The Englishman - Raglan Series 01 (2020)

by Gilman, David

  Maguire wrinkled his nose at the stench of the place. ‘At least we know Carter might still be alive.’

  ‘And Eddie Roman isn’t,’ said Raglan.

  *

  Maguire made three telephone calls to set up a meeting as his driver weaved his way back into the city. Several times they were caught in traffic and Maguire had to ring back and say he’d be later than planned. Raglan wished Abbie was driving.

  ‘How many boroughs does London have?’ Raglan said as he studied a map taken from the driver.

  Maguire hesitated and then pulled the answer from memory. ‘Thirty-two not counting the City of London which isn’t technically a borough.’ Maguire shrugged. ‘If you want to be pedantic.’

  ‘We need to find any abandoned buildings up for sale. Places earmarked for demolition would be my first port of call. Can you get the police to move on that?’

  ‘That’s exactly where we’re going now,’ Maguire said.

  When they pulled up on the Victoria Embankment and Maguire instructed Raglan to follow him, the ex-legionnaire knew he was about to be given the information previously denied him. The MI6 section chief led him past a lorry-proof stone-clad concrete barrier that protected the curved glass entrance of the Metropolitan Police HQ at New Scotland Yard. Maguire showed his identification at the desk, both men signed in, and then waited to be escorted deeper into the 1930s building that loomed behind the modernized entrance.

  Raglan and Maguire followed their escort through corridors showing open-plan areas where police officers worked. It was nothing like Raglan had imagined the main police headquarters to be. There were glass-fronted meeting rooms where briefings were taking place and he wondered how any secure material would be kept on a need-to-know basis given the open-plan desk stations – until their escort led them to a closed door that was anything but open-plan. As they entered Raglan saw two suited men, a senior uniformed female police officer and Major Elena Sorokina of the Moscow CID, as smartly dressed as she had been when he saw her in the park.

  Introductions were brief. The uniformed police officer was the Met’s Assistant Commissioner Joan Beaumont. One of the two men was Commander Tom Pickering from counter-terrorism; the other Phil Sheridan, the UK liaison officer from Europol. Raglan nodded a greeting to each of them and sat at Maguire’s right hand. Major Sorokina headed the table and was clearly chairing the meeting. Maguire had introduced Raglan as an undercover officer working for his department and when the Russian asked for a situation report it was Raglan that Maguire turned to.

  Raglan gave a crisp no-nonsense summation of the events of the day up to and including the discovery of where the kidnapped banker had been held and the murder and mutilation of a small-time crook who, it seemed, had supplied and driven vehicles needed in the attack. He made no mention of the attack in his apartment and the death of his assailant. Nor did he mention Carter’s trip to Qatar. Whatever Maguire and Carter were involved in was an intelligence matter. He finished by suggesting that the police should begin looking for abandoned buildings in the London boroughs. It seemed the logical step to take given that Maguire believed the kidnapped man was still alive and had been moved to a new location. AC Beaumont told him that the order had already been given and that there was a team of thirty detectives working on the murder of Charlie Lewis and the abduction of Jeremy Carter and would now include the latest victim in their inquiries.

  Major Sorokina listened attentively, her gaze fixed on Raglan throughout his report. He took stock of her features. It felt as though her cold, grey-blue eyes were staring into his soul. Looking, perhaps for any sign of subterfuge, hidden agenda or downright lies. Given the corruption in her country it would be something she would have to deal with on a daily basis. Her dark hair framed a face unlined by the biting cold of the Russian winters or what must be the tireless demands of her job. The eyes stayed on him even when she sat down. No warmth there, he thought. Not much chance of humour either. No laugh lines. He bet himself that she would be a hard woman to seduce even if a man had half a chance. More likely she would make the running. It must be tough for a woman to make a professional career in a place like Moscow, never mind reach the rank of major. Not so much breaking through a glass ceiling as punching through the polar ice cap. His thoughts contradicted themselves. Historically, Russian women had fought alongside their men in time of war and he imagined Elena Sorokina came from the same gene pool. Tough, determined, no-nonsense and not one to suffer fools.

