‘Wait. You lost him?’ said Harper.
‘We’ve got pictures, we’ll pick him up again,’ said Hansfree. ‘The thing is we now know for sure Tango One is up to something. And there’s more.’
‘Get on with it, mate. I’ve got a train to catch.’
The second incident had happened yesterday afternoon. McGovan again left the military club, walking purposefully, but this time, he’d gone along Oxford Street and entered a branch of McDonald’s. After ordering his food, he glanced around as if unsure where to sit, then sat at a table next to a Middle Eastern-looking man wearing a well-worn dark suit. Although he had apparently chosen the seat at random, Tango One then spent several minutes talking animatedly to the other man. The team had been unable to get close enough to eavesdrop without the risk of compromise, but from their body language and the way they spoke to each other, heads close together and glancing around frequently to make sure they were not overheard, it was clear that whatever they were discussing, it was not the quality of their burgers.
As with the first Yankee, when McGovan stood up and left a few minutes later, the surveillance team abandoned their pursuit of him and instead focused on Yankee Two. This time they didn’t lose him. They followed him as he travelled by bus to north London, and eventually housed him in a smart semi-detached property in a street mostly populated by families of similar Middle Eastern origins.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Harper. ‘Losing one is bad luck, but if you’d lost two …’
‘Not only did we not lose him, we’ve got an ID for him as well,’ said Hansfree. ‘He has a criminal record as an Islamic agitator and has been convicted several times for public order offences.’
‘Finally some good news,’ said Harper.
‘Here’s the thing, though, Lex, ,that’s puzzling me,’ said Hansfree.. ‘We’ve been monitoring any calls in or out of Tango One’s room, but there hasn’t been a single one, not even a wrong number. Nor has he posted any letters and he’s not been emailing or texting anyone either. So the question is: how did those two Yankees know when and where to meet him?’
‘My guess would be that he’s probably been using the communal telephone in the club. Any chance we can plant a bug on that?’
‘It would be pretty difficult to do. It’s in a prominent place near the desk, and even if we could bug it, that phone must be used by scores of people every day, and since we don’t have any audio of Tango One speaking, we’d have no way of knowing on any particular call if we were hearing him arranging a meet with a terrorist suspect or just some squaddie who was home on leave and fixing a meeting with his mates for a few pints. But I’ve got my thinking cap on.’
Harper ended the call and used his Thai mobile to phone Mickey Moore in Pattaya. ‘The shit thickens, mate,’ said Moore.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Word around town is that Lukin has put a million-dollar contract on your head. Or a million euros. Depends who you talk to.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Harper.
‘You put his son in hospital. Worse than that, you shoved a bottle up his arse.’
‘To be fair, it was only a Singha bottle, not a fucking magnum of Cristal.’
Moore laughed. ‘You’re a fucking madman, Lex. Seriously, the Russians have been saying there’s a hitman from Moscow on your case. I don’t have a name, just that he’s a fucking nasty bastard who does a lot of wet work for the oligarchs.’
‘How much do they know?’
‘They know your name, which means they’ll have your picture and passports you’ve used to enter the country. Plus any information you were stupid enough to write on any of your landing cards.’
‘I’m usually pretty creative on that front, Mickey.’
‘We all are. But seriously, Lex, watch your back. These Russian heavies are former KGB, a lot of them, and they’ve got access to all sorts of black intelligence networks.’
‘I’ll be fine, Mickey.’ He ended the call, wishing he felt half as optimistic as he’d sounded.
CHAPTER 34
Fedkin watched Harper put away his phone. He was standing next to the two men that Kuznetsov had sent him. They were both Algerians, olive-skinned and swarthy, one tall and lean, the other an inch or two shorter with slightly bowed legs. Both were wearing leather bomber jackets and cargo pants. The taller one was named Habib and the shorter one was Aziz, but Fedkin was fairly sure they weren’t their real names.
