‘We’ll keep this short,’ his controller snapped, not looking at him. ‘I can tell you there’s been blood spat today. There are even people washing their mouths out after talking about you.’
‘Do me a favour . . .’ Sam complained. The car rocked as a bus passed, its brakes squealing as it approached a stop.
‘The point is this, laddie. If it were simply Jackman’s word against ours on Bodanga, the FCO would have walked it. But with your guilty-looking mug shot in the paper, the opposition’s been given a huge shove up the ladder.’
Sam let his head fall back against the rest. ‘So? What’s the verdict?’
‘Still making up their minds.’
‘About?’
‘Whether to stuff your corpse in an incinerator, or to invite you to find a new job on the other side of the world.’ Waddell spat out the words, still staring straight ahead.
‘Thanks, Duncan.’
‘I can tell you that my vote was for the former,’ the Ulsterman added without a trace of humour.
‘Of course.’
‘Heavens above, man! D’you ever stop to think how much easier your life would be if you followed your instincts instead of your gonads?’
‘For me sex is an instinct, Duncan.’
Waddell let out an explosion of air. ‘But one to be kept separate from your professional activities, for Christ’s sake! Anyway, this isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘No. Look, perhaps we can hurry up with the execution. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ Sam had already told Waddell about Hoffmann and Vienna, when they’d spoken on the phone from Glasgow.
‘The truth is there were two options,’ Waddell went on, calmer now. ‘One plan was for you to make yourself available to the press and proclaim your innocence. The other was for you to keep well out of the way until the media get bored with the story.’
‘And?’
‘The latter. Nobody trusted you to pull the first option off.’
‘Quite right too. Duelling with lions isn’t my thing.’
‘So get yourself over to Vienna, but make it a quick in and out. I need to be able to produce you if I have to.’
‘Why?’
‘For the politicians. The PM’s on holiday in Italy, but the opposition’s stirring like crazy. Determined to make Bodanga and Harry Jackman’s death the scandal that gets them back from the wasteland.’ Waddell tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Vienna,’ he murmured. ‘Seems to be the centre of the whole damned universe all of a sudden.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Sam turned to stare at him.
‘Our American cousins have heard unconfirmed reports that Kovalenko’s back in town . . .’
‘Ah . . . But no actual sighting of him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Anything more on the backpack nukes, or bin Laden?’
‘Nothing. However it is still the favoured view of what this Jackman business is all about.’
‘And the other Vienna connections?’
Waddell turned to face him at last. ‘You may find this rather interesting.’ He watched for Sam’s reaction. ‘Julie Jackman was there when her father struck the red mercury deal with Vladimir Kovalenko a year ago.’
‘Was she, by God?’ Sam blinked. He was suddenly remembering the words in Jackman’s letter. Kovalenko knew about you, Julie. Now it made sense. ‘The lying little minx.’
‘We found their names on the hotel records,’ Waddell continued. ‘Denise Corby and a Special Branch officer worked her over yesterday morning. Julie claimed she’d been there for an HIV conference. Said being there at the same time as her old man was just a coincidence.’
‘Bollocks. Nothing’s a coincidence with that woman.’
‘Actually her story checks out,’ Waddell assured him. ‘There was an HIV conference. And Denise’s view is that she probably didn’t know what deals her dad was sewing up there.’
Sam shook his head. There was no room for charity in his heart. ‘If I’ve learned one thing about Julie Jackman, it’s not to believe a sodding word she says.’
There was a sharp tap on the window. Sam flinched. When he turned to look it was a couple of black schoolgirls not more than ten years old giggling and making faces at him. A bit of fun on the way home. He made as if to open the door and they quickly ran off.
‘Ever get the feeling the whole fucking world’s against you?’ he muttered.
