by Roger Pearce
‘What fucking kept you?’ Disadvantaged, he tried to play catch-up as Tranter moved to narrow the gap, his Belfast accent harsh, entitled. ‘How long are we supposed to survive in this dump?’
The boy’s miscalculation made Tranter laugh. ‘Is that why you’re getting yourself all spruced up? To walk away?’ Aware of Kenny at his shoulder, he glared from one brother to the other, no-hopers redolent of the gangsters who had tortured his father. He closed his hand around the Glock. ‘Who’d want to save a pair of losers like you?’
Then he caught Fin’s eyes flicker over his protective clothing, his covered hands and shoes, the shrewd one sensing danger where Kenny saw only cocaine. Fin must have left his weapon in the makeshift kitchen, for he was on the move as Tranter weaved around the bed to reach him in four easy strides, his own gun already rising. The race lost, Fin swung to fight with his hands, making his chest an easy target. Tranter fired a pair of rounds into his heart, then shot him twice in the face, just as boys like these had done to his dad.
Fin catapulted backwards, crashing the TV to the floor. The Sky reporter continued to deliver her terrorism update to the ceiling, her mouth still working beside the naked corpse. Fin’s features were scarcely recognisable, his nose and right eye lost, right cheek hidden beneath a mat of glossy hair. More blood meandered around his chest hair to drip, drip, drip onto the TV screen, as if his heart was still pumping.
Tranter ripped the TV plug from the wall and turned his sights on Kenny. ‘They tell me you’re the little shit who bottled it at Gloucester Road,’ he said, filling the silence left by the television. Kenny remained transfixed, a picture of shock and disbelief, when he should urgently have been considering his own position. His muteness irritated Tranter, so he lowered the Glock and shot him in his right leg, obliterating the scars from his fist kneecapping. Kenny screamed and collapsed to the floor. ‘My work of art, and you handed it to them,’ said Tranter, stooping to wrench his knee. ‘Do you have any idea of the trouble you caused? The shit flying my way because of you?’
Tranter had hoped for a lash of retaliation, anything to fan the flames. Instead, the boy writhed in agony, sobbing like a baby, his eyes filled with dread. Before Tranter could speak again, he let out a full-throated scream that must have reached the street, so Tranter silenced him with a single headshot. He watched him flop away, curling like a foetus within touching distance of his brother.
Tranter pocketed the Glock, took out the evidence pouch, sprinkled its contents onto the pine table and stepped into the yard. The cat was peering at him again by the wheelie bin as he peeled off the gloves and overshoes, stuffing them into his pocket. He snatched a final glance along the pavement as the creature slipped between his legs, darted up the steps and led the way to his van.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Sunday, 23 October, 11.23, Kerr’s Alfa Romeo
Beyond the Fishbowl’s dusty blinds the autumn sky looked promising, though Kerr saw only a storm about to break. On edge, he retrieved his Glock from the safe and headed out in the Alfa.
He was feeding into the traffic around Marble Arch when Jack Langton came through on Tetra Five, the encrypted surveillance channel. ‘We have Boss Man and Sunny Jim arriving at the Mayfair location…stand by…plus a grey Fiat van parking in the mews now…UI male out of the vehicle and entering the office.’
‘Polly’s guy?’
‘Very likely.’
‘Any others?’ said Kerr.
‘No. Boss Man used the main door key and deactivated the alarm.’
‘If they disperse, can the Reds cover all three targets?’
‘It’ll be rough and ready, but yes, not a problem,’ said Langton, without drawing breath.
‘Okay. Sightings of the Artist? Airplane Man?’
Melanie broke in before Langton could speak. ‘Dead as a dodo at Portobello.’
Kerr rammed his foot down. ‘With you in four minutes, Mel.’ He pretended it was an impulsive decision, though images of Donate Lucrecia Poncheti with Robyn had eclipsed everything since last night’s revelations.
Langton again, his voice low. ‘John, how do you want to play this?’
It was a loaded question that reduced Kerr to silence as he shot into Hyde Park Place, stringing out the make or break time. For the twelve armed surveillance officers listening in, John Kerr was the ranking officer on the ground, without oversight from the Bull or Bill Ritchie. In the eye of London’s most vicious bombing campaign since 7/7, it fell to him to arrest the targets or keep them in play, risking more bloodshed. Langton was drawing him into the classic intelligence officer’s dilemma, the long game against executive action.
