The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1)

by David N Robinson

  She imagined Lewis undressing in this cramped space. There was a chair in the corner being where he would most likely fling his black chinos and his red gingham shirt. Didn’t he know that gingham was so out-dated? What was wrong with the man? He was still sexy despite that. She had been thinking about him a lot these last couple of hours. What was it about assignments that turned her on so? She didn’t care, she was becoming randy just thinking about Lewis, who by this stage in her fantasy would have been down to his underwear. What would they have been? Boxer shorts or Y-fronts? Boxers, they had to be, white would be her favourite. She had the tiny vibrator in her hand now, no bigger than a cigar. Twisting the bottom to turn it on, she ran the black plastic end over her breasts and down the sides of her body. She shivered with anticipation as the final acts of her sexual fantasy began to unfold.

  A short while later, she took the explosive device out of her rucksack and placed it on the floor adjacent to the front door. It was both incredibly simple and lethal. Two ‘L’-shaped metal plates made up the contact strips, each with double-sided adhesive tape down one side. Removing the adhesive tape protector, she stuck one of the plates to the edge of the door itself. She then repeated the procedure with the other plate, this time sticking it to the frame. When the front door was shut, the two plates came together and touched in each other, thus completing the circuit. When the door was opened, the plates separated, the circuit was broken and the device would detonate. All she had to do was join the wires from the device to each plate, close and lock the door behind her, then prime the bomb using a tiny device similar to a miniscule TV remote.

  Sorry, Ben. It would have been such fun. Perhaps in another life?

  15

  Pimlico

  Ben Lewis is walking from Pimlico station towards his tiny rented apartment. He continues to contemplate events of that afternoon, idly wondering whether Oleg Panich had managed to escape the police in Green Park. Also, what had happened to his three disabled colleagues? Plus, would Saul Zeltinger have become involved? All imponderable questions that Lewis doesn’t know the answers to and, for that matter, wasn’t particularly interested in knowing as long as the Russians were now off his back. He had called Holly the moment he had left the store. As he had predicted, she had been delighted to help, promising to see what she could unearth on Leyla Zamani and her background as soon as possible.

  Turning into Claverton Street, it is only a short distance to the dilapidated housing estate. Two young boys, both of Jamaican origin, hustle him for his spare change as he walks past. He ignores them, oblivious to their pleas as he heads through the communal courtyard towards the back where the staircase to the upper floors is located. Climbing to the second floor, two steps at a time, he strides past three other properties until finally reaching the door to his flat, number 23. He fumbles in his pockets for his keys.

  There are two locks on the door: a mortised Chubb and a Yale cylinder that also forms part of the door latch. He inserts firstly the Chubb key into the bottom lock and turns it clockwise. He is instantly on his guard because it appears unlocked. He is certain that he would have locked it before leaving the house earlier. Has someone been inside his apartment? Perhaps they might still be there. There was little, if anything of value for any burglar to take, but that was a secondary issue.

  It was time to try the Yale lock.

  Placing the key in the cylinder, he starts to turn it when he feels a vibration in his breast pocket. Then he hears the sound. It is a mobile phone. More precisely, it is the dead woman’s mobile phone, not his. This gets his attention. With the key still in the lock, the door still unopened, Lewis retrieves the phone and slides the white bar across the bottom of the glass screen with his finger to take the call.

  “Hello?” he says.

  No one answers immediately. He repeats himself. “Hello? Who is this?”

  He waits. Finally a woman’s voice comes on the line. Youngish, Lewis estimates, less than forty, older than twenty, definitely British. It is quite a refined voice, well educated, and with dusky tones.

  “Where’s Leyla?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Can you pass me to Leyla? It’s urgent.”

  Lewis feels that the direct approach is the only option. “Leyla’s dead. She was killed, this afternoon. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh my God.” There is silence on the phone for a while, Lewis unable to make out whether the other woman is crying. “I knew this would happen. How did she die? For that matter, who are you?”

  “She was shot. I was there when she died.”

  There are anguished cries from the other end of the line. “I tried to warn her,” the other woman’s voice loud and full of emotion. More silence follows, Lewis not wanting to interrupt.

  “Did Leyla give you this phone?”

  “Before she died, yes, she did. Who are you?”

  “A friend. We have to meet, you and I, and urgently. Whoever killed her, they will trace you, via this phone, you do know that don’t you?”

  It hits him like a bolt of lightning. Of course, that was how Panich had found him so easily. How stupid he has been not to realise, what an idiotic, amateurish mistake.

  “How do I find you?”

  “Come to Paddington station. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes. There is a conveyor sushi place on the concourse. Sit on a stool near the entrance and take a plate of salmon sashimi. What is your name?”

  “Ben.” This was a surreal conversation. “And yours?”

  “Melanie, but you can call me Mel. Fifteen minutes, okay? Don’t be late. And turn off that damned phone, Ben.”