  Maguire poured himself a glass of water from the jug provided. ‘General Sergei Ivanov is head of Moscow CID.’ He glanced towards the Europol officer. ‘He’s worked with our European colleagues before and sometimes we have shared information through Commander Pickering’s office. When General Ivanov reaches out we acknowledge it to be a matter of urgency and we welcome Major Sorokina’s involvement in this matter that now presents itself.’

  It was idle flattery and everyone in the room knew it. When it came to the political relationship between the agencies of the Russian Federation and the United Kingdom there needed to be some soft pedalling to ease general suspicion between the two of them. Maguire added a footnote. ‘From what the major has told me in our previous meeting this matter is purely a police matter. It’s an investigation set up by the Moscow police who are hunting a killer. A cop-killer.’ He looked to the Russian. ‘Major, please brief us so we might see how to proceed.’

  A screenshot of JD appeared on the wall behind her. It looked to be a typical police arrest picture. ‘This man is Jean Delacorte. He is registered as a French national. He was also an agent for the French intelligence service, the DGSE. His real name is Yegor Kuznetsov, a Russian used by the Russian Security Service as a freelance operator.’

  Raglan barely hid his smile. She noticed. ‘Mr Raglan, you find something amusing?’

  ‘Kuznetsov translates as blacksmith. Seems to me that even that might not be his real name but as a literal translation it might be appropriate, after the hammering he’s given our kidnapped banker.’

  ‘You understand Russian. And you speak it,’ she said, turning that cold gaze on him again.

  Raglan shrugged. ‘Enough to swear and defend myself from insults,’ he answered in Russian. He was gratified to see the corner of her mouth twitch. A smile in the offing. Almost.

  From the folder in front of her she passed a sheet of typed notes to everyone. ‘Our investigation concerns only the killing of four Moscow police officers. Two detectives and two uniformed officers went to arrest Kuznetsov six months ago and he shot them dead. He then disappeared from Moscow.’ She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. ‘There is no evidence that the Russian FSB aided his escape. Help has been provided by Europol because of the suspicious death of a German police officer two months ago. We believe the killings to be related as that is most likely the route chosen by Kuznetsov to enter the Eurozone.’

  She glanced at Raglan as if expecting him to ask questions. Raglan remained silent. He was a guest and there was no point in stirring the pot. No one in the room had made any mention of Carter’s involvement. Offered any connection to explain why he was a target. And no one had even whispered anything about Qatar. Maguire was expressionless. No hint of him having any knowledge of the wanted man. If Raglan had been sent for and was now sitting in on a need-to-know meeting then Maguire was desperate.

  Sorokina said, ‘The Moscow CID wants this man and we have judicial backing to take him back for trial.’

  Tom Pickering was a man with few resources. Chasing a Moscow gangster who freelanced for different intelligence services was of little interest to him unless it was likely to impact on his operational effectiveness. ‘Is this fugitive likely to be involved in or instigate any terrorist activities while he is in the UK?’

  ‘He is armed and dangerous and has already murdered one man and kidnapped and tortured another,’ said Sorokina.

  ‘Major, with all due respect, this is a criminal investigation. Assistant Commissioner Beaumont
has armed response officers available should they be needed. My people have higher priorities and those demands mean I must excuse myself from this briefing.’

  Pickering slipped his notes into his briefcase and left the room. Major Sorokina showed no emotion at Pickering’s withdrawal from the operation, even though Britain’s counter-terrorism branch worked with the National Crime Agency and the security service, MI5, and their street contacts could have proved useful in capturing Kuznetsov.

