by CJ Carver
‘Where?’
She listened for a moment longer. ‘He says they were really lucky to have found it . . . It’s only thanks to a PC noticing a farm gate was open when it was normally shut –’
‘Where?’
‘In a field just off the B2050 near Ramsgate . . .’ She listened a bit more then added, ‘Manston, to be precise.’
Dan could practically feel the blood drain from his head.
‘What is it?’ Lucy’s face filled with alarm.
‘Manston Airport,’ he said. He was already reaching for his phone. What if they’re flying Jenny out from there?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jenny regained consciousness to find herself on a stretcher and being carried across what looked like a small waiting room. The man carrying the front of her stretcher was big with a badly fitting white tunic that bunched beneath his armpits. Jenny tried to say something but her throat wouldn’t work. Her vision was blurred but she could make out a desk on the other side of the room, manned by two official-looking men. Behind them stood an open door. As the stretcher approached, Jenny tried to speak, to shout for help, but she couldn’t move her lips. She couldn’t move her hands, her feet or her arms. Aside from her eyes, which she could blink and move slowly from side to side, she was paralysed.
Terror flooded her. Her heartbeat picked up and her breathing changed, becoming shallow and panicky. Why couldn’t she move? What had they given her? Would it damage the baby? Would she miscarry?
Help! she shouted soundlessly.
One of the men greeted her stretcher bearers. He wore a blue uniform with white piping. ‘Hi there. How’s it going?’
‘We are OK, thank you.’ A female voice spoke behind her. Then she said something in Russian. Slowly, the stretcher was put on the floor. A woman walked forwards. Although she’d changed out of her black trousers and fleece and wore a smart tweed suit with a silk scarf at her throat, Jenny recognised her. It was the same woman who’d stuck a syringe in her earlier. She gave the man what looked like a passport. He glanced at it, then down at Jenny.
‘Anna Saburov,’ he said. It was a statement.
Nooooo! Jenny howled silently. Desperately she tried to hold his eyes, pleading with him, but he looked straight back at the passport.
‘We weren’t expecting you so soon,’ the man said. He frowned.
‘But the aircraft,’ the woman said sharply, ‘it is here?’
‘Yes. They’re ready for you.’ He looked back at Jenny. Gave a grimace. ‘She broke her back?’
‘Horseback-riding.’
‘Terrible.’
‘Yes,’ the woman agreed. ‘Terrible. Now, everything is in order? She may go?’
‘Yes, she may go.’
The man didn’t look at Jenny again.
Another man appeared at the corner of her vision. He wore a smart pair of trousers and checked jacket. He had a cleft chin. The man who’d shot Poppy. He greeted two men who came through the door, bringing with them a blast of icy air from outside. They wore ill-fitting grey suits and white shirts, bland ties. They looked like office drones. They all shook hands. Spoke in Russian. They didn’t look at her.
‘Bye, bye,’ said the woman to Jenny. She was smiling. The man who’d shot Poppy didn’t say a word.
The drones carried her outside. Sleet was falling. She could smell jet fuel and hear the whine of an engine. A man in an orange vest directed them towards a private jet. The howl of terror and panic inside her remained, unrelenting. Tears streamed down her face. As they approached she saw a pilot and co-pilot through the jet’s windscreen. The pilot glanced at her then away.
A door in the side of the aircraft opened. Two men in reflective jackets brought a pair of steps over. Jenny tried to make eye contact with them but they weren’t looking. They weren’t interested. They were just doing their job.
Help me!
She was carried inside the aircraft where the stretcher was secured on the floor. The drones took their seats. Buckled up. The door closed, and then the jet’s engines started. Another woman appeared. She was carrying a bottle of vodka and three glasses. She poured the drinks. They laughed, looked at Jenny, and drank.
The aircraft began to move. Jenny could feel the bumps of the ground travelling through the fuselage. She was crying, screaming inside.
Please, stop!
She felt the aircraft swing round, engines shrieking, and as it completed its turn it thrust forward, accelerating fast. Seconds later it lifted into the sky.