‘When you’re around, quite often,’ Waddell assured him. ‘Now you’d better be running along before those kiddies tell the cops you tried to abduct them. Touch base with the station head in Vienna. His name’s Patrick de Vere Collins. You’ll be okay there. He’s not as posh as you’d think from the name. And we’ve filled him in. Keep in regular touch with me. Every few hours. And for God’s sake keep your head down. And,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘keep your goddam dick in your trousers.’
Sam decided against hitting him. He had a nasty feeling that inside the Intelligence Service, Waddell could well be the only friend he had left.
Stockholm, Sweden
About a thousand miles north-east of London, in the Swedish capital, a thirty-two-year-old schoolteacher with straight, fair hair that flopped forward across his forehead locked the filing cabinet in the staff room where he’d been working late, then crossed to the door, latching it as he left. There’d been a spate of vandalism in the school in recent months with pupils’ personal files being doctored and teachers’ property being stolen or destroyed.
The young teacher had spent the past hour marking his class papers for a history test which he’d set that afternoon, its subject being Gustav II Adolf, the seventeenth-century Swedish king who’d died in action battling to victory over the Germans. A compelling leader of dazzling abilities who’d turned Sweden into the strongest power in Europe, he was a man every Swedish child had to know about before completing their education. The Lion of the North. A character the teacher admired.
The school was in Stockholm’s western suburbs, an area where the fabled prosperity of this neutral nation was not particularly obvious. As he drove down the road towards the home where his wife and young son would be looking forward to his return, the teacher glanced at a group of youths on the pavement who were darker skinned than his fellow countrymen. Turks or Albanians, he guessed. The sight of them made him bristle with dislike. Being a rational man, he’d often tried to analyse why he felt afraid of these swarthy foreigners. As a tourist he’d seen them in their own lands, so it wasn’t a fear of being attacked by them. It was a cultural matter, fear that their alien ways would spread through his land like knotweed, choking the native customs into extinction.
He turned off the main road into a recently built shopping centre, finding a parking space easily. Most shops would be closed by this hour of the afternoon. He removed the radio and locked the car, checking nothing thievable had been left lying on the seats. A neatly paved path led him to the retail area and to the café where he planned to take a quick cappuccino before returning to his family. The girl behind the bar beamed in recognition, taking his money for the drink and for the use of the computer. He watched her pull at the lever on the espresso machine, then squirt steam into a jug of milk. An attractive girl, dark haired and round hipped, with disturbingly perfect teeth. As the milk hissed and boiled she flashed him a smile. When she’d done her business he carried the cup and saucer to the PC at the end of the row where the screen would not be overlooked by others.
While the machine dialled its way onto the net, he sipped at the coffee, glad she hadn’t made it too hot. Then, checking he wasn’t being watched, he connected with Hotmail and found two messages waiting for him. The first was the usual spam from a porn pedlar, but the second was the one he’d been expecting. A message in English from a man he’d never met, a man who called himself Simon.
Comrade! The Revolution is under way. The time has come for you to act. The comrades in England, France and Germany have already shown their strength. Now it is your tu
rn!
Always the exclamation marks.
You will not be alone. All across Europe this weekend, men of right minds will stand up to be counted. It is war, comrade! We must fight for what we believe in, a Europe preserved for the people who have inherited it from their ancestors!
Are you ready to commit yourself to the Lucifer Network? You have talked bravely of your intentions. Will you act this weekend?
The target and the method are for you to choose. I’m sorry it has not been possible for my people to bring you weapons. Our resources are limited, but they will grow as our campaign of action grows.
Remember! It is only the acts of extreme violence which attract the attention of the media and the politicians. There must be deaths! There is no other way if the revolution is to gather pace and the enemy is to be defeated.
I wait to hear from you. To know you are with us and that you are not a coward. That you will join in the action this weekend which will shake the pillars in Brussels.
The teacher picked up his coffee cup and drained it. He looked towards the counter. The girl sat behind it on a stool, reading a paperback. Coward. In truth he feared he was one by nature. If not he might have made some effort to chat up that beautiful creature with the perfect teeth. To capitalise on her inviting smile.
