The Englishman

by David Gilman

  ‘One man with me! The other get her out!’

  The men needed no further commands. They moved rapidly. One grabbed Sorokina’s wrist and dragged her to safety; kicking aside the trolley that blocked the lift door, he pulled her inside. Raglan heard the incongruous dulcet tones of a female voice telling the passengers to stand clear of the doors. The second cop posted himself on the opposite side to Raglan, ten feet back, ready to give covering crossfire. Raglan felt the same shudder of anxiety and excitement that always embraced him at times like this. A satisfying gut feeling kicked in, seeing the experienced ex-army police officer ready to move forward into a kill zone. It served no purpose to give a thought to Sorokina.

  Focusing on where the dead man lay, he stepped forward. The cop moved tactically, covering Raglan every step of the way. The soft squelch of his police radio sounded as loud as an alarm in the stillness following the gunfire, but it was too low for anyone outside the room to hear. Raglan paused, watched and listened as the man responded in a whisper, giving a quick sitrep, then listened to the voice in his earpiece. He moved to Raglan’s shoulder and put his face close to Raglan’s ear.

  ‘The Russian’s alive. Four ARVs outside, eight men. Surrounding streets being secured. Your boss has shut down the helipad on the river. He’s en route. Orders are to wait.’

  Raglan smiled. The cop shrugged, knowing full well they were in an operational groove and that forward impetus was in their favour. One gunman down. It lessened the odds. Time to press on. Raglan edged around the corner with his new fighting partner at his shoulder. Raglan held up a hand. They reached the corner where the dead man lay. The corridor was wide, without partitioned walls. To Raglan’s left the plate-glass windows brought in light from the illuminated skyscrapers. The interior glass mirrored the image of a gunman waiting around the corner. Raglan shifted the weapon to his left hand, kept his eye on the image in the glass and fired around the corner. The thud of the bullet strikes was followed by the sound of the body slumping against a door. Raglan and the officer turned the corner. Two dead men now lay beneath their feet. As they went forward, he heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a twin-engine helicopter. If luck was on their side, there would be fewer men now to defend JD as he made his escape. Raglan stepped across the second crumpled body and then pushed through the door into the unknown.

  *

  Abbie had not done as Raglan instructed; she had stayed in her car. When Sorokina arrived at the clinic, the police car had pulled up outside the parking ramp to block any attempt at escape from inside the hospital building. They had tried to gain access through the front doors but retreated once they realized the doors were jammed. Two of the armed police escorted the Russian major down into the gloom of the parking basement. Abbie caught their attention and told them where Raglan had gone. Abbie waited and ten minutes later, when she saw Sorokina being dragged out of the lift by one of the policemen, she ran to help. Her heart caught in her throat at the violent reality of the situation. She helped take some of the unconscious woman’s weight and couldn’t help noticing the puncture marks in the Russian’s body armour. For a moment she thought Sorokina dead until she heard the injured woman’s rasping breath.

  ‘She’s alive,’ said the cop. ‘It’s like being kicked by a mule. She’ll be OK. There’s an ambulance outside.’

  ‘There are doctors here,’ Abbie urged. ‘It’s a hospital!’

  ‘We’ve locked down the place, love. No worries. She’ll be all right in a bit.’

  Abbie left them at the top of the ramp. Two police cars were outside with an ambulance, its rear doors open, anticipating casualties. There were no blue lights swirling. Everything was quiet. On the far corner of the block, well away from the clinic, she saw people going into a restaurant, oblivious to the drama unfolding on the upper floors. If any of them gave the police and ambulance a second glance, the scene might well have been dismissed as business as usual. After all, they were outside a private hospital.

  Abbie suddenly remembered she had left the two mobile phones on the seat of the car. She ran back, leant inside and as she reached for them saw through the windscreen a movement in the shadows against the far wall where the black Saab was parked. A rough-looking man wearing a dark canvas jacket, boots and jeans had a phone pressed to his ear and was opening the boot of the car. He pulled out an assault rifle. Abbie’s stomach clenched. There were more gunmen in the building than Raglan might know about. No sooner had the frightening thought crossed her mind than the man looked at her. Too late she realized the car’s interior light had come on when she had opened the door. She jerked out of the car, keeping her eyes on him, but the man hadn’t moved. He was alert but unconcerned. It didn’t make sense. And then the man smiled and nodded. A rough hand smothered Abbie’s face and mouth. Strong arms held her tightly. The gunman had an accomplice.

