The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1)

by David N Robinson

  “She didn’t tell you the password?”

  “There was no time.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “As of right now, it’s to finish this lovely wine as slowly as possible and maybe something will suggest itself in due course.”

  “Tell you what. Why not kip here tonight? I’ve got plenty of space and you don’t want to go back home if there’s a chance that some Russians might come visiting?”

  It is tempting. On many levels, Ben thinks, it is tempting.

  “You’re not about to hit on me or something are you?” Ben says mischievously.

  “Of course not,” she says quickly.

  “That’s a pity. I was fancying my chances and about to say yes. Maybe I should check out some of the alternative accommodation on this street.”

  She hits his arm playfully.

  “Careful,” he warns her. “I’m about to top your glass up. I mustn’t spill any.”

  “No you must not. Oh Ben, I am getting deliciously tipsy. I haven’t got this drunk for ages.”

  “You had better watch it then,” he teases. “You don’t want to find yourself doing anything you might regret later.”

  “Why on earth not?” she says, leaning closer.

  The time is three in the morning. They have long since encamped upstairs, both having discarded their clothes in a heap on yet another sofa in her large bedroom. They had made love a second time, their lust for each other fuelled by the wine. The release of so much tension brought their passions to a tumultuous crescendo before both had collapsed into a blissful sleep: exhausted, sated, but contented.

  Lewis is awake but not moving. He is good at that, regulating his breathing as if sleeping. His eyes are only half open but his brain is functioning at one hundred and ten per cent. Mel is out of bed. She is naked and is deliberately being stealthy, hardly making a sound. He can just make out that she is by the sofa and that she is searching. Lewis knows what she is doing. He is disappointed but not surprised. He had half wondered if this might happen. He hears her tug the zip on his jacket pocket, watches in the half-light as she reaches inside and takes out Leyla Zamani’s phone. For a moment it glows in the dark, the shape of her breasts reflected briefly by the weak light source. She is checking to see that the device is the right one. Satisfied that it is, she touches the ‘off’ button, the light disappearing instantly. The whole procedure has taken no more than a few seconds. She looks across at him and seems satisfied that he has heard or seen nothing. Then and only then does she return to her side of the bed carrying Zamani’s phone. Lewis hears the sound of a bedside drawer being opened softly and then closed again shortly thereafter. Climbing back into bed, within minutes she is asleep. He can hear her rhythmical breathing and before long she is snoring gently.

  21

  Savile Row Police Station

  It was two-thirty in the morning and Saul Zeltinger was, as he liked to put it, in the zone. Fuelled by caffeine, his own nervous energy keeping him awake, he was trying to apply logic and intelligent guesswork to the events of the last twelve hours. It was proving challenging.

  Why should anybody place a bomb in the flat of an ex-Marine, now ski bum and part-time windsurfing instructor? The answer had to be that said individual must have either known or physically had in his possession something that another party didn’t want him to know or have. Preliminary results back from the forensics team in Pimlico showed that the person killed by the bomb blast had been a woman. Fragments of clothing that had been recovered were of Russian origin.

  Lewis had come into contact with the dying Iranian woman in Hanover Square. Question: had this had been premeditated or was it just a chance meeting? Zeltinger was unable to say at this stage. Follow up question: did Lewis take or hear something from the woman before she died, perhaps both? Zeltinger still thought this likely, despite Lewis’s earlier denials. Within half an hour of Lewis and Zeltinger finishing their discussion three men, all Russian, get attacked in and around Green Park: gunshots are fired, neither injured parties claiming to know anything about their assailant who is described in the murky twilight as an English male in his late-twenties or early-thirties. Could this have been Lewis? For sure Lewis’s military training would have made him well equipped for aggressive hand-to-hand combat fighting, certainly capable of inflicting the sorts of injuries that had been sustained by the two Russians. Which reminded Zeltinger, he needed to track down and speak with Lewis’s former CO.