  Maguire stepped in quickly. ‘Major, I have an interest in finding your man. We’ll work with you. I’m sure Assistant Commissioner Beaumont will brief her officers accordingly and that Europol will also lend all assistance possible.’ Maguire stood up and draped his overcoat across his arm. ‘Co-operation between Russian and European police forces is a positive step in the right direction and we all welcome it. And as far as my department is concerned we are at your service.’ It sounded glib, rolling off the tongue like any diplomatic pat on the head.

  Raglan looked at Sorokina. She didn’t seem too upset or disappointed at the outcome of the meeting. She had asked for help from the key elements of British policing and had received little more than a nod of acknowledgement to her request. Raglan realized Maguire had stage-managed the meeting. This was nothing more than a courtesy call to the police and counter-terrorism people. That’s why Raglan was there. Maguire wanted his face seen. That was all. This is my man, was what Maguire was stating. Maguire knew there would be nothing sensitive discussed in the meeting so Raglan would not be privy to anything that he shouldn’t. The charade was a done deal. Maguire wanted to control the operation. There was a barely noticeable glance from Sorokina to Maguire.

  That’s what the meeting in the park had been about.

  Raglan knew they were both in on it.

  22

  Raglan had begun to wonder whether Maguire had an office of his own or whether he conducted all his business at the Ned.

  ‘I’m a member,’ said Maguire, reading his thoughts as he escorted Raglan and Sorokina into the basement of the hotel. The massive steel vault door was two metres wide and weighed twenty tonnes. Its impressive thickness was exposed as the circular opening served as the entrance to the Vault, the hotel’s private club. The thousands of security boxes added to the impression that this was once a place of great wealth and secrets. And might still be. It was obvious that Maguire would never allow Raglan or a Russian national into the Secret Intelligence Service building at Vauxhall Cross. Not only would that pose a breach of security but this was off-the-record business. And this was one place where there would be no listening devices.

  Raglan sipped beer from the bottle, Sorokina drank neat vodka and Maguire stayed with a whisky. The room was empty except for a couple in the far corner who bent forward face to face, hands clasped as if the boat was about to go down and these were their final moments.

  ‘Tell him,’ said Maguire.

  She settled her eyes on Raglan over the rim of her glass without giving Maguire a questioning glance. If the MI6 officer wanted this rough-looking man involved then it meant he was trusted.

  ‘Yegor Kuznetsov or Jean Delacorte, whatever name you know him by, has been a valued asset for the Russian intelligence services for many years. His parents escaped the Soviet Union thirty-five years ago when he was eight years old. They were part of the expatriate Russian community in Paris. He did his national service in the French army, excelled at university and was recruited by the DGSE, where he betrayed certain key operatives and their operations to our intelligence services almost from the start. Several years ago he was in Africa working with French forces to stop the terrorist infiltration from Algiers into Mali. He was reported killed in a helicopter crash.’

  It was obvious that Maguire had not told her anything of Raglan’s background and that he knew of the crash. If she had known she would not have bothered telling him about JD’s involvement and reported death in Africa. ‘And he then went full-time freelance,’ said Raglan.

  ‘Yes. He had many contacts, and he became involved in organized crime that included international arms smuggling and the execution of dissidents. He was protected.’

  ‘By the FSB and/or military intelligence,’ said Maguire.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘When Putin came to power many criminal gangs thought they would face a crackdown. But he cut a deal with them. The state was the biggest gang in town and provided the mafia did nothing to challenge it then they were allowed to carry on – and then when the state wanted something from them they would comply. They became businessmen. The Kremlin uses organized crime to do their dirty work. You have to understand that the criminals on the streets are nothing. They are petty thieves compared to these people. You want to know who uses cyber warfare against the west? It’s organized crime. Who facilitates weapons to terrorists? Organized crime. They are a useful tool that keeps our politicians’ hands clean. They do not have blood on them. You understand all of this, what I am saying?’

  ‘And you think you have a chance to arrest him for the murder of four Moscow police officers,’ said Raglan.

