by J. K. Kelly
“That sounds about right,” Matt offered. “I spoke to him before I took off from Frankfurt. We were supposed to meet for drinks at the Heathrow Hilton, the one at T4, but he never showed, and the bartender hadn’t seen anyone who looked like him the whole night. He didn’t respond to my calls, texts, or emails. I even left a message, here, on his office line.”
“Yep, we saw all of those come in,” Erickson stated, verifying Matt’s account. “So, we’ve got a variety of search avenues, from CCTV and communication intercepts to boots on the ground, as they say. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. And that now brings us to you.”
Erickson sat forward on the sofa and slowly took in his missing counterpart’s office, lingering on framed photos and various mementos before turning his attention back to Matt. “Although I know you and Charlie were friendly, very close indeed, I find it odd that a week after U.S. Ambassador Wilkerson and his wife and adult son were all killed in Moscow, an American operator who was with them at the time shows up at MI5’s door, fully weaponized and looking for one of our agents, whom he was supposed to meet up with but has now gone missing.”
“What’s your point?” Matt said.
Erickson’s responding laugh was tight and his smile not at all amused. “Charlie always said you could be a smart-ass,” he responded. “We need to formally ask you a few questions. To facilitate that, I’d like the team to sit down with you in an interview room before we proceed any further.”
Matt smiled. He could have protested. But Erickson could have him held for 24 hours, and that would be time best spent looking for Charlie. Matt hadn’t used his diplomatic identification when he presented himself; he’d used his FBI version, and that had left him vulnerable.
“So, there’ll be video, audio, face temp sensors and the like?” he asked.
“Of course,” Erickson said.
“Can I bring my guns?”
Erickson laughed and shook his head no.
“Okay, just my knife?”
Erickson continued to be less than entertained. “Nope.”
“Last question, then,” Matt said, “is the coffee any good?”
“Only the very best for a friend of Charlie’s,” Erickson insisted.
They both stood and headed for the door. Matt placed his hand on the knob, but before turning it, he whispered to Erickson, “You need to put little Jason here in a room, too.”
“Oh?” Erickson looked intrigued.
“If you know anything about me, through Charlie or anyone else, when I say something’s amiss, you can count on it. That kid – there’s something amiss.”
Matt was pleased to see the look of concern wash over Erickson’s face. Yes, they had been bantering back and forth, jockeying for position before they got down to a serious interrogation. But both men wanted to find Charlie, by any means necessary. And if they were to find their friend and colleague – alive or dead – they needed to consider every possible angle and every possible player. No one could be assumed to be above suspicion.
Erickson stepped back from the door and made a call on his cellphone. He waited a minute while he and Matt continued to look back at Charlie’s possessions. Would Matt ever see his friend again? He hoped so, but Erickson’s expression wasn’t reassuring. When he nodded his head for Matt to open the door, they found two MI5 plainclothes internal security standing on opposite sides of a distraught-looking Roberts.
Led by Erickson, the five of them headed down the long hallway to the elevators. He pushed a button for a level he’d never visited. It was in the building’s sub-basement.
A nervous Roberts murmured, “I thought the interview rooms were on the fourth floor.”
“They’re all in use,” Erickson responded bluntly.
“What’ve you got going on out on the river?” Matt asked conversationally. “Building an employee lounge on the Thames? Or a heliport or something special for assault boats?”
Erickson smiled. “Two out of three, not bad. A heliport and marine base of operations for MI5 are being built. Should be done by month’s end. They’re pouring concrete pilings this week.” Charlie was right, Erickson concluded, this man was a smart cookie. He doesn’t miss a thing.
The small talk concluded as soon as they arrived at the selected floor. Erickson indicated Roberts should be taken into Room 3.
“We’ve got hot coffee waiting for you in Room 4,” he said to Matt, gesturing to a door a few feet down the hall. “I’ve got a few things to look into upstairs, but I’ll send one of our best in to take your formal statement. Then we’ll see what happens next.”
Matt had been in interview rooms like this all over the world. Ninety percent of the time, he was the one asking the questions, with others watching and listening behind the one-way mirrors that were commonplace in these environments. This room was slightly different, though. It had a mirror in front of and behind the table and the two opposing chairs.
Twenty minutes later, his coffee consumed, Matt’s patience was wearing thin. Then he heard a voice from the doorway that was eerily familiar to him.
“Agent Christopher, my name is Bruce Allan. I’m a special investigator for the British intelligence services.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Matt was amazed. Erickson had locked him in a room with one of the men who had tried to drown him in Washington, D.C. The memory of the incident was so clear Matt could still hear that voice, still feel the terror and helplessness of being bound and gagged, pushed into the Potomac, drawing water into his burning lungs.
It was everything Matt could do to not jump up and beat the man to death. But with cameras rolling, that was not an option, especially on foreign soil. Matt had to reach deep and stay in control of his emotions. Taking a seat in the chair across from Matt, Allan extended his hand, but Matt shook his head.
“Got a bit of a cold,” he said, “best not.”
Allan shrugged. “No problem. As Commander Erickson has already informed you, we just want to ask a few questions for the record. Then we can sort this all out. Okay with you?”
