Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  “Trust me, I bloody well feel like shooting you. I’ve got fifteen left and I can change a magazine and start firing quicker than you can tell me your name and date of birth. So tell me who the hell are you?”

  “I am Stefan Stefanescu. I am not armed. I give you my word. I am Alex’s brother. The man you foolishly thought you could negotiate with. He would have killed you as soon as you had the money.”

  “You think? He didn’t do a very good job of defending himself here. I could have shot him if I was a contract killer. His thugs outside lasted seconds.”

  “So, are you British, come to rescue me from my brother?”

  “Kind of depends. British, no, British trained, yes. Did you need rescuing?”

  “As it happens yes. So I will guess that you are on my side. If anyone asks, you did a great job. But you are alone? That is not normal.”

  “I am. Don’t ask. I’m not normal by any normal yardstick. It’s a longer story than yours. And right now with a gaping hole in my leg, no prisoner to interrogate and an empty bank balance, I’m feeling a long way from home, far from normal and very much out of pocket.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  “Work out our next move and find a first aid kit.”

  Hobbling around the lounge, McCall headed back to the main door and dragged a chair into place, hoping it would give him time to think. He was right. They would be searching the building anytime soon.

  Stefanescu smiled. “You barricade the door. I’ll work out our escape route.” He was already opening the priest's hole. “Tell me, do you have a name?”

  “You can call me Mack.”

  “And you know my name, of course. One last question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you still have the documents?”

  How did he know? Of course, he had mentioned it earlier, so no point in lying. Rookie mistake.

  “I do. Do you want them? If as you say you are important to the British government? From what I have read, they may as well go to a good home. I want to get rid of the damned things. They are a poisoned chalice.”

  “More than you could ever imagine, Mack. So much more. Their value lies not in their content, but the damage that they could achieve as a whole set. My brother has a set, the British government has a set, and you hold the Royal Flush.”

  “Quite literally, from what I read in there. Literally down the pan.”

  “Quite. Do you trust me to take them from you? I can deliver them. You can’t just walk up the British Home Office and say ‘hello, anybody want these?’ But I will help you, make sure you can return to wherever it is you came from on your conquest – and hopefully a little better off. Deal?”

  It was his one and only integrity test. “No questions…”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal. Ready?” The main door was well barricaded, giving them a few extra minutes. He tossed a field dressing and a bandage, it spun through the air, caught in his left hand.

  He dropped his trousers. More vulnerable than ever. He pushed the pad into the small hole and wrapped the bandage around his upper leg. It would suffice until he could have a proper look or get to a friendly hospital where he could make up a story.

  “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be Stefan.”

  “Before we go, there is something on the fireplace that you might wish to take with you. I saw nothing.” He put his hands up to his eyes.

  McCall looked around. Was this the trap? He had to trust him at some point. He considered it his next test. Now he and the man he could have easily shot were about to exist on what Mike Steel referred to as the level playing field. He fully expected to turn back and find the multi-coloured eyes of Stefan Stefanescu no longer staring at him, but gone, down the priest hole along with their host. It was like Alice in Wonderland, but without the fairy tale ending.

  “Mate, I have some weird shit in my house, but I think even I draw the line at a polar bear’s head. Besides, where I come from, the biosecurity guys are red hot. I’d never get that over the border.”

  “Look closer.” Stefan was discreetly looking out of the window.

  “Coal? Come on mate, we haven’t got time for this?”

  “Well, similar, coal is compressed carbon. Look to the right of the bear, there, in the carpet. Grab as many as you can. We leave in one minute. They will be here very soon.”

  With the Glock holstered, McCall was able to move more freely. He lowered himself down on his decent leg. “Holy Mother of God. Where did these come from?”

  “Precisely, or literally?”

  “Either.”

  “Best you don’t ask. But he stored them inside the bear’s head. They came out during the fight you so rudely interrupted.”

  “They real?”

  “As real as they come. On that, I do not need challenging. Thirty seconds to go.”

  McCall had the gift horse saying flying around his head. But it was theft. But stealing from a thief, to give to the poor. Even Robin Hood would approve. And he could donate some to charity. The kid’s hospital, back home. Decision made.

  “Fifteen seconds.” There were footsteps approaching, fast.

  He had picked up twelve from within the deep pile of the carpet when the first thump of the door rang out. The Big Red Key was being used, and he knew they’d be through in no time at all.

  Twelve diamonds? Couple of hundred thousand dollars. That was all he wanted. Called it quits at fourteen. Pushed them into his deepest pocket. Then one more, a pretty blue one, calling out to him; one for luck.

  “I’m coming.” He ran to the hatch, scanning rapidly, ensuring he’d left nothing behind.

  He climbed into the hatch and stopped.

  “Will they follow us? If we go I need to know I can get away and never be caught.”

  “I cannot guarantee it, but if we go now, we may have a chance. Come on! Unless you have a way to slow them down?”

  “As it happens, brother, I just might.”

