2016 - Takedown

by Stephen Leather

  ‘We’re not really celebrating.’

  ‘And white.’ He pulled out a half-bottle. ‘It’s a Chardonnay, with a screw top.’

  ‘In Le Meurice? Now that’s a surprise. But I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.’

  He opened the bottle and emptied it into two glasses, gave one to her and sat down on the winged chair facing her. He raised his glass in salute. ‘Cheers.’

  She toasted him back. ‘You never take life seriously, do you, Alex?’

  He shrugged. ‘When it matters, I do. But if you can’t have a little fun along the way, then what’s the point?’

  She pulled a face, then drank some more wine. ‘You know I left MI5. Obviously.’

  ‘Because of that little shit Willoughby-Brown?’ He made a gun with his hand and mimed firing a couple of shots. ‘Anytime you want him taken care of, I’ll do it for free.’

  ‘This isn’t about him,’ she said. ‘At least, I don’t think it is.’

  ‘So, what’s the story?’

  She took another sip of wine. ‘When I left Five, I made it clear that I’d set up what you might call insurance. A file that in the event of my death, et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘You were scared they might kill you?’

  ‘I know stuff, Alex, a lot of stuff that could embarrass a lot of people and end a lot of careers. Now, my lips are sealed, anyone who knows me knows that, but there are some people who’d rather not rely on my word. I had to make sure I was more dangerous to them dead than alive. That appeared to be working swimmingly until there was a breakin at a safe-deposit vault last week.’

  ‘The Manchester job? I knew that was iffy.’

  ‘Because they only opened fifty-odd boxes?’

  ‘That and the fact that the cops didn’t investigate when the alarm went off. And the fact that it was almost identical to the Hatton Garden robbery. And then there’s the CCTV footage of the workmen arriving and leaving. I mean, come on, it’s the robbery of the century and they couldn’t disable one camera?’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’ asked Button.

  ‘Red herrings,’ said Harper. ‘They were all middle-aged and overweight. There was no way any of them could have got through the twelve-inch hole produced by the drill they used. That means the guys who went through the hole into the vault weren’t caught on CCTV. Why was one lot of men filmed and the others not? Because they were red herrings, that’s why. I knew there was something off about the whole thing.’

  ‘Well, now you know why. One of my insurance policies was in one of the boxes.’

  ‘One of the fifty-odd?’

  Button nodded and took another sip of wine. ‘They took the thumbdrive and one of my husband’s watches. A gold Rolex. To be honest, that’s what annoys me more than anything, the fact that one of the bastards behind this is wearing my husband’s watch. And just so you don’t think I’m being paranoid, I had a similar thumbdrive in a box in the Hatton Garden vault. One of the seventy-two that got opened there. It was my files they were after, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And who do you think “they” are?’

  Button sighed. ‘Someone in government, maybe. Someone who doesn’t want the file ever being made public. But you know what sort of work the Pool did. There are a lot of people whose careers would die if it was ever found out who did what to whom.’

  ‘And what about me, Charlie? Am I in that file?’

  ‘Redacted,’ she said. ‘Along with the names of most of the other operatives who were used. This isn’t about you, it’s about the people who gave the orders and paid the bills.’

  ‘So do you want me to ask around?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’ll do any good, Alex. They’re probably spooks.’

  ‘The guys who went into the vaults to get the thumbdrives, almost certainly. But the drillers? They’d be good old-fashioned criminals, I’m sure. Like the guys who were pulled in for the Hatton Garden job. And, like criminals the world over, they’ll talk eventually. I mean, where’s the fun in pulling off the crime of the century if no one knows you did it?’

  She smiled over the top of her wine glass. ‘There’s been no chatter. None at all. I’ve asked. Quiet as the grave.’

  ‘We move in different circles, Charlie. Let me ask around.’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble, I’d be grateful.’

  He grinned. ‘How grateful?’

  ‘Not that grateful.’

  They laughed.

