was still alive. He shook his head in a belated answer to the question.

  ‘Be patient. Raglan will come to us.’

  11

  Eddie Roman shivered. Now that the buzz of the fast drive had left him, he felt sick to his stomach. He regretted getting involved with this heavy crew. He dragged deeply on his cigarette and averted his eyes from their victim, tied to a chair. The bastards were savages. They didn’t give a toss about anyone or anything. When they’d killed that poor sod in cold blood those high-velocity rounds could have punched through walls and snuffed out an old lady watching morning telly. No, no, this was not what he signed up for, but was he going to say anything? Not on your life. These cold-hearted killers would slit his throat and then go back to the sandwiches they were eating. What the hell was an old lag like him doing getting mixed up with hard-porn violence? he muttered to himself, cursing profusely under his breath.

  This place was getting to Eddie. He had done enough time in solitary to always carry the heart-crushing need to see the sky, but the windows in the abandoned building had already been boarded up before they arrived so there was no likelihood of any light from the arc lamps they had set up escaping into the night. He was caged again. All he wanted was to slip away the couple of miles home to Brentford and Shelley. He’d told her this job would only be for a couple of days and if he didn’t phone her she’d be getting worried. Please, God, she didn’t get worried enough to call the police. He glanced around at the dingy surroundings. The place was filthy except for the area they had cleared, deep inside the building, where the two harsh arc lamps, ones that could be bought in any builder’s yard, scorched their glare on the man who sat, head slumped, dried blood from the blow on his head. He reckoned these blokes were so well organized they had been preparing this attack for weeks. This was a perfect site, just a spit away from the concrete yard and metal-crushing plant. It offered security and soundproofing, but it was also a good defensive position. He could see that. Anyone trying to assault the place would be cut to pieces getting over those gates and into the yard, and as for the detritus-filled gully behind the yard, which he knew to be a tributary of the River Brent, even crack-hot SAS troops would get caught up in the rusting shopping trolleys and fly-tipped junk there.

  Two of the gunmen were posted at strategic parts of the disused factory, each with a view through a small, uncovered window tucked away at each wing. The other three killers rotated on sentry duty. There was one man extra who had not been involved in the ambush and was waiting at the site and who had quickly opened and closed the gates when they arrived. They were cool and relaxed as they monitored the darkened yards, wedging themselves on to windowsills, submachine guns slung over their shoulders. One pressed his two-way radio, its transmission squelch answered by the other gunman confirming that all was clear. It was useless for Eddie to try and pinpoint their East European accents. He had asked them where they were from but they had smiled and ignored him. Eddie had no purpose other than to wait for further instructions, and be ready to drive wherever the gang’s leader
wanted to be taken.

  They had bound a naked Carter with duct tape on his legs, arms and chest in a chair, its back to the area where the men would relax, eat and sleep. A bloodstained pillowcase covered his head. The gang’s leader had complained that their victim had been struck too hard with the rifle butt: he had slipped in and out of consciousness for an hour after being seized, then he’d been too groggy to answer questions. If the kidnapped bloke could only remember what these men wanted to know then the job would be done and Eddie could get himself home. The leader had dribbled water into the battered man’s split lip and made a cursory check on his dilated pupils. In other words, Eddie Roman told himself, this evil bastard knew what he was doing and just how far he could go. He was a trained torturer.

  Eddie gave the injured prisoner a wide berth and moved to the far end of the room, where it seemed the gang had been staying before the kidnap. They had arranged a worn old sofa and a couple of battered armchairs in a circle on an old piece of carpet, probably retrieved from a builder’s skip. Cot beds and sleeping bags were gathered around a propane gas heater, the beds shared as two men at a time took their turn at being on guard duty. A small fridge stood between two folding tables. One bore cans of food, an electric kettle and bottled water next to the makings for instant coffee; the weapons and ammunition clips were arranged on the other. These were additional weapons to what the men carried, oiled Hechler and Koch MP5s. Handguns and four grenades lay next to the same number of canisters. Eddie wasn’t sure, but he had watched enough Hollywood thrillers and war films to think they might be smoke canisters. The longer he stayed in this small fortress with what were obviously professional mercenaries the more determined he was to make a run for it when the opportunity presented itself.

  The interrogator dragged a wooden chair closer to his captive, his face right next to the pillowcase where the man’s laboured breathing sucked and blew the cloth back and forth.

  ‘This is not the time to fall silent, Jeremy, my dear old friend,’ he said, his words laden with sarcasm. ‘Your educated tones were always pure joy to my mongrel ear. Let not your voice quieten now.’