  He smiled, thought of his sisters, patted his pocket to make sure his future was financially secure, and then produced the pink TH3 incendiary grenade from his jacket. His Hungarian friend had been wise indeed. It was his last offensive weapon, and he knew it gave him at least thirty seconds of cover. Now or never.

  If it performed like all the others he had used Alex’s beloved apartment would soon be engulfed in flames; the jewels, cash, animal heads, flags and all of the secrets that lined the walls, the tales of greed and cruelty. Gone.

  There was a risk that any subsequent investigation found the grenade, but they were plentiful and any forensic evidence would be destroyed in the first few seconds as the device burned to its peak at around four thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

  Stefan looked at the pink canister. “Will it keep them away for a while? We need a few minutes.”

  He actioned the grenade then tossed it towards the door. Hopefully the small explosion and smoke would give the police a clue that evacuating would be their best plan.

  “This little beauty will burn through steel, underwater. So yep, I reckon it will. Say bye to the flat. Hope you’ve left nothing behind of value?”

  “Well, I…” It was far too late.

  It hit the floor, tink, tink, tink, bang.

  The grenade erupted, discharging screaming hot chemicals which ignited everything in their path. It was highly impressive. An arsonists dream.

  “Oh Jesus, that felt good. Come on Lone Ranger, Tonto wants to head back to the ranch.”

  He lowered himself into the small doorway and down four steps, which opened out into a narrow passageway. Stefan was sealing the door behind them, locking it from inside.

  “Let’s go Mack.” They shook hands.

  “Last chance for your share of the diamonds, mate. I can go back.”

  He smiled. “No, I have exactly what I want.”

  He led the way along the carved tunnel, following the dimly lit bulbs that had served as a guide since the war.

&nb
sp; “When we get the end, I will need you to check for any traps. I trust my brother about as far as I could kick that polar bear’s head.”

  “Yep, copy that. You just lead the way. I will be right behind you. I’m parked two streets away. Where does this tunnel exit?”

  “Into a park. There is an old gate. Don’t worry, I have the key. When we get to the car, we need to head north.”

  “To the airport?”

  “No, that cannot be our way back. We need to drive. I am on every watch list there is in this country. Alex, too. But I think he is already heading to a private airstrip. He has a woman that flies him anywhere. No questions asked.”

  “Can we get to the airstrip before him? Cut out the middleman?”

  It was an idea. He remembered the last time he had travelled in her aircraft. She did a good job, but there was something about her that he didn’t trust.

  “The pilot is a woman. Called Maria Anghel. I haven’t seen her for a while, many years in fact. She is like an iceberg.”

  “What do you mean? To look at?” It was an unusual description. To McCall an iceberg was thirty: seventy in its ratio. So he could only assume one thing.

  “Maria’s got small tits and a massive arse then?”

  “No.” He laughed as they made their way along the tunnel. “She is cool, very calm, calculating. Best pilot I have ever met. There was a time when she landed a plane on a runway that was way too short. Anyway, she has four planes now. Makes a living above the radar, but keeps one of her aircraft for special stuff.”

  “You mean like helping your brother escape?”

  “Exactly like that. And she charges, like the wounded buffalo.”

  “Then how else do we get to London?”

  “We drive.”

  “I’ve got a rental car. At some point it needs to go back.”

  “Did you hire it on your credit card?”

  “Not my credit card exactly, no…”

  “So you are a thief too?”

  “Hardly. I’m one of the good guys. Look, we can exchange notes on the way, if as you say we’ve got to drive then we have at least a day to get to know each other.”

  “We will be at the end of this tunnel in a hundred metres. Quiet now.”

  The light was changing. As they got closer to the entrance to the tunnel the bulbs extinguished, now they felt their way to the old grid that sat across the gateway to what the local kids had long said was a secret Nazi underground bunker.

  Stefan approached cautiously, the gate was open, left ajar, clearly his brother was in a hurry. They could both hear sirens approaching, closer now. Fire and ambulance, red lights, blue lights, strobes, ricocheting off the walls and into the night sky.

  McCall drew his weapon and held it in front of him, did a sweep behind, checking they weren’t being followed, then carried on, up on his toes now. Nice and quiet.

  They got to the gateway and squeezed through the gap, closing the gate behind them. Stefan pushed the sizeable padlock back through the opening and clicked it shut.

  “Which way?”

  The club was to their left, McCall was completely disorientated now. He got his bearings and pointed right. “Up there, on the left, the Hyundai. Christ, look at that.”

  He pointed back to the club, which was engulfed in flames. The innocent-looking pink canister had a set of teeth after all.

  Both men tried to blend into the foot traffic, some of which resembled nightclub patrons, fleeing the scene. Others were heading to the fire to see what the commotion was. The whole neighbourhood had turned out to watch the demise of a man they quietly hated.

  The chaos suited the two men who walked at a pace to the boring looking car.

  Within hours, the club would be all but destroyed. Investigators would say, days later, that the seat of the fire was in the owner’s apartment, however they had found no evidence of foul play – or a body. Alex Stefanescu was reported as being missing, which surprised no one, least of all the man that had been sent to hunt him down.

  “Well, now what boss?”