Matt nodded. He was struggling to stop himself from leaping across the table and driving his thumbs into the asshole’s eyes. “Yep. Ask away.”
Allan pushed a red button on the table and instructed the control room to begin recording the interview. He introduced himself and then read from Matt’s passport his full name, FBI ID number, noted the weapon designation, read a list of the three weapons Matt had checked in at security on arrival there, and then began the review. He repeated, verbatim, everything Erickson had relayed about their conversation upstairs. So much so that Matt wondered to himself if Charlie’s office had been bugged.
“Yep, that’s correct,” Matt stated. “Have you found Charlie yet?”
Allan shook his head. “No, but that’s a perfect segue, so thank you for teeing that up for me. Right, so let’s talk a bit about Charlie Chaste and the last time you were here in London. You met with Chaste a few times and also with a Billy Rogers. Is that correct?”
Matt smiled and nodded. At Allan’s prodding, he answered aloud. “Yes.”
To Matt’s surprise, Allan then put on the record a great deal of information that Matt had shared with Billy, the PTSD Royal Marine. “You were here to recruit him to join the CIA?”
“That’s classified,” Matt responded.
“We’ll take that as a yes.”
Matt suddenly realized what was happening here. He sat forward and looked to the left and then to the right of Allan into the one-way mirror behind him. He then turned in his chair and slowly looked at the one-way mirror behind him, careful to not change his expression. Finally, he resumed his position. They’re going to pin Sinclair’s and Billy’s deaths on Charlie, he thought. And use me as a witness to prosecute him for two murders.
“You are no doubt aware that Thomas Sinclair and his nephew were found dead in Sinclair’s condo not far from here?”
And this piece of shit was in Sinclair’s collection of bad actors,
Matt thought.
“Actually, I do remember seeing something about that. It was on the news either late at night or very early in the morning. I can’t remember.”
“Did you have any part in the double murders?” Allan pressed.
“No,” Matt said in a calm tone.
“You do realize we are recording the audio and video of this as well as monitoring your facial expressions and temperature for changes that would indicate a lie?”
“Sure do,” Matt responded.
“Did you or Charlie Chaste have anything to do with the deaths of Thomas Sinclair and Billy Rogers?” Allan sat forward and peered at Matt as if he was sure Matt was lying and knew that the lies would be captured for all to see, including a jury, the FBI, the CIA, and the media.
Had an American operator worked with a rogue MI5 official to gun down one of the most powerful men in British politics and industry and his crippled nephew, a decorated, war-torn military man in a staged murder-suicide?
“Not to my knowledge,” Matt responded. His eyes locked on Allan’s. Matt could see his cool and calm demeanor was getting to the interviewer, the man who had tried to kill him.
“Now, can I ask you a question or two, Mr. Allan?” Matt suggested. The interrogator sat back in his chair and began to read through his written notes.
“Certainly.”
“Why did you and Billy Melville try to kill me in Washington?”
“What? That’s absurd.” The man’s eye twitched, and his facial color changed ever so slightly. To the untrained, the shift might not be obvious, but Matt saw the subtle flush of blood to Allan’s face. “What in the world would make you think that?”
“Last question, I promise. Did you have anything to do with Charlie’s disappearance?” Allan sat there, a look of amazement spreading across his face.
“This is absurd, what are you trying to pull here? You’re the one being investigated, not me.”
*
In the control room facing Matt, Erickson had what he needed. The two techs hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary with the interviewee, but what they saw from their own man, Bruce Allan, concerned them. He was lying, flat out. There was no doubt about it.
“Stop recording,” Erickson directed them, and once he saw that they had, he instructed them to take a 10-minute break in the lounge down the hall. There was a long pause before anyone moved. “Okay, move along now. I’ll come get you when we’re ready to proceed,” he told them and then followed them out.
A buzzer sounded inside Room 4, and Erickson walked in.
He looked at Allan with disdain, shook his head in disgust, and then turned his attention to the American.
Matt had no idea what would happen next. Who would Erickson side with?
“He’s all yours,” Erickson said after a moment. “Find out what they did with Charlie, and then do what you want with him.” The Brit turned back to the door, and a second later closed it behind him. The clack of an exterior lock sounded.
Matt stood up, shoved the table out of his way, and charged Allan.
The man might have been well trained in physical combat, but Matt excelled at it, and fueled by the knowledge that this animal had tried to kill him, and most probably killed his friend, he let him have it. Allan was face down on the floor, Matt’s knee driving deep into the back of his neck, with both of the man’s arms bent in an excruciating way meant to inflict pain and solicit answers. Allan could barely breathe.
“What did you do to Charlie? Where is he?” Matt demanded. “Tell me now, and this will end quickly!”
Allan remained silent. Matt went to Plan B. He rolled the man over and punched him in the face as hard as he could.
“Where is he?” Matt asked, raising his fist again. “They have your lies on tape, you stupid bastard. You’re busted, so tell us what you did with him, and they might go easy on you.”
Allan gasped and blinked away the blood, looking around as if to clear the fog from his head. His nose was broken and bleeding badly, and his left eye had already swollen shut.