CHAPTER FORTY
By the time Dan had dropped Aimee off at her grandparents in Bath, it was gone three a.m. His eyes were gritty and his mouth tasted sour. He knew he should stop and sleep for a spell, but he couldn’t. Not with Jenny God alone knew where and Adrian Calder and his mother-in-law at the hospital in Margate, the closest hospital providing full A & E to where Blain had been attacked. He must be one heck of a family friend considering they were still there.
He had to speak to Calder.
He needed to track down Zama Kasofsky and get his wife back.
So he jumped in his car and headed east, back along the M4, taking the cut-across through Bracknell for the M25 and M3. Being the middle of the night it was quiet, but there were always a few trucks in the slow lane, FedEX, Tesco, Maersk Line. As he drove, he thought of the phone calls he’d made. Trying to form a plan.
He’d spoken to Bernard earlier. Classical music had been playing, Debussy or something similarly soothing. ‘I’ve informed the Foreign Secretary,’ Bernard told him. ‘He’s going to kick up a stink, try and find out what’s going on. Meantime, I’d like you to liaise with Oswald Lyons. Ozzie’s running the show now. He’ll keep me informed. Good luck, Dan. If there’s anything else we can do . . .’
Dan had met Ozzie on the Russian desk at Thames House North last week. Tall, round-faced and muscular, he was in his late thirties, quick-minded and meticulous. For his sins he was also, he admitted ruefully, an amateur wrestler. Dan thought he could do far worse than have him on his side.
When he’d rung Ozzie, he’d learned that a Russian-owned private jet, a Falcon 900, had taken off from Manston Airport just after ten p.m. The passenger list included a woman who’d been on a stretcher, barely conscious due to a recent spine injury. Her passport gave the name Anna Saburov. The man who had checked her passport had been questioned. He’d agreed that Anna Saburov looked like Jenny, but as far as he was concerned Anna’s passport had been genuine and he had no idea the woman was there against her will.
‘Sorry,’ said Ozzie. ‘Wish we could have got the alert to Manston in time – thanks, darling, much needed.’
Dan imagined that his wife had brought him a brandy.
‘Perfect. Where was I? Ah, tracking Jenny. The Foreign Secretary and FCO will be going through the official channels, screaming blue murder, OK? Meantime, I’ve alerted our Moscow desk. They’re passing the word. The jet filed a flight plan to Moscow and we’ll have someone there looking for it . . .’
But Dan knew that just because they’d filed a flight plan didn’t mean they’d actually land in Moscow. It could be a diversion. The Falcon 900 flew at 590 mph at 36,000 feet. Eight miles per minute. Its range was around 4,500 miles. They could fly straight over Moscow and keep going to Irkutsk, in deepest Siberia. Or they could fly to Uzbekistan, Western China or Pakistan.
Six a.m. Dan parked in the hospital car park. All was quiet, nobody to be seen. Too early. A dozen or so cars were scattered between some skinny trees. He took his phone off the charger and pocketed it. Made sure he had his wallet and a handful of change. He was in desperate need of caffeine. He headed for the front entrance, eyes muddy, limbs sluggish. He knew he’d wake up once he was beneath electric lights and talking to Adrian Calder, but right now he felt as though he could sleep for a week. Stress and worry taking their toll; two of the most enervating things known to man.
He rang Calder to tell him he had arrived. It went straight to his voicem
ail. Dan simply said, ‘I’m here.’ And went to try and find a coffee machine.
Calder rang him back within the minute. He’d obviously been waiting for his call.
‘Dan,’ Calder said.
‘Where are you?’ Dan asked.
‘How about we meet in the A & E waiting room? I’ll be there in two minutes.’
Dan pushed through the doors into A & E. One nurse sat behind the reception desk, another stood at her shoulder. Both were looking at a computer screen. Five chairs were taken. A young man with a busted face. An elderly woman with a younger man that Dan took to be her son. A couple in their early thirties, smartly dressed, the man in a checked jacket, the woman a tweed suit.
Adrian Calder and Irene Cavendish came into view from a corridor to the right of reception. He recognised them from the photographs Lucy had sent him. Irene’s skin was grey. She looked how Dan felt: exhausted.
