by Mark Dawson
“What would you do?”
“It’s not easy. I’d ask myself how I would feel about keeping quiet.”
“Terrible. He needs to pay for what he did to me.”
“So go public and tell your story. It’s going to look very strange if anything happens to you after that. It’s up to you, Eddie, but that’s what I’d do. You might make yourself safer if more people know about it.”
“You’re right. I know. I know that’s what I’ve got to do.”
“So the meeting is tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then do it.”
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”
Eddie looked away as he said it, his hands clenching again, and Milton doubted that he would go through with it. He knew, too, that it was the best way for Eddie to find peace. If he did nothing, there was no way that he would be able to stay sober. Milton thought about the twelve steps to recovery. They were never far from his thoughts, especially the eighth and ninth steps. They required an alcoholic to make a list of all the persons he had harmed, and then to make amends to them all. Milton couldn’t do that, because most of the people that he had harmed were dead, so he had adapted the steps to suit his circumstances. His way of meeting the requirements of the program was to help others. He had made his first attempt in London, and it had not turned out the way that he had hoped it would. A man had died and a woman had been almost burned to death. He had fled to South America, working his way north through Mexico until he reached Texas. Events, and his own bloody history, had intervened along the way, but he still meant to do good whenever he could.
Eddie, for better or worse, was a chance to do good.
Milton would help him.
“I tell you what,” Milton said. “Maybe you’d like someone to come along with you. Moral support.”
“I can’t ask you to do that,” Eddie replied. “I’ve already imposed enough.”
“I’d like to help. I’m not being completely altruistic—it’s a little selfish. It helps me stay with the program, too.”
Eddie looked at him hopefully. “If you’re sure.”
“I am. What about tonight? Do you need somewhere to stay?”
“No,” he said. “I’m good.”
“You’d be welcome to stay with me.”
“Thanks, but I’ll call my sister. God knows I have enough problems with my family, but I’ve always been able to rely on her. She’s out of London, too.”
“Where?”
“Withington.”
Milton shook his head; he didn’t know where that was.
“The Cotswolds. It’s two hours from here. I better get off.”
Milton handed Eddie his coat. “Where are you meeting the journalist?”
“Piccadilly Circus. Ten.”
“I’ll be there.”
Milton could see that his offer of help had given Eddie some momentum.
Eddie stood and zipped up his jacket. “I better go.”
Chapter Fourteen
HICKS HAD followed Eddie Fabian all the way to Russell Square and had parked in a position where he could watch his cab and the unusual building into which he had disappeared. He had called in his location and had had to wait only fifteen minutes before Joseph Gillan’s Maserati pulled into a space a few cars ahead of him. Shepherd stepped out of the car and went over to the shelter. Hicks watched as Shepherd stood at the open door, the warm light from inside framing him in a golden rectangle. He had a short conversation with someone inside the shelter and then returned to the car.
Hicks’s phone rang.
“It’s Woodward. Shepherd’s had a look inside. Fabian is talking to the man in charge of the place. Shepherd didn’t recognise him. You have any idea what’s going on?”
“No. None.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re not going to take a chance.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’ve spoken to the general. He wants us to take him out.”
“What?”
“You couldn’t persuade him to keep his mouth shut. We’ll do it for him.”
“Kill him?”
“His choice, Hicks. If he’d listened, this wouldn’t be happening.”
He felt panic bubbling up. “Let me try again.”
“What’s the point? I’m sure you were very persuasive.” There was sarcasm in his voice.
“I’ll be more persuasive.”
“No. It has to be this way.”
“I’ll rough him up. Do it properly this time.”
There was a harshness in his voice when Woodward spoke again. “What’s the problem? You lost your nerve?” Hicks started to speak, but Woodward spoke over him. “Because you didn’t have a problem with Öztürk.”
“That was different. He was scum. He had it coming. But this guy—”
“—is threatening someone we are protecting.”
“A paedo!”
Hicks regretted the outburst almost as soon as the word had left his lips.
“We are going to deal with him tonight, Hicks. Tonight. That’s the general’s decision. If you think you’ll have difficulty following that very simple order, I’d like you to say so now. You can take it up with him.”
Hicks felt the cold grip of panic. He wanted to start the car and drive away. But you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t leave the unit. No one left.
“I didn’t say that.”
Hicks knew the general would rid himself of him with as much emotion as if he were a speck of lint on the shoulder of his jacket. What about his family? What would happen to his wife if he was gone? What would happen to them then?
The passenger-side door of the Maserati opened and Shepherd got out again. He followed the pavement to Hicks’s Range Rover.
“When?” Hicks said into the phone.
“Now,” Woodward responded. “There’s no one else in there. Just the two of them. Shep’s going to assist.”
“And the other man in there?”
“Wrong place at the wrong time. Tough luck.”
Shepherd opened the passenger door and slid into the car. He didn’t speak. Hicks glanced over and saw that Shepherd had his own Browning in his right hand. Hicks stared out of the window to the Maserati. He felt sick. There had to be a way out of this.
