The Englishman

by David Gilman

  She laid down her fork from the plate of antipasti and dabbed her mouth. The memory had soured her appetite. Raglan ordered grappa despite the waiter’s look of surprise at him ordering the 60-per-cent-proof drink in the middle of the meal. It soon dulled her pain. No more questions. Once the food arrived, who could get the most spaghetti on to the fork soon became a competition until he managed the biggest mouthful, a feat which would have made his army friends proud. She laughed and reached across to dab the sauce from his mouth. After that she conceded defeat.

  ‘Do you always have to win?’ she asked him.

  Raglan didn’t answer.

  *

  When the taxi pulled up outside her hotel Raglan needed no invitation to come inside, and the night porter slumped behind the small and ineffective reception desk did not even rouse himself when Sorokina reached for her key. Her room was so basic there was barely space to fit in a double bed. Her suitcase was in one corner and the hanging rail sported day-to-day attire. The size of the room meant that the act of undressing was an intimacy in itself as they both disrobed quickly, their bodies nudging until she turned into his arms and pulled him to her. He lifted her on to the firm mattress, tugging the bed cover over them both to keep the chill of the barely heated room off their skin. She showed no sign of feeling the cold: her skin was not puckered; only her nipples were aroused. They explored each other’s scars, marks sketching a life lived in danger. Sorokina lay full length on top of him, pressing herself against him, luxuriating in his firm body. She began to straddle him, eyes locked on to his, but he twisted her down so she was beneath him. She was strong and resisted, but only in play, and he spent time stroking and teasing her, letting his tongue and lips and hands arouse her until she began to whisper her frustration in Russian. He ignored her insistence that he make love to her and continued his deliberate teasing until she shuddered with the first of her orgasms, her legs drawing up, her back arching. He nuzzled her neck, listening to her shallow breathing as she let the surge within her subside. Then she drew his face to her and kissed him, a long demanding kiss that made her tremble as he pressed himself between her legs. Her eyes opened and closed as he moved slowly inside of her. When he lowered his face to her breasts he felt her tighten around him, a small gasp that grew louder as the intensity of her arousal increased. Her mouth opened in a silent, held breath, not yet released, trapped within the pleasure of what he was doing to her. When her cry forced itself to the surface she let its release explode. Their bodies were slick with sweat. He felt her spasms until she sighed and with a final breath of delight focused on him as if she was seeing him for the first time. He kissed her tenderly. She smiled and pushed him away so she could roll on top of him.

  ‘My turn,’ she said.

  *

  Raglan was gone when she awoke. At first, she wondered whether he had gone out for breakfast and would return bearing fresh coffee, but after she had stepped out of the cramped shower and he was still not there she realized his actions made sense. It would serve no purpose for Maguire to find out that they had slept together and if Raglan’s driver had been called to her hotel then it would have been obvious. As she dried her hair her phone beeped. A text message from Raglan telling her she would be picked up in an hour. The night was over; she was back on duty. With any luck, they would corner the man she hunted. She knew that there was a strong chance he would escape justice if taken back to Moscow. No matter how hard her father might try and influence the outcome, Kuznetsov had friends in high places. She hoped the tough man who had given her so much pleasure the night before would be the first to corner him. Kuznetsov was a hardened fighter, though, and even if Raglan got to him first she could not be certain who would walk away from the confrontation. She promised herself that if she got close enough and had a clean shot she would kill him herself.

  She took the semi-automatic pistol in its clamshell holster from the room’s safe. It was a standard-issue Makarov but it was not the gun of choice for the police, who had been promised the much improved Yarygin Grach, which was usually kept for special forces. The Makarov had been in service since the fifties, three decades before she was born, which meant there were thousands of them available. It was a mass-produced, robust and reliable weapon; she was used to its weight, had used it in anger before now and understood its limitations. When she went to the academy her small-arms instructor told her it had a fifty-metre range but she would have more success if she threw it. Twenty metres was the limit. When she had killed with it in the past she had moved even closer. Better to make sure.

  *

  After Abbie had picked Raglan up he asked her to stop at a takeaway sandwich bar where he bought three coffees and a couple of sandwiches. As she drove he stripped out the ham from one sandwich and placed it over the cheese in the other. She didn’t ask why. Raglan did things his way, but he didn’t eat it. They sat across the street waiting for the Russian to emerge from the hotel. When Major Sorokina came out she was wearing a more workmanlike hip-length jacket and jeans. Abbie flashed the headlights. Sorokina climbed into the back as Raglan turned and handed her one of the coffees.

  ‘I guessed milk and two sugars,’ he said. Russians usually liked their coffee sweet in the morning, something he had learnt from Sokol, the veteran legionnaire. ‘No kolbasa,’ he told her as he handed over the doctored sandwich. ‘We don’t get sausage in a sandwich here so I made up cheese and ham.’