Melanie was on Tetra again, quietly urgent, severing his thoughts as he accelerated to seventy along the Bayswater Road. ‘Make it quicker. I’ve got the Artist in a rush to a blue Audi A4, checking something, glove compartment or dash…now returning inside.’
‘I’m sending back-up,’ said Langton.
‘Negative, Jack. Cover the Wymark end.’ Kerr had flipped the siren now, and had to raise his voice. ‘We’ll take this in mine.’
In less than a minute he spotted the Red Team’s ancient Volvo parked on the street adjoining Maria Benita Consuela’s. As he smoked to a halt, Melanie was already sprinting along the tarmac.
‘Move,’ she said, clambering aboard. ‘Benita’s coming out again.’
Kerr edged into the corner, just in time to see Consuela dip inside the Audi. Then a man followed her, cradling a brown holdall and moving fast.
‘Airplane Man,’ said Melanie. ‘With the bag he collected in Scheveningen.’
Luca, instantly recognisable from twenty car lengths, flooding Kerr with adrenaline as he craned forward, knuckles white on the steering wheel but his body reinvigorated, Saturday’s pain banished. He fixed on the man folding himself into the passenger seat, agile and strong, face tanned, hair glossed back. He imagined him with Robyn, the smooth dude with a jagged past, another of her secrets. Then Melanie was offering water. ‘You okay?’
Kerr shook his head, drifting forward. He sensed danger, not from Luca but deep inside himself.
‘Not yet or we’ll show out,’ she said, unscrewing the bottle for him. ‘Drink.’
Kerr braked and swallowed some water, his eyes never leaving the target as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Melanie’s eyes were on him again, uncertain. ‘Want me to drive?’
Kerr dropped the bottle into the cup holder, watching Luca tug his seat belt as the Audi pulled away. ‘I’m fine.’ He kept a safe distance as they passed Consuela’s flat, stealing a glance into the community garden where they had executed Avril Knight. Was it jealousy, vengeance or hatred stabbing at him? Melanie was murmuring into Tetra as Kerr silently examined his motives, all of them unbecoming.
Sunday morning traffic was building as they drove west to join the M4 at Chiswick. Consuela set a gruelling pace from the start, with Kerr playing every trick to achieve ‘visibility unseen,’ the goal of all surveillance officers. She trespassed into bus lanes to undertake, chanced her luck at amber lights, accelerated aggressively above the limit and braked hard for speed cameras. For the pursuers, every turn, junction and tailback became a challenge.
‘Rubbish driver or surveillance conscious?’ said Kerr, exasperated after his third near loss.
‘She’s erratic but it’s Sunday,’ said Melanie. ‘And you’re out of practice.’
They had been on the move less than fifteen minutes when Alan Fargo came on the hands-free. ‘Guys, has Justin given any hint or worry about his personal security?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m reading Echo Chip live. Luca just tasked Gina Costello to find a different pilot for tonight.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Must be suspicious, and he’ll be feeding that into Gina.’
Kerr ran a fourth set of lights as he grappled with a new quandary. Then Melanie was looking at him, expectant, making his decision easy. ‘Okay, I’m pulling Justin
out,’ he said, quietly, ‘soon as I get this sorted.’
‘And we’re tracking you M4 westbound,’ said Fargo. ‘You think Luca’s going to risk Heathrow, instead?’
In the near distance to their left, Kerr watched an Airbus 380 rise in slow motion, its Emirates logo picked out by the sun. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This guy’s come here to do something.’
They followed the Audi onto the M25 before pressing further west along the M40 towards Oxford, with Kerr, Melanie and everyone in 1830 racking their brains for possible targets.
Melanie spotted them a second before Kerr, a string of flashing blue lights inflating in her rear-view mirror, a mile back but closing fast. Seconds later a shiny black BMW 7 Series flashed past with a silver Jaguar in its slipstream and a Land Rover Discovery tailgating at ninety plus.