“Ready?” Woodward said.
Hicks tried to swallow on a dry throat.
“Hicks?”
“Yes. Ready.”
“Do it.”
Hicks sat there for a moment, just staring out into the rain, until he accepted that the notion that he had any choice here was illusory.
“He wants you to do it,” Shepherd said. “You go in and take them out. I’ll cover the outside.”
Hicks opened his jacket and reached in for his holstered Browning. His stomach turned over as his fingers closed around the butt, the metal cold against his clammy skin. The pistol was unsilenced, and it was going to make a lot of noise. He would do it quickly, in and out, two shots each for the men inside. There was no other choice. Woodward and Gillan were watching. Shepherd would be behind him. If he didn’t do it, they would. And then Hicks would be next.
He opened the door and stepped out into the damp night. He started across the road toward the shelter. Shepherd followed him.
Hicks’s phone buzzed. “Wait,” Woodward said.
Hicks stopped. Shepherd stopped, too.
“He’s coming out.”
Hicks watched. He saw Edward Fabian as he stepped down from the shallow step onto the pavement and walked to his cab. If Fabian turned, he would see him, and then this brief possible reprieve would be irrelevant, but he looked distracted and he did not. He got inside the cab, started the engine, and pulled away.
The Maserati’s lights flicked on and it, too, pulled out.
Woodward spoke again. “We’ll follow him and wait for the right moment.”
Hicks felt a wave of relief, although he knew it would only be temporary. “What about the second man?”
> “Leave him.”
“Copy that.”
Hicks turned back and got into his Range Rover once again. Shepherd was already back inside. Hicks drove off in the direction that Woodward and Gillan had taken and, as he passed the shelter, he looked across at the entrance. There was a man there, standing in the light of the open door. He was watching the Maserati and, as Hicks passed, the man turned his gaze to take him in, too. Hicks looked at him and for a moment their eyes locked.
Hicks frowned. The man was average in appearance, the kind of man who would be difficult to remember, but there was something about him that he recognised.
Shepherd was looking at the cook, too. “Jammy bastard,” Shepherd observed. “He doesn’t know how lucky he just was.”
Hicks drove on, trying to think what it was about the man that bothered him. Suddenly it came to him. He couldn’t stifle a gasp.
“What?” Shepherd said.
“Nothing.”
“It was something. You had a fright?”
“Forget it.”
Hicks drove on, willing the surprise from his face.
It was something.
It was Number One.
He was certain.
It was John Milton.
#
MILTON TOOK out a cigarette and watched as Eddie crossed the road to his cab. He lit the cigarette and drew on it, then exhaled. It was a cold night; his breath mingled with the smoke. He heard the cab’s engine turn over and then saw the headlights flick on. Eddie pulled away, raising his hand as he went past the shelter.
Milton was about to go back inside when he heard the sound of a second engine. He looked back. There were a handful of cars parked near the shelter, and, as he watched, he saw a black Maserati pull away from the kerb outside the Hotel Russell on Bernard Street and drive forward, turning right into the Square. Its lights were still off as it drove by the shelter. The windows were darkened, but Milton could see the silhouettes of the driver and a passenger in the front seats. The car picked up speed, the lights finally coming on.
He heard the sound of a car door closing and, as he turned in its direction, he saw another set of headlights snap on and a second car pull out. This one was bigger. It rolled slowly away from the kerb, turned in the same direction as Eddie’s cab and the Maserati, and went by the shelter. It was a Range Rover. Something about the car bothered Milton. He didn’t know what it was—and knew that it could very well be paranoia on his part—but as it passed through the pool of light thrown down by the streetlamp outside the School of Oriental Studies, Milton looked for the registration plate and memorised it.
The big car rolled slowly by and Milton could see the shapes of two figures in the front. The streetlamps reflected off the windscreen, making it impossible to see inside, but he thought that the two figures were male and it felt as if they were looking at him.
Milton waited in the doorway as the car disappeared to the south-east, following the same route that Eddie and the Maserati had taken.
He went inside, closed the door, collected a dirty plate—sticky with the residue of baked beans—and took it to the sink to be washed. He ran the water and looked out into the night. He felt uneasy.
Chapter Fifteen
HICKS FOLLOWED the black cab at a reasonable distance. Fabian had turned onto Gordon Street, following it until he reached the junction with Euston Road and then turning left, headed to the west. They passed Warren Street and Great Portland Street tube stations, continued through Regent’s Park, and then picked up speed as the road merged into the Westway.
Shepherd had two radio units with him and he handed one of them to Hicks. They both put them on, clipping the receivers to their belts and pushing the ear buds into their ears. As Hicks dabbed the brakes to allow Fabian to gain a little on them, the radio crackled into life.
“Woodward to Hicks and Shepherd, come in.”
Shepherd reached for the pressel on his receiver and thumbed the channel open.
“Shepherd here.”
“Status?”