He had met them in the arrivals area just fifteen minutes before Harper’s plane landed, which meant that Fedkin was stuck with them. They weren’t carrying guns but both men had flick-knives with them and professed to be experts. Fedkin had shown them a photograph of Harper, but had yet to decide what to do.
Lukin wanted the man dead, but carrying out a contract killing in a crowded French airport would be difficult at best. And Lukin had seemed serious about the manner in which he wanted the Englishman killed. Fedkin could always lie about the bottle, but he was a professional and would prefer to carry out the client’s wishes to the letter, if at all possible.
The two Algerians kept glancing at Harper, and Fedkin hissed. ‘Eyes on me. We split up. When he moves, we move. Do you have passports?’
The two men nodded.
‘French?’
More nods. That was something. At least they could follow him onto the Eurostar, if necessary. Fedkin was carrying two passports, his Russian one but he also had a Dutch passport. It was fake but it was a good one and it would pass muster on the Eurostar.
‘He will probably go from here to the Eurostar terminal, then to London. The best place to get him will probably be at Gare du Nord, but if he travels on the Métro there will be an opportunity there. Until we know where he’s going for sure, stick close.’
The two men grunted and walked away.
CHAPTER 35
Harper spotted the three men while he was on the phone to Mickey Moore. Three was an unusual number at an airport. People travelled alone, in couples or families. Three men standing together was a red flag. There could be perfectly reasonable explanations, of course. Three company representatives travelling together. Three drivers having a chat while they waited for their clients. Three guys off on a stag do. But the three men on the far side of the terminal didn’t look like they worked in an office, had nothing with them to suggest they were there for an airport pick-up, and lacked the happy faces of men who were heading off for a few days of debauchery. They were big men with hard faces, two Arab-looking and the other was either former special forces or ex-cop – ‘former’ because the gold watch on his wrist and the cashmere overcoat hinted at a pay packet way above what a government employee received. One of the Arab men was clearly an amateur because he kept openly staring at Harper.
Harper played it cool. He doubted they would try anything in the terminal – at least, not in the areas covered by CCTV. And plenty of armed cops from the Gendarmerie Nationale were strolling around with guns on their hips, and black-uniformed soldiers with automatic weapons and impenetrable sunglasses standing in pairs.
He wandered over to a bookshop, bought himself a map of Paris, then wandered over to a screen showing the latest arrivals. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in knowing the geography of Paris or what flights were due in, but the behaviour of the three men convinced him that they were indeed on his tail. Losing them wouldn’t be difficult – he could catch a taxi into Paris, then run anti-surveillance on the Métro before heading for the Eurostar terminal at Gare du Nord. The problem was the three men knew which terminal he had flown into, which suggested they had access to airline or government databases. It was possible that someone had tipped them off in Marbella, but doubtful. He hadn’t put himself about and it had been a flying visit. It was more likely they had been accessing flight manifests, and if they were capable of that, there was every chance they’d be able to pick him up in London.
There wasn’t much he could do in the main arrivals area, but there was no CCTV in the
toilets. He headed for the men’s room, looking at his watch as if he was on a deadline. He pushed through the door and glanced around. To the left, four stalls, all unoccupied. To the right, a line of urinals. Also on the right, two sinks and a hot-air hand dryer. The door opened so that anyone looking in would see the cubicles. Only when the door had closed behind them would they be able to see the sinks.
Harper took his holdall and pushed it underneath one of the sinks, then pressed his back against the wall and waited. After a couple of minutes the door opened and he tensed, but he heard the rattle of a wheeled case being pulled across the tiles and started to wash his hands. A middle-aged Asian came in and headed straight to the urinals as Harper continued to wash his hands. As the Asian finished, Harper moved to the dryer. The Asian zipped up and left, and Harper took his place by the wall again.
After a few minutes the door opened. This time it was two French businessmen in dark overcoats who went together to the urinals, talking animatedly. Harper went into a stall and shut the door, reappearing after they had left.