  Abbie watched her in the rearview mirror. The brief smile of thanks and the touch of her hand on Raglan’s shoulder was barely noticeable. Abbie was surprised at her own reaction. A twinge of jealousy stabbed in her stomach. Something had happened between Raglan and the Russian cop.

  She engaged gear. No one would look that pleased with the world just because of a cheese and ham sandwich.

  26

  Jeremy Carter was still alive. That the man had endured so much pain did not surprise JD; in fact, he had planned for it, which was why he had set up three places where he and his crew could hole up with their prisoner. Each of the buildings was surrounded by either industrial estates or condemned buildings awaiting redevelopment. Money had changed hands months before when Eddie Roman had identified the best locations and secured them from funds that had been sent through by couriers. JD had visited London several weeks previously and conducted his own reconnaissance to establish Carter’s routine and then, having decided on the ambush, he had planned his escape routes. Time would always be against him and eventually the police and security forces would get close.

  The first location gave him the opportunity to get out of sight quickly after the ambush; had he gone any further on the roads cameras would have traced the van. Now he had different vehicles and a new location which would be good for a few days; and then, if Carter survived, there was always a third. They left nothing to chance, which was why his fixer, Eddie Roman, had had to be removed from the equation. He had broken the golden rule of no phone usage during the operation, which is how this had been planned, with military precision. The likelihood was that if the police found the first location they would not be able to identify the dead man, or not very quickly at least, and that gave him another time advantage because JD could not see how any connection could be made between the petty criminal and himself. There was no trail for the authorities to follow.

  What concerned him now was the loss of one of his men, Stefan. There had been no contact since he had sent him to the address that Carter had given him. That meant he had likely been arrested. His man was well trained so he would not have used his firearm if confronted. The understanding was that if any of them got caught they would be looked after and a way found to secure their freedom. The large amount of money on the table bought silence and loyalty, something that was in short supply these days. He had checked news sites on his mobile but all he could glean was that a woman had been found dead in the building where Stefan had been sent. There was no mention of an arrest. Why not? If Stefan had killed her because he had no cho
ice then he would have returned. He had not. That meant Stefan was either dead or under arrest. In either case, the press had not reported it. The obvious conclusion was that Carter’s people had shut everything down.

  He flicked the stub of his cigar into space and watched it spiral into a puddle in the yard. It sizzled and died. He looked up to where Carter was restrained on the third floor. JD admitted grudging respect for the man. Beneath the city banker veneer was an old-school toughness. Most would have cracked by now but after three days Carter had only drip-fed him information like any trained operative would do. He double-checked the chained gate and took a final look around the building. The extra man he had put in place before the ambush had acted as a nightwatchman. No one had breached the walls or gates. No suspicions would be raised. They were secure. This old factory gave them a good view of the surrounding area should anyone get too nosey.

  *

  Carter had decided to kill himself. He could not hold out any longer. He had bought sufficient time for his son to be safe, his family would have been protected and if fate had been kind Raglan was in London and had dealt with the gunman who had been sent to his flat. One down, how many others were there? The local man, the driver: he had not arrived wherever they were now, but a new man had been waiting when they drove through the gates and hauled him up three floors. Now they had left him unguarded. He had only minutes to end it all. Death was a better outcome than this agony: he would sell his soul to stop the torture. He had rocked the metal-framed chair until it fell backwards and pushed himself along the floor with what strength he had left in his legs. He left a blood trail across the wooden floor as he inched towards the glassless window frame. If he could get across the low sill the fall would kill him.

  The effort was excruciating. A bloody mass of tissue where his left eye used to be wept and the pain squirmed in his head and neck. They had given him a local anaesthetic when they took his eye. One man sat on his lap; another gripped his head. When the scalpel came close he screamed and bucked, but they were too strong for him. As the first cut sliced deep he had passed out. Now he could take no more. He had to end it before he told them everything they needed to know. Carter whimpered with despair. He heard rapid footfalls as someone loped up the concrete stairs. The sound of the approaching man and fear of the torture that would follow gave him the strength to reach the wall. He wedged the chair’s back against the wall and pushed with his legs; the chair frame slid sideways against the concrete. He pushed again, using what little strength he had left, found some purchase and felt the back of the chair scrape upwards. He was almost at the ledge. All he had to do was raise his back a few inches higher and his weight would tumble him into space. The room spun, the ceiling, the wall, the drop, and then he saw JD turn from the stairwell and race towards him. Carter shook his head, teeth gritted, but his legs couldn’t give him that final push, and then JD was there. His tormentor pulled him upright and dragged him all the way back to the middle of the floor. Carter wept while JD got his breath back.

  ‘It’s not for you to say when, Jeremy... Those aren’t the rules.’

  At the end of the room, a cistern flushed and groaned. One of the gunmen came out of the toilet. He stopped when he saw JD kneeling next to Carter.

  ‘I said watch him. Next time leave the door open,’ said JD.