Without a word, Melanie speed-dialled on Kerr’s mobile. Karl Sergeyev answered on the first ring, as if he had been expecting the call. ‘Good morning, John. What’s up?’
‘I want you to call Number Ten and check the PM’s diary for me,’ said Kerr.
‘No need. I’m with him.’
Kerr frowned in concentration at the fading convoy as the threat suddenly deepened. ‘Well, you just steamed past us. Is the Foreign Sec there?’
‘My man’s away, so the office put me on reserve.’
Kerr imagined Sergeyev in the BMW, rear nearside, diagonal to the driver. ‘What’s the programme?’
‘The PM making reassuring noises to the president of the European Banking Federation about Brexit and our love of all things European.’
‘Martin Bergmann? They sponsored yesterday’s equestrian thing at the O2.’
‘So even more to talk about. They’re travelling together, best buddies since their Harvard days. Private visit, low-key, no statements. Bergmann’s got something extracurricular lined up tonight in London, then last flight out. Excuse me, John. Are you telling me we have a problem?’
‘You’re headed for Chequers, yes?’
‘Eventually. PM wants to buy him a pint before lunch.’
‘In the schedule?’
‘It’s a photo opportunity, so of course. England and Germany all smiles. Sweetness and light at the local.’
‘Which one?’
‘Hold on.’ From the front seat, a woman’s voice gave the answer before Karl could ask. And in that split second the kaleidoscope in Kerr’s head stopped spinning, its teeming pieces slipping into place, settling his next move.
‘The Crown,’ said Sergeyev.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Sunday, 23 October, 11.57, Kerr’s Alfa Romeo
Corona. In a flash, Kerr was strolling with Rich Malone by the Reflecting Pool in Washington, listening to his friend dissemble about technical failure and fractured intelligence. Unwittingly, Karl Sergeyev had just drawn him a new route map: the Royal Family and O2 both false trails, his true destination a modest pub in deepest Buckinghamshire.
‘Karl, where is this place?’
‘The wilds north of Pulpit Hill, seven minutes from Chequers.’
‘Who did the recce?’
‘The PM’s regular team…hold on.’ Kerr could hear other voices, anxious and quieter now, full of questions. ‘Good. Thank you…John? Yes, he drops in there, sometimes with his wife and kids. Plus a TV crew. He took Obama last year. The staff are trustworthy and discreet, everyone vetted. It’s low risk, no big deal.’
‘Karl, the pub is cancelled. Change the plan, make an excuse. It’s not going to happen.’
Up ahead, the Audi suddenly veered from the middle lane to leave the motorway, tearing down the slip road. ‘She’s definitely headed their way,’ said Melanie quietly, checking her phone map.
Without braking, Kerr managed to slide between a truck and a caravan to make the exit. ‘Karl, you take the PM and Bergmann to Chequers. Stay there until I call you. Understood?’
‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’
‘The moment I know myself.’
‘I believe the PM will not like that,’ he said, carefully. Beneath the understatement, Kerr sensed Sergeyev watching the other protection officers in the car. ‘Guy is with both principals in the Jaguar. Would you like to speak with him?’
‘No. I want you to handle this for me,’ said Kerr, sniffing the cordite from a hundred turf wars. ‘If the top man plays up, I’ll come to Chequers and explain.’
Sergeyev responded in a beat. ‘I understand, John.’ Kerr imagined the Russian’s body language in the BMW, the back-up officer about to call the shots. There would be no questions, excuses or conditions, no backsliding. ‘Operational reasons. You can rely on me,’ was all he said, before cutting the call. It was classic Sergeyev, courteous and dutiful, the protector unafraid to take on the most powerful man in the land.
‘We’re getting close,’ said Melanie. ‘Six miles.’ They were speeding north on a single carriageway, with Kerr four vehicles back and Consuela overtaking at the slightest opportunity. Clearing the traffic around Princes Risborough, Kerr began to close the gap.
‘Are you carrying?’
‘Yes,’ said Melanie. ‘And I think we have to do a hard stop.’
