by Cain, Tom
He would deal with Grantham in due course, but now he kept going to the door of the master bedroom, the same door Novak had come through less than a minute before. He took a deep breath. He turned the handle. He walked in.
And he stepped into a charnel house.
91
ALIX WAS LYING splayed, naked and ruined in the midst of a crimson eruption of blood. The sheets around her were sodden with it. Blood was dripping from the brass bed frame, sprayed and smeared across the wall behind the bed, pooled on the floor beside it.
She had been abused.
She had been tortured.
She had been eviscerated.
An incision had been made from her pubis up across her stomach almost to her ribs. Novak must have reached inside and pulled out Alix’s entrails, stringing them across the skin on either side of the cut.
It struck Carver that she might have been hunting for the baby, seeking out their embryonic child. It was somewhere in that glistening tangle of pink and crimson entrails, lying dead in its mother’s violated womb. He thought of the text, ‘Bye-bye baby’, and he had to lift a hand to his mouth to stop himself from vomiting.
It had been barely fifteen hours since he had walked into the ruins of the Lion Market and seen the dead and dying lying there so thickly that there was barely room to step between them across the floor. He’d thought that he had never seen anything as bad as that before, and never would again. He’d been wrong.
As he stepped closer, Carver saw how specifically Novak had taken her revenge. She had told him how Alix had surprised her with a kick to the knee. In return, Novak had kneecapped Alix: putting a bullet through the soft tissue just above each knee. Then, repaying the hands that had done her such harm, Novak had cut off every one of Alix’s fingers, one by one, leaving nothing more than two blood-drenched paws.
Finally he forced himself to look at the face of the woman he loved, the face that had always been able to make his heart sing. She had a smile that could light up the darkest corners of his soul. She had lips he could not go near without wanting, no, needing, to step close enough to kiss them. The vivacity in her eyes had given him life and hope at times when it had seemed both would be lost.
And now that was all gone.
Her mouth had been closed with a strip of silver duct tape. There were two blistering, disfiguring welts running in parallel down Alix’s cheeks, and a third, horizontal one across her forehead, branding her for ever.
Her hair had all been hacked off, almost down to the scalp, and it lay in a golden fan on the mattress around her head.
And she had no nose.
Novak had hacked it off – a repayment, with interest, for her own shattered nose – leaving a gaping black hole in the middle of Alix’s face.
The mutilation was terrible, and Carver tried to comprehend how much Alix must have suffered in the last minutes of her life. He had known real agony himself; far more than anyone should ever have to endure. But nothing that he had been through had remotely compared to this.
Just to see her there, spreadeagled, was more than he could bear. He was consumed with guilt at the thought that this was all his fault. If he had just had the guts to kill Novak when he’d had the chance, Alix would still be alive. Let her at least be given some comfort and dignity in death.
He was at the head of the bed now, and he took out the hunting knife and cut the ties that held her arms to the bed frame, gently taking her hands in his and laying them straight by her sides. He peeled the tape from her lovely mouth. He tried very hard not to look at the tools of Novak’s butchery arrayed on the bedside table: the carving knife, the sharpening steel and the secateurs, all steadily glueing to the table-top as the blood that had dripped from them congealed and coagulated into a sticky, solid mass.
Carver turned his eyes back to Alix and as he looked down at her, his vision blurred and it was only then that he realized he was crying. He wiped his eyes and his nose like a little kid, sweeping his sleeve across his face. And that was when he noticed . . .
She was alive.
Her eyes were flickering. She was looking at him, tilting her head up just the smallest little bit, and her mouth was moving soundlessly.
‘I’m here, my darling, my love,’ he said and bent his head so that she could try to whisper into his ear.
‘Please . . .’ she said. ‘Please . . . it hurts so much.’
‘Oh darling, it’s all right . . .’ He was scrabbling for his phone. ‘I’ll call an ambulance. It’s all going to be all right.’
She moved her head, a tiny, fractional shake. ‘No . . .’ she gasped. ‘No ambulance . . . Please, Sam . . . please . . .’
And then he realized what she was asking him, and he said, ‘No, baby, no . . . you’ll get better . . . you’ll see . . .’
‘Begging you,’ she said. ‘I love you . . . Please . . .’
Then her eyes closed again, her head fell back and her chest rose and fell as she gasped for breath.
He thought to himself: They could put her back together. It’s battlefield medicine. They could do incredible things these days. People could survive for years, decades in fact.
But how could he refuse her? She did not want to be that person, the disfigured recipient of other people’s pity. She wanted to be put out of her misery, future as well as present. And if he loved her, his final gift to her had to be a quick, merciful release from her pain.
He got down on one knee on the floor beside her. As he stroked her head with his left hand he looked into her eyes and said, ‘I love you so much . . .’
His right hand reached for the gun.
‘I love you,’ he repeated softly, and thought he saw the faintest flicker of a smile in her eyes.
He kept stroking her head as he raised the gun.
‘I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you . . .’
He took his left hand away from her head and put the gun to her temple.