  Major Sorokina placed her glass down carefully. She knew her quest to capture the killer was at the least improbable and, with the fugitive being protected by the Russian state intelligence services, probably impossible. ‘I have just confirmed what you already believe: that my country’s government is corrupt and considered by many to be a criminal state, but the Moscow Police Department has judicial backing to apprehend criminals.’

  ‘Why?’ said Raglan. ‘Russia is run by the biggest crook of all.’

  ‘We have to be seen to be taking murderers and criminals off our streets. We are given a great deal of freedom with the support of the Ministry of the Interior. Our CID operations are as removed from political interference as possible. This is because our public wants every serious crime committed against them by murderers, paedophiles and rapists solved and the perpetrators arrested, tried and convicted. So put aside your disbelief. We catch criminals. And I want this one more than any other.’

  ‘Because he killed your fellow officers.’

  She nodded and held his gaze. ‘One of them was a judge’s son. That’s why I know I can get him.’ She swallowed the last of her drink. ‘Forgive me. I am tired. It has been a long day.’ She stood up and tied the belt on her overcoat. ‘A judge’s son, and my brother.’

  *

  Maguire escorted her to the door and the Ned’s doorman hailed her a taxi. As a visiting cop, her hotel would never be five-star luxury, but even Raglan winced when Maguire told him she was staying at a down-at-heel place near Paddington railway station. ‘She’s Russian,’ said Maguire, ‘she probably thinks it’s luxury.’ He sipped his drink. ‘But you can see how motivated she is and if she pulls in any information about JD then it benefits us.’ He sighed. ‘And now you’ll want your own bedtime story.’

  ‘Qatar,’ said Raglan. ‘All of it.’

  Maguire settled back into the chair, giving an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘When you were in the Legion and fighting in Mali you worked with three intelligence agencies. The French, us and the CIA. They were the ones feeding information for your strike teams.’

  ‘And they pinpointed the caves where their Al Qaeda leader was operating. And that’s how we got to Abdelhamid Abou Zeid,’ Raglan said.

  ‘How you got to him,’ Maguire corrected him.

  ‘I was close enough to smell his stench, but he killed himself before I could.’

  ‘He was a very valuable target. Job well done all round.’

  ‘We lost good men in that war and I don’t need any patronizing bull from you. If JD was selling out the West then he was selling out me and my men on that operation.’

  Maguire gave a cautious look around to see there were no waiters hovering ready to step forward when they saw an empty glass. ‘No, you’re wrong. JD knew that Abdelhamid Abou Zeid was in that cave. He wanted him alive because that would have been a scalp for him and his mast
ers. If Abou Zeid had been taken alive then he would have ended up in Russian hands, not ours or the Americans. No, Raglan, it was not JD who put you in danger, it was us.’

  ‘This doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘We intercepted radio traffic from the caves. We knew Abou Zeid would martyr himself but we couldn’t pass that on because we needed him to be the focus of the operation.’

  Raglan’s memory spooled back quickly. The briefing, the attack, the changed location. All fed through French intelligence, which meant that JD, the Russian double agent, would have scooped the prize of having Abou Zeid and the information he carried. Raglan thought it through. There was more Maguire hadn’t yet revealed. If they knew the terrorist leader was prepared to kill himself then what else had been happening when he and the legionnaires went into the caves? ‘There was an SAS advisory team for the French. I remember. You used them?’

  ‘We used them.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Our real target. The bag-carrier.’

  ‘The money man?’

  ‘Yes. A Qatari. He funded several terrorist organizations using Middle East money and an international network of drug smuggling that generated even more funds into the terrorists’ coffers. Much of it comes through the Middle East and into Europe. We snatched him. He was a mine of information.’

  ‘And Carter ran him after that.’

  ‘It was his operation and when we got Carter into the bank he traced every dirty deal because our Qatari gave us all the information for all the people and all the money and every undercover deal that he funded. That’s who Carter controlled. And Carter had more than… more than we admitted. We had a… special fund. And then it went bad.’