“We dumped him out where they were pouring the concrete footings last night. He’s part of the new wharf now, the stupid bastard.”
“And Melville, he was with you?” Allan didn’t answer. Matt tightened his fist and prepared to use it again.
“Yes, he gets off on choking girls. He went to work on Charlie and strangled him to death.”
That was it. Matt’s heart broke. His worst fears had been realized. His friend was dead, killed in a frightening manner, and gone forever. He relaxed his hold on Allan, but his rage came flowing back.
“Hey, shithead,” Matt said to the mess lying there, “I lied.” He then leaned in close to the man’s ear and whispered, “Charlie Chaste sends his regards!”
With one hit, perhaps the hardest one he had ever thrown, Matt ended the murderer’s life right there on the floor. He knelt there, shaking from the surge of adrenaline, needing to process all that had happened, and then slowly stood up. The grief was overwhelming.
When a buzzer sounded announcing the opening of the door, Matt looked around to hear the lock release and see Erickson coming back into the room.
“Justifiable homicide if I ever saw one,” he said and then paused. “Poor Charlie would have thought it brilliant. Rest in peace, old boy.” Matt bowed his head and repeated the words. The two men took a moment to think about their friend.
“You were right about Roberts. He had been playing both sides and had given Bruce and Melville a heads up when Charlie worked late last night. Melville turned off the CCTV for the area before he followed Charlie out. I’ve left the lad in very capable hands.” They both stood for a moment and stared at the body on the floor.
“Leave this to me,” he continued. “We’ll have this taken out with tonight’s trash. I do have one last question for you, though.”
Matt was spent, but he was also curious.
“Do you want Melville, or should we send someone else to handle it?”
“He chokes women and put his hands on my friend?” Matt responded. “He’s mine. Just let me know where he is, and I’ll take it from there.” An hour later, Erickson walked Matt to the security room and helped him retrieve his guns and knife and then handed him his business card.
“Give me a call when it’s over. We’ll have a team close behind you to clean up whatever you leave behind. Then, whether it’s tonight or months from now, I’d like to sit down with you and throw back a few in Charlie’s honor.”
Matt didn’t respond. He simply nodded and walked out of MI5. He paused for a moment and considered walking around to the Thames side of the building. His friend was now a part of MI5, possibly forever, and Matt wanted to say goodbye. Instead, he kept moving forward. His driver was still waiting for him, idling in the parking area just down the road at a petrol station. He had one last job to do tonight, and then his work in the UK would be done. On the way to his next stop, he called Dale on his secure phone and filled her in on what had just happened.
“Charlie’s gone,” he told her. “I plan on flying back tomorrow. He’s already been laid to rest.”
While the driver headed toward the address he was given, Matt inspected his two handguns. They had been out of his control for hours. He needed to be sure they hadn’t been tampered with and were ready for whatever came next.
He was still bent on revenge, and Melville had no idea what was headed his way.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Happy hour at the Blue Ram Pub was in full swing when Matt snuck in through the emergency exit behind the bar. He had expected to find it propped open to let air into the packed place, and he was right.
Finding Melville without being seen first might be more difficult. Luckily, this was a bar that allowed smoking, and the cancer sticks were out in full force, creating a light fog. Beer and booze flowed, leaving most of the patrons in their own haze as well. When Matt found his prey, he knew this would be an early night.
Taking a
seat on the other side of the room from the rough-looking former rugby player, Matt bought a diet soda, sat, and watched. He knew what he was going to do. He was going to snuff the life out of the animal. But the spinning wheel of death in his head hadn’t decided when and how quite yet. Matt was like a hungry lion stalking another predator.
As he had anticipated, after about 20 minutes of watching Melville knock back another pint of beer and a shot of who knows what, the choker of women and killer of friends got up and headed for the toilets. Having kept an eye on the other patrons, Matt knew the men’s room was empty except for his target, so he needed to act fast. The scent of urine and vomit made the grimy little loo an even more appetizing place to go to work but for Matt, it didn’t matter.
Already unloading at the lone urinal, Melville was unaware when Matt stepped through the door and quickly threw the slide latch on it. Two steps across the room and he’d slammed Melville’s big head into the tile wall. To Matt’s surprise, the man wasn’t fazed and simply turned to see who had assaulted him.
Damn, Matt thought, this might take a little longer than I’d thought.
Luckily for Matt, the knife he’d brought to the party was in easy reach. Before Melville could throw a punch, Matt had the pointy end of the weapon shoved against the man’s throat between his Adam’s apple and his chin. That had an immediate effect. Melville didn’t move another inch.
“Move very slowly,” Matt ordered, “and put your needle dick back in your pants, you bastard.” Following orders, Melville did just that.
“You remember me?” Matt asked, staring at the animal, wanting ever so much to just shove the knife hard through to the brain stem.
Melville was drunk. It took time for him to think, but then he must have realized who was standing in front of him. The American accent helped. Rather than cower or beg for mercy, he challenged Matt. “Yeah, I know you,” he answered in a heavy English accent. “You’re the tea bag we dropped in the water. Bit of a lucky bastard, aren’t you? If the cops hadn’t started yelling and run us off, you’d have been in a body bag that night for sure.”