‘I love you . . . I love you . . .’ he murmured.
Then Carver pulled the trigger and killed the woman he loved.
92
AT KENNINGTON POLICE station DI Keane’s office door burst open and a young detective constable ran in.
‘Ma’am, ma’am, they’ve found him!’ he exclaimed.
‘The Second Man?’
‘What’s happening?’ called Commander Stamford down the line.
Keane switched to speakerphone just as the DC went on, ‘There were a couple of reports of a man answering his description running hell for leather through Regent’s Park. Then more of him on Wellington Road, and by the studio at Abbey Road.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said the DC. ‘He was spotted going into a building on Abbey Road, and then about a minute later someone called up saying a bomb had gone off.’
‘Get over there at once, Inspector,’ Stamford said. ‘Take whoever you’ve got. I’ll call SCO19 and get them on the move. This time we’re damn well going to get him.’
The Metropolitan Police weren’t the only ones on the move. When someone gets on the phone and reports a bomb going off, key-word programs at GCHQ in Cheltenham and the National Security Administration at Ford Meade, Maryland immediately signal an alert. When the address given by the caller is the same as that of a US diplomat, it becomes a red alert. Within less than a minute of the 999 call concluding a message was on its way to John D. Giammetti at the CIA in London. And within a further sixty seconds a team of armed field agents had already been scrambled and were running for the black, bullet- and bomb-proof Chevrolet Suburban people-carrier that would take them straight to Abbey Road.
93
CARVER TOOK ONE last look at Alix, then left the bedroom and closed the door.
A clearly defined sequence of events was forming in his mind, and it began with locating the duct tape that Novak had used on Alix. It was sitting on the kitchen island with a pair of scissors neatly placed across the top. Carver grabbed them both
and retrieved the nail gun that was lying not far away. He went back to the hall and crouched down beside Grantham, just as Novak had done a few minutes earlier. He placed the tape and scissors on the floor. He took the head cam out of his jacket pocket, switched it on and held it in his left hand, pointing it at Grantham. With his right hand he placed the head of the nail gun against Grantham’s crotch.
Grantham’s eyes widened. Clearly his sight was returning. What about his hearing? Speaking very clearly, with his mouth not far from Grantham’s ear, Carver said, ‘Can you hear me?’
Grantham nodded.
‘Good. Now here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to remove your gag. If you try to call for help, I will fire the nail gun. I’m then going to ask you some questions. As you see, your answers will be on camera. I already know what happened, so don’t try to lie to me, or pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, or my trigger finger will start itching. I’ve already tried this gun out on Novak, and it works pretty well. So unless you fancy life as a eunuch, I’d advise you to do precisely what I say. Nod if you understand.’
Grantham nodded.
Carver put the camera down for long enough to pull the gag from Grantham’s face and the sock from his mouth.
‘Right,’ he said, picking up the camera again, ‘let’s get started.’
As Carver began his interview the CIA’s black Suburban was rounding Marble Arch and taking the direct route to the flat, straight up Abbey Road. The driver was paying no attention whatever to speed limits, red lights or road safety. He tilted his head back and shouted out loud enough for all the men in the back to hear: ‘Estimated time of arrival: four minutes!’
Metropolitan Police vehicles were also converging on the scene from several different directions. They were a little way behind, but they had the advantage of lights and sirens. Keane had the longest distance to travel. She radioed the officers in the leading car. ‘How long till you get there?’
‘Five minutes at the outside, ma’am.’
‘That won’t do,’ she insisted. ‘I need you there faster than that.’
‘We’re going to keep it very simple,’ Carver said. ‘Just answer yes or no. So, are you Jack Grantham, the Head of the Secret Intelligence Service, otherwise known as MI6?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you order a man called Danny Cropper to organize a series of riots, including the one in Netherton Street last night?’
Grantham paused for a second. Carver pressed the nail gun into his balls. Grantham said, ‘Yes, but—’
The nail gun fired. Carver had pulled his hand back a few inches. The nail blasted into the floor between Grantham’s legs. The blood drained from Grantham’s face and Carver said, ‘Just stick to yes or no . . . You were going to say that it wasn’t supposed to be violent, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you know what field ops are like: anything that can go wrong will go wrong. Next question: were you planning to frame Mark Adams?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wanted everyone to think that he had set up the riots?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then his whole campaign would be totally discredited and he would face criminal charges?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you working under orders?’
‘Not exactly . . .’
‘Tut-tut . . . that’s not quite a yes or a no, is it? All right, then . . . your specific actions were deniable . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘But someone wanted you to go after Adams, even if they didn’t want to know how you were doing it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Someone close to the Prime Minister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me guess: Cameron Young?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. That’s all I need.’
Carver turned the camera off and put it back in his jacket. Then he took the nail gun away from Grantham’s crotch. Grantham’s shoulders slumped as the tension left his body, but a second later his eyes were widening in protest again as Carver shoved the sock back in his mouth and replaced the gag. Carver said, ‘I really don’t want to have to look at you any more,’ and wound the duct tape round and round Grantham’s head until everything was covered and sealed tight except a small breathing-hole beneath his nose.