  ‘You don’t know what I was going to say.’

  ‘Yes, I do, Alex.’

  CHAPTER 12

  A man in his late thirties or early forties was among the crowds of tourists emerging from Westminster Underground station on a drizzly London morning. His dark hair was tinged with grey, he was clean-shaven, with no particular distinguishing features, and wore drab clothing that was neither sharp enough nor scruffy enough to catch the eye. The only distinguishing feature about his outfit was the black trilby, tilted down over his forehead, so that the brim cast his upper features into shadow. To a casual glance, his face must have appeared almost as nondescript as his outfit, and only someone watching him closely would have detected his keen gaze as he glanced around him, taking in every detail.

  He took a free newspaper from the person handing them out at the entrance to the station and stood with his back to one of the pillars, facing across the road towards Parliament. He stood there for some time, leafing idly through the paper, but his gaze was fixed on the people moving around him, not on the pages he was turning. After five minutes he moved off, but his concentration never wavered, continually alert for anything unusual, any person out of place or paying him too close attention.

  The hat he was wearing served two purposes: to obscure his face from the ubiquitous CCTV cameras and also to provide a recognition mark for anyone following him. That might have seemed a perverse act for anyone trying to avoid detection, but he knew even the best-trained followers tended to use a distinguishing feature, like a hat, as a recognition point when tracking a suspect. In a crowded street, if the hat was suddenly removed, the person wearing it could apparently disappear. Also, his jacket was reversible, with a different-coloured lining. It would be the work of only seconds to change his outward appearance, to the potential confusion of any follower.

  He walked along Bridge Street, and after strolling right around Parliament Square, he bought a ticket for a walking tour, joining a group of a dozen foreigners who had already gathered around the guide, a woman in her early thirties. Her world-weary, slightly pained expression suggested that of all the job opportunities a master’s degree in history from Girton College, Cambridge, should have brought her, tour guide was not the first that came to mind.

  She noticed the man at once as he joined the group. Most of her customers were families with children or older couples, and the vast majority were foreign: American, German, Japanese, Chinese, or a score of other nationalities. From the few words he had spoken when buying his ticket, his accent suggested he was English, and a man on his own, especially an English one, was a rarity on her tours. Also, he had no obvious tourist paraphernalia – no camera, guide book or Union flag carrier-bag, full of souvenirs. He was not the only unusual member of this particular party: there was also a group of three young men, foreign-looking, she thought, though she could not have done more than hazard a guess at their nationality. She thought that perhaps they were vaguely Middle Eastern or from one of the former Soviet republics with unpronounceable names, but whatever their origins, they were all serious, unsmiling and, she felt, slightly creepy. Like the other man, they did not attempt to engage with her and their slightly brooding presence had a noticeable effect on the others, who seemed inhibited by their silence and were much less vocal than she was used to.

  However, no matter how silent and unsmiling its members might be, it was her job to lead the tour and explain the significance of the landmarks and buildings they would pass, so she began her standard housekeeping notices – ‘Fol
low the orange and white umbrella. Watch out for pickpockets. Feel free to ask questions’ – then launched into her introduction to the tour.

  Their route took them the short distance to the Houses of Parliament, where they gathered around her for her usual ‘Magna Carta and the Mother of Parliaments’ mini-lecture, with a brief detour to take in Pugin and the Gothic Revival. She then led them along Whitehall, pausing near the steel gates manned by armed police guarding Downing Street while she explained the difference between a prime minister and a head of state, and fielded the inevitable questions about Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher, the only British prime ministers that 95 per cent of her audience could ever name.

