He saw a flicker of hope in her eyes at the lifeline he had thrown her. ‘Have you discovered something?’
‘Only that Jeremy went to Qatar a couple of weeks ago.’
The cloud of uncertainty settled again. ‘No, he went to Europe for a banking conference.’
Raglan placed his hands on her shoulders. He would uncover the lies one by one. ‘He went to the Middle East and I want to find out why.’
Her grief forced her frustration to boil over. ‘You men and your bloody stupid egos. It’s not a game! Can’t any of you see that? Selfish bastards! You too. You left without a word when you were a kid. You had a future. A bright shining star of a future and you ran off because of what happened. You didn’t have the courage to stay and see it through.’
‘I was on the wrong side of the tracks by then, remember?’
Amanda softened. Her hand touched his cheek. ‘You broke my mother and father’s heart, you know. They grieved for you.’ She wiped a hand across her tears. ‘But they were always proud of what you achieved.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll be here if you want me.’ She turned and walked away into the living room where there were still piles of books and pictures stacked on the floor that had been taken down when Maguire’s people searched the house.
Raglan picked up the holdall. ‘See if you can help her,’ he told Abbie. ‘If she prefers to be alone, grab a coffee and wait for me in the kitchen, but check out the study again.’ He jogged upstairs and moments later she heard him knock on a door and call the boy’s name.
*
Raglan sat down on the end of Steve’s bed as the boy turned from where he sat at his desk. ‘Homework?’ said Raglan.
Steve nodded. ‘Trying to keep myself busy. I wish I could get back to school.’
‘You can’t. Not yet. Even if I arranged armed protection we daren’t risk another attack. If they get you or anyone else in the house it’s leverage against your dad.’
The boy nodded, shoulders slumped. ‘I know I can’t. Not with Mum and Melissa alone in the house.’
‘Your mum is a tough lady, but she’s got a lot to deal with and Melissa doesn’t understand any of this so that’s where your mother’s attention needs to be. The cops will want to interview you. You can handle that. You’ve already been debriefed by me, so you can keep it simple with them. They lean on you; you walk away. Call me and I’ll sort it.’ Raglan opened the bag and took out the cleaned-up rugby ball. ‘I know your dad gave you this, so I figured it was special and that you’d like it back.’
The boy was subdued as he sat down on the bed next to Raglan and cradled the ball. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘No. And I promise you will be the first to know when I do.’ He studied the boy’s body language. The athletic young man seemed diminished, his body folding in on itself. ‘We should go for a run sometime. You and me. Get some air in our lungs. What do you say?’
Steve raised his chin and nodded bravely but Raglan could see he wouldn’t be able to hold on to his composure much longer as tears welled in his eyes. Such sorrow would take a long time to ease and by the look of it he had been holding it together for the sake of his mother and baby sister. Raglan hesitated for only a second. Either the kid had to tough it out and suck up the pain or he needed a safe place to release it. Raglan put an arm around him and pulled the teenager to him. ‘Let it go, mate. Trust me. It’s OK.’
Steven finally released the bottled-up tension and sobbed into Raglan’s shoulder. His body shuddered as he clung desperately to the veteran legionnaire, seeking refuge in the strong man’s embrace.
18
Nothing stays the same. The Watergate at a corner of the Victoria Embankment Gardens next to the River Thames was built in the early seventeenth century by the Duke of Buckingham as an entrance to the river. The mighty river’s waterline has receded over the centuries and now the gate sits a hundred metres from the water’s edge. Intelligence operations shifted more rapidly. Maguire sat in one of the deck chairs in front of the bandstand where a Salvation Army brass band played a mournful rendition of ‘Abide with Me’.
Those who walked through the park were muffled against the crisp autumn air and chill breeze off the river. Maguire wore an overcoat over his suit. ‘You’ve a damned neck on you, Raglan. She’s a bloody linguist, not your personal taxi driver,’ he complained.