Assuming the men were following him – and he was ninety-nine per cent sure they were – then at some point one would have to come in and check on him. The more professional they were the longer they would wait, but eventually they would have no choice because there was an outside chance that there might be another way out, a window or an emergency exit. If the roles were reversed and Harper’s team was doing the following, he would send someone in if the target hadn’t reappeared within half an hour.
The men following him were less patient. Twelve minutes after Harper had entered the toilet, the door opened. One of the Algerians appeared and took a step inside, his eyes on the cubicles. There was a click as the blade of his flick-knife sprang into place, and Harper knew immediately that this was more than a check to see where he was. He moved quickly, stepping behind the man as the door began to swing shut, his fingers clasping the Algerian’s right hand, his left hand pushing down on the man’s neck. Harper grunted as he pulled the knife into the man’s chest at the same time pressing his head down. The man sank down onto the knife and gasped, then struggled as Harper pushed the knife in deeper. The man sagged and Harper let go of his neck, put both arms around him, grasped the knife and shoved it up towards the heart. The man struggled and went still. Harper dragged him into the far cubicle, sat him on the toilet and locked the door. He worked quickly, snapping the blade back into its handle, slipping it into his pocket, then patting the man down for his ID. All he had was his wallet and Harper took that. The man was breathing, barely, and while there was little blood on his clothing, Harper knew there had been catastrophic internal damage and that death was only seconds away.
He shoved his left foot between the dying man’s legs and levered himself over the top of the cubicle and onto the toilet next door, then quickly took his place behind the door.
It was several minutes before the main door opened again. A backpacker with a large rucksack and a Canadian maple leaf patch on the side came in. Harper went through the motions of washing and drying his hands while the Canadian used the urinal and left.
The next person in used the near cubicle and Harper went to the urinal and pretended to use it until the man had finished.
Three more men came and went and Harper was about to call it quits when the door opened slowly. ‘Habib?’ whispered a man. The door opened further. ‘Habib?’
The man stepped inside, looking at the cubicles. The door began to close and he looked to his right but Harper was already moving. His right hand slashed against the man’s throat, splintering the cartilage. He punched him in the solar plexus with his left, doubling the man over. He pulled the knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade and stabbed the man in the heart, twisting the knife between the ribs to do the maximum amount of damage. The man went down but Harper caught him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him into the cubicle next to the first Algerian’s. From the man opening the door to Harper positioning him on the toilet had taken less than ten seconds.
Harper stood over the man, breathing heavily, Again, there was little blood. The man sighed and went still. Harper pulled his victim’s wallet from his jacket pocket, and took a pearl-handled flick-knife from another. He pulled the first knife from the man’s chest, wiped the handle and slid it to the back of the neighbouring cubicle. Then he took the man’s own knife, flicked out the blade and stuck the handle into the dead man’s right hand, letting it lie on his lap. The pair were almost certainly known to the police and, with any luck, they wouldn’t put too much effort into investigating their deaths.
He climbed out of the cubicle, then checked himself in the mirror above the sinks to make sure there were no stray drops of blood on his clothing, bent down, picked up his holdall and headed out of the door. He took out his phone and pretended to study the screen but in reality his eyes scanned the arrivals area. The man in the expensive coat was standing by a pillar, his arms folded.
Harper smiled coldly and walked towards him. The man unfolded his arms as he realised Harper wasn’t going to turn away, but he stayed where he was, staring at Harper, his jaw clenched. Harper kept walking, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face. He raised his phone smoothly and took several photographs of him as he walked. He stopped when he was just three feet away, close enough to reach him with a kick or a punch but knowing that nothing was going to happen, not then. Harper smiled and winked. ‘They’re dead, mate. Lovers’ tiff. You never can tell with Arabs, can you?’
The man said nothing but continued to stare at Harper. His eyes were brown but they were lifeless and he didn’t blink.
