She stopped the engine and climbed out. ‘Would we know right away if any of that stuff touched us?’
‘No idea.’
‘Should we go to hospital?’
‘If you start feeling weird maybe you should.’
She was still frustrated with him. ‘If you didn’t go there for revenge what were you doing there?’
‘I just wanted to check him out and it kind of escalated.’
‘Why did he want to kill you?’
‘You know he’s a major heroin dealer?’
‘I didn’t. I’ll have to tell my boss about tonight ... I’ll obviously have to tell him about you. Will that be a problem for you?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
He finished stretching and made his way over to his bike. When he looked back at her she was still by her car, watching him. ‘You should get going.’
She didn’t move.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You remember the trend I told you about? British military homicides?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have a theory. They’re not all random killings. Many of them are connected. Organised. An organised group of revengers made up of British military. They avenge the deaths of soldiers where the perpetrator hasn’t been brought to justice.’
He didn’t answer.
She suddenly realised something. ‘You know about it, don’t you?’
‘There’ve been rumours.’
‘What rumours?’
‘They’re years old.’
‘Like what?’
He sighed. ‘That’s the point. None of them are meaningful. No names or places. Just anecdotes.’
‘So you knew about it when we went to Albania?’
‘I never made any connection.’
‘What kind of intelligence officer are you?’
‘I’m not an analyst. Or an investigator.’
‘What are you then?’
‘I’m a field operator.’
‘You’re allowed to think, though, right?’
‘There’s no need to be insulting.’
‘I believe these avengers were behind the Albania border guard killings and also your Afghan security director, Lamardi.’
He studied her as he thought of something. ‘You think I’m a part of it?’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘You just said I was allowed to think.’
‘Are you? Part of it?’
‘I get the feeling you wouldn’t believe me if I said I wasn’t.’
‘Actually I would. I don’t believe you are a part of it.’
‘Why not?’
‘You have a motive for killing Krilov. If you were a part of the organised revenge you wouldn’t be here. Someone without a motive would’ve come in your place so as not to implicate you. That’s how it works.’
‘So why’re you telling me about this revenge mob?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s going to come out. I wanted you to know.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel protective about you.’
‘You just tasered me.’
She stifled a smirk. ‘Was it painful?’
‘Actually, it was pleasant compared to the dopros vody.’
‘The what?’
He looked around, conscious of where they were. ‘You should get going.’
She nodded. ‘Sorry and thanks,’ she said. ‘Sorry for suspecting you and thanks for saving me.’
He came over to her. Stepped closer. She looked into his eyes. He kissed her softly and they had a much needed hug.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come back to mine?’ she asked.
‘I would. But I’ve got some things to do.’
She understood and let go of him. ‘Be safe.’
‘I’m in the wrong job for that.’
She climbed into her car.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said.
She smiled, started the engine and drove away.
He watched her go.
As he walked to his bike he opened the photo file of Krilov’s plans on his phone and sent them to MI6 Ops. He climbed stiffly onto the machine, pulled on his helmet, started the engine and drove onto the road.
A few miles down the road his phone chirped and he touched the hands free button.
‘Devon Gunnymede,’ Simons said in his patronising manner. ‘You’ve had a busy evening. What’s Krilov like?’
‘He’s an arsehole.’
‘I hope he’s not a dead arsehole.’
‘He’s a pissed off arsehole.’
‘I hope you didn’t put him off his plan. We need that ship to come in. Interesting connection, Saleem and Krilov. It ties Saleem into the heroin convoy.’
‘What about the ship?’
‘The police have known about it for a week. It’s scheduled to arrive tomorrow evening. Saleem could be on board.’
‘If Krilov suspects I know about it, he’ll warn it off.’
‘Do you think he does?’
‘I don’t know. We should board it now.’
‘Not my first option. We’re putting a bird on it. If it stays on course and nothing comes alongside it we’ll let it run its course and the police can do their job in Southampton. Otherwise we’ll take steps. Let’s see what the next twenty-four hours brings. With luck we can wrap up this part of it.’
‘Krilov could be a link to Spangle.’
‘I’m sure he is. Have a good night.’
The phone went dead.
Chapter 22
Krilov leaned over a kitchen sink, dabbing his face with a wet cloth. The flesh around his eyes was tender. He examined himself in a mirror. Krilov was not the prettiest of creatures but that didn’t hinder his vanity. He poured himself a vodka with a heavy hand and downed it without a wince.
One of Krilov’s men came over and placed a freshly printed photograph in front of him. It was an isolated still from a CCTV camera. A clear picture of Bethan and Gunnymede.
‘Send it to the policeman,’ Krilov said in Russian.
Krilov took another drink and accessed a number on his phone.
A man answered with a simple ‘Hi’.
‘I send you a picture of a man and a woman. I want their details – home, car, location, everything.’
