“Will it reach here from the hospital?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t!” Smiling, grabbing the keys to his car, she left. Roberts carried on dining on the pen, trying to merge some thoughts and work out a way of appeasing his wife and the Commissioner, both of them questioning why he was doing so much overtime.
Cade was at his own rendezvous. Eating a take away breakfast thing in a polystyrene container. It was the sign. And he was waiting.
Three days earlier and unbeknown to anyone except Roberts and Daniel he had put a message on the Interpol website.
It read simply:
Romanian man wanted for his part in a major operation targeting an organised crime syndicate.
The article outlined that the Operation Orion team were searching for the man and that he could help them with their extensive enquiries. They named him but didn’t add a photograph. The truth was, they didn’t have one.
There was a phone number, in bold, at the foot of the article.
Two days passed before it had been dialled, from a payphone in west Holland, a village called Kuilenrode, where some of the properties had thatched roofs, it seemed everyone had a bicycle and the place was friendly and discreet enough that it was easy to hide.
He had settled there, somewhere new, as he had settled every year, or as often as he needed to stay a step ahead. It was how he worked. He had made his money, didn’t invest it, kept a lot of it in a basic current bank account that was accessed by a secure link, which in turn was activated with the details of his wife, deceased.
He was a professional. A company man who had turned against the company when they had killed his darling wife. And they had been paying for it, every year or so.
Until he met Cade. It was then that his crimes of intent became crimes of passion, where the memory of his wife drove him, not to carry out the killing, but to stop it. He had had enough. He’d ‘turned’. And Cade was the man to convince him where others had failed. He was a true intelligence officer – and that meant integrity above all else. It was in both of their DNA strands.
From that day on he had become a ‘consultant’ – in other words, a well-paid operator who could guarantee money from a number of government sources in Europe. Especially the British, and especially when their backs were up against the wall.
He knew enough to be both helpful and dangerous. Cade was tasked with managing him, but knew he never truly would. He helped them, they ensured he could move on, across Europe or even enter Britain uninhibited. It was a quid pro quo situation borne out of necessity.
Cade outlined what had happened since they last met. How things had altered, for the worst, and, importantly what he wanted him to do. He would be well paid, but he acknowledged that there were some things he didn’t do for financial reward.
They would meet soon.
‘It is long overdue Jack.’
The next day, at London Victoria train station Cade had watched as his target did what he did best – interacted with the public, made them look up from their head down commute, briefly, long enough to humiliate them, made them look away, made them feel selfish. And then he struck. They pitied him. Good. It was meant to be that way. A copper coin here, perhaps a gold one there. Some food, that would be quite acceptable. He wished more people would think about the truly homeless.
At the end of each session of overt begging he would sit or stoop, leaning against a modern, upmarket retail window and watch his fellow beggar. The real ones, not those with expensive football tops under their scruffy outer garments, the ones whose hands were worn, whose faces told a story. They were the benefactors.
Cade walked up to him, dropped a banknote into his scruffy woollen hat and walked off with the rest of care-less commuters and waited.
He was still waiting three days later. The target knew that they needed to meet again, same place, or as near as possible to not arouse suspicion. Same drill: Banknote. Hat. Phone call. Task.
But he had failed to show. Cade found a bin for his fast food wrapper, watched it land in amongst the other rubbish then walked off along Victoria Street, back towards his office, tossing half of the breakfast onto the floor, leaving a horde of pigeons to fight over the bread.
He checked his phone. A few missed calls, nothing new there.
‘Where are you?’
He was where he felt he needed to be. He had done his homework. Been watching, blending in, gathering intelligence, identifying the most feasible targets of a team that consisted of people he knew and despised, and others who he knew were just out of his reach. He needed them to make a mistake – on his terms, in a place and at a time that he could exploit.
He watched them. Hour after hour. Brushed past them, was pushed aside by them, dropped tasty morsels into their pockets then retreated, back to his temporary home, for all intents just another resident of London. His ability to morph from street dweller to city slicker was world class.
Chapter 49
On Victoria Embankment a few people walked, head down, shielding themselves against the cold. Hats on, scarves wrapped, headphones in, listening, for company and warmth. A few walked alongside each other, oblivious. Even more, they were deliberately oblivious to the homeless man; old clothes, tattered carrier bags and a crudely-fashioned walking stick which he leant onto, as he kept himself in the shadows, away from the dawning day on the streets where no one knew his name nor cared.
He carried an old Starbucks paper coffee cup and pushed it towards anyone that would allow their barrier down for a second, just long enough to drop a copper coin into it. As slow as he was, as crippled as he was, he had covered enough ground to show he was as determined as the next Londoner to get somewhere.
Shuffle. Grimace. Stop. Shuffle…
John Daniel knew London as well as most cab drivers. He also knew that a walk in the fog was likely to get him to Scotland Yard as quick as a journey in the back of one of the familiar black vehicles. He reckoned twenty minutes should cover it.
Brisk. Along the Embankment, avoid a few pretty joggers, up onto Westminster Bridge, around the back of Parliament Square Garden, Broad Sanctuary and a few more left and right turns and he’d be there, fresh, revitalised and feeling smug about saving ten pounds.