“We’re behind him. Just going through White City. Where are you?”
“We’ve gone ahead. Connolly is engaged, too. We’ll box him. Stay in formation.”
Hicks tapped his fingers against the wheel. So it was a three-car pursuit, operating in a “floating box” pattern. It was a standard SAS tactic designed to ensure that the pursuit cars could be interchanged to minimise the possibility that the target might realise that he was being followed. Hicks had been involved in surveillance operations with as many as ten cars, enough assets to ensure that the target would never see the same tail car twice. They didn’t have the manpower for that tonight, but the three vehicles that they did have would be more than enough for the job.
“A little closer,” Shepherd said.
Hicks gripped the wheel just a little tighter.
“Closer. He’s pulling away.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Hicks said in as even a tone as he could manage, doing his best to mask his discomfort and irritation. Shepherd had provided a constant stream of unwelcome advice ever since they had started the pursuit. Hicks was more than capable of tailing a single vehicle through the streets of London.
Shepherd was oblivious. “What do you reckon that was all about back there?”
It was the second time Shepherd had asked him that. “He was thirsty. Fancied a cup of tea. I don’t know, Shepherd. What do you think?”
Shepherd tapped his fingers against his knee and then turned to look at him across the cabin. “That’s not what you think, though, is it? What was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something bothered you back there. When Fabian came out with the other man. What was it? You recognise him?”
Hicks stared dead ahead at the lights of the cars ahead of them. “I don’t know…” He started to speak, then shook his head. “I thought I did, but I was wrong.”
“Who’d you think it was?”
“Someone from the army.”
“And it’s not? You’re sure about that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m seeing things.”
But that was a lie. He had recognised Milton at once. He hadn’t seen him for years, but there was no mistaking him. So why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he admit that he knew who Milton was?
Shepherd changed the subject. “The general told you what Isaacs gets up to?”
“I know. He’s a pervert.”
“That’s an understatement. He’s a pervert, all right. A rapist, too. Kids. Boys, mostly. Higgins has evidence that proves at least some of it. Photographs and videos.”
“He didn’t say that. He said it was just protection.”
“One thing you need to know about the general,” Shepherd said. “He doesn’t do anything unless he can get something out of it. And I’m fine with that. I paid my mortgage off with his money. I bought my Lexus, cash. I took my woman to the Maldives, first class all the way. I’m not going to rock the boat.”
The taxi slowed for a red light and rolled to a stop. They stopped, too, three cars behind it.
“Where did he get the evidence?” Hicks asked.
“He had a brother. He’s dead now, got shot during some funny business the old man will hint at if you get him drunk enough. The brother used to be in the Met. Head of the Diplomatic Protection squad. Top brass. Most of this is gossip, but Isaacs made his money in Saudi during the ’70s. I heard that the company got into hot water, and there was a suggestion that the regime wanted him dead. Higgins’s brother was Isaacs’s personal protection officer when he was a minister. Followed him around, drove him to meetings, the usual. From what I heard, Isaacs had this idea that he could trust him to keep quiet about the things he got up to in his private life. That was crazy, obviously, and, I’m just guessing here, but it sounds like the Higgins boys decided they’d get some evidence on what a nasty little shit he is just in case it might be useful later.”
The lights changed a
nd Fabian pulled away.
“Blackmail, then,” Hicks said as he squeezed down on the accelerator.
“Of course it’s blackmail, but you can dress it up any way you want. The way I heard it, they told Isaacs and the others that they had seen the evidence. They said they’d make sure it never came to light if they paid them. Think about it: these men, the longer it went on and nothing came to light, the more they trusted Higgins and his brother. The more they felt grateful to them. The more they felt like they were keeping them safe.”
The taxi picked up speed.
“Where is he going?” Shepherd said.
“How long’s it been going on?” Hicks asked, not finished with the subject yet.
“The thing with Isaacs and the old man?” Shepherd took out his Browning and ejected the magazine. “Years. Once him and the others started paying, anyone who came along and threatened the arrangement had to be dealt with. Isaacs got into trouble on Hampstead Heath. You remember that? It was in the news.”
“I read about it tonight.”
“Higgins made the evidence go away. The case collapsed. And then, when it was safe, he offed the man who was making the threats. Made it look like it was suicide. Put yourself in Isaacs’s shoes. How’s he going to feel after that? It must feel like Higgins is his guardian angel.”
“Even though it’s Higgins who’s threatening him the most.”
Shepherd laughed bitterly. “I know. It’s Stockholm syndrome. Classic.”
“How much are they getting?”
Shepherd used the heel of his palm to drive the magazine back into its slot. “I don’t know. A lot. Isaacs is a millionaire. The other men are richer than he is. They’re golden geese. They have to be looked after.”
The traffic thinned out now, and Fabian continued to head west.
“Have you seen it?” Hicks asked. “The evidence?”
“No.”
“Where does he keep it?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Same place he keeps everything else: he’s got a safe deposit box. God knows what else he has there.”