Four years earlier, there had been no police investigation to speak of. Then the coroner had simply given his verdict without controversy or debate: accidental death by drowning. His young bride had been caught by a rip tide that Lewis had failed to protect her from. Childhood sweethearts, they had been inseparable since early secondary school. Lewis had promised her father, terminally ill with cancer, that he would take care of his daughter and protect her for the rest of his life.
Lewis never failed at anything. Even the weeklong Commando course at Lympstone hadn’t defeated him. This is one of the toughest sets of physical and mental tests that any human being might reasonably have to endure. A very high proportion fails and has to retake at least one of the four gruelling modules. Lewis, however, completed them all at the first attempt. He even had achieved one of the fastest ever times on the final thirty mile trudge across wet and windy Dartmoor. As a young Marine, Lewis had been driven, oftentimes a perfectionist. Some of those higher up the chain of command had questioned whether Lewis was perhaps a bit too chippy? Possibly too independent-minded for a long-term career in the military? But he was good. Physically one of the toughest, consistently one of the best at unarmed combat, a crack marksman. Failure hadn’t been in his DNA.
Until that fateful moment on his Cornish honeymoon.
The newly widowed Marine hadn’t coped well. Copious notes had been written by the military shrinks to explain the young man’s subsequent melt down. To the disappointment of his commanding officer at Stonehouse barracks near Plymouth, one Colonel Anthony Fitzroy, Lewis had decided to hand back his Green Beret. Within a few months he had quit the military. He had gone walkabout, even he couldn’t clearly remember where, searching for unobtainable answers to his own endless, tortured, questions. His life had drifted, lacked purpose. He became a ski bum as well as a beach bum, opting for a nomad’s life. He had tried to come to terms with what he had seen as his own failure, his inability to make amends. He took on random jobs and had many casual relationships: the fit, good-looking ex-Marine becoming a beneficiary of the hook-up generation where a few nights with no commitments suited all parties. Without realising it, he had been searching for answers, a way to redeem himself. Deep down Lewis always knew that he was a man programmed to do more with his life. He was simply waiting for a chance to prove himself, looking for an opportunity for a start afresh.
Which was why he’d started tapping into some of his old networks of late, on the look out for freelance security work. It wasn’t necessarily as much fun as life on the beach or the ski slopes, but it paid well and it had helped to rekindle his sense of purpose. Then out of the blue, he had received the call from Leyla Zamani late that morning, courtesy of his former commanding officer. Fitzroy and she had apparently been at London University together. Zamani had contacted Fitzroy asking him to recommend someone urgently who might be up for some freelance protection work. For reasons best known to Fitzroy, he had given her Lewis’s name and number.
In a conversation that had been both brief and business-like, Zamani had told Lewis that she believed her life to be in great danger. She needed someone urgently to watch her back whilst she was in London. They had agreed a generous fee and Lewis had told her that he was able to start immediately. He had arranged to meet for the first time in Hanover Square that afternoon.
“Ben, Ben is that you? You have to help me.”
He is cradling her head, using one hand to brush windblown strands of hair away from her eyes. She is not going to make it, he sees that almost immediately. The loss of blood is significant.
“I’m here. Tell me, what is it? I promise to help if I can.”
She smiles faintly, then grimaces, as if feeling the pain for the first time. “There is a dossier . . . it’s explicit, highly dangerous. You have to take . . .” She pauses, a wave of pain wracking her body. Then she appears to get a second wind. “Take my phone, it’s in my bag. Promise me that you’ll guard it with your life? It is the key to finding the dossier. Trust no one,” she was having difficulty swallowing now. “Not the Russians, the Chinese, or Iranians. Not even,” she begins, and then starts coughing. Blood is starting to trickle out of one corner of her mouth. She is quickly becoming much weaker, fighting to keep her eyelids open. “Not even,” she repeats, her voice almost a whisper, “the British. You must . . . find . . . out,” the tank now empty, the last vestiges of life fading fast, “who . . . betrayed . . . Shafiq,” she says with a final sigh.
7
New Bond Street
“Target is leaving the police cordon.”
Olga’s voice came through over Panich’s ear piece loud and clear. It was just after six in the evening. It wasn’t going to be that long before it would be dark.
Panich was positioned in New Bond Street, a block or so to the west and south of Hanover Square. Zig was waiting on Oxford Street to the north, Alexei on Regent Street to the east. Olga was positioned directly to the south on Maddox Street and had a clear line of sight to the entrance to the square – and thus through the police cordon. They had predicted that the man would exit the square to the south, this being the route that the ambulance had taken earlier when the woman’s body had been removed. He had glanced at Olga briefly as he had headed away from the square, his head otherwise bowed low, his hands thrust deep within jacket pockets.
Stefan’s voice was back on line direct from the Kensington safe house. “The target has definitely acquired the woman’s phone.”