Calder looked much older than fifty-five and he walked slowly, as though he had something broken inside. He saw Dan and raised a hand in greeting. As Dan nodded back, he saw the smart couple glance his way. As they took him in something shifted in them; something about the tension in their muscles.
A heightened awareness swept through him, banishing his exhaustion.
He stepped quickly across the room but the couple rose before him and moved towards Calder. Dan’s alarm soared. He increased his pace. His adrenaline was pumping, his senses peaked, his thoughts moving with dizzying speed.
Was it the couple who’d kidnapped Jenny?
According to Ozzie the couple who’d dropped Jenny at the private flights desk hadn’t boarded with her. Were this man and woman the FSB agents? He had no way of knowing. MI5 didn’t have a photograph of them, but Lucy had said they’d been in their early thirties, good-looking, smartly dressed –
‘RUN!’ he yelled at Calder. He sprinted for the couple who promptly broke into a run straight for Calder. The man was reaching into his jacket as he ran. He was going for a gun.
Calder hesitated for a second as though he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing, and then he turned and fled.
He only managed half a dozen steps before the man had pulled out his gun and was taking aim.
Irene rushed between the man and Calder. She was shouting something at the man but Dan couldn’t understand; she was shouting in Russian. The man with the gun shouted something back. And then he lifted his gun and shot her.
Irene toppled to the ground like a felled tree.
Someone screamed.
Dan was racing around the rows of chairs. He was too far away but the man had been taken by surprise. He hadn’t expected Irene to try and protect Calder. Dan hoped he’d be off-balance enough to miss his next shot.
The man’s gun spoke, spitting twice, and Dan heard another scream as he tore towards him.
Adrian Calder slowed but he didn’t stop. He kept going.
The man took aim again. This time, he wouldn’t miss. He’d take care to hit Calder where the damage would be fatal.
Dan was just yards away, preparing to rugby tackle the man when the woman grasped his arm and pulled. Dan spun to face her. He struck her under the chin with the heel of his hand. Her body was lifted into the air by the blow and she landed on to the floor with her neck twisted.
Another two spits from the silencer.
Calder had fallen, the back of his skull blown away.
Dan drove the man hard on to the floor, jamming his forearm against his windpipe, aiming to crush it, but he’d hit him a fraction too high and caught the soft skin beneath his jaw.
The men wrestled violently. Both were gasping. Dan could smell the man’s breath; onions and cigarettes. He saw the gun, the man’s wrist pivoting towards him. He grabbed the barrel and held it away. With his other hand he made short, hard punches to the man’s throat and solar plexus. Then he tilted his body to the side and tried to plunge his knee into the man’s testicles, but the man twisted aside, so Dan punched his elbow into his diaphragm instead. He heard the breath rush from the man’s throat. Dan drove home his advantage and seized his wrist with both hands and broke it. The crack was like a piece of kindling being snapped.
Dan was about to grab the gun when someone kicked him in his side. Hard enough to break a rib. A security guard, who yanked the gun away from Dan at the same time as Adrian’s attacker slammed a roundhouse into his face. Dan fell back against a chair that scooted sideways. Plastic, no arms, polypropylene. He grabbed it with one hand and swung with all his might.
The man rolled and Dan smashed the chair on to the floor, missing him. He scrambled to his feet but the man was lighter and more agile. He was upright and running, fleeing for the door.
Dan pelted after him.
Behind him, the security guard shouted, ‘Stop!’
Dan increased his pace.
The man was fast but he was injured. Broken wrist, maybe a couple of busted ribs. It took the edge off his speed. As they approached the cluster of cars near the hospital entrance, the man’s hand went into his jacket pocket and Dan knew he was after his car keys. He put on a burst of speed and launched himself at the man’s knees, shoulder first, punching him hard.
The man flew to the ground.
Dan swarmed over him. Grabbed his ears and slammed his forehead and face into the tarmac. Once, twice. Three times.
The man lay still.
Straddling his torso, Dan rolled him over. He kept his fist high, ready to punch him if he moved.
