by Vince Vogel
“John’s right, Otis,” he said. “If you go up there, you’ll not get very far. Let the police do their thing. It’s for the best.”
His gray eyes were looking intensely into Otis’. The old man gazed back at him and appeared to understand what was really being said.
“I guess you’re right,” he muttered as if defeated. “Nothin’ I can do.”
“You’re bloody right on that,” John said.
The sick man finished off the last of the whiskey and, as he placed the glass back down, said, “I better be going.”
Dorring and Otis helped him stand. The small cut on his neck was still bleeding.
“Better not let your wife see that,” Otis said.
“Why not?” John replied in a sardonic tone. “I’ll just tell her some old git turned a knife on me when I was tryin’ to look out for him. Because that’s all the thanks I get.”
A look of guilt took Otis over.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he said sheepishly.
“I’ll let it go this time. But heed my warnin’. Don’t go startin’ nothin’. Let the boys in London do their jobs. This is the best lead we’ve had in all this time. Don’t blow it.”
That was the last thing John said. They helped him to his car at the edge of the camp. Then Otis and Dorring stood and watched him drive away.
When the car was out of sight, Dorring turned to Otis and said, “If you’re going, you’re taking me with you.”
“Can’t ask that of you, son,” Otis replied blankly, staring into the dust as it swirled about the dirt track.
“It wasn’t a request. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You either take me, or I tie you up and keep you here.”
The old man turned to Dorring and the latter, likewise, turned to him. Otis was grinning, the edges of his gray beard lifting up.
“You hear that, Bess?” he said down to the dog, which was by his feet. “Bastard’s one o’ our own. A true scoundrel.” Then looking back up at Dorring, he added, “Before we go, I wanna know everything you know about this hotel.”
“Then we best get inside.”
12
Underneath the dim bulb of the caravan, they sat opposite each other on their beds, the dog curled up next to Otis and his hand instinctively patting her old, coarse fur.
“I was two years into working for MI6,” Dorring said.
“You mean the Secret Service?”
“Who else would it be?”
“My word, Dorrin’. You certainly are a dark horse. Go on, tell me.”
“About thirteen years ago, we were busily tracking the Iranian nuclear program. We received a tipoff that the head of the program, Ali Bulragi, liked to frequent London. Loved being right under our noses. He’d had plastic surgery several times, changing his appearance every six months. So we never had an up to date picture. But we got a tipoff that Bulragi liked to frequent a certain exclusive gentleman’s club in Belgravia named after the borough it was in. So that’s how we ended up…”
Thirteen years ago, Dorring was driving a white van with the words Grease Lightning in painted letters down the sides, slowly ambling it through the thick midday traffic of west London. He was dressed in blue coveralls, Grease Lightning written on the left breast, and in the passenger seat was another man in the same coveralls. His name, as far as Dorring knew it, was Agent 443. He was a tall man with the type of white, featureless face that MI6 loved. Usually if a recruit didn’t have it naturally, they’d send you off to a plastic surgeon, who’d make the alterations needed. Shave a little off your chin and get rid of the cleft. Pin the ears back. Take that kink out of the nose. Flatten the brow. Remove all moles and other blemishes. Erase or fade anything that could set the agent apart from every other white man. His hair was naturally interchangeable. Today it was light brown and he wore it in a side parting. Tomorrow it could be worked into a quiff and dyed black.
They arrived on a wide street. A large hotel named Eaton Square stood along it, lined with tall, white columns. It backed up to and shared a back alley with an establishment called the Belgravia.
Dorring parked a hundred yards from the hotel and got out. At the back of the van, he and 443 took a bag of tools each, shut the doors and made their way towards the hotel. They didn’t enter through the front door. Instead, they walked past and around the building to the alleyway. Entering it, both men gazed at the tall, metal fence covered in razor wire that attended the rear of the Belgravia. The Eaton Square had only a small fence in comparison and the gate of it was open. Two men in chef’s whites smoking cigarettes leaned against the edge of one side.
“We’re here from Grease Lightning,” Dorring said to one of them.
“Ah!” said a pink-faced chef with sweaty hair. “You’re after Gary. Head chef. I’ll get him.”
He tossed his smoke into the curb and left the door. Dorring and 443 stood for a while with the remaining chef.
“You boys come far?” the chef asked.
“Essex,” Dorring said blankly.
“What part?”
“Essex.”
The look on Dorring’s face unsettled the chef. He tossed his smoke and left them alone at the door. Soon, a stout little dwarf with a ruddy complexion came waddling out.
“This way, boys,” he said before turning and trotting into the back entrance of the Eaton Square hotel. He never even asked for identification. The uniforms and the tool bags appeared enough.
They followed him down a corridor of filthy white tiles. Two porters in flat chef’s caps and checkered trousers sat on upturned buckets, peeling onions, tossing them into a large tub. Entering the kitchen, they found the lunch service in full swing, the hot air quivering above the grills as it was sucked into an extractor fan.