  34

  Raglan and the armed officer slipped through the double swing doors beyond the dead man. They led to an unlit passageway that connected the top floor of the clinic to the roof and gave access to the ramp leading up to the helipad at the far end. The corridor was like the converted loading tunnel for boarding aircraft at major airports, its non-slip floor led from the outside roof ramp and past the swing doors where he and the armed officer stood, weapons raised, searching for JD. The tunnel led downward and as far as he could see it then curved back on itself, sweeping around to the floor below. That was where patients would be trolleyed to and from the helipad. The sixth floor was not yet operational. If JD had put men on the working floor of the hospital someone somewhere would have raised the alarm. Killing an after-hours receptionist was not the same as subduing a whole floor. Raglan’s senses were primed. Never underestimate your enemy. Especially an ex-intelligence officer.

  JD had left three of his men with Carter. He had extra men in different locations. Eddie Roman was killed because he somehow got in the way. So far Raglan had killed six men. The man at his flat, three at the factory and two here at the clinic. How many more at this location? To get this far and make sure he could control a landing zone for a chopper, probably at least four. Lookouts, backstop guards and someone to cover when the chopper landed. Where were the others?

  Raglan and the policeman stepped left into the empty tunnel. Now he could hear the helicopter in the distance, its variable engine pitch fading as it circled. Raglan put his shoulder against the swing doors and felt the cold wet air bite his skin.

  ‘Go right and skirt the walls. We can cover the roof and any crossfire. I’ll go this side towards the cooling ducts. If that chopper is called in whoever’s going for it needs to step out in plain sight.’

  The seasoned cop needed no further explanation. He went off at the crouch, searching the edge of the building. If either man came under fire, they had a good chance of retaliating. The helicopter was still out of sight, the cloud base stubbornly low, caressing tall buildings in a ghoulish embrace, suffocating their lights. There was a passenger jet descending for its landing at Heathrow Airport: its landing lights managed to pierce the fine mist-like rain in the night sky and its roar defeated the helicopter’s growling impatience to land. The roar deadened, too, the sound of gunshots fired from near the cooling funnels. Mortar shattered near Raglan’s head; fragments cut into his cheek and neck. He pivoted and saw the cop kneel and return fire with three rapid double taps. It saved Raglan from being targeted. He ran, pressing his back against the wall. A sudden thunder bombarded his senses as a searchlight blinded him. The chopper had swung around, laid off beyond the helipad and used its powerful front headlamps to highlight Raglan and the policeman.

  As Raglan closed one eye, attempting to keep his night vision intact, a shadow loomed around the corner, levelling a handgun. Raglan rolled, his shoulder slamming into the wet roof, rapid fire crackling over his head. He threw himself forward, forcing the gunman back on to his heels, denying him an easy follow-on shot. Raglan kicked away his attacker’s legs. The chopper swept away again, the pilo
t not being prepared to risk the conflict. As the spotlight veered off into darkness, Raglan’s vision returned. He slammed his shoulder into the man, heard him grunt, knew he was agile enough to recover but Raglan’s free hand had grasped the man’s wrist as he brought up his knee into his groin. The man twisted, taking the blow on his thigh. He headbutted Raglan, catching him across the bridge of his nose. He heard it break, tasted blood at the back of his throat, but never released his grip on the man’s gun hand.

  The sudden intimate close-quarter fight brought the man’s face into focus. JD snarled and tried to headbutt him again, but Raglan had thrown his weight against him, forcing the man’s arm to bend or break. He heard gunshots behind him and as JD tried to regain his footing Raglan saw the cop on the far side of the roof shoot a man in a canvas jacket whose assault rifle flew high and wide. For a split second in time the man’s body froze, head thrown back, balance gone, rifle leaving his fingers. It was a Robert Capa historic photo moment. And then the cop staggered back. He’d been hit. He went down, rolled, tried to get up, his left arm cushioning his wounds, determined to stay in the fight, but the impact had robbed him of his strength and despite his determination could only roll over on to his side and give in to the damage inflicted on him.