  “I’ll be there,” he says and rings off. He looks at the iPhone. With the screen lit, there is a trick with the new software that allows users to disconnect the device from the network without needing to enter a password. Lewis flicks the bottom of his screen up with his thumb and hits the tiny circular button that shows an airplane symbol in white. The symbol turns black and the five bars of network signal strength immediately disappear. The phone is now off the grid. He wonders whether Panich has traced his movements to here. How could he have been so stupid?

  Looking at his watch he realises that he needs to fly if he is to make Paddington in fifteen minutes. He grabs his door keys from out of the Yale lock and races off, not even bothering to reset the Chubb deadbolt.

  16

  Kensington

  “I traced him to a housing estate in Pimlico,” Stefan was saying. “In Claverton Street.” He pointed to a map on a whiteboard where a big red magnetic arrow marked the location. They were back in the safe house. One of the cell, the large van driver whom Lewis had hit, had been attended to on arrival by a friendly doctor known for his discretion. The doctor had quickly despatched the man in an unmarked ambulance to a private clinic near Harley Street: one where skull fracture X-rays could be conducted without too many questions being asked.

  “Then we lost the signal. Possibly the phone battery ran out or, more likely, he switched it off. Either way the device is currently off the grid.”

  “How many apartments are there?” Panich asked with a snort of disgust.

  “Loads, but I got lucky. Pimlico comes under the supervision of Westminster Council. I made enquiries into resident parking applications made in the last six months by people in Claverton Street. I spoke with Yasenevo and the cyber team went to work immediately. Look what they’ve found.” He made a few clicks of the mouse and, moments later, up came Ben Lewis’s photo on the computer screen in front of them.

  “Permit applicants have to submit a copy of their driving licence. Say hello to Ben Lewis. Born 16 October 1984. Applied for a motorcycle permit. Currently on a short-term tenancy lasting three months that began three weeks ago. His lives at flat number 23.”

  Panich clasped his hand on Stefan’s shoulders. “Geniu
s.” Stefan smiled but said nothing. That was as good as praise ever got from Panich. “Get this man’s ID on the network. Talk to Yasenevo, I want his life history, email accounts, phone numbers, mobile phone records, the works. We also need more agents on the ground here. I want them briefed and ready to go.” He stubbed out his cigarette and blew smoke up to the ceiling. “Olga, are you ready? I’ve had enough of this bastard for one day. I want to find Ben Lewis, whoever he is. The time has come for us to take care of this one permanently.”

  17

  Paddington

  By seven forty-five in the evening, the evening peak rush hour at Paddington Station has abated. The lull is only temporary. Soon the theatres and restaurants would be sending their next wave of tired commuters through the station on their homeward journeys to various points to the west of London.

  Ben Lewis makes the journey in eleven minutes. He parks his pride and joy, his lovingly rebuilt and retuned café racer, a Honda CB 750, at the side of the station. Great for gridlocked London, the bike is perfect for ducking and weaving around stationary traffic. It is well able to speed around the back streets, thus avoiding the mayhem that had ironically been of his making around Hyde Park Corner. It has been an expensive acquisition for Lewis, using up a lot of his hard-earned savings. In his mind, it has been worth every penny.

  The sushi bar is busy, mostly business people grabbing a quick bite before taking the express train to Heathrow and their late evening flights. They look the long haul crowd, people who settle into business class seats and sleep rather than eat food and watch a movie. What does he know? It isn’t his life and for that he is grateful.

  He locates two empty stools near the exit, places his bike helmet on one and sits down on the other. The sushi conveyor is full, displaying plenty of choice for the early evening diners. Lewis even feels hungry but that is not surprising. It has been a long day. A white plate with pink edging is heading in his direction. On it are three slices of raw salmon and some grated radish as garnish. He grabs it off the conveyor and places it in front of him. This is what he has been instructed to take. Now it is time to wait to see who turns up.

  Five minutes pass and the woman is officially late. Lewis has been scanning fellow diners to see if she might be one of them. They are all male and single down his side of the conveyor. On the other side, there are just two young women talking together. The food is making Lewis feel famished. Grabbing a pair of wooden chopsticks, he splits them, picks up a slice of salmon and puts it in his mouth. It tastes good. He reaches across the counter for the soya sauce, concentrating on filling a tiny plastic dish with the brown liquid when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He swivels around sharply.

  “Ben?”

  Ben doesn’t reply immediately, still busy with his fish. He appraises the new arrival as he eats, checking at the same time to see if she is alone. She appears to be. He continues chewing, watching her closely. In her thirties, she looks comfortably off and still in her work gear by the look of it: white shirt, navy pleated skirt and matching jacket. Pearls as well, one in each ear and a necklace to match. This one has money, he thinks to himself. She has nice hair too: it is lightly permed with only a few highlights, the colour mostly light brown with an occasional tinted streak. It looks expensive. He swallows, takes a swig of water from his glass, and then holds out his hand. “You must be Melanie?”

  “You can call me Mel.” They shake hands briefly. He moves his helmet and pulls back the chair for her to sit.