But now there was a much greater reason for him to show his mettle. A chance to help change the political direction of the European continent. A dream that could only become reality if hundreds like himself were ready to fight for what they believed in, so that thousands, then millions would be inspired to join them. He turned back towards the screen and clicked on ‘New Message’.
Yes, he typed. We are ready. The enemy will suffer losses this weekend.
He looked at what he’d written then added an exclamation mark at the end.
London
9.00 hrs
Sam climbed the stairs to his second-floor room and let himself in. The air inside smelled stale and sad. Morbidly he imagined some miserable refugee sitting here contemplating suicide, even carrying it out. Or some homeless, redundant car salesman wanking himself to sleep. He would be glad to leave this place.
After finishing with Waddell he’d booked a seat on a flight to Vienna for first thing the next morning, then phoned Stephanie. She’d had half an hour to spare before picking up her man Gerry from a Paris flight at Heathrow. They’d sat in her car round the corner from the hotel, eating greasy hamburgers while she commiserated over the media coverage and told him about the interview with Julie Jackman that morning. He’d found her more preoccupied than usual. The Southall bomb investigation was getting nowhere, she’d said, describing the detective in charge of the investigation as a brain-dead moron.
‘But something big’s starting,’ she’d confided. ‘I can feel it in my water. There’s something very nasty going on. The deaths in Southall are the tip of an iceberg. Before long we’ll all have our work cut out.’
When their time was up she’d kissed him on the cheek and wished him well.
And now he had to pack. Then he needed to catch up on some sleep if he wasn’t going to stumble round Vienna like the undead.
‘Damn!’
He’d wanted to take his file on Hoffmann with him, a dossier compiled over his years of dealings with the man. To jog his memory. The papers were in a safe in the flat in Brentford. He pulled Bennett’s card from his trouser pocket, thinking he’d get him to send his girl back. But it was after ten. It’d take an age to find someone to do his bidding.
He decided to go himself. A foolish idea on the surface, but the more he thought about it the more it appealed. He’d take a look first to see if the snappers were still hanging around. If they were, he’d give up on the plan – or else treat it as a challenge to get in and out without being spotted.
He dug into the suitcase which he hadn’t emptied. The headquarters girl had packed some of the scruffier clothes he used for disguises. He put on a pair of old jeans and some grubby trainers, then slipped a faded fleece over a grey sweatshirt and found a knitted hat to pull down over his hair. With a shuffling gait and a surly stare, he’d be the sort of street trash sane people avoided eye contact with.
He caught a bus to Ealing Broadway, then another to Kew Bridge – at this hour it was mostly youngsters travelling, heading for a late night out. As the bus passed the block where he had his flat, he looked for evidence of people waiting for him, but saw none. He got off on the bridge and walked slowly back, keeping to the shadows. Fifty metres short of the block he loitered in an office doorway and watched. A police car cruised by, its occupants eyeing him. The vehicle stopped for a better look, then drove on.
Sam decided to move. He’d considered entering the block by the fire escape, but remembered it was alarmed. He would use his card and go in the front. There were no security staff in the building at night, the place being watched on CCTV by a control centre half a mile away.
With one last check for press men, he slid his pass through the reader and pushed on the door as the lock clicked. The lift took him to the floor below his own, then he used the emergency stairs for the last flight. The fire door onto the main landing creaked as he opened it. He peered through the narrow gap and looked along the full length of the passageway. Doors to the flats on either side, all closed. No one waiting by the lifts. He walked swiftly and silently to his own front door and let himself in.
Inside, he used the torch he’d brought, the beam shaded by his fingers. With windows everywhere, turning on lights would be a give-away. In the living room he removed the small painting from the wall above his computer. Behind it was a wall safe, which he opened with a key. He pulled out a plastic folder containing a photograph of Hoffmann and several pages of biographical notes, then closed the safe again.