  The bomb was puzzling the detective. Unless it had backfired on whomever planted the device, it suggested to Zeltinger that it had been planted by someone other than by the Russians. Perhaps the Russian woman had been part of a hit squad, their plan being to wait in Lewis’s flat before interrogating and ultimately killing him. If this was so, then who had planted the bomb?

  Zeltinger turned his attention to what Lewis might have taken or been told by the dying Iranian woman. The most obvious candidate was her mobile phone. The absence of one in Zamani’s handbag continued to be a puzzle. Remembering Zamani’s business card in his jacket pocket, he examined it once more. It was arguably as good a time as any to try the mobile number on the card. He dialled and waited. The number didn’t even ring, instead routing directly to voicemail. It had been an interesting idea, one that he instinctively felt might be worth trying again some time.

  22

  Kensington

  Back in the safe house Stefan had been busy, working through the night compiling the full life story on Lewis. He and a team in Moscow had been trying to fill in the gaps, from Lewis’s birth through his schooling, military service, marriage, and recent employment history. What had uncovered had been written up and printed out for Panich to read in an adjacent room with Panich keeping himself awake by listening to Verdi on full volume and through working the coffee machine overtime.

  Stefan was dozing in his chair when Panich woke him, clasping a sheaf of paperwork. It was still dark outside, the time only five fifteen in the morning.

  “This man Lewis: surely he has a mobile phone? Forget the woman’s for a moment, why not his?”

  Stefan scrolled through various emails he had received back from Yasenovo during the last few hours. “I like your thinking. There is a number here somewhere.” He shuffled through various papers. “Look here we are.” He pointed to a row of digits on the bottom of one of the printouts.

  “I want to know the exact location of that phone, right this minute.”

  Stefan shrugged. “Simple. Watch.” He made various mouse clicks, at one stage typing quickly. On the screen in front of them, a map of the Paddington area appeared. In the middle was a large circle that had a small pulsing blue dot in the middle centred on a street called Westbourne Terrace.

  “I am going to need the bike. Can I track Lewis’s phone once I leave here?”

  Stefan tossed the bike keys across to Panich and nodded. “Pass me your phone a second.” Panich reached into a trouser pocket and handed his device across. Stefan fiddled with it briefly, in almost no time at all passing it back again.

  “If you open this App here,” he showed Panich on the screen, “It’ll pinpoint on the map exactly where Lewis is located.”

  “Perfect. Any news on our injured?”

  “One of the embassy team has been with them both all night. They’re being released later this morning, apparently. A formal complaint has already been made through official diplomatic channels.”

  “What about replacements?”

  “Two or three others should be here within the hour. Otto is coming down from Manchester.”

  “Send them to come and find me when they get here. I need you to be my eyes and ears for next few hours. We have to keep one step ahead of this little shit. Yasenevo are getting very jumpy. They now want us to find and destroy the dead woman’s phone apparently. ‘No more
screw-ups.’ was their latest message. Let’s try and not disappoint them. Are you with me?”

  “Sure. Lewis is as good as dead. We owe it to Olga, if for no other reason.”

  The two of them bumped knuckles with clenched fists before Panich headed for the door.

  23

  Nr Paddington

  It is dark at five-thirty when he leaves the house. Mel Allen is still sleeping, Leyla’s iPhone is once more back in Lewis’s inner jacket pocket. He has recovered it stealthily from her beside table drawer before he leaves. He has been awake since three thinking about everything – the Iranian woman, her wretched phone, the Russians. And now there was Mel Allen from the Foreign Office. What exactly is her game? Perhaps he would never know. Time to move on, Marine. It had been a fun interlude.

  Would he ever be in a position to know the password on her phone? Not without either a huge amount of luck or some Ben Lewis lateral thinking. He’d been tempted in the middle of the night to have a go, inputting ten random four-digit numbers. The device, of course, would have wiped itself clean and then all the fuss would have been over for good. Except he knows that it wouldn’t: he has made Leyla Zamani a promise and from now on this Ben Lewis is going to keep all his promises.