It was time to go.
There was a side-table beneath the mirror in the hall and on it a small, hand-carved wooden bowl in which Peck kept his house and car keys. Carver took them. He also discarded his windcheater and glasses and swapped them for a smart dark-brown leather bomber jacket hanging on a coat rack, a vivid purple baseball cap with a white letter ‘H’ on the front that was dangling from the next hook, and a pair of aviator shades that had been left on the side-table next to the bowl of keys. The effect on Carver’s appearance was instantaneous. All trace of his previous, loser persona had entirely disappeared. As before, he transferred his phone and wallet into the new jacket. But he left the head cam in the old windcheater. He wanted it to be found.
Carver trod down hard on Grantham’s feet to hold them still and pulled on his bound arms until he was virtually upright. Then Carver dipped his right shoulder and hoisted Grantham over it in a fireman’s lift. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re going for a drive.’
94
THE SUBURBAN’S TYRES squealed as it turned hard right across Maida Vale, ignoring the oncoming traffic, and hurtled down Hall Road. Abbey Road was less than a hundred and fifty metres up ahead. Turn left, drive to the end of the first block and they’d arrive at their destination.
The first of the police cars was racing north on the street that became Abbey Road. All it had to do was keep going: no need to turn at all.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing!’ the police driver shouted as the black people-carrier pulled out in front of him at the crossroads, forcing him to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. The Suburban pulled up, just ahead, and the two officers in the police car looked on as the doors all opened and half a dozen men in dark suits and ties, five carrying handguns, the sixth with a lock-busting shotgun, leaped out and ran towards The Glasshouse’s front door.
Neither group of men even noticed the black Range Rover turning off Abbey Road not very far up ahead, as it made its way at a calm, legal speed towards the turn that would take it back down towards Victoria Station. It had always been one of Carver’s guiding principles never to drive in any way that might attract the attention of the law. Once a cop pulled him over for speeding, who knew where it might end?
He had carried Grantham down in the lift, thanking his lucky stars that no other residents had chosen that particular moment to get in. When he’d got to the basement garage he’d pressed the key and been guided to the Range Rover – of which there were three parked among the Mercedes, Porsches, Audis and BMWs – by the flash of its lights. Grantham went in the boot. Carver got in the driver’s seat. He drove straight at the metal gate covering the entire opening to the garage, trusting to the fact that properties in this building were so expensive there was no way their owners would expect to have to open the damn gate. Sure enough, it slid aside at the Range Rover’s approach.
As he got to the street, Carver looked right and saw the blue police light flashing a few hundred metres away. He therefore turned left and then left again, catching a fractional, momentary glimpse of the Suburban in his rear-view mirror as he did so. Then he drove away with his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.
It had long since become a staple cause of tabloid outrage that health and safety regulations meant that officers could be severely disciplined for exposing themselves to even the slightest risk of personal injury, an idea that had come as a shock to members of the public naïve enough to believe that one of the functions of the police was precisely to risk danger on their behalf. But even the most curmudgeonly man-of-the-people columnist would concede that two unarmed officers had a right to be cautious when confronted by a number of gun-tot
ing Americans smashing their way into a smart London apartment building. They called the incident in and then stayed in their car until armed and body-armoured reinforcements arrived.
It was at about this point that the car containing the two FSB operatives discreetly left the scene.
The CIA agents, having fired one breaching round into the front door of the building, put another through the lock of Trent Peck the Third’s front door, thereby spraying Peck’s body with fine particles of debris from the shattered lock. This was the first, but by no means the last, way in which the agents compromised the crime scene as they made their way in mounting horror through the flat, discovering their dead colleague, the horribly mutilated body of one female victim in the bedroom and another female with her chest smashed by an axe and her throat and face used as a pincushion for 90mm nails on the living-room floor.
The Metropolitan Police, meanwhile, were forced to treat this as a siege situation, evacuating the building while attempts were made to discover who was up in the penthouse and why. The Suburban led them very quickly to the US Embassy, but they were initially met with a solid wall of intransigence and denial. The police contacted their masters at the Home Office, who passed the message across Whitehall to the Foreign Office and on to MI6. The head of the agency had gone missing and so the responsibility bounced back from Vauxhall to King Charles Street and it was the Foreign Secretary herself who called up John D. Giammetti and told him, bluntly, ‘Get your men out of that building. Now.’
Giammetti protested that one of his people was in that building, lying dead in a pool of blood, and they weren’t leaving him behind.
‘Please don’t be over-dramatic,’ the Foreign Secretary said. ‘You’re not Marines on Iwo Jima. You’re foreign agents in the middle of London, and if someone has died that is the responsibility of the Metropolitan Police. When they have completed their inquiries we will of course inform you, and the body will be released. And, by the way, your men are carrying firearms. So if anyone in the building has died of gunshot wounds we’ll need those weapons too.’