  “Have you eaten?” he asks. She shakes her head. She seems nervous, perhaps hardly surprising given recent circumstances. He passes across a pair of chopsticks. “Try one,” he says, pointing with the end of a chopstick to the fish. “They’re good.” As if to prove the point, he picks up one, dips it in soya, and places it in his mouth. They sit in silence whilst he eats. She doesn’t appear interested in food, which for the moment suits Lewis just fine.

  “Tell me what happened, Ben, I want to know everything, how she died, the works. It all sounded so unspeakable, what a nightmare.”

  Lewis watches her closely as she talks. She is understandably tearful, possibly less than he expected, but he reflects that she has the air of a professional woman. Probably someone well able to keep things buttoned up, emotions held tightly in check. He wavers between giving her the full story or only a brief summary. In the end he opts for something in between. She listens intently, dabbing brown eyes with a white handkerchief extracted from the depths of a large tan handbag. The handkerchief is linen. It has been carefully ironed and folded, possibly laundered. This is one lady obviously moving in the right circles. He finishes recounting the events of that afternoon and ponders the remaining slice of fish on the plastic tray in front of them.

  “Want to tell me about her?” he asks eventually, trying to prompt her. “Who she was, how you two knew each other, that sort of thing.”

  “Have you turned off that damned phone of hers?” she asks nervously. Ben removes the sleek black object from his zipped inner jacket pocket and shows her. She seems relieved.

  “Leyla was a journalist. Freelance. Iranian, if you didn’t know.”

  Ben is not prepared to divulge how much he already knows. He simply plays ignorant for the time being.

  “Full name?” he asks.

  “Leyla Zamani. She wrote for several major newspapers and magazines covering all kinds of subjects actually but she specialised in nuclear matters. She had become a good friend to me, actually. Over the years, a very good friend.” Ben sees tears starting to well once more.

  “How did you know her?”

  “We were at school together. We’ve kept in touch over the years. I now work in the Foreign Office,” she replies. “A civil servant, working directly for the minister responsible for the Middle East, North America and other fine subjects such as counter terrorism, defence and international security.”

  “So nothing big then,” Ben says with a smile, trying to break the ice. She smiles weakly back.

  “No, not a lot,” she says, laughing now. “Are you going to have that last piece of fish?”

  “Go ahead,” he says and looks for something else to pick off the conveyor. A plate of warm shredded chicken is approaching. He reaches for it whilst she picks up the last of the salmon.

  “She and I would meet whenever she came to London or I visited Paris. The last time we saw each other was in Paris, a couple of weeks ago.” She sniffs and reaches into her handbag for the handkerchief once more. Lewis, meanwhile, tries the chicken, content to be eating.

  “She was in London this week for a big conference, the International Fusion Nuclear Technology Symposium being held at the Edgware Europa hotel. I am meant to be attending part of it. I probably should still go to the opening session tomorrow, though God knows I don’t really want to. Not now, not after what has happened.” She dabs her eyes with her handkerchief, all emotions still in check. It is quite a performance, Lewis thinks.

  “How come you were involved with her, Ben? What happened in that garden square today?”

  Ben feels obliged to fill in some of the blanks, letting her hear snippets of the unexpurgated version. She eats a little as he talks, taking another plate from the conveyor and playing with the food with her chopsticks as she listens.

  “Why did she want you to have her phone?”

  “She seemed anxious for me to take it. She asked me to keep it safe, not to give it to anyone I didn’t fully trust.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What could I say? I agreed, without knowing who or what it was all about.”

  “I could make a stab,” she says, still toying with the food on her plate. “Leyla was working on what she called the scoop of the decade. Apparently it was a story about power and corruption at the highest levels in Iran, directly involving Russia and China. I met up with her in Paris rec
ently where she told me about this dossier. She said it would expose everything. Pulitzer prize worthy, she called it.”

  “Did you see any of it?” Lewis has deliberately not mentioned that he knows anything about the dossier.

  “She gave me what she called a ‘teaser’, a sample of the final product. She said that the dossier wasn’t at that stage finished but that she planned to bring it to London, aiming to publish it to coincide with the nuclear symposium this week. I bet it’s in a file on that phone or else somehow linked to it. It certainly explains why she might have been killed.”

  “You mean by either the Russians or the Chinese?” Ben asks.

  “Certainly. Or possibly even the Iranians themselves, if they thought she was in danger of spoiling their private party.”

  “How would any of them have found out about it?”

  “Most likely through bugging her phone. She rang a few days ago, very animated, telling me about how ground breaking her story was going to be, the sort of scoop journalists hanker for. Now you know why I urged you to turn he wretched phone off.” She smiles thinly and bites into a piece of sushi tentatively.

  “This dossier must be pretty incriminating for people to want her dead,” Lewis says. They both let the comment hang in the air, neither saying anything, their eyes on the food in front of them.

  “Did she say anything else to you, Ben? You know, for example why she wanted you to have the phone, what you were meant to do with it, that sort of thing?”