Jedson sat on his black leather couch in his small, poncy-looking London flat talking to an iPad on his coffee table. ‘I’m just looking,’ he said as he opened Krilov’s message and Gunnymede and Bethan appeared.
‘You can do this now?’
‘That won’t be a problem. What do you want to do with them?’
‘Kill them.’
‘I want the woman.’
‘What for?’
‘I just do.’
‘There’s plenty woman where you’re going.’
‘I want this one.’
Krilov disconnected.
Jedson checked his watch, picked up a glass half filled with a dark liquor and took a long drink as he studied the picture.
Gunnymede pulled the bike to a stop outside a large Georgian house in a residential street in Holborn. The engine went silent and he climbed off stiffly, pretty sure he heard a creaking sound come from his bruised frame. He was all cleaned up and looking quite presentable, except for the grazes on his face and hands. He took a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates from a pannier and walked up a short flight of steps to the front door which was standing ajar and stepped inside the tasteful contemporary flats conversion. He climbed a staircase, faced the door of an apartment and, after a brief tidy up of his hair and clothes he knocked on it. A moment later it opened and a slender woman in her sixties stood there looking at him with a blank expression.
He smiled at her despite her air of indifference. She was on the frail side but the sparkle in her eyes left no doubt about the quality of her inner strength and cognisance. ‘How did you get in downstairs?’
‘The door was open.’
‘You didn’t break in?’
‘You took your time coming.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Flowers and chocolates are a sign of guilt.’
‘They’re not for you.’
‘Who are they for?’
‘A sweet, kind, loving lady who I’m hoping to find somewhere in there, if I can ever get through the access control.’
She gave in, smiled and reached out to him. ‘I just needed to make sure it was my Devon. Give me a hug.’
Gunnymede held her while she patted his back. When he stepped back she took a look at him. ‘You’ve put on some muscle.’
‘I had a lot of recreation time.’
‘You probably didn’t get a decent cup of tea.’
‘It’s criminal what they serve as tea.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said as she headed down the hall into the kitchen. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘Tea would be great.’
‘Rubbish. You’ll have something to eat with it.’ She opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of sausages and bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms and a carton of eggs. She sniffed the meat. ‘I bought these expecting you a few days ago. They’ll do. A little bit of gangrene never hurt anyone.’
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘You never started asking me that until you left home. You didn’t mean it then either. You look like you’ve got a few aches and pains.’
‘I’ll be good to go in a few days.’
‘They got you in the wars already.’
‘Well, you take the Queen’s shilling, you take your chances with it.’
‘I’m betting on the Middle East.’
‘For what?’
‘That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Well, it’s too early for North Korea, too late for North Africa and everywhere else can manage without you for the time being.’ She paused. ‘Unless of course it’s those pesky Russians.’
‘Our favourite bad guys.’
‘They’ve always been jerks,’ she said, putting the sausages and bacon in the frying pan. ‘Putin’s still trying to finish off what Ivan the Terrible’s grandfather started. Borders and buffers. They respect nothing but severity. They’ll evolve one day, I’m sure, but not in our lifetime.’
She poured a cup of tea and put it in front of him as he sat at the table. ‘I heard about Megan,’ her face darkening.
He looked into her eyes and nodded, as if they were passing data between them. Nothing more was needed to be said and she went back to the cooker. ‘So tell me then.’
‘What subject are we on to now?’
‘How did you get back into the firm?’
‘They needed me.’
‘Not because they thought you were innocent.’
‘You know I wasn’t.’
‘I know you’re not a bad person. You weren’t a thief as a boy and that’s where the foundations are laid. You were up to something and it went wrong is my guess.’
He smiled at her, appreciating her.
‘So they need you for something that was going on when you left. Unfinished business.’
‘You know them as well as I do. Better I expect.’
‘They won’t have changed. Never trust any of them. Not that they’re wrong. They just don’t care about collateral damage. It’s what they’re taught in school. Or they used to be. I despair, wondering where our next generation of ruthless bastards will come from. This country produces such bleeding heart liberal pussies these days.’
‘Language.’
They chatted while she made breakfast, while he ate it and while he had his post breakfast cup of tea. After the meal, Gunnymede cleared up and sat by the window that looked down onto the street while she sat at the dining table.
She opened a wooden box, removed a packet of filtered cigarettes, an ashtray and lighter and lit one up. She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out in a long stream, thoroughly enjoying it. ‘I’ve decided that more than five cigarettes a day is unhealthy for the body and less than five is unhealthy for one’s contentment. No point being alive if you’re unhappy.’
He poured himself a glass of water and looked at her as if measuring her up. ‘Aunt Grace.’
‘Something important coming,’ she said, drawing on the cigarette. ‘You have about five ways of saying Aunt Grace and that’s one I don’t hear often.’
‘Tell me about the death of my father.’
She exhaled, filling the air between them with smoke. ‘The last time you asked me about your father you were eleven years old.’
‘I’m looking for the adult version.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me how he was killed.’