He had placed a seed into Roberts’ mind and hoped it would germinate. Now, the more people that knew and agreed with Daniel, the better.
Within a hundred paces he had decided a cab would have been the better option, the light was a dense grey with morning valiantly trying to introduce the day to the night. He approached the Hungerford Bridge, spotted some flashing amber beacons and prepared to divert across the road to avoid the construction site and its inch-deep concrete dust.
‘Don’t want to get those shoes dirty JD.’
As he walked under the bridge, alongside the hoardings, the first sense that something was untoward arrived via a sudden and brutal blow to the torso.
He wasn’t down, but he was winded. He grabbed for his phone, hoped to hit a hot key that dialled for the emergency services. The best he could hope for was that the operator would listen, hear him shout his location and send help. But they were too quick for him. Another blow, then one to the head. He picked his hands up quickly, placed them at the side of his head – training – muscle memory. Protect the head.
He needed to get a strike in. A punch, a kick, a knee, a slap, a claw of the fingernails across the face. Gouge an eye. This was not a Home Office approved fight, the type they always trained for. This was a street fight.
Thunk…Slap. Two or more blows, this time from his left. There were two of them and he was going down to the ground. If they got him into the builder’s hoardings, away from prying eyes, he was dead. Was it a robbery? A revenge gone wrong? Blatant violence with no reason?
These were sharply dressed men.
He lashed out, tried to get a look at them. He saw a partial face, saw the eyes. He caught one of them across the temple. Heard him moan. He struck again. Kicked
out with his immaculate-shoed foot, raked it down his assailant’s shin, the metal Segs grinding into the shallow skin, instantly blackening the surface before the blood flowed. That one always hurt. And again. Then a stamp and an elbow strike. He was fighting for his life now.
‘John Daniel. Chief Inspector. Retired. Died after an altercation near Victoria Embankment January 2015.’
No way. He pushed. Struck out. But the counter-blows were getting faster. They had stepped up a gear. In the shroud, under the bridge, traffic passing by without a care or any intention to stop and help. No one phoned. No one saw them. At least no one that in the eyes of the commuting public was deemed to be worthy.
The old homeless man dropped his bags and shouted ‘Hey!’
It was enough to cause a distraction. Daniel was down, on the ground, smothered in fog, battling for breath, scrabbling for weapons of opportunity. He was down and all he could do was hope. His head hit the pavement and the last thing he saw was a shoe.
Dark tan. The toe cap was fashioned by hand, darker tones indicating the shoemaker had taken time to finish the product with pride. It had a rubber sole. More comfortable, longer lasting. A man after his own heart. Daniel had always spent wisely on clothing and shoes. He had said it spoke volumes about a man.
That shoe. He’d seen it before.
The eyes. He’d seen those too.
“Go away you old bastard before you join him.” The smiling face was clearer now. The fog shifted, just a second, swirled, allowing more than a glimpse. The old man looking into the eyes of the younger, suited man with overly blond hair. He would remember him again, anywhere.
In the background, the second attacker was kicking Daniel. And still no one stopped a car or even glanced.
“Go away and annoy someone else, somewhere else. This is not your fight.” He wafted his hand as he would if he were in a restaurant, skilfully guiding a bluebottle from his crème brûlée. “Shoo.”
In terms of that fight, the old man clearly had nothing. And he had nothing to lose. He walked towards the blond who looked down at him, mocking.
The darker-haired male stopped kicking Daniel and also walked towards the vagrant, taking control, perhaps protecting the blond.
Speaking through a twice-broken nose he punched out his words. “Do you not listen? Fuck off before you end up dead.” He pushed the man backwards, daring not to touch him too much, pleased with his decision to wear gloves.
Not nice.
Show some respect.
The older of the two, superior in tone as well as demeanour then followed up with a well-spoken, “Go on, you heard the man.”
He did. They made it quite clear, and for the old, bag-carrying itinerant that was the signal.
‘You have just over-stepped the mark gentlemen.’
His stick arced upwards, fast, faster than the target expected. It struck him under the jaw and sent a crashing blow, upwards, driving his lower jaw into the top. He heard the teeth breaking, tasted fresh blood, his ears rang and the bridge that they were sheltered under only helped to make the pitch higher, enhancing the sense of pain. The old vagrant liked that, a lot.
His target tried to shake the shock of the counter-attack but failed. The second strike was equally swift. The old man spun ninety degrees and drove the mid-section of the cane into his throat shattering the hyoid, snapping his neck backwards with such force that deep inside his head he heard the third vertebrae grinding against the next.
The blond was on the move. Not towards the vagrant but away, as fast as he could, across the road and towards the Embankment tube station, his rubber-soled shoes making hardly any sound as he navigated through the mounting vehicle traffic. A businessman in a smart coat, with a tartan, Merino wool scarf across his lower face. On a winter morning.
Nothing unusual there.
The old man let him run. His day would come.