  JD recovered, using elbows and feet to beat Raglan back. Raglan’s grip forced JD to drop his handgun. Raglan kicked it away as he slammed the killer against the wall, forcing his head to snap back. Raglan landed two savage punches into his midriff and, as JD bent forward, slammed his chin back with the heel of his hand, a tooth-crushing blow. JD’s head hit the wall again. Raglan pinned him upright, hands round his neck. JD’s eyes glazed and cleared. The chopper held off again, hovering with its searchlight beam illuminating both men. JD’s eyes widened as he recognized the legionnaire commando from so many years before.

  ‘I’ll be damned. You. You’re a long way from the desert, my friend. I thought the ragheads had killed you.’

  ‘And we all thought you had gone down in flames.’

  JD gave a bloodied smile. ‘That was theatrical licence.’

  ‘Yegor Kuznetsov. The Blacksmith. Aka John Doe. You’re a sick, dangerous bastard. You’re going back home. In a body bag if I can make it happen.’ He twisted JD around and held him bent over in an arm lock.

  JD laughed and spat blood. ‘Never gonna happen. You’re out of your league. How did you find me? Carter? Did you find him? No, it wasn’t him, he didn’t know where I was going.’

  ‘You’re not as smart as you think. Carter is dead.’

  JD sighed. ‘I told them to wait before they killed him in case the bastard had sent me on a wild goose chase.’ He snorted. ‘You just can’t find good help these days.’

  ‘You tortured him so badly he couldn’t hold on.’

  ‘He played a raw-bone game. Isn’t that what your kind called it? Strip it all away, tear back the skin and muscle. Get it down to the bone. A face-to-face kill. Suck up the pain and go through with the mission.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve got the money and the names, places, account numbers... Carter was very good. I’ve got it all and you can’t do a fucking thing about it.’

  JD was too confident. Raglan knew there had to be another man. Behind him.

  ‘Drop it!’ said a voice loud enough to be heard over the helicopter engine’s roar as its wheels settled on to the pad. The pilot had seen the play unfold. It was time for the pickup. The downdraught bore down on them, the blades sweeping the rain across the pools of water on the rooftop.

  Raglan turned; his stomach lurched. A big man held Abbie with one hand, a pistol in the other. The girl was terrified. Tears stained her face. The damp air settled fairy glitter on her beautiful dark hair. Game over. Raglan had no clear shot. He dropped his handgun and half raised his hands clear of his body. No sudden movements. No final desperate attempt to snatch at JD, who kicked away Raglan’s weapon and bent down to retrieve a briefcase tucked against the wall. Pushing Raglan aside he ran towards the ramp, signalling for the man to bring the girl.

  Raglan made a move forward but the man holding her pushed the gun muzzle into Abbie’s head. Her wide-eyed fear hurt him. He raised a hand to reassure her and shouted, ‘Leave her!’ darting as close to the edge as he could.

  ‘Raglan! Help me, please help me,’ Abbie cried.

  JD was at the helicopter’s open door. He turned and looked at Raglan. A hard, cold killer’s look. Eyes reflecting a soul that was damned. He put the briefcase inside the helicopter, grabbed the girl and let the man with him clamber inside. He stood triumphantly for a moment. Abbie looked disbelievingly at Raglan as JD hauled her into the wavering chopper. He forced her to sit on the rim, which gave him cover should any snipers be in place. Raglan had got as close as he could. A dozen fast-paced strides and he could lunge at the open door. But to do so would sign Abbie’s death warrant.

  He pointed at JD. ‘I’ll find you!’

  JD grinned through bloodied teeth. ‘You lost. The battle and the war.’

  Raglan swore as the helicopter began to lift. ‘Don’t hurt her!’ he begged.

  He heard JD shout back. ‘Why not?’

  The gunshot cracked through the sound of the rotor blades.

