His image disappeared.
David swore under his breath, before he spun his chair round to face the team.
‘Okay, notwithstanding the fact that our Prime Minister appears to have completely lost his mind, let me have your suggestions.’
‘He’s up to something,’ said Dan, wagging his finger at the blank screen. ‘He’s not telling us everything. There’s no way he’d be going ahead with this press conference otherwise.’
‘I agree,’ said Mitch. ‘As a tactician, our Prime Minister is usually more open to suggestions.’
‘He seemed distracted,’ said Sarah.
‘That doesn’t help us. We still need to ensure his safety, just in case he has missed something,’ said David. He began to pace the room. ‘Mel – do as the PM ordered. Send everything we have on Porchester and Malikov to MI5. I’m sure they’ll be pleased to hear from you.’
‘Maybe,’ said Mel, then hurried to her computer.
‘Right, you two. Put yourselves in Malikov and Porchester’s shoes,’ said David. ‘The PM’s on his way back, he’s going to make a very public appearance in a crowded place, and no-one has a clue what he’s going to say.’
‘Porchester will show support for the PM,’ said Dan. ‘He’s a survivor. He’ll wait for another chance. If the PM plays this right, Porchester will never know he’s under suspicion, because he thinks he’s got me out of the way.’
Mitch frowned. ‘Why would the PM keep him close now?’
‘To draw out Malikov,’ said Mel, joining them once more. ‘I reckon the PM wants to end any Russian influence as soon as possible.’
‘I agree,’ said David. ‘But I’m also wondering what Malikov might be planning.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Dan.
‘Malikov’s got a reputation for being a sore loser,’ said David. ‘He’s not going to let this go. If he was prepared to use Porchester to try to influence the negotiations with the European Union, then he’s not going to give up easily.’ He pointed at the documents they’d left strewn across the conference table during their video call with the PM. ‘Let’s face it, we already believe him to be responsible for the deaths of two high-ranking politicians. One that supported the PM, and the other who failed to pull off a vote of no confidence to oust him.’
‘Er, boss? You need to look at this.’
Both Dan and David spun round to face Mel, the note of panic in her voice raising the hairs on the back of Dan’s neck.
‘What is it?’
She pointed at the screen, her hand shaking. ‘I think Porchester’s Russian friends just triggered their own kill switch.’
Dan leaned over the analyst’s shoulder. ‘Explain.’
‘This is an email account Porchester – or his paymasters – set up, using a common internet-based email server, okay?’
‘Understood.’
‘Okay, well, they’ve been messaging each other by saving emails in the “drafts” folder, believing they can’t be read by anyone else.’
‘So, what did you find?’ asked David.
Mel cleared her throat. ‘Well, I hacked into the account before we went to fetch Dan,’ she said. ‘I left it running so I could hack the new messages that had been posted.’ She traced her finger under the text of the message she’d clicked open. ‘I’ve been waiting for the encryption programme to translate it.’
Dan felt his heart skip a beat, a brief moment before he heard Mitch swear under his breath next to him.
‘There’s no doubt of this?’ asked David. ‘You’re absolutely sure this has come from the Russians to Porchester? No-one else is involved?’
Mel glanced over her shoulder and nodded. ‘I’m sure,’ she whispered. ‘The Russians have just instructed Porchester to make sure the Prime Minister attends a press conference here in London to confirm the safe intercept of the radioactive isotope and the immediate suspension of the government’s fracking project.’
‘And as soon as the Prime Minister shows up, the Russians will kill him,’ finished Dan. He straightened and then turned to David and Mitch. ‘We need to stop him. Now.’
‘But how on earth is Malikov going to get to the PM?’ asked Sarah. ‘The place will be crowded.’
Dan looked at Mitch and then pointed at the satellite image of the Prime Minister’s chosen location for his speech.
‘There’s only one way he could try at short notice,’ he said. ‘Sniper.’
CHAPTER 50
Kevin Baxter shifted the weight of the sports bag on his shoulder and wove his way between two Australian tourists that had stopped in the middle of the pedestrianised area to take photographs.
He grunted an apology as the bag brushed against one of them and then picked up his pace.
Timing was everything.
Too early, and he could be spotted. Too late, and he wouldn’t have time to set up the rifle he carried.
He’d recce’d the venue a week ago; when he’d asked how his contact had known the PM’s exact whereabouts, he was assured that he wouldn’t have to worry – the leader of the country would show up at the allocated place. On time and with as little security as possible to help convey an air of safety to the general public.
He glanced sideways at the crowd that filled the wide-open expanse of the square and raised his gaze to the ornate architecture that surrounded the permanent market.
Only last week, he’d been one of the contractors that worked at gently sand-blasting the surface of that building, gradually peeling away the years of dirt and grime that plastered its walls.
It had been a perfect opportunity to gauge the entrances to and, more importantly, the exits from the square.
In the evenings, at home in his one-bedroom apartment to the far east of the city, he’d pored over blueprints stolen from the work site, carefully planning every aspect of the hit.