  As she walked along, she noticed that the lone man was ignoring her commentary and keeping well to the back of the group. He asked no questions, spoke not a word, didn’t crack a smile at any of her jokes and appeared to be paying minimal attention to any of the historical sites and statues that she pointed out, though he seemed to take a much keener interest in the buildings flanking the streets they were passing along. They moved on as far as Admiralty Arch, then turned back along Horse Guards Road, past Horse Guards Parade, the back of Downing Street and the elegant Portland-stone façade of the Foreign Office, then went along Birdcage Walk to Buckingham Palace. As she carried on with her spiel she saw, out of the corner of her eye, one of the three young men walk across to the man and, after a glance around, murmur something to him. The man silenced him with a ferocious look, turned his back and moved away from him. Clearly chastened, the other man returned to his two comrades and stayed well away from him throughout the rest of the tour.

  Dispirited by her unenthusiastic audience, she cut short her usual closing speech about the role of the monarch and, after pausing to allow her group to take the traditional battery of photographs and selfies in front of the palace gates, she led them back down Buckingham Gate and past New Scotland Yard to their starting point. The man did not tip her at the end of the tour and, in fact, she wasn’t even sure at what point he had left the group because he certainly wasn’t with them when they had returned to Parliament Square. The three young men had also melted into the crowds thronging the square, without tipping her. She frowned as she picked over the modest assortment of coins and the one five-pound note that the rest of the tour group had donated. It didn’t look as if she would be able to afford to take a year off to complete her doctorate any time soon. She gave a resigned shrug. It wasn’t her job to ponder the motives of those who paid to join her tour, or wonder why so many were such stingy tippers. She glanced at her watch. If she was quick she’d have time for a coffee and a few minutes’ rest before she set off again with the next group.

  CHAPTER 13

  Charlotte Button checked in for her Delta flight to New York, using her Barbara Reynolds passport. She waited until she was in the Club Lounge with a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio in her hand before phoning Richard Yokely. ‘Harper’s in play,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way back.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the American. ‘How’s the wine?’

  ‘You’ve got someone here with me now?’ She looked around the lounge. A dozen other travellers, mainly suited businessmen, were pecking away on laptops.

  ‘I said I’d watch your back,’ said Yokely. ‘Your back is watched.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing so far. Clean as a whistle. Which means either you’re not being followed, or you are and they’re damn good at it. But my money’s on the former.’

  ‘It could just be that they only tail me in the UK, of course,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ said the American. ‘Now, I have more intel on McGovan. Including an address in London. I’ll put it in my dropbox and send you a link.’

  ‘I’ll forward it to Harper,’ said Button. ‘Just to confirm, Richard, you’re not going to have anyone following McGovan, are you?’

  ‘Would that be a problem?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Harper can get a bit rough, I wouldn’t want him crossing paths with your people.’

  ‘My people are good, Charlotte.’

  ‘Clearly. But in view of what you want done, I’d prefer that Harper was left with a clear field. And I’m sure he would, too, given the choice.’

  ‘Message received and understood. I’ll call off my dogs. Any news on your insurance?’

  ‘I thought I’d fly back to the States and see how that looks. If I’m still in the clear I’ll do a run to the UK and see what happens.’

  ‘Interesting times,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Button. She sipped her wine. ‘I keep expecting to see you pop out in front of me.’

  ‘Or maybe behind you,’ said Yokely. He chuckled. ‘Made you look, didn’t I?’

  Button laughed. He was right: she had taken a quick look over her shoulder.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Gulfstream jet touched down at Bangkok’s Don Mueang airport and taxied to the general aviation terminal to await the arrival of the immigration officers who would check the passports of those on board. Don Mueang was one of the world’s oldest international airports but, since the opening of Suvarnabhumi, it had been rebranded as a regional commuter-flight hub and the airfield of choice for private planes. Half of the private jets using Don Mueang were Russian. Thailand was one of the few countries Russian citizens could visit without a visa and that, coupled with the fact that Russians could buy property and own bank accounts there, meant there was a constant stream of oligarchs flying in and out.

  There was only one passenger on the plane: a heavy-set man with a shaved head and a nose that appeared to have been broken several times. His name was Yuri Lukin. He had a gun in an underarm holster and two metal suitcases containing a million dollars in cash. Two immigration officers arrived, did a perfunctory check of his passport and pocketed an envelope of money in exchange for not asking Lukin what the suitcases contained. If the immigration officers noticed the gun, they didn’t mention it.