“Obviously you’ll have to wait till service finishes at three,” the head chef said, pointing at the fans, “before you can get in here. But I’ll show you the one on the roof which needs clearing out first.”
They left the kitchen and went up in a service elevator just big enough to fit the three men inside. As it lifted them, the head chef began chatting.
“A bit weird, this one,” he said as though he were talking to himself. The agents didn’t answer and after a brief pause, the chef continued. “I mean, the way my manager calls me this morning and tells me you guys are coming a whole two months before you’re next scheduled.”
“We had a free calendar,” Dorring muttered.
“Yeah, but we haven’t. It makes no sense. We only had your lot here a month ago to clear them. They’re clean.”
“Not down to us, mate,” 443 said. “Management. Ours and yours.”
“Yeah, and don’t they bollocks it up half the time?”
They reached the attic of the building. It was a small work closet, a few feet of floor and then a door. Stepping out of the lift, the chef unlocked it before handing the keys to Dorring.
“Don’t lose them,” he said. “They’re my only set and they go ape shit if you lose them.”
“I’ll try not to.”
The chef led them across a flat runway that moved along the peak of the roof. Handrails stood on either side where the roof dropped off at a steep angle. At the end of the walkway was a large metal vent that glittered in the sunlight.
“Here she is,” the chef said. “I take it you know what you’re doing?”
“Obviously,” Dorring said. “We’re down for taking it apart and cleaning it.”
“Yep. That’s what’s written on the board. Well, I’ve got a kitchen to sort. See you boys later.”
They watched him waddle off down the walkway. When he was gone, they kneeled in front of the tool bags. Snapping them open, they lifted out the tools and placed them to the side. Spanners, drills, screwdrivers, cleaning equipment. Then they unzipped the bottom. Underneath were pistols. In 443’s bag was a Beretta M9. In Dorring’s was an FNX.
“Still don’t trust the M9, I see,” 443 remarked as they took their pistols and attached silencer
s to the barrels.
“I don’t trust its stopping power,” Dorring said, “and it’s not as smooth as the FNX.”
Dorring had had previous issues with the Beretta whilst in the field. Especially when using the silencer. One time, he’d plugged a guy four times in the chest from a distance of forty yards and only slowed him down. It had taken a head shot to end it. Plus, he’d seen reports of the M9’s slide arm malfunctioning. In one case a soldier in the United States army—where the M9 is the standard issue sidearm—had lost an eye when the bullet exploded in the barrel. This was down to a rickety slide arm. This common malfunction also often resulted in high recoil and made the aim a little twitchy.
The FNX, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. It was a short recoil operated pistol, where the barrel and the slide travel a much larger distance than most pistols before separating. This helps to reduce recoil by allowing the spring to absorb more momentum from both the barrel and the slide, like the shock absorbers on your car.
Unzipping the fronts of their coveralls, they placed the pistols into gun belts inside before doing them back up over the top. Then they delved into the bag again, pulling out climbing equipment; rope and grappling hook. 443 left the throwing to Dorring. He had a knack for such things. A precision machine that appeared to do every action with startling efficiency and accuracy.
Having checked the alley below and assured that no one was looking up, Dorring threw the hook across the narrow gap and landed it on the roof. Pulling the line in, the hook scuttled across the tiles and wrapped around a thick ventilation pipe that stuck out.
With the grappling hook tight on the pipe, Dorring pulled the line taut and attached the other end to the vent they were supposed to be cleaning. They then placed harnesses on and clipped themselves to the line with zip-line runners. Quickly, Dorring first, then 443, they zipped across to the other roof, detaching when they reached it and then moving quickly up the tiles to a flat runway similar to the one on the previous building. A skeleton key gained them access to a stairwell.
They stood at the top landing, their pistols already out, listening to the sounds of the place. It was eerily quiet. Until a door on the floor below opened. A sudden stream of noise flowed up to them. A woman murmuring. Men groaning. The sounds of slapping. Light music. Some men’s voices. A girl crying.
The sound cut off as quickly as it emerged, the door slamming shut and closing out the world. Sound proofed for privacy.
They reached the third floor and entered a long corridor. At the end was room seventeen. Bulragi’s room. A pillar stood partially out of the right side wall and by keeping tight to that side with their backs to the rose patterned wallpaper, it shielded their approach. Halfway along stood a man in a black suit. He had the look of a personal bodyguard. Hidden in the recess of the pillar, the agents were no further than ten yards from him.
Dorring wasted no time. He sent a bullet through the side of the man’s head and he dropped to the floor like a scarecrow cut from a post.
They left the recess and traveled quickly up the corridor. Four doors along, it was met by another corridor running perpendicular through it like a cross. The agents stalked along shoulder to shoulder and came to the junction. 443 turned sharply to the left and fired into the guard standing a few yards up. Meanwhile, Dorring turned right and fired into the man standing ten yards along that end of the corridor.
While Dorring stood guard, 443 kneeled at the door to seventeen and placed plastic explosive around the lock. There would be a bodyguard on the other side, probably sitting to the right of the door in an alcove. The lock was about three feet from his face. So 443 packed enough explosive to blow it away.