  Grig scratched what was left of his hair, flicked a cigarette into the smouldering wreck that was once Byzantin and said, “Two options. We do nothing and get new instructions for a different operation or we convince the bosses that the Jackdaw is worth putting into a cage – forever.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “I have an idea. Anyone fancy a coffee?”

  It seemed an odd invitation – until their boss walked up to the counter, ordered four Americano and started asking questions.

  “Australian? How do you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  “And you believe him?”

  The boy laughed. “No, sir. He was from New Zealand.”

  This was new information, call it intelligence. Whatever it was, it was a start and long overdue. They had missed an opportunity, and he knew it. Best keep that one to the team. What goes on tour...

  He sipped the hot black liquid, which gave him an instant lift.

  “So tell me, why would you think that?” He was smiling, for this was not an interrogation.

  “Because he had a piece of greenstone around his neck, on a leather strap.”

  Grig looked at the boy, blowing on his coffee to cool it a little, watching the last of the flames being doused, across the road at was left of the once iconic club.

  “You have lost me.”

  “The Aussies don’t wear it, greenstone, it’s a New Zealand thing. It is a very special stone to them. You don’t buy it for yourself, has to be a gift. Has real meaning to the people.”

  “Maori?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you think he was a Maori?”

  “Sir I don’t know, but I think he was a soldier. My brother is, so something told me he was too. Did he die in the fire? I didn’t see him coming out.”

  “I Sir,don’t think so no. But you could identify him?”

  “Yes, of course. I have a very good memory for faces. Your colleague there, the one with the beard. I’ve seen him four times this week going into the house over there. I don’t miss anything.”

  “You don’t do you.” He held up his cell phone, showing him the face of a man, captured by a telephoto lens, grainy but easily identified.

  “That him?”

  “Yes. One hundred percent. He has a good man.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just the way he spoke to me. I know the difference. When you work for the Jackdaw, you know.”

  “I’m sure you do. Well done, my friend. Here, you keep the change. If I need to find you, you will be here?”

  “I have no idea, sir. With the club gone and the boss too, who will pay my wages now? I will probably move on.”

  Grig turned to Vasile, his most junior officer. “Hey, he spotted you four times. You can stay behind and get a statement off him. I want everything in there, especially the part about the Kiwi soldier boy.”

  Grig shook the young man’s hand. “Thank you. You have been most helpful. Any questions?”

  “Only one. Who gets to drive that?” He pointed across at the Bentley.

  “Actually, I do. We will be seizing it, along with whatever is left behind. Pity the keys are somewhere in that lot!” He pointed to the club.

  “Can I have his brother’s car then? It’s an AMG. With the right tools, I can start it.”

  As he had finished the sentence, the first floor of the nightclub moaned and creaked, then groaned and collapsed, sending a dust cloud across the street and debris onto the late model German saloon. The Mercedes alarm began to fill the street with its high decibel chant as the street disappeared in a blanket of dust and debris.

  “Be my guest. If you have the keys, take it!” It was at that point that Grig stopped in his tracks.

  “Dear God.” He ground his knuckles until they whitened. “Stupid idiot. Where is his brother?” He dropped his empty polystyrene cup into the bin, thinking on his feet. Moving
backwards and forwards like an expectant father. He turned to his second in command.

  “Speak to the Fire Brigade. I want to know the minute they find anything. A body. Bodies. Firearms. Anything. In the meantime, get onto the control room and have Alex and Stefan circulated as wanted. I want Artur Gheorghiu found too. Bring him in as quickly as you can. And any other thugs that hang around with him.”

  His phone rang. He tucked it under his jaw and started a monosyllabic conversation. He picked the cup out of the bin and gestured to the coffee boy for a refill. He cleared the call and pocketed the phone.

  “I want to find this mystery man. Very soon.”

  “You assume he’s a bad guy, boss?” It was a fair question from Tomas.

  “It seems a little too convenient that he arrives and the gates of hell are opened. Do you not agree?”

  “Your call, sir. Anything else?”

  “Do we have a friend in New Zealand?”

  “I doubt it, sir. It’s so far away.”

  “Then make one. Tonight. They must have an ops centre over there, or an Interpol office. We have to start somewhere.”

  “I will make it happen, boss. I need to head back to the office.”

  “Go. And get the image of the New Zealander out there, too. I want to know who he is and why he was in my city. If he’s a soldier, then that changes things. Ex-soldier is different. Send his image to the Kiwis. I hear they have a successful team over there. Small population, easier to find the bad guy. Worst case, he’s a good guy who has got involved in something. Equally, I need to know.”

  An hour later, Vasile Dumitru was speaking to an officer at Interpol Wellington. It was a warm and harbour-sparkling day in the New Zealand capital. The man that answered the phone wished he had that view, instead he looked out at a grey concrete car park wall and prayed that his team would soon move to the top floor.

  “Hello John Ashton, how can I help?”

  The Romanian officer outlined what he wanted and agreed to email the request from Interpol’s Bucharest office. It was how the organisation worked.

  “Sounds interesting. Unfortunately, we only ever hear about your people when they come here to steal from banks.”