The man’s face was a mess. Broken nose, cheekbone shattered, a swelling on his forehead already blooming. He was out cold.
To one side, a man said, ‘Stop.’ It was the security guard. He was gasping, his skin greasy-pale.
‘You’ve called the police?’ Dan asked.
‘Yes.’
Dan rose. ‘Good. You can go now.’
When he hesitated, Dan took a purposeful step forward, bunching his bloody fists at his side. His demeanour shrieked, You really want to mess with me?
The guard took a step back.
‘Go and help everyone inside,’ Dan snapped, ‘and direct the police to me when they arrive, or . . .’ He looked pointedly at the Russian’s prostrate figure.
The guard glanced at the shattered face, the broken wrist. He swallowed.
‘Your choice,’ added Dan.
The guard backed away.
When he was sure the guard had gone, Dan swiftly bent back to the Russian. He rummaged through the man’s pockets, withdrew his car key. Pressed the unlocking button. The parking lights of a Ford sedan lit up. Dan raced to his own car. Yanked out a spare lead he kept for Poppy in the glovebox, along with a tow rope. Ran back to the man and tied his hands behind his back. Then he dragged him to the Ford sedan. Popped the boot. He paused to gather his strength. He was panting and sweating, his heart pounding. He looked down at the man’s mashed face. Heard his messy breathing.
He took a deep breath. This man knows where Jenny has gone. He can tell me where she is.
Dan put his elbows under the man’s armpits and hauled him upright, exhaling sharply as he did so, transferring more energy to the movement and managing to get the man’s torso to hang over the lip of the boot. He then took his legs and lifted them, twisting the body round, going to the shoulders and shifting them sideways. A trickle of sweat worked its way down Dan’s face. More sweat gathered along his spine.
He tumbled the man into the boot, careful of the angle of his head. He didn’t want to break his neck. Not yet, anyway.
Dan closed the boot. Walked around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Started the car. Drove away.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sunday 8 February
Lucy awoke in bed beneath a duvet cover decorated with fire engines, police cars and ambulances. She gave a snort of laughter. Mum having a joke. She hadn’t seen the cover since she was a kid and had pronounced it babyish. She could still remember her delight with it though, when she was six and had just decided t
o become a policewoman. She’d been at school when the police had come to give a talk, and the moment she’d sat in the police car and seen the radio, heard it crackle – a burglary had just been reported down the road – she knew that’s what she wanted to be. At the weekend her mother had made police epaulets for her out of silver foil and bought her a toy police helmet from Wodworths.
Lucy stretched and rolled over to see what the time was. Ten o’clock. Not bad, for her. She’d had just over four hours’ kip, which was surprising, because when she’d first fallen into bed she’d spent what felt like hours in the dark rerunning Jenny’s rescue and trying to work out how to do it successfully the next time. She knew she’d done the best thing for Aimee, but leaving the girl’s mother behind? If it happened again she wouldn’t let Jenny go upstairs. She’d take her by the wrist and force her outside with her daughter, barefoot or not.
Thank God Dan hadn’t taken it out on her. She wasn’t sure if she could have coped with that. But he was a professional, he wouldn’t see the point in going over something that had already happened, no matter how bad and when there were more important things to be thinking about. Like getting his wife back.
After Dan had left with Aimee, Lucy had returned to the scene and allowed herself to be directed to Canterbury Police Station where she was debriefed by the SIO. She’d made a statement and signed it. Taken a copy and emailed it to Mac. She’d been about to leave when the news came through about Calder’s killing. Apparently she’d gone very pale and the SIO nearly hadn’t let her join him but she’d rallied fast. She’d no intention of being left behind.
She’d seen Adrian Calder’s body. Taken in the overturned chair in reception, the blood smeared all over the floor. From the description of the couple who’d attacked Calder, she guessed they were the FSB agents she’d seen on Irene’s doorstep. The couple who’d kidnapped Dan’s wife. One FSB agent was missing, the other had been removed from the A & E waiting room. An overweight security guard described Dan to a T, and when Lucy intimated that Dan was with the Security Service, the man breathed out, obviously relieved. More questions from the SIO, until her head started to ache.