  Everywhere is quiet at this hour. Quiet but not deserted. Occasional buses and taxis trundle past, as do a few delivery trucks and other early risers. Running parallel with Westbourne Terrace are two private access roads. There is one on either side of the normally busy street, each with their own array of parking places for local residents. Lewis turns away from the house, walking hands in pockets down the middle of the slip road. His eyes start picking out the high-end cars in evidence all around. Two new Audis and one BMW to his left, a top of the range Mercedes and next to it a Porsche on the right. Nice. There is a lot of money in this neighbourhood.

  He picks up on the sound immediately.

  Many would have missed it, but to Lewis it is akin to music. Coming from behind, distance uncertain.

  He keeps walking. The engine has started without a cough. It is smooth as silk, electronic ignition of course, a quiet rumble, gently teasing his ears. Is it really there? Of course it is, Lewis could still hear it. He knows a great bike engine when he hears one.

  The pitch changes slightly, the rider gradually increasing the revolutions. Is the bike moving? There is no light on the road behind him shining in his direction. He listens again. The machine is definitely inching forward. Perhaps the rider is tightening gloves, buckling up leathers, preparing for the open road? Lewis is tempted to look around, but it is almost a game. He wants to hear the engine roar into life, waiting until the last moment before ducking out of the way, seeing whether he guessed the right model. This was a chic neighbourhood. What was it likely to be? A Ducati Streetfighter? Perhaps even a BMW K1300 S?

  The noise suddenly changes to a roar: revolutions to the maximum but still no lights. Lewis’s hackles are raised. The situation is now far from normal. He quickly needs options. To his right is a brand new Range Rover, with bull bars at the front. He steps off the road in front of the four-by-four, crouching by the front bumpers and sneaking a look at what is coming his way. Things do not look good. There are still no lights and the bike is now at full throttle. It is impossible to tell the make or model. What is clear is that there are two on the bike. Worse, the pillion has a gun. The distance is suddenly less than ten metres, the gap closing fast.

  He feels rather than hears the first of the silenced bullets ricocheting around him. Lewis is already on the deck, rolling around to the driver’s side wing, putting the car’s massive engine block between him and the bullets. He just manages to get his legs clear. The person with the gun changes the firing angle as the bike speeds past, still firing continuously. Then, the brake lights glow red in the dark, the engine noise dropping. He’s coming around again, Lewis thought. Shit.

  He is crouching adjacent to a low box hedge that separates the slip road and the main highway. Time to move, Marine. Jumping over the hedge he runs diagonally across Westbourne Terrace. He is sprinting for all he is worth, accelerating across the main road, leaping the hedge on the other side, now in a similar access road to the one he just left but across the street. He sees scaffolding on a property being renovated up ahead and has an idea.

  Approaching the metal bars at a sprint, he leaps for a horizontal scaffolding strut just above head height and hauls himself up. There is opaque plastic sheeting covering the front of the building. It should be a perfect place to hide unobserved, especially in the dark. There is a vertical gap between two the sheets of plastic that hang suspended down the full height of the building. This allows Lewis to peer through and watch. Sure enough, the motorbike has crossed over to his side of the street and is heading his way. The bike is once again travelling at little more than a walking pace, its lights still off. Both rider and pillion are looking alternatively to the left and right in between each and every car they pass. Lewis can see the bike now, a Yamaha MT- 03. This is a top bike, with great acceleration. Perfect for getting around a busy city fast. It comes to a rest a few feet below where he is standing, hidden from view behind the plastic sheet. The driver and pillion are talking to each other, the engine a low rumble. It sounds nice. The driver is shaking his head. Lewis considers jumping down quietly and surprising them both, but soon ditches that idea. The presence of an automatic weapon changes the odds significantly. Lewis thinks it is best in situations like this to let his pursuers think they have lost him.