‘Cat got your tongue, has it?’ said Harper, matching the man’s stare. The man wasn’t a cop, he was sure of that. Wasn’t a cop now and never had been. Ex-military, certainly. And probably ex-special forces. Cops, especially those who had been in the job for a few years, tended to have eyes that suggested disappointment tinged with sadness. They were used to seeing the worst side of people, and more often than not the people they dealt with would lie to them. All a cop could do was follow the rules and get on with his job, for little thanks and not much money. After a while they came to realise that, no matter how hard they worked, the world would never become a better place and bad people would always lie.
Soldiers, past and present, were used to solving their problems physically, and that showed in their eyes too. There would always be a hint of aggression in their stare, a look that said, while they were happy to resolve an issue by talking, at the end of the day they weren’t scared of fighting and would be happy enough to throw a punch or fire a gun. The eyes of the man Harper was staring at weren’t disappointed or aggressive. They were cold and calculating. His posture had changed as Harper had walked up. Not aggressive, not defensive, just ready. Prepared. One foot had shifted back, just a fraction. The left shoulder was slightly ahead of the right now, giving him just a bit more weight to throw behind a right-handed punch. His chin was down, just enough to protect his throat.
‘See, your silence tells me a lot,’ said Harper. ‘It tells me that if you did speak, I’d learn something about you, something you don’t want me to know. That means you’re not French because if you were you wouldn’t give a fuck. Not English, either, or American. But foreign for sure, and you know that if I know where you’re from I’ll know who sent you. You’re obviously not an Arab, like your pals in the toilet, so I’m going to stick my neck out and say that you’re Russian.’ He smiled as the man’s eyes tightened fractionally and his lips pressed together. ‘And your micro-expressions show me I’m right. You’re Russian. And it’s not personal because there’s no hatred in your eyes. You’re stone cold, which means you’re a pro, which means someone is paying you. And the only Russian I’ve pissed off recently is Yuri Lukin.’ The man’s jaw tightened and Harper nodded. ‘And what you did right there confirms it.’ He held up his phone but the man didn’t look at it. He kept staring at Harper impassively. ‘I’ve got your picture and i
n no time at all I’ll know as much about you as you know about me. But here’s the difference between us. You’re an employee. You’re doing this because someone is paying you. But I’ll tell you now, no matter what Lukin is paying you, be it a million dollars or a million euros, it’s not enough. Because for me, it’s not about money. I’ll kill you to protect myself and, trust me, personal protection trumps money every time. And I will kill you, don’t doubt that for one second. I’m going to kill Lukin, too. I have to. He’s given me no choice. And once he’s dead there’ll be no one to pay your bill, will there?’ He smiled and gestured at the exit with his phone. ‘I’m going to walk away now. You’re good so you’ve probably already worked out that I’m going to London. And that at some point I’ll be going back to Thailand.’ Harper stepped towards the man so that their faces were only inches apart, but the Russian didn’t flinch. ‘So here’s the thing. If I see you in London, I’ll kill you. In fact, if I ever see you again, no matter where, I won’t say anything, I won’t ask you what you’re doing, I’ll just kill you. And if I ever find out you’re in Thailand, and I will find out, trust me, then I’ll kill you.’ He stared at the man for several seconds, then smiled brightly. ‘Right, I’m off. You have a great day. Be lucky.’ He turned and walked away, knowing full well that the Russian was staring at his back but not caring. He had meant every word he had said.
CHAPTER 36
Passport checks were little more than cursory on Eurostar and Harper’s Sean O’Donnell Irish passport was merely glanced at. He had a business-class ticket so had a free meal on the train and even managed a cat-nap before arriving at the St Pancras terminal. From there he caught a taxi to Paddington and reached the mailbox centre in Praed Street at three o’clock in the afternoon. He showed his Sean O’Donnell passport to the shop assistant, a tall Eastern European brunette with pale blue eyes. She handed over the padded envelope that had arrived by courier from Charlotte Button. Harper paid her and left.
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