He walked back towards the younger, dark-haired man, lifted the seam of his black casual jacket to one side, felt for a wallet, pushed with his stick, searching him for weapons.
When the younger man moved, trying to offer resistance, the tramp just held him in place with his stick. He lowered himself down onto one knee and then picked up his attacker, raising him up just far enough to talk to him.
There was an unexpected strength in the way he lifted him, and the way he spoke.
The young man was struggling to reply. His tongue was starting to swell, in four hours, maybe five he would be unable to swallow, without medical aid he might die.
“This is what happens when you pick on older men.” He placed his own hand behind the man’s head and turned it towards Daniel who was lying on his side, trying to get up. He was regaining his breath, nursing his wounds and fumbling for his cell phone.
The old man ran his hands over the younger one’s body, searching, he found a wallet, gave the contents a cursory glance and then put it back, safely in the jacket pocket, just as he’d found it. Intact.
The tramp smiled from under hooded eyes and spoke, this time to Daniel.
“Perhaps leave the call for a while, sir. This man needs time to consider his future.” He lay his head down onto the pavement and tapped his cheek twice. The look he gave him was without doubt one that said ‘stand up and I will finish what I started.’
The fog had once again shrouded the street.
He stood, walked to Daniel and offered a hand. Daniel studied it through swelling eyes. Unlike his clothing and general appearance the hand was well-cared-for, not that of a homeless person who had given up on himself. The nails were trimmed, the skin softer than that of someone who lived on the streets.
Beneath the dark circles, the eyes were alive; active, eagle-like, experienced.
“Do I know you, sir?”
“Sir. It has been a long time since I was called sir.” The accent was tinged, foreign. “But no, you do not know me.” As he raised Daniel back onto his feet, allowing him a moment to compose himself, he put his mouth next to his ear and in a heartbeat, whispered, “But I know you. Sir.”
He picked up his bags, grabbed the stick, bent forward slightly and walked off into the fog. Daniel had a choice. Follow him, stay with the attacker or leave.
He left, blending in as quickly as he could. He called for an ambulance from the nearest payphone. The last thing he needed was to be investigated for a murder.
“Yes, looks like he has fallen over. I have to go.”
No, he didn’t want to leave his name.
It was five minutes later, six possibly, that Cade took the first of two calls. The first was from Roberts. JD has been attacked. A car was on the way, he’d refused an ambulance, said he’d be OK, bruised and a possible fractured rib. His coat was ruined. More angry than hurt. That coat was a no-longer-available classic.
“I’m on the way to meet him. This just gets worse by the day, Jack. Apparently some old dosser stepped in to help him. Gave the attackers a right going over. One legged it. We’ve already got local police looking. CCTV coverage is appalling down by the river. I was there earlier, really foggy. I should have stayed.”
“Why were you there?”
“Do you know I’m not entirely sure. JD wanted to show me something. Said it was important.”
“And was it?”
He trusted Cade better than he trusted anyone on the team.
“If you like lion heads, yes.”
“OK. A real shame I wasn’t there. Must have lost something in translation.”
“Possibly. Listen, I’m going to go and sort this pile of shite out and let’s meet up soon. Hey talking of translation. JD said his saviour had an Eastern European accent.”
“And? Sadly a huge percentage of homeless and beggars in the city do Jason. The fact that they are down on their luck doesn’t make them bad people. You know that.”
He did.
“I do. But he said there was a familiarity, a sense of awareness. Like the old boy was trained.”
“Perhaps he was?”
Cade began to smile.
“Anyway, no time for blame Jason. And the other one? You said there was more than one?”
“Yes two. JD thought it was a robbery. Business man in the fog, early morning, nice suit, you know the drill Jack.”
“And?”
“And he’s not sure.” It was obvious Roberts wanted to return to his earlier conversation.
“But the old tramp that stepped in, he said there was something about him. Something that said he was not just an old man wandering around London with his life wrapped up in a few third-hand Tesco bags.”
Cade smiled. “Then he was right.”
“I’ll be back at the station in minutes, I need to get a few things done before I head down to pick up Carrie then we can have a proper tea-fuelled debrief, like we used to, when policing was a noble art, frequented by a broader blue line.”
“You are going to pick up Carrie?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I? Everything alright Jason?”
“Yes. Fine. All things considered. Look mate Elena took my car, said she thought we were all busy. She’s gone to get Carrie. I’ve been left with the shitty old Vauxhall that no one ever fuels up and the carpets smell like somehow has pissed on them. I’m the boss for Christ’s sake!”
“Great. Are you serious?”
“Yes. It says so on my bloody door!”
“I meant that Elena has gone to get Carrie.”
“You OK with that Jack? She’s on our side you know.”
“I’m no longer sure who is on whose side my friend. Send another car south. Quick as you can. I need to stay in the city, I’ve got three hats to wear and only one head.”
“What can I do?”
“You need to stay there, run the show. It’s about to start.”
“What is?” Roberts was smart, no fool, liked to mess around on a Friday afternoon with the best of them, a quick game of office cricket, that sort of thing, but he was one of the most switched on coppers that Cade had ever met.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 47