  A black limousine and a white Toyota 4x4 had pulled up next to the jet as it had parked, but the passenger stayed in the limousine until the immigration officers had left. Mikhail Mirov climbed out of the vehicle as Lukin came down the steps. He was Lukin’s money man in Thailand, a former KGB officer who had realized, as the former USSR fell apart, that there was more money to be made in crime than policing. He was a big man with steel grey hair wearing a pale blue safari suit with short sleeves. Lukin jerked a thumb at the door behind him. ‘Two cases,’ he said.

  Two big men in Tshirts and baggy shorts had climbed out of the 4x4. Mirov clicked his fingers and pointed at the plane, and as soon as Lukin had reached the tarmac they hurried up the steps. ‘How is he?’ asked Lukin, taking off his jacket. Sweat stains were already forming under his arms.

  ‘Grigory is as well as can be expected, considering what was done to him,’ said Mirov. He held the door open and Lukin climbed into the back of the limousine. Mirov closed the door, then hurried around to the other side of the car. He was already sweating, partly because of the forty-degree heat but mainly because his boss was angry, and when Yuri Lukin was angry people tended to get hurt, and worse.

  The two men came down the steps with the cases and bundled them into the back of the 4x4. ‘Are they Valentin’s men?’ growled Lukin.

  Mirov shook his head. ‘They’re mine. They’ll go straight to the bank.’

  The limousine drove away from the plane, heading for the exit. ‘This hospital, it’s good?’ growled Lukin.

  ‘World class,’ said Mirov. ‘As good as anything in Moscow.’

  ‘If there’s a better hospital, we move him there.’

  ‘I think he’s fine where he is.’

  ‘And what about Valentin?’

  ‘He’s out of intensive care. But he was beaten up pretty badly.’

  ‘He pays his own fucking hospital bill, make sure of that,’ snapped Lukin. He snarled like a caged animal. ‘How the fuck did this happen? Valentin was s
upposed to be taking care of my son. Fuck him. Why were there no bodyguards?’

  ‘There were, but they were sleeping.’

  Lukin’s eyes blazed. ‘Fucking sleeping? They were fucking sleeping?’

  ‘It was late. Early morning. Valentin and Grigory were in the house. The gate was locked. The men assumed they were done for the night.’

  ‘What sort of shit bodyguard assumes anything? They should sleep when their boss sleeps, and even then with one fucking eye open. These bodyguards, they are to be trusted?’

  ‘Former Spetsnaz,’ said Mirov. Russian special forces.

  ‘Spetsnaz means fuck-all,’ said Lukin. ‘Any shithead can join Spetsnaz. They’re not like the British SAS or the American Delta Force. If I find these bodyguards were involved, they’re dead.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Mirov.

  ‘Worse than fucking dead.’ Lukin scowled. He wiped his hands over his face. ‘Is it always this fucking hot here?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Mirov. He shouted at the driver to boost the air-conditioning.

  Lukin pulled open the drinks cabinet. There were bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue and vodka. He grabbed the vodka. Mirov reached for a glass but Lukin shook his head, untwisted the cap and drank from the bottle. ‘He shoved a bottle up my son’s arse,’ spat Lukin. ‘A fucking bottle up his arse. What sort of sick fuck does that?’

  Mirov looked out of the window. There were times when it was best to say nothing.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lukin looked down at his son and shook his head contemptuously. ‘Who did this to you?’ he snarled. Grigory’s face was swollen and there was a plaster across his nose. His lips were puffy and cracked and several of his teeth were broken. His right arm was in plaster and his legs were suspended from a metal frame. He looked as if he had been hit by a train.

  ‘Some fucking tourist,’ replied Grigory, the damage to his mouth rendering his words almost unintelligible.