“Shit, are you certain?” Panich was pulling hard on one of his filthy Turkish cigarettes as he spoke. He almost choked on the tobacco smoke upon hearing this surprising development.
“I am watching the screen now. One hundred-per-cent positive.”
Panich tossed his cigarette end onto the pavement and stamped on it out of frustration. “Okay, everyone, listen up. Get the back up vehicle ready immediately. I want this man off the street and into the van at the first available opportunity. This is the London rush hour. We’ll have to take our chances. Any questions?”
“Sedation?” It was Olga speaking.
“Negative. I want the man able to talk.”
“Transport is two minutes away, currently in Grosvenor Square,” Stefan reported from the control room.
“Bring it nearer. We can’t be hanging around with only a small window of possible opportunity. Olga, I want you to get over to Berkeley Square fast and then circle back in his direction. We might have a chance to box him in. Alexei, you and I can approach from the rear. If we’re lucky, we might just be able to do it.”
Panich was cursing as he made his own way towards the junction with Maddox Street. The man must have palmed the phone out of the woman’s bag. None of the team had seen it. Perhaps he was some kind of pro, someone the woman had come to meet? This, officially, had now become a loose end that needed clearing up. The instructions from Yasenevo had been crystal clear.
8
Berkeley Square
Ben Lewis’s change in mood and renewed sense of purpose begins manifesting itself almost immediately he turns into Conduit Street. He decides to head west towards Berkeley Square. Gone are the low-slung head and the contemplative meander. In their place is a more purposeful, confident, stride. The old Ben Lewis is finally emerging from his self-imposed hibernation. He can feel the energy flowing once again and hasn’t felt this good for four years.
What should he do next? Lewis loves having problems to solve. In his mind they are like chess games, his private passion. He had been junior national champion in his early teens – and might have taken it further if his military career hadn’t intervened. To win at chess you had to be cunning. Chess champions always had to think several moves ahead if they were to survive, let alone outwit their opponents. His six-man commando cell needs to get from current position A to point B where the enemy is located. Most would attack point B head on or pos
sibly go via point C to create a slight diversion. Lewis would typically lead his cell towards a different place, point E. Having thought through all the moves and countermoves, he would then circle around to another position, point D, probably on the complete opposite side of B – allowing their final attack on the enemy’s position to come from a totally unexpected direction. Checkmate. Problem solved.
Now he has a real life puzzle to solve. What to do about the dead woman and her phone? Carefully, he removes the device from his jacket pocket. It is an iPhone, instantly familiar, identical in make, model and colour to his own. He touches the ‘on’ button in the top right hand corner. The battery level is at about ninety per cent. Also, not surprisingly, the phone is locked. This means that whatever applications and messages she might have wanted him to see, he is unable to without first entering a four-digit password. His is the same. The software allows ten attempts, after which the phone automatically wipes itself clean and reverts to factory settings. He is going to have to find a way to work out the password. That will be an interesting challenge. First things first, he needs to learn more out about the woman and why she had felt her life to be in danger. A session on the internet beckons. Lewis knows just the place to go to do that. Lewis has never owned a laptop. He had never seen the point when there were shops that always had the latest kit on display all wired with high-speed broadband. If he walks to his flat in Pimlico, he can make a detour to a department store in Victoria that opens late. In the basement there is a computer outlet, a place he knows that will enable him to trawl the web in relative privacy. Besides finding out more about Leyla Zamani, he wants to search for clues as to why someone might have wanted her dead.
The traffic is heavy, especially around New Bond Street. Beyond the Westbury Hotel, Lewis joins a small crowd waiting to cross New Bond Street. He stands amongst them waiting for the pedestrian lights to turn from red to green. A young Chinese woman jostles her way past everyone, apologising as she bumps carelessly into Lewis. She then runs precariously across the road, narrowly avoiding an accelerating taxi whose horn sounds angrily in her wake.
Two things happen in close succession. He has just finished putting the phone away in his inner jacket pocket when he looks up and notices a woman with dyed blonde hair walking towards him on the opposite side of the road. On the face of it there is nothing unusual with the possible exception that she is distinctly out of breath, her pale skin flushed. What really catches his attention is that he clearly remembers seeing the same person only minutes earlier when leaving Hanover Square. He remembers her dyed blonde hair. He had thought at the time that it had looked badly coloured and poorly cut. Then, as now, she had been walking directly towards him, that time heading northwards towards the police cordon as he had been leaving to the south. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes earlier. So how has she got here ahead of him so quickly? She would have had to run which most likely explains why she is out of breath.
The second thing is that his phone buzzes in his pocket. Someone has sent him a text. Except that it isn’t his phone that is buzzing. It is the other phone, the one belonging to Leyla Zamani. He takes it out of his pocket. Although he doesn’t know the password, he is still able to read the message. It leaves no room for ambiguity.