Maguire had called Raglan at the Carters’ and they had arranged to meet. Raglan had left Steve Carter in better shape than when he had found him. The cathartic release of pent-up emotions had given the boy the focus he needed.
‘She’s useful. I don’t know the city that well and if I need to get somewhere fast then she can find the quickest route.’ Raglan waited for further complaint. Abbie and Raglan had found no further clues in Carter’s study, but he had seen how efficiently she worked. He wanted to keep her onside.
Maguire scowled. ‘I have other assets who can do that. She’ll get in the way.’
‘I don’t care whether or not you give her to me but your field officers are put to better use chasing down Carter’s kidnappers. Any leads?’
‘No. We are tracing all known associates since he worked in the bank—’
‘You need to go back further,’ Raglan interrupted.
‘—and further back,’ continued Maguire, irritated. ‘Whatever he’s done is in plain sight or so hidden we could never find it. And there’s another complication. I’ve had a meeting with a police liaison officer for Europol. There’s been an approach from the Russians.’
‘Their security people?’
‘No. Moscow CID.’ The final chords of ‘Abide with Me’ faded. Maguire got to his feet. ‘Russian police officers are not permitted to make direct contact with any European police force. Most embassies in Russia have a police liaison officer. It cuts corners. Helps find a way through red tape. Supposedly. Sometimes it does, more often not. These people usually have more than one role to play. They’re required to be experts in PR, legal and, of course, spying. We lost our liaison privileges in Moscow when we demanded the Russians turn over those blokes who poisoned Litvinenko back in 06. This is a strange one, though. Their police made the request through the Dutch; they, in turn, contacted our Met counter-terrorism people.’
‘And they’ve come to you,’ said Raglan.
‘Yes, but with the restrictions placed on the Russians, any contact has to first be cleared by their Ministry of the Interior, and the MVD is not known for speedy action. Makes our bureaucracy seem like private enterprise by comparison. But this had a priority clearance.’
They reached the garden’s cafe. Maguire ordered and paid for two takeaway coffees, tucking the receipt away in his wallet. That said a lot about being a government employee. He turned to watch the people coming and going in the gardens as Raglan played waiter, sugared the coffee and handed the paper cup to Maguire.
‘So what’s the connection?’ said Raglan.
‘Obviously, something to do with our kidnapper, I would have thought. The Russian police departments are highly competitive. They jealously guard their patch because the more arrests they make, the more they get paid. But this might be more than we suspect. It is not unusual for the Russians to use Europol to hunt down people they want. Easy enough to declare someone a major criminal or terrorist and, with our help, have him tracked, detained and deported right back to whoever wants them dead.’
‘So they might want JD as a criminal?’
‘We’ll soon find out. They’ve sent a major from Moscow CID. Until they feel more comfortable with us they prefer a meeting outside. Somewhere it’s less likely they can be recorded.’ Maguire sipped his coffee. ‘It’s a gesture, of course.’ He glanced up at the buildings rising above the trees. ‘They know I have people up on those roofs watching and listening.’
‘The meet is here? Am I going to meet this Russian cop?’
‘No, you’re not. Not yet anyway. Not until I know what’s going on.’
‘Hell might freeze over before th
at happens, Maguire.’
Maguire had the grace to smile at the sarcasm. You don’t spend the better part of your life as a soldier and not give and take insults. The armed forces don’t breed snowflakes. Maguire screwed up his face at the taste of the coffee, poured it away and dumped the paper cup into a bin. ‘Sit your arse on that bench and wait ten minutes. I’m meeting her and the Met boys—’
‘Her?’
‘Major Elena Sorokina.’