He felt pleased with himself. He looked across at the drinks cabinet, tempted to sink a whisky or two, then remembered the damned thing played a tune that would be audible through the walls – a heads-up to all those neighbours who’d taken bags of silver from the media. He’d got what he came for, so after a quick check of the security camera, he slipped back into the corridor.
The emergency stairs took him all the way down to the underground garage. His dander was up by now and he’d decided to take the car. He paused in the doorway, eyes probing the dimly lit cavern that reeked of petrol and rubber. Then, convinced he was the only human there, he stepped towards the Mondeo, pulling his keys from his pocket.
Suddenly he heard a click.
His heart stopped. He spun round, saw the glint of the knife, then the face of the man holding it. His mind tumbled back two years. The grimacing visage inching towards him was last seen in the catacombs of Odessa. The man was a shpana – a mafiya bodyguard Sam had all but killed when he’d rubbed out his boss. Cold, unblinking eyes boring into his, checking, checking that this was indeed the man he’d been sent to murder.
Sam made a feint towards his car then darted back to the door he’d just come through. The assassin was fast and agile despite the bullets Sam had put in him two years ago. As he pounded up the stairs, he heard the man’s trainers crunch behind him. He kicked a wastebin into the path of his pursuer, then shouldered the bar of the fire exit and burst into the garden, blind terror powering his legs.
The gate to the towpath was locked. Sam swiped his card and tugged, slipping through. He clicked the gates behind him just as the knife slashed down, then melted into the darkness of the towpath, telling himself the killer would have a gun, to be used if the blade proved ineffective. He ran, weaving from side to side in anticipation of a bullet. Legs brushing nettles and willow herb, he heard the clang of wrought iron as the Ukrainian climbed the railings, then a light thud as he landed on the path behind him. To his right converted barges glowed with light. Geese honked.
Sam’s feet hit rock. He pitched forward, his knees slamming into something hard. Clutching the Hoffmann folder with his left, his right hand felt bricks. He remembered builders had been working
on a wall here. He struggled to stay on his feet but the ground rolled away beneath him. Scaffolding poles. He crashed on his back beside them, his hand grabbing, fingers closing on a pipe that proved mercifully short. The shpana loomed above him in the gloom, a faceless shape lunging down with the knife. Sam rolled and swung the pole, enjoying the thump of steel against bone. He heard a gasp and a scrabbling on the ground as the killer looked for his weapon. Sam clambered to his knees, gripping the steel tightly. He jabbed forward into the darkness, heard teeth break and a howl of pain. Then he was running again.
Ahead were the lights of the bridge. Cars passing. Behind him a couple of shots cracked out. The shpana was getting desperate. Weaving, he reached the steps to the roadway. A bullet chipped the stonework as he pounded up them, his head tucked below the balustrade. He flagged down the first vehicle that came his way.
‘Stop, for fuck’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘Get me outa here!’
But he was still holding the scaffolding pole and the car swerved and accelerated. Realising he must look like an escapee from an asylum, he ran across the road and skittered down the steps on the far side of the bridge to a low road running parallel to the river. A glance behind showed no sign of his pursuer. Dumping his weapon in a hedge, he dived into a side street. He knew his way around here and prayed that his assailant wouldn’t. Left, then right, then left again and he was on the main road. A bus was disgorging a passenger at a stop thirty paces away. He ran, waving wildly, shouting to it to wait.
‘Thanks, mate,’ he panted as he swung himself aboard.
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere, chum. Absolutely anywhere. Just close that fucking door and drive.’
‘Not until you pay. Where you goin’ to?’
Sam restrained his desire to reach for the door lever himself and dug into his pocket for coins. ‘Two stops,’ he croaked, having no clue where the bus was heading. He fired a wild glance over his shoulder.
‘Sixty pence.’
The Lucifer Network Page 19