Half an hour later Gunnymede was cleaned up and placing a fresh dressing on his wound. As he applied the last strip of tape a floorboard creaked outside his room. His eyes moved to the bottom of the door. The gap wasn’t large enough to show light from the hallway.
The creak came again. Same floorboard.
He pulled on a shirt as he moved to the door, took a hold of the key and doorknob and paused to listen. Another creak, further away. He opened the door.
Bethan was halfway towards the stairs walking away. ‘I was going to knock but changed my mind,’ she said.
‘Everything okay?’
‘The hotel doesn’t have a restaurant. If you want dinner you’ll have to walk into the town.’
‘Okay – thanks.’
‘Sorry to disturb you.’ She forced a smile and went down the stairs.
Gunnymede stepped back into his room. He felt he’d been rude.
He went to the window and looked onto the hotel entrance as Bethan stepped outside. She paused to look left and right and headed away.
Gunnymede felt a tinge of guilt as he watched her go. Unable to fight it he quickly pulled on his socks and shoes, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
Bethan walked along a quiet residential street looking at the architecture of the three story terraced houses on either side. Lights were on in most of the homes with cars parked on the street. She came to a crossroads as a car drove past and looked in every direction as if trying to decide which one to choose. She took the right turn and walked for a few meters before stopping, deciding the way ahead looked too dark.
She went back to the crossroads and straight across but stopped again. It looked worse than the previous option.
‘Do you have any idea where you’re going?’ Gunnymede asked, startling her.
‘You made me jump,’ she said, recovering. ‘The concierge gave me directions to what he described as a nice family restaurant. Left out of the hotel, right, right, left. But now I’m not sure.’
He joined her to take a look at the options.
I haven’t tried this street,’ she said, pointing directly across. ‘Would you care to join me?’
‘Sure.’
They crossed the road and walked along a residential street that was grubbier than the last with few functioning street lamps. She glanced at him. When he caught her look she smiled politely and looked away.
‘What do you like to be called?’ she asked.
‘Mister Gunnymede.’
She hoped to find a trace of humour in his expression which she did. ‘Devon. Dev. Or Gunny perhaps?’
‘Take your pick.’
‘I like Devon. I like Gunny too. I can’t decide.’
They came to another crossroads.
‘I’m going with straight on,’ she said.
He shrugged indifference and they crossed into the next street.
‘You think British?’ she asked.
‘Yeh, I’d say British military trained.’
‘Why?’
‘The PAD mostly.’
‘Perimeter Area Defence,’ she remembered.
‘Very UK SF. The curry powder was another strong indictor.’
She looked surprised.
‘Ration packs can be boring. Brits like their curry.’
‘Not an Asian sniper then?’
‘Brit smoke. Brit PAD. Boobytrap escape route. It looks very Brit SF.’
‘Why kill all of them?’
‘Because he could.’
She looked at him enquiringly.
‘He wouldn’t have arrived expecting to get everyone. The ones on the slope looked like they were trying to get to him and got caught in the open. I don’t think they were very good at not getting shot.’
The street grew darker. Gunnymede noticed someone in a doorway, the glow from a cell-phone exposing him.
‘How long do you think it took?’ she asked.
‘Did you check your phone when you were there?’
‘No.’
‘There was no signal. As long as no-one got away to raise the alarm, he had all the time he wanted.’
A man turned a corner up ahead the other side of the street. He seemed to pause and look for Gunnymede and Bethan before crossing the road and heading towards them.
Bethan hardly noticed him but Gunnymede’s danger meter began to blink. The man looked handy. When he was metres away he stopped squarely in front of the pair. Gunnymede stopped and held out an arm to halt Bethan.
The man produced a large, serrated knife. Gunnymede held his arms ready to respond. The man muttered something and held out his free hand.
Bethan reached inside her pocket and took out her purse. ‘He can have this.’
Gunnymede put his hand on her purse, pushing it back to her, his gaze fixed on the man’s eyes. ‘He’ll probably want more than that.’
The man lunged forward and swung the knife in a wide arc. Gunnymede yanked Bethan back as the tip of the blade nicked her jacket. Several bricks were within reach on a garden wall and Gunnymede grabbed one and hauled it at the man. The brick bounced off his shoulder and went through a car window. Before the man could react, Gunnymede grabbed another brick and ran at him, releasing it at a short distance with all his might. The brick hit the man squarely in the face which sent him back. Gunnymede grabbed the knife hand and kicked the mugger brutally in the crotch, buckling his legs. As he leaned forward, Gunnymede kicked him in the throat. The man released the knife as he fought to breathe. He dropped to the ground struggling for air. Gunnymede followed it up with another brutal kick to the man’s solar plexus.
‘Stop!’ Bethan said as she grabbed Gunnymede’s arm.
Gunnymede stepped back and looked behind them to see two men hurrying towards them. He grabbed Bethan’s arm and pulled her with him. ‘Come on!’ And they broke into a run.
They didn’t have to run far before the residential street merged with a main road. Gunnymede guided her around a corner and into the road. A car drove past. Gunnymede kept hold of her hand and they crossed behind it.