  The man nodded sheepishly and took up his position at the window. ‘It’s fucked. The toilet.’

  ‘Then we go back to a bucket. Organize it.’

  JD wrapped a blanket around Carter and pulled the IV drip stand towards them, reconnecting it into Carter’s arm. He opened up a medical pack and prepared a syringe, tapping out the air bubbles.

  ‘We don’t want you dying on us, Jeremy. Not yet.’ He swabbed Carter’s arm with as much care as a hospital nurse. ‘Hypovolemic shock is bad news, Jeremy. Got to slow down the trauma or you’ll be no good to us at all.’ He squirted the excess out of the hypodermic. ‘Now this bit of God-given relief is morphine sulphate. It won’t help you survive for long but it’ll do wonders for the pain. I know how too much pain scrambles a man’s thoughts, but I need you, Jeremy. For a while longer at least.’ He injected Carter, who winced. Even the slightest scratch now ricocheted through his damaged nervous system. ‘And if for some unlikely reason I let you live, I’ll make sure you’re a junkie for the rest of your life. There’s got to be some pleasure to be had from that. Now, what or who was at that address you gave me?’

  Carter felt himself slipping away as the drug embraced him. ‘Your man hasn’t come back, has he?’

  ‘What’s there?’ JD insisted.

  Carter lifted his chin from his chest and settled his remaining eye on the man. JD’s face blurred face was close to his.

  ‘Everything,’ he said.

  27

  The briefing was held at the Shepherd’s Bush Police Station from where the search and investigation was being co-ordinated. The two-storey building was plain and functional but the meeting inside its conference room was being energetically directed by a ruddy-faced man, Detective Chief Inspector Liam James. He had spent twenty of his fifty years tracking down terrorists in Northern Ireland when he was stationed in Belfast. As the SIO running the investigation into the murders of Carter’s driver and Raglan’s neighbour he had full command of the resources available to him, though they were limited. The world wouldn’t shift on its axis because of a couple of murders and a kidnapping.

  The speed with which the police had swooped on Eddie Roman’s known associates impressed Raglan. Little had been gleaned about the man – he’d said nothing to anyone about his involvement with JD – but a lock-up had been found where there was enough evidence to establish at least one car had been resprayed. They traced registration plates hidden behind a hardboard panel to a second-hand car yard on the other side of the city. With some hardnosed persuasion from the police, the owner admitted Eddie had bought two old turbo-charged Saabs for cash. One was silver, the other dark blue, but the respray showed they were now black. They passed this information to every officer on the street, along with JD’s mugshot. The news channels and newspapers had not been given any information about JD in order to protect Carter for as long as possible.

  It was obvious to Raglan, sitting with Sorokina and Abbie in the crowded room, that DCI Liam James was a man who cracked the whip. They had made good headway so far. Two key things needed to be established. How these men were moving across the city and where they might be hiding.

  Investigation into Eddie Roman’s stint as a hospital porter had yielded proof that someone had stolen an ambulance, which meant the killers were prepared to keep Carter alive and stretcher him wherever they planned to go next. The Met detectives knew that the stolen ambulance was one of the small estate cars used by medics to move emergencies quickly through traffic and not the box-sided ambulances everyone notices on the street. What they did not know was if it had been spray-painted or whether the kidnappers wanted to use its ability to cut through traffic using siren and lights. Now priority had been given to tracking down stolen cars and their number plates which might have been switched on to the Saabs. The teams had worked day and night scouring the city’s computer files of cars being stolen over the past two months which was, DCI James admitted, a rough stab at how long it could have taken for the kidnap and murder to be planned. If he was correct in this assumption, this fallow period of time would have taken away any urgency from overstretched police officers to find the missing vehicles. Abandoned vehicles are towed to various police compounds and those vehicles without plates were traced to the owners through the engine numbers. The owners confirmed their cars’ original plate numbers, which were being circulated to every officer and traffic cam operator. It had been a herculean task achieved in less than forty-eight hours.

  Specialist firearms officers would be deployed from across the whole Metropolitan area, DCI James said. On the PowerPoint image behind him, he showed how the search areas would circle in ever-increasing and -d
ecreasing sweeps from inside and outside of the London boroughs. Then he brought the briefing to a close by extending his compliments to their visiting senior officer from the Moscow CID who would ride with one of the armed teams.

  As the crowded room emptied Raglan saw Maguire standing at the back. Raglan always remembered how, when he was a kid and he looked as if thunder was rolling around inside his head and the world was about to end, his mother would say he had a face on him. Maguire fitted the bill. Ignoring Sorokina and Abbie, he nodded to Raglan to follow him. When they were free of the crowded room he turned on Raglan.

  ‘You’re screwing the Russian?’

  Raglan didn’t care that Maguire knew. ‘Why are you having me followed?’

  ‘Because you don’t stay where I put you. I gave you that safe house for your own protection.’