  Abbie slumped. JD let her lifeless body fall, tumbling down past the building. Raglan ran to the edge and saw it splash into the dockland water.

  The chopper dipped away, soon gone from sight.

  35

  Maguire arrived soon after the killing.

  Police had cordoned off the area, ushering away diners and late-night workers from nearby buildings. The clinic’s skeleton night staff had remained oblivious to the gunfire on the roof and, being used to the sound of helicopters passing by, had ignored the battering rotor blades that came and went. It was only when armed police officers appeared on the floors demanding that they stay locked down that panic set in. Staff and those patients who could be moved were herded into a safe area while the police searched each floor. There was no need. The killers had fled or were already dead.

  London’s air traffic control attempted to determine the flight path of the mystery helicopter, but the pilot had used the Thames to escape, flying low and fast, following the course of the twisting river. Maguire waited with a bloodied Raglan as police divers dragged the dock. The night’s chill rain added to everyone’s discomfort but Raglan was impervious to it. His anger had settled into the dull ache of helplessness at being unable to save the girl.

  Police floodlights illuminated the dock’s wind-rippled surface. Abbie’s body had plunged into the black depths. Falling from that height into water was like hitting concrete: her body would have suffered multiple injuries and might never be recovered if an undercurrent took it. There was no comfort for Raglan or Maguire in knowing she’d been dead before she hit the water. Raglan spat the taste of blood from the back of his throat.

  ‘How’s the cop who was on the roof with me?’ he asked, keeping his eyes on the police divers’ boat.

  ‘Wounded but not life-threatening,’ said Maguire.

  ‘He saved my life. I owe him. They came up the outside fire escape. He was sharp.’ He faced Maguire. ‘I couldn’t get a shot in time to save her.’

  Rain trickled down Maguire’s neck. He shook his head. ‘Abbie was one of mine. My responsibility.’

  ‘I left her in the car. She was supposed to leave.’

  ‘She would have stayed for you, Raglan.’ He hesitated. ‘For whatever reason.’

  A coroner’s van pulled up in the street below and waited in the shadows.

  ‘Sorokina’s got a couple of busted ribs. Her body armour saved her,’ Maguire said. ‘The Home Office is all over this. Europol and the Met. IOPC will start an investigation before the paint’s dry. MI5 has washed its hands of it. Deny, deny, deny is the best line of defence. I don’t blame them. This wasn’t their game to play. I’ve got a meeting with the PM tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How will it play out?’

  ‘Quietly. The Met Commissioner w
ill give a press conference at the same time. An armed man attempted to break into the private hospital for reasons unknown. Armed police responded. One officer was wounded in the line of duty; they shot the suspect dead. End of story.’

  ‘And the other bodies?’

  ‘What bodies would that be?’ said Maguire. They fell silent. The narrative was already written.

  ‘What are you going to tell Abbie’s parents?’ said Raglan, remembering their pride in their only daughter.

  ‘Car accident is best, I think, don’t you?’

  ‘Why not tell them the truth?’

  ‘A need-to-know basis. And them knowing doesn’t bring her back.’

  ‘What they need to know is what happened to their daughter. She was part of this. She was shot, Maguire. Talk your way out of that one.’

  ‘Her post-mortem won’t show any record of that. Officially, a hit-and-run driver is already being sought.’

  ‘When will you go and see them?’

  Maguire shook his head. ‘It should be tonight.’

  ‘Let them sleep,’ said Raglan. ‘They won’t be getting much of that for a long time to come.’ Raglan wiped his sleeve across his face. His nose was bleeding. ‘I’ve met them. I’ll go and see them first thing. You can do the follow-up and give them all the usual official claptrap.’

  Maguire nodded. ‘All right. It’s not an easy thing to do and you still have to see Carter’s wife… widow. And the kids.’

  The men in the water swam further apart, lights piercing down into the depths. It was a cold dark grave.

  ‘Not the first time it’s been my job. It’s how I pay for my sins,’ said Raglan.

  Maguire’s tone softened. The next few hours would push two families into their own personal vision of hell. ‘Get that blood off your face, have the medics fix your broken nose and get a couple of stitches in that leg wound.’