Music came from a seedy bar up the street. Gunnymede looked back as they headed towards it. The two men arrived at the corner and paused to assess the situation.
‘Go inside,’ Gunnymede said to Bethan as they reached the bar.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Just get inside.’
She picked up a bottle, grabbed a lid from a row of dustbins and held it like a shield, ready for battle.
Gunnymede studied the two men, waiting for their move. The thugs took stock of the situation and after a brief exchange stepped back out of sight.
The door to the bar opened, a man fell out onto the pavement, struggled to his feet and staggered away.
Gunnymede regarded Bethan with her bottle and dustbin lid at the ready and took an immediate liking to her. ‘We should head back to the hotel.’
‘I wasn’t that hungry anyway,’ she said, putting the bottle in the bin, placing the lid on top and brushing her hands clean.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine. You?’
‘Perfect.’
Fifteen minutes later they walked into his room and she slumped into the only chair releasing a heavy sigh.
‘How are you with blood?’ he asked.
Her eyes immediately flicked to his side.
‘Not mine. Yours,’ he said. ‘You have a cut on your chest.’
She pulled open her jacket to reveal a clean cut a couple of inches long in the V of her jumper, a line of dried blood going down inside it.
‘You need to clean it,’ he said.
She removed her jacket. ‘You’re bleeding too. Usual place.’
He pulled off his jacket and shirt to check his old wound. ‘Be nice if it had a chance to heal, between you and your laptop and Albanian muggers.’
She pulled off her jumper down to her bra and looked unsure what to do with her wound.
‘Wash it with soap and water,’ he said.
&
nbsp; She went into the bathroom.
He stepped into the doorway holding a piece of gauze against his wound. 'Do you mind?'
'No,' she said, moving to one side of the sink.
He joined her and together they cleaned their wounds.
‘Do I need stitches?’ she asked.
He took a look at it. ‘I’ll tape it. Dry it off.’
He dug the tape out of his first aid bag, tore off a strip and faced her as she dabbed the wound with a towel. ‘Move your hands.’
She was suddenly conscious of the fact her only clothing above her waist was a flimsy bra.
He closed the cut and placed the strip across it. A brief check satisfied him. ‘Add cosmetic surgery to my skills.’
He went back to his own wound as she pulled on her jumper. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Couldn’t think of a better reason.’
She went to the fridge and examined the contents. ‘No scotch. They all look like local brands.’ She selected two, grabbed a couple of glasses, unscrewed the bottles and emptied their contents into them. ‘Here.’ She offered him a glass.
They raised them in a brief cheers. She slammed hers back. He was surprised but duly followed her lead.
She inspected her extended fingers. ‘Still shaking.’ She went back to the fridge and dug out two more bottles. ‘Ek-ri-ga or Maf-ou-sa?’ she asked, reading the labels.
‘You choose.’
‘Same glasses okay?’ She cracked the bottles and poured them anyway.
Another salute and they downed them in one.
‘Has there ever been a better all-round medicine in the history of the world?’ she declared, flopping into the chair.
He finished taping his dressing. ‘I’m curious,’ he said.
‘About what?’
‘In the street, outside the bar, you held a dustbin lid threateningly. What were you going to do with it?’
She swung her arms out and slammed her hands together mimicking the crash of cymbals. ‘You know, hit him so hard on the side of his head he vibrates. I’ve seen it done somewhere.’
‘The cartoon network?’
‘Why’d you think they backed off?’
‘Captain America. That’s who you reminded me of.’
‘Captain America’s long lost sister,’ she corrected, going to the fridge again. She read the labels on several bottles. ‘Not sure if we should be drinking any of these without food. Or at all in fact. This stuff’s probably illegal in most countries. Oh, my. These are perfect. Vomitka or sheet-pees?’
‘Difficult choice.’
She hid one in each hand and held them out. He closed his eyes and tapped one.
‘Sheet-pees. Excellent choice.’ She unscrewed the tops and poured them into the glasses. She grimaced at the smell of hers and they emptied them in one.
‘That’s got to be ninety proof,’ he winced, feeling it burn his throat.
She suddenly felt the buzz and found herself looking at his strong body, in particular a couple of scars. ‘They all come with a story?’ she asked.
He felt self-conscious half naked and pulled on a shirt. ‘And they get better with each telling.’
‘What’s the story behind the rash?’
‘Rash?’
‘Your neck?’
‘Oh. I was recently hung.’
‘Is that one of those comments that’s so bizarre no one would believe it when it’s actually true?’
‘Can’t fool you, can I.’
‘And the wound on your side?’
‘A Russian fighter jet bombed me.’
‘While you were hanging by your neck I suppose.’
‘Too much?’
‘Not after a shot of Albanian sheet-pees. What are you doing here? I mean, I have no idea what I’m doing here, but do you know why you’re here?’
‘I’m looking for clues.’
‘To what?’
‘A secret.’
She smiled and, feeling a little drunk she picked up her jacket. ‘That about sums it all up ... I’m sorry about this evening. The walk through the town. It was reckless of me.’
‘We survived.’
‘I bet you say that a lot. Actually, I feel quite special. Not everyone gets into a scrap with a secret service man.’