The agent set the fuse and they came away from the door, taking cover around the corner of the perpendicular corridor.
The bomb blew the door away and much of the surrounding brickwork, so that there was a hole large enough to get an elephant through at the end of the corridor. The bodyguard beside the door was now under half a ton of bricks and rubble. The blast would have killed him even without the falling debris.
Inside the room, the other bodyguard was wandering around the rubble in confusion. The windows were sound proof and bullet proof. It meant that they kept all sound in so that the blast hadn’t just torn through the walls and ceiling; it had torn through the air too.
His eyes widened when he saw the agents emerge from the smoke and dust. His hand lingered above his pistol, but he dropped to the ground when 443 hit him in the chest and Dorring put one in his forehead before he’d even had time to recoil from the first shot.
They found Ali Bulragi on a bed. He wasn’t alone. In his arms he held a child, her face wet with tears and her little eyes with the pinprick pupils of the drugged. Dorring had already spotted the knife pressed to her thin neck.
“I’ll kill her!” Bulragi said.
Dorring knew what they were supposed to do, but his finger stayed on the trigger. He couldn’t help looking at the little brown-haired girl that sat with the knife to her throat. She was only seven at most.
The first bullet hit Bulragi in the cheek. It wasn’t enough, so 443 shot him for a second time, hitting him in the throat. But the space of time between the initial shot and death had been too long. Bulragi had rasped the blade across the girl’s throat and she was now lying on her side, choking on her own blood as the dead Iranian flew back into the headboard.
“Come on!” 443 cried out.
But Dorring could do no more than stare at the girl as she bled to death on the bed.
“I said come on!”
The tap on the arm brought the machine back online and Dorring turned, leaving the room. A cloud of smoke and dust filled the corridor. It gave them enough cover. They spotted three men coming toward them. From the white cloud of dust, bullets flew and incapacitated the men who’d come to see what had happened.
The agents exited the corridor and went back up the stairwell. Below them, the place was in chaos and confusion. They reached the roof, went back across the zip line and then pulled it back in. Having done this, they packed their things into the tool bags as the sound of men emerging onto their roof was heard. Looking up, they saw several of the staff.
“Did you hear that?” said one woman dressed as a housemaid.
“Yes,” Dorring said coolly. “Sounded like an explosion in the building next door.”
As he said this, there was the sound of innumerable police sirens coming from all directions. The staff all hurried to the edge of the roof that looked out at the Belgravia. Smoke was billowing out of the windows of room seventeen. A fire had started. Probably electrical. Dorring silently prayed that the whole place would burn down. He wondered if the police arriving would figure things out. He wondered—what with the place having so many top clientele—if they’d be allowed. Probably not. It was likely that they were removing the little girl’s body this very second.
Being totally ignored by the rubbernecking staff, the two men left the rooftop of the Eaton Square hotel and traveled down the service elevator. It wasn’t long before they were back in the van and driving away from the scene, police cars flooding past the other way.
13
“We’ll leave tonight,” Dorring said at the end of his story. “Pack in a minute.”
“I can’t ask you—”
“Stop it,” Dorring snapped.
There was such authority to his voice that the old man felt he could do nothing except obey.
“There’s something you should know about me,” Dorring said. “I am the owner of a distinct set of skills. In the past two months, you’ve taught me about trapping, hunting and fishing. Let me return the favor. You want to find out where your daughter is. You don’t trust the police to do that.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’ll need me. My skills are perfect for what you are embarking on. It looks like your girl is caught up in something terrible. I can help you pierce into the heart of that terrible thing. We’ll head
to London tonight. I can contact someone when we get there. He’ll help us.”
“Why?” the old man said in a trembling voice, his good eye coming back to life and staring across at Dorring.
“Because I hate to see innocent people hurt. If you go up there alone, I can guarantee your policeman friend is right: you won’t last long. With me, on the other hand, you can find your girl and get justice.”
“What if she’s already dead?”
“Then I’ll help you get your revenge.”
14
Later that night, they left the camp on foot.
At Maria’s, they stayed a few minutes while the old woman held the old man, her tears leaking out onto the shoulder of his wax coat. She made them sandwiches, which they took in plastic tubs, and a thermos flask of coffee. It would do for the journey. At the door to her dilapidated caravan, she hugged Dorring and wished him luck, before placing a piece of folded paper in the pocket of his coat.
“Any problems in London,” she said in Romanian, obviously so Otis wouldn’t know what she was saying, “and you call me.”
“I think we’ll be—”
She stopped him by placing a finger to his lips.
“I may look like an old woman,” she said, “but I have connections to certain people in the city. Romanians there. Not nice Romanians, but Romanians that will help if I ask them. I know their leader very well.”
“You mean a criminal gang?”
“I do. One that is run by my own brother. He is an expert smuggler of things. If you find yourself needing certain items”—her eyes widened when she said this—“then you call and I will obtain them for you. My brother will help you and Otis.”
“Okay. I’ll keep it in mind.”
They left after that.