‘Sorry got delayed. Be very careful, your life may be in danger. Call me URGENTLY. M x’
Putting the phone away and looking up once more, the woman has begun to cross the road to his side of the street. In seconds, they will pass each other, side by side. She has both hands tucked inside her jacket pockets, a perfect place to conceal a weapon. Is he being paranoid? Lewis decides to take no chances. The moment she reaches the pavement on his side of the street he makes a dash to the other side. Up ahead, less than thirty metres away, is busy Berkeley Square. On the corner there is a convenient place to pause, somewhere where he should be able discover for himself once and for all whether he is being followed or not.
9
New Bond Street
Sui-Lee had escaped from the building moments before the police lock down had taken effect. The disinterested security guard had not even noticed her departure. He was sat in his cubicle, engrossed in daytime television.
As she turned into Brook Street to the west of Hanover Square, the afternoon air was filled with the sound of approaching sirens, their noise echoing around the square. A mesmerising display was being created as flickering blue lights bounced off the surrounding buildings. She had got out just in time. The police cordon had been established with impressive speed and precision. Anyone remaining inside the perimeter would be there for the duration. With luck, the security guard would be unlikely to remember her. Her curly wig aged her appearance several years, more than sufficient to send anyone inquisitive off on the wrong scent.
The police cordon had blocked all access points to Hanover Square except to and from the south. It was to here that Sui-Lee gravitated, prepared for the long wait until the police released the man who had been with the journalist when she had died. On many levels, she was keen to find out more about him and what, if anything, he might know? Locating a corner sandwich shop with a few tables and chairs set outside, she sat and waited, passing the time by ordering a soda and working her way through a Sudoku puzzle. At one stage, Alexei Polunin and two other SVR agents walked close by. They were talking animatedly, their thick Russian accents unmistakeable. One, a tough-looking character trailing cigarette smoke in his wake, appeared to be in charge. Sui-Lee thought his face familiar but couldn’t recall the name.
It was after six o’clock when the man finally appeared. He was taking his time, deep in thought as he passed her pavement table and turned right on to Conduit Street. He looked even better in real life. She had already been fantasising what he might be like naked. Sui-Lee left some loose change on the tiny metal table and set off in pursuit.
The man’s pace began to quicken as he approached the corner of New Bond Street and initially Sui-Lee had trouble keeping up. Brought to a halt by pedestrian lights on the corner of the busy shopping street, she sensed that this was her moment. She pushed her way deliberately past several waiting pedestrians until she was alongside him. Then, bumping into him so that he was momentarily distracted, she slipped a small round object into his jacket pocket. She’d been tempted to do other things but this was not the time. Apologising for her haste and carelessness, Sui-Lee had sped across the road ahead of the lights going green, narrowly avoiding being hit by a passing taxi.
The round object was one of her favourites. It looked identical to an English two-pound coin, if marginally thicker. It was, in fact, a tracking device, designed to nestle in a target’s pocket along with other items of loose change. It was very simple yet usually highly effective.
10
Green Park
The Bugatti Veyron parked in the showroom window on the corner of Berkeley Square nearly always attracts a crowd of envious onlookers. Lewis is planning to be no exception. Coming to an abrupt halt by the large expanse of showroom glass, he ogles at the royal-blue coloured car. He finds himself in the company of a crowd of Japanese tourists taking photos.
Lewis’s reasons for stopping, however, are less about the Veyron and more about understanding the identity of whoever was following him. There is no sign of the woman. However the moment Lewis turns his head to the left, another man comes to an abrupt halt several metres away. This one has started staring too intently at an adjacent showroom window where a burgundy-coloured Bentley coupé is on display. Lewis has seen him earlier, on the corner of New Bond Street. A stocky, mean-looking, individual dressed mainly in black and pulling hard on a cigarette.
Looking back at the Veyron once again, Lewis sees the image of another man he recognises, this time reflected in the showroom’s glass window. This one is standing almost immediately across the street behind Lewis. He is leaning against a red post box on the opposite corner, trying
to look nonchalant and disinterested but failing. It was the adrenalin that did it. It makes actors about to head on stage feel uncomfortable and full of self-doubt, and Marines about to go on active mission anxious. This man looks both anxious and nervous. He is sporting a scar down his left cheek and is wearing baggy trousers, a cream roll-neck top and a well-worn leather jacket. Lewis has seen him a short while earlier as well, somewhere near the Westbury Hotel. The scar is a dead giveaway. ‘Here is a knife fight victim,’ the scar informs anyone who cares to look. Lewis knows a lot about knife fight victims. When it comes to hand to hand combat, no one has ever beaten him. Not once. Just let this one try. Perhaps he’d like a matching pair? Adding some deep crimson to complement the cream roll-neck? Lewis has a natural dislike of men who wear cream.
The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1) Page 3