*
The coffee was strong and sweet. Raglan liked it. It was the way he used to drink it in the souk. He watched two men and a woman approach Maguire, who sat on another park bench fifty metres away. The men wore jeans and leather jackets over hooded fleeces. Pretty much standard dress for cops who worked the streets. The woman, by contrast, wore a tailored charcoal suit over a white blouse. She made no concession to the chill breeze. It was probably high summer compared to Moscow, thought Raglan. Her hair was coal black and she was as tall as the men. Long legs, firm body. She didn’t smile when she extended her hand to Maguire. This wasn’t a social occasion. Business all the way. Raglan saw the unmistakable shape of a semi-automatic pistol in a black clamshell holster on her hip. That meant she had special clearance. Top-drawer special. The two counter-terrorism Met officers backed off and left the MI6 section chief and the Moscow cop alone. Maguire sat on one end of the bench, the Russian on the other. Raglan could see that Maguire was listening. He was good at that. Absorbing the flow of information, filtering fragments that were less important, ignoring any political smokescreens, but this conversation seemed to be direct and to the point. After a couple of minutes, the Russian cop stood up and extended her hand again. Maguire got to his feet and as their hands clasped, she looked right past Maguire to where Raglan sat. She’d clocked him. The woman was no fool.
Raglan waited for Maguire. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Am I in on this?’
Maguire fussed the scarf at his neck. It looked as though he was deciding. ‘I have to check this out first. I don’t trust Russians.’
‘I don’t even trust you,’ said Raglan. ‘And how come she’s armed?’
Maguire ignored the slight. ‘She has Home Office approval and the man she’s after is a killer. That’s why counter-terrorism is working with her as well as the Met’s CID. And I’ll let you know whether you’re in on this,’ he said, turning away. He still held the whip hand.
Raglan called after him. ‘What about Abbie?’
Maguire turned. ‘I’ll give her a pool car. Keep her in the driving seat. Nowhere else. Anything goes down she’s to be kept out of it. Understood?’
Raglan nodded. Small victories were always welcome. Win one, win them all when the time was right.
19
The entrance door to Raglan’s building was ajar. There was only one other resident in the building and her door was across the landing from Raglan’s apartment. Raglan saw her body lying just inside her door. Her head lay at an awkward angle. She must have buzzed in her killer. He stepped warily inside. The radio was playing classical music. A mug with a tea bag and a plate with two chocolate biscuits stood untouched next to the kettle. Raglan touched it. It was still warm. As warm as her body. She hadn’t been dead long. She hadn’t been expecting guests; the mug and biscuits were for her and the intruder buzzing from the main entrance had interrupted her. She’d have gone to her door to meet whoever it was. A bogus delivery most likely. And she had been killed quickly and efficiently. Her rooms were untouched. No sign of a burglary. The killer had not come to terrorize or rob an elderly actress; he had come to gain access to Raglan’s apartment opposite.
He pulled free a seven-inch Sabatier knife from the block in the kitchen and stepped over her body towards his own front door. He listened but heard nothing. Raglan spread his fingertips across the door and pressed gently. The door was locked. He traced his fingers around the frame, feeling for the hidden key. It was missing. The intruder had been told where the key was hidden. Raglan stepped back on to the landing and aimed his kick at the lock. The door burst open. He barged rapidly into the room as the man who was bent over the books on the floor staggered upright. Regaining his balance, the intruder flung a book at Raglan, who swatted it aside. The killer was quick on his feet. He half spun, crouched and suddenly had a knife in his hand. Raglan saw the automatic pistol tucked into his waistband. It told him he was an efficient knife fighter and did not wish to risk the sound of a gunshot. Raglan did not slow his attack. His left arm covered his body diagonally, protecting vital organs. The intruder lunged straight for Raglan’s face and throat; Raglan pushed aside the strike and rammed his own knife forward. The man’s reflexes were quick and with a counter-defence knocked aside Raglan’s knife hand. Neither man hesitated and the killer struck forward again with three rapid slashes at Raglan, who blocked, swerved, attacked again and then stumbled on one of the fallen books. The knifeman did the opposite of what most amateurs would have done. He held back. Bending over and going in for the kill would have exposed the weight of his body to the downed man. Raglan rolled away, regained his footing, jabbed for the face, blocked the counter-attack, pushed hard with his free hand, forced aside the muscular knife-wielding arm and smashed the pommel of the knife and the side of his fist behind the man’s ear. It would have stunned most men but this one absorbed and ignored the pain and danced on his toes away from Raglan’s impending follow-up strike. Neither man had gained the upper hand and the killer never took his eyes off Raglan’s.