  Except that for some reason they don’t appear to be going anywhere.

  24

  Nr Paddington

  Temporarily time has to come to halt. Neither biker nor pillion is moving and the Yamaha’s engine has been turned off. Lewis can see the pillion playing with a mobile phone, the bright light of the screen clearly visible in the dark. There is more traffic on the road now. Two buses pass in quick succession, followed by a supermarket delivery lorry and two transit vans. London is beginning to wake up.

  How have they traced him to the Melanie’s flat? Leyla’s phone is turned off. Then it strikes him. Perhaps they are tracking his phone, not Leyla’s? His is still switched on and in his pocket. He chastises himself for being so careless. Careful so as not to drop it, he removes the phone from his pocket. Whilst doing this, another bike slows to a halt on Westbourne Terrace, the driver consulting something on his instrument panel. It is a BMW. Lewis thinks it could be an F800. This is another serious bike. The BMW accelerates the short distance to where there is a turning onto the access road on Lewis’s side of the street. The same one where the Yamaha is currently standing still, rider and pillion waiting and with the engine switched off.

  Lewis uses the distraction of the second bike’s arrival to switch off his phone. The device is no longer connected to any network. He keeps the screen close to his body so as to prevent any light from being visible but he needn’t have worried. The two bikers below him are pre-occupied with the arrival of the second bike. This has slowed to a crawl, lights still on, inching its way along the slip road. The approaching biker will have seen the Yamaha up ahead, silhouetted in the darkness, parked in the middle of the road. Then he hears the sound of the Yamaha’s electronic ignition, for the second time that night. This is followed once again by the subtle change in engine pitch, as gears are engage. The Yamaha starts rolling forward, both bikes now matching each other’s speed. Seconds later, its running lights still off, the Yamaha accelerates rapidly, turning right sharply onto the main road before taking off at high speed into the distance. The BMW hesitates momentarily before following, the roar of both engines sounding loud and raucous in the quiet neighbourhood.

  This is the moment that Lewis has been waiting for. He shimmies down the scaffolding pole onto the pavement, taking off in a fast run in the direction of Paddington Station. There is no sign of either bike as he makes his way towards his o
wn machine parked at the back of the station.

  It is nearly six o’clock in the morning and the commuter rush hour will shortly be beginning. The first signs of light in the eastern skies are already beginning to appear.

  25

  Nr Paddington

  The stationary bike had been parked in the middle of the street, its rider and pillion still astride the machine. They were both dressed from head to toe in black. Panich had slowed his machine to a crawl, immediately suspicious. This was the side street where Lewis’s phone had been showing itself on the tracking application as an unmistakeable pulsing blue dot. Until, that was, it had inexplicably vanished moments earlier.

  Could one of the two people on the bike in front have been Lewis?

  As the distance between the two bikes reduced, the rear passenger on the bike in front had swivelled around. Panich had the sudden impression that it might be a woman, he couldn’t be sure. Of greater certainty was the gun in the person’s right hand. Panich had caught the silhouette as the person had turned around to face Panich’s approaching bike. Perhaps he was being paranoid? Who the fuck were these two?

  The Yamaha’s tail brake light had glowed red momentarily. Then it had started inching forward. Slowly at first, it was matching the Russian’s own speed, testing whether the unknown tail was in the mood to follow or not. Without warning it had accelerated, opening the throttle fully as it entered Westbourne Terrace. It had quickly disappeared into the murky dawn light, still with no running lights visible. Panich had hesitated momentarily before giving chase. He had quickly found himself nowhere near as fast or as skilled a rider as the person on the Yamaha. Within no time at all he had been forced to give up, the other bike vanishing completely, lost in the maze of back streets around Paddington Station. Pulling into the curb, Panich began barking orders to Stefan back in the safe house. To his relief, he learnt from Stefan that replacements had finally arrived and were on their way to Paddington, expected to arrive imminently. There was apparently even another biker amongst them.