He prided himself on his professionalism and tenacity. His services weren’t cheap, and for this reason, he was able to pick and choose the work he accepted. It enabled him to keep a low profile, so he appeared to live a normal civilian life outside of his profession.
He couldn’t help the smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth.
Most weekdays, he could be found advising clients at the accounting offices of Abbott and Baker, a mid-tier firm based in Chelmsford. He’d taken his parents’ well-placed advice to get his chartered accountant qualifications; ‘see the world’, his father had told him.
Three weeks after celebrating his graduation with them, his parents had been killed, a burglary gone wrong while he’d been out drinking with friends. The police had told him his father had tried to fight off the knife-wielding intruder, evidenced by the injuries to his hands, arms and face.
The murderer had never been caught.
After that, Baxter had joined the French Foreign Legion, disappearing off the face of the planet as far as his friends were concerned. It had been the only way he’d known how to direct his grief and anger in private.
He’d quickly discovered, however, that there was money to be made on the freelancing circuit – a lot of money. After a minor training incident left him with a medical discharge from the Legion, he’d accepted the order to quit and had returned back to the UK via Berlin, his first assassination job already complete.
Within three months, he’d tracked down his parents’ murderer and had exacted his revenge, leaving the man’s corpse to rot in an industrial bin in an abandoned parking lot.
Now, his work found him through recommendations, an arrangement that suited him well. Only people that could afford his prices would approach him, and they could only do so through a previous client. It ensured complete trust and an unspoken understanding that the work would be carried out.
Baxter didn’t accept last-minute cancellations, and he sure as hell didn’t give out refunds.
After completing a circuit of the square, taking his time while he milled about alongside the tourists and city workers, he stopped beside an entrancewa
y to a narrow building squashed between its neighbours. His back to the door, he squinted up at the skyline and then let his gaze wander back to the cobbled street, all the time searching for anything that seemed out of place, dangerous, and liable to turn the plan to shit.
A few hundred metres away, close to where a stage was hastily being constructed, a collection of television news vans had congregated, the occupants standing around, talking to each other, takeaway coffee cups in one hand and mobile phones in the other.
Two armed policemen approached his position, their slow walking pace appearing nonchalant to any normal passer-by. Baxter knew otherwise. The pace enabled vigilance.
He dropped his bag to the ground beside him, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cigarette packet. He knocked out one into his palm together with the small plastic cigarette lighter and lit up.
He pushed the packet back into his pocket as the policemen approached, blew smoke away from them, and nodded.
They turned away from him in unison to watch three youths go tearing past, their shouts suddenly muted at the sight of the two policemen, and then they were gone.
Baxter watched their backs as they disappeared round the corner of the square and then removed the cigarette from between his lips and stubbed it out on the brickwork of the building. He hawked to clear the remnants of smoke from his lungs. The last thing he needed was an unexpected cough to ruin his plans. He returned the cigarette to the packet, picked up the bag, and then turned the doorknob and entered the building.
His fingers brushed the bolt as he closed the door, and he slid the steel across before pulling a key from his pocket and securing the deadlock as well.
The actual location for him had been pre-planned; his job had been to recce the available exits. Unknown to his client, however, he undertook his own insurance policy and had broken into the derelict building three nights ago and replaced the lock.
Just in case.
He stood and listened for a good five minutes until, satisfied he was truly alone, he began to climb the stairs to the room that would give him the visibility he needed across the square.
Finally, once he was ready, Baxter reached into his pocket and pulled out a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Once he made this call, it would be crushed under his foot, the parts collected and bagged for disposal at different locations several miles away from his current position.
He dialled the number from memory, waited until the man at the other end answered, and then spoke just six words.
‘Best go and rehearse your speech.’
CHAPTER 51
Dan leapt from the car before Mitch had time to brake to a standstill and began running up the narrow paved street towards Covent Garden.
As he approached, he recalled the familiar landmarks in the square – the enclosed market, the church, the large sprawling pub that overlooked the street performers.
Street performers – shit.
He slid to a halt, Mitch barrelling into him, cursing under his breath.
‘Why have we stopped?’
‘Problem. Look.’
Dan tucked his gun into the back of his jeans so it was out of sight and then jutted his chin towards the wide expanse outside the church and began to walk over to its perimeter.
In the middle of the square, a man balanced precariously on stilts, taunting the crowd that laughed and clapped at his antics. As he lurched and wobbled in the circle created by the swelling throng, he juggled three chainsaws, the loud buzzing of the motors echoing off the surrounding buildings.
To Dan’s right, people leaned over a balcony that jutted out from the side of the pub. They laughed at the street performers as they held their drinks aloft, the occasional catcall from the street crowd causing good-natured jeering between the two areas.
It was already busy, and the Prime Minister hadn’t even arrived yet. It was only going to get worse.
At the far end of the square, beyond the church, a raised platform had been erected, the Prime Minister’s party colours displayed by bright flags that fluttered in the gentle breeze. Camera crews from various news agencies were already milling around, waiting for the leader of the country to appear, while a sound crew tested the audio equipment.
‘One, two. One, two.’