Raglan took fast short steps like a boxer, jabbing so rapidly the man could not block all of his blows, yet he managed to slip his blade beneath Raglan’s defensive arm, and Raglan felt its edge cut into the flesh on his waist. The strike carried the man’s weight on to his left foot and Raglan pushed hard with his free hand, forcing the man’s body away from him, and then plunged his knife beneath the man’s raised arm, burying the blade into his armpit. He bellowed in pain and dropped his weapon, but spun quickly around, toppling on to the sofa. His left hand grappled the gun in his waistband as Raglan followed the attack through and levelled a kick against the man’s head. Bones snapped. His body slumped. He was dead. Raglan tested the small gash in his side and stepped into the bathroom to find a dressing.
*
By the time the police and Maguire arrived Raglan had attended to his wound with antiseptic, closed it with butterfly strips and taped a dressing over the three-inch cut. He had checked the man’s weapon was fully loaded and tucked it into a holdall along with the one change of clothes he kept in the flat. It was unlikely Maguire would ever let him go armed on the streets of London, but now Raglan didn’t need to ask. The polymer and steel GSh-18 held eighteen rounds and was often used by Russian special forces or SWAT teams.
‘Any reason you were targeted?’ asked Maguire.
‘Carter is alive,’ Raglan told him.
Maguire looked at the sprawled body. ‘He told you that?’
Raglan shook his head. ‘Carter has held out longer than he should have. He told his son to stay here and wait for me. If I didn’t show he was to go home after two days. That gave Carter every chance that I would be here to deal with things. He wouldn’t have given up this place if he thought his son was still here. Carter has just bought himself more time by giving up some information.’
Maguire stepped around the body again, looking at the scattered books and the floor splattered with blood. A dark stain had seeped into the sofa’s upholstery. ‘And he was looking for what exactly?’
‘Nothing,’ said Raglan. ‘Carter was throwing them a bone, drip-feeding information until we could find him.’
‘Which we could have done if you hadn’t killed this one.’
‘He didn’t give me any choice. I found a boarding pass in one of the books. Carter must have planted it here days ago before I even got here.’
‘For where?’
‘Qatar.’
Maguire showed no surprise. ‘You think that was what they were looking for?’
; ‘No, I told you, Carter bought himself some respite by sending them here. The boarding pass was meant for me to find. His wife has no idea that he went there. What’s the connection, Maguire?’
‘That’s on a need-to-know basis.’
‘I’m either in on this or I’m not. Tell me or I’ll walk now and do my own investigation.’
Maguire hesitated but Raglan saw the decision being made. ‘Not now, later when more of the pieces come together. You have my word.’
Raglan knew it was not the time or place. He nodded. Now there was a better understanding between them.
‘Any identification at all?’ said Maguire, turning his attention back to the dead man.
‘Nothing. His jacket has a German label. The boots are American army. Probably got them at a US Army PX in Germany.’
‘We’ll check what we can but it won’t be worth anything. He’ll be ex-military.’
‘Probably special forces. He knew how to use a knife and take a hit.’
‘We’ll run him through the system. See what connections we can make.’
‘He’ll be the hired help. One of them at least.’
One of the detectives appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir, I need my people in here.’
Maguire nodded. ‘We’re finished here, inspector. Thank you.’ He glanced around the flat. ‘Nice place, Raglan. Until now at least. You can’t stay here; it’s a crime scene. Grab yourself a change of clothes and I’ll put you in a room somewhere.’
Raglan grinned. ‘I can find my own fleabag hotel.’
‘I need to know where you are. You might end up in a police custody cell unless I get clearance for you to walk away from this. This is London, not the fucking desert. Killing people in your own flat will take some explaining.’
The Englishman - Raglan Series 01 (2020) Page 11