‘Or Captain America’s sister.’
She opened the door and looked back at him. ‘Bye, secret service man.’
‘Tell the entire hotel why don’t you.’ He smiled.
So did she as she left the room.
He found himself still smiling after she’d gone.
Chapter 12
An unmarked police car drove through the City of London, Gunnymede and Bethan in the back. The driver pulled into the kerb.
‘Thanks for dropping me off,’ Gunnymede said as he opened the door.
‘Will I see you again?’
‘That would be nice. Give me a call if you need anything.’ He grabbed his bag, climbed out and closed the door.
The car re-joined traffic. Bethan couldn’t resist looking back. She was pleased to see him watching the car go.
Before it was out of sight, he walked away. Minutes later he entered the Fulham and Hammersmith hospital and went to the reception counter.
‘I’d like to see Megan Henderson,’ he said to the receptionist.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. I was here a few days ago. I think you were here. I’m Devon Gunnymede.’
‘Let me just check,’ she said, smiling sweetly and looking at her computer. ‘One moment please.’ She picked up the phone and keyed a number.
Gunnymede looked around while the receptionist talked on the phone. ‘Mr Gunnymede? Would you take a seat and someone will be with you.’
‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Someone will be with you shortly,’ she assured him.
Gunnymede took a seat.
It was fifteen minutes before an administrator arrived and explained that Megan was receiving treatment and wouldn’t be available for the rest of the day. Gunnymede left the hospital consumed by thoughts and walked the short distance to Hammersmith underground station. The realisation that Megan was quite possibly gone from his life was confusing. She had become an integral part of his world, the only human being to have stuck by him throughout his trial and banishment. The only thread to string a future too. She had not been a deep rooted part of his game plan before his freedom was cut short but her love and loyalty had earned her a permanent place in his life. She had won his loyalty too, if not his complete unconditional love. It was the loyalty component of their relationship that was most impacted at that moment. He didn't know how that was going to play out. He needed to get his thoughts in order. Find out what happened. But his anger was as dark as a night blade at that moment.
Inside the entrance, a man in a business suit and coat was looking at a street map on his phone, following the progress of a marker as it moved inside the underground station. The man looked up to see Gunnymede enter the same time as the marker. ‘Devon Gunnymede,’ he said as Gunnymede walked past.
Gunnymede stopped to look at him. The man was in his forties, a blond mop of hair neatly combed on top of a hawkish face. He was wearing a crisp, expensive white shirt and shiny blue tie.
‘My name’s Simons. I work for Jervis.’
Simons flipped open a small leather wallet to reveal his MI6 badge, similar to the one Aristotle had shown the police at Heathrow. They were special badges, small with ornate detail. Silver and gold inlaid in simulated ivory. No expense spared in their production. On it was an inscription requesting any authority in the land to extend assistance to the bearer on demand. His name was inscribed on the back of it.
‘You remember Jervis, don’t you?’ Simons asked. ‘Head of operations.’
‘He’s been there a long time.’
‘It’s a long-term job, if you do it right. Welcome back to the fold. I was in the neighbourhood and wanted to introduce myself. We could fin
d ourselves working together in the very near future.’
Gunnymede didn’t know what to say.
‘How was Albania?’
Gunnymede shrugged. ‘Albanian.’
‘Anything of interest?’
‘Not at first glance.’
Simons studied Gunnymede. ‘We’re all on the same team, Gunnymede. Remember that.’ He forced a smile. ‘You take care of yourself. See you soon.’
Simons walked away. Gunnymede watched him leave the station. Odd bloke. Odd conversation. As he dug out his company credit card to use on the ticket barrier his phone vibrated. He accessed a message. Harlow wanted to see him in his Temple office. Strange though it was, Megan was already being compartmentalised in his head. Shelved but not forgotten.
Bethan was at her desk when DCI Dillon crossed the room and dropped a file in front of her.
‘Take a look,’ he said.
She opened it. The first page was a picture of an Afghan in his fifties.
‘Mustafa Lamardi,’ Dillon said. ‘Former Afghan National Directorate of Security. He retired to Macedonia two years ago after opening a fat bank account with funds of dubious origin transferred from his account in Dubai.’
‘Is Macedonia a popular destination for retiring Afghans?’
‘Perhaps for those who don’t want to be found too easily. If that’s true it didn’t work in his case. He was shot dead outside his home in Skopje a week before your mass border killing in Albania.’
‘Why am I looking at this?’
‘Take a look at the forensic report.’
Bethan turned the page to a photo of a Dragunov rifle. ‘He was killed by the same weapon used in the checkpoint killings. What’s the connection?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
‘A thousand and seventy-five metre headshot.’
‘Sounds challenging.’
‘Apparently it is with a Dragunov.’ She turned the page. ‘Nothing on the sniper.’
‘The Macedonians have drawn a blank on him so far. If it wasn’t the same sniper it was the same level of expertise. Professional hit, clean firing position, no tracks.’
‘Did he booby-trap his escape route?’
‘No. The hide was on a rooftop. There was only one way down. I’d look at the possibility he did the Skopje job and then three hundred kilometres and seven days later crossed the border and did the Albania killings.’
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