‘Three,’ Mitch muttered and then swore as a man in a clown suit brushed past him, pulling a bright red scarf from Mitch’s collar as he did so. The crowd laughed, the man bowed, and continued his way around the circle of people.
‘I fucking hate clowns,’ Mitch grumbled.
‘Smile,’ said Dan. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself.’
He ignored the retort Mitch mumbled under his breath and led the way to a restaurant below the pub’s balcony, its overhang providing shade and a way to avoid being seen by anyone on the surrounding buildings.
Dan waved away the owner and turned back to the square, his fists clenched.
‘Okay, where is he?’
Mitch checked his watch. ‘We’ve got ten minutes before the press conference is due to start.’
Dan craned his neck to where police had congregated at the northern entrance to the square, blocking off traffic and pedestrian access to make way for the official vehicles that would soon swoop upon an unsuspecting public.
‘It’s going to be bloody embarrassing if no-one listens to him,’ said Mitch.
Dan couldn’t stop the twitch at the side of his mouth at the thought. ‘I’m sure he’ll get plenty of attention from this lot. It’s all entertainment, after all, isn’t it?’
‘I just wish he’d listen to sense. He could’ve done this in a studio.’
‘Yeah, but it wouldn’t have had the same effect. Porchester knows the PM has to make a public appearance now or risk losing support.’
They broke off as the sound of a helicopter washed over the streets, its rotors chopping at the airspace above them.
Dan squinted up at the sky as the aircraft banked over the square and then passed. He tapped the microphone at the base of his throat. ‘You getting this, Mel?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘Are the buildings clear?’
‘Nothing up top. Police have done a good job sealing off access points at short notice. They’ve got their own snipers covering exits onto roofs, too.’
‘Right. So he’s either inside a building or in the crowd.’
‘Great, that narrows it down,’ said Mitch. He turned at the sound of running footsteps. ‘Shit. What does he want?’
Dan reached under his t-shirt, his fingers beginning to wrap themselves around the rubber grip of his weapon as the man in the clown suit and make-up barrelled towards him.
He could see the man’s features contort as he drew closer before he raised his hand and called out.
‘Stop. I need to talk to you.’
Dan stood his ground and kept his hand on his weapon as the man slid to a halt.
‘What?’
‘You’re police or something, right?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Listen, mate – I’ve seen enough television shows, okay?’ The clown glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ve seen the way you’ve been scoping the place. You’re looking for someone.’
‘What if I am?’
The man’s eyes hardened. ‘There’s a dead man in a doorway over near the American restaurant. Broken neck. I thought you should know.’
Dan exhaled. ‘Christ, thank you.’
He slapped the clown on the shoulder as he ran past, calling out to Mitch as he picked up speed.
‘With me!’ he yelled, and kept going. He punched the clip to his microphone. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Copy.’ Mel’s voice was breathless over the comms equipment. ‘Trying to get visual.’
‘Hurry. I need to know what I’m walking into.’
‘You call that walking?’ Mitch’s voice carried over the airwaves.
‘Got it!’ said Mel. ‘White male. Neck broken. He’s been pushed into one side of
the doorway. You won’t see him as you approach – there’s an industrial bin blocking your view.’
‘Anyone else around?’
‘Negative.’ There was a pause as Mel continued to observe the area. ‘You’re clear to proceed.’
‘Copy that. Mitch?’
‘Here.’
Dan slowed his pace as he approached the alleyway that led to the side door of the restaurant and then peered round the corner. He glanced up at the CCTV camera that faced the industrial bin to the right of the alley, the same that Mel was using to observe the scene.
He checked over his shoulder as Mitch slid to a halt next to him. ‘You ready?’
‘Ready.’
Dan exhaled, taking a split second to fight down the adrenalin that was urging him forward. Ignoring the body at his feet, he reached out and pushed against the closed door.
It was unlocked, and he thought either someone had entered in a hurry or was planning to leave just as quickly.
He didn’t need to check over his shoulder to see if Mitch was following; he knew he’d have his back covered as they entered the building.
Holding his weapon in a steady two-handed grip, Dan edged past the door and threw himself against the inner wall.
Discarded boxes from food supplies filled the narrow passageway to his right, beyond which filtered the sounds of the restaurant as it filled with the start of the after-work crowd. Nearer to his right, he heard the familiar noises of a commercial kitchen – shouts for food orders, pots and crockery being moved at speed, and a radio blaring above it all.
He raised a hand and signalled towards the left, where the corridor stopped abruptly before a flight of steps led upwards.
‘Staircase leads to three floors,’ said Mel. ‘Four doors on each landing.’
‘Copy that.’ Dan threw himself against the wall, swinging his weapon towards the stairs.
Mitch followed, covering their rear.
Dan made his way up the stairs as fast as he dared, his head jerking left and right as his eyes drew level with the first landing.
Mitch echoed his every move, the two men working as one to clear the space. They moved swiftly, opening each door, guns sweeping the empty rooms, and then moving onto the next until they were satisfied the floor was clear.
Three Lives Down (A Dan Taylor thriller) Page 22