Dead on cue, Consuela reacted as if she had been listening to every word. The Audi surged forward, passing three cars in a row, then braked violently to swing across the traffic into a lane signposted ‘The Old Mill.’ By the time Kerr could follow, the Audi was almost out of sight, racing into a distant bend between tall hedgerows, the winding, pockmarked lane just wide enough for two cars to squeeze past.
For Kerr, this was a release. Stealth abandoned on the main road, he roared in pursuit, a petrolhead finally breaking cover. Consuela constantly misread the lane or drove blind, taking a double bend so recklessly that she almost crashed into an oncoming Nissan, black smoke whipping from her tyres as their door mirrors collided. Because the lane was too narrow to pass safely, Kerr sat on her tail and flipped the siren, watching Luca’s angry, jerking head as he glared behind and yelled at Consuela.
The chase ended after three miles on the approach to the mill, where the lane snaked across the river. Kerr had to use brakes and gears to kill his speed but Consuela ignored the warning signs, rounding a blind left-hander onto a hump back bridge so fast that she took off, overshooting the bend on the other side. The Audi slithered on a skin of wet mud, glanced off a wall lining the river and catapulted into a stone gate post.
From the top of the ancient bridge, Kerr and Melanie were caught in the eerie, post-crash stillness, the only sounds the cawing of crows, steam hissing from the smashed engine and the faint rush of the mill stream. ‘Both air bags deployed,’ said Melanie.
Movement inside the Audi, then the thud, thud, thud of Luca’s shoulder heaving open the passenger door, his hands clawing at the airbag to escape. He was suddenly out of the car with the holdall, looking back at them, evidently uninjured. He reached into the bag, then the sun glinted on something in his hand.
‘Gun!’ Both Alfa doors clunked open in a single movement as Kerr and Melanie rolled beneath the rise of the bridge, Glocks drawn. Then rapid fire from an automatic weapon punctured the air, with more flapping and rustling as birds took off from a thousand branches and Luca ran into the field, clutching the bag to his chest. They immediately sprinted for the Audi, Melanie pulling open the driver’s door to check for signs of life while Kerr covered her.
‘She’s alive,’ said Melanie, her fingers at the pulse in Consuela’s neck.
‘Stay with her,’ shouted Kerr, already on the run.
The field rose gently from the lane to a huge dilapidated barn, built of ancient red bricks, blackened timbers and clay roof tiles. From inside came the rise and fall of a powerful tractor engine, its driver evidently unaware of the drama unfolding by the stream. Twenty metres away, tracing the hedgerow along the left perimeter, Kerr waited for Luca to disappear inside the giant double doors before running to an isolated oak a bus length from the barn. He heard the rapid putter of the machine gun
, then the tractor fell silent as he sprinted the last stretch and risked a look inside. The barn was filled with rectangular hay bales stacked into neat pillars, a warehouse of fodder intersected by an earthen track stretching forty paces to the far wall. The muddy tractor was to his left, its elderly driver lying dead on the ground where Luca had thrown him, blood radiating from his neck, his face frozen in shock. Then more gunfire came from deep inside the barn and a stun grenade detonated with a snap and a blinding flash, igniting the carpet of straw.
It was the turning point, fight or flight, the moment Kerr could have retreated to await armed back-up; instead, as flames flooded the ground, he dived through the dense smoke for the nearest bales, determined to draw Luca from cover.
The next hail of shots came from a different place along the far wall, somewhere to the right, Luca searching for his own way out. Smoke billowed through the barn, carried in the draught from the open doors. It fanned the flames, cutting off Kerr’s escape as a second grenade rolled down the track, too close this time, mesmerising. The explosion blasted away the Glock and threw him violently against the unyielding bales. He lay prone, his sight impaired, hearing blunted, only his sense of smell warning him he would soon choke to death. Somewhere close by Luca was calling to him in Italian, hunting his prey.
The grenade had ignited a second seat of fire that curled across the ground to join the first and lick at the towers of hay. The machine gun spat again into the swirling smoke above Kerr’s head as he shuffled to recover the Glock and recoiled into the hay. Bare arms peppered with hot ash, he scarcely noticed the pain, trapped in a pincer movement between his assassin and the blaze. Then Luca appeared through the smoke to his right side, a ghost with a machine gun ready to fire, Kerr an unmissable target the second he turned his head.