‘He was caught by a roadside bomb as he was leaving the embassy.’
‘You told me that much when I was eleven.’
‘Why the sudden interest?’
‘It’s not so sudden. It’s just time to ask.’
‘You’re more cynical now.’
‘I think there was more to it than just a roadside bomb. Was it bad luck or was he the target?’
‘You’re looking for bad guys.’
‘I’d like to know who was responsible.’
‘Then you’ll want revenge.’
‘That’s not what’s driving my curiosity.’
‘What is?’
‘I’m in the business. I know a lot of people who were killed and I know why. But I don’t know why my own father died.’
She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Of course you have a right to know. But if you want details I’m not the person you need to ask.’
‘You never told me he was military intelligence.’
‘Didn’t I? I suppose it was obvious. He was always doing his own thing in the name of the military. He never wore a uniform. He was a hammer like you, not one of the academics. He got his hands dirty and liked it.’
‘Was he targeted?’
‘That was the question on everyone’s lips at the time. You know I was just MI6 administrative.’
‘To a department director.’
‘There was nothing conclusive. There were rumours, but they were coming upstream, from the ranks. Unreliable. There was one rumour, however, that came downstream, several years later, a few months before I left – I’m going to have another cigarette,’ she said, lighting up. ‘I suddenly feel like I’m back in the office. We smoked like chimneys in those days.’
‘What was the rumour?’
‘The device was Hezbollah, the bomber was Hezbollah, but the request was from outside Hezbollah.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. The suggestion was it wasn’t local.’
‘You mean not from within Lebanon?’
‘That was the suggestion.’
‘So, outside of Lebanon was the Russians and allies.’
‘And the rest,’ she said, staring ahead at nothing, deep in her own images.
‘Was there an enquiry?’
‘If there was I didn’t get sight of it. You can understand why of course. He was my brother. They would have made a point of me not seeing it ... if there was one.’
‘What would you have done if you discovered foul play?’
‘That would depend on who was behind it. There were a lot of players in that conflict. Russians. Syrians. Israelis. Palestinians. Americans. Iranians. Christians. Muslims. Amal. Druze. Maronites. Us. And more ... I suppose, when you boil it all down you could say it was essentially West v Soviet. What would I do if I thought there’d been foul play? Are you asking me as a hammer or a pen? We use the skills we have, Devon. I would’ve written, internally of course, in the hope that someone might do something. But it was just a rumour. And now, a long time ago,’ she said with some finality, taking another deep drag and blowing the smoke into the room.
An hour later she walked with him to the front door. She smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry I called you a hammer. You ar
e a hammer. But everyone thinks that’s all you are. Let them think that. It’s to your advantage. Because you’re much, much more.’
They hugged affectionately. As they parted, Gunnymede remembered something. ‘Harlow sends his regards.’
‘Harlow?’ She looked surprised.
‘I didn’t know you knew him.’
She didn’t smile and looked into the distance as if in thought. ‘He was already in the firm when I arrived. A skinny whippersnapper.’
‘What was he like?’
‘A twit at first. But he became amusing. Not my type really though he thought otherwise.’
Gunnymede kissed her on the forehead. ‘See you.’
She watched him walk down the stairs. Her smile remained until he was out of sight and then faded and disappeared.
Bethan bit into a piece of toast followed by a sip of coffee and pulled on her jacket, all in one fluid motion as she picked up her phone and laptop bag.
The front door knocker sounded. She took another sip of coffee and went to see who it was. Jedson was standing on her doorstep looking sheepish.
‘What do you want?’ she asked coldly.
‘To apologise. Again. Twice I’ve been really very rude and I don’t have any excuses.’
‘Go away,’ she said and started to close the door.
‘Wait.’ Jedson stopped the door from closing. ‘I’ve decided to tell you everything you need to know about Milo Krilov. No strings.’
‘I don’t need to know anything about him. Now go away.’
‘Please, Beth. I also want to apologise for threatening to go to my boss. I didn’t mean it.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Does Dillon know you went to Krilov’s farm last night?’
‘What?’
‘With that MI lad you went to Albania with?’
‘How did you know that?’
Jedson took a sly look to his side, along the street, out of sight to Bethan. Three thugs climbed out of a parked van. ‘I told you. I’m very special.’
He shoved the door hard, the edge catching Bethan on the side of her head knocking her back. Jedson pushed into the house, sealed her mouth with a hand and pulled her to the floor. As she struggled, the thugs stepped in and closed the door. One of them produced a roll of masking tape and wound it around her head several times to cover her mouth. Another secured her hands and feet with plasticuffs and within seconds she was trussed up like a calf ready for branding. The third extended the blade of a builders knife. Bethan’s eyes widened and she tried to scream. He knelt down over her, cut into the carpet along the length of her body and continued to score a large rectangle. They pulled up the corners and rolled her in the carpet like a hand-made cigarette, picked her up and carried her out of the house.
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