The man jumped literally a foot in the air, lost his balance, and crashed to the floor as he tried to twist his neck towards the sudden intrusion. His eyes couldn’t mask the shock and disbelief as he stared up at Devon.
Devon judged the man to be in his early fifties, probably little more than five foot seven, and with the kind of village schoolmaster face that didn’t quite square with his actual profession. The baldness threw Devon. The collection of grainy photos they had of Max Steiner seemed to paint a picture different from the pathetic figure now lying in front of him.
Any wonder this man was able to blend in! He was the sort of guy you would barely give a second glance to. Devon could imagine the various wigs and disguises that allowed Steiner to move freely around Europe while he plied his deadly trade.
“On your knees, hands behind your head,” Devon roared to make himself heard above the stereo blast.
As Steiner wriggled upright, Devon moved quickly around the settee and stood behind him. He turned the Glock towards the stereo system, loosed off two rounds and plunged the building into an eerie silence.
“Who are you?” Steiner croaked.
Devon pushed the weapon back against Steiner’s neck. “I have a few questions. Answer them and I’ll make this quick. Play the hero and….” Devon let the words trail off.
Despite the shock at seeing Steiner’s less than impressive physicality up close, Devon knew he was dealing with a dangerous individual. It was estimated that Steiner was responsible for more than eighty kills over a career that had taken him into some very dark corners where he had dispatched men, women and children at the whim of one paymaster or another. He had used handguns for up-close-and-personal kills, as well as his favoured sniper rifle for more expedient assignments. But knives, garrottes, bombs, and several varieties of hideous poisons also featured in his well-rounded CV.
When it came to killing, Max Steiner wasn’t what you’d call a fussy individual.
And there was one other thing Devon knew about his man. He was a survivor - had to be to forge out such a long career in an industry where lifespans were not exactly on a par with the average citizen. There had to be a truckload of self-preservation built into Steiner’s DNA, and right now Devon knew he would be delving into that particular gene pool to figure a way of extricating himself from his current predicament.
Devon moved two feet away from Steiner, keeping his Glock aimed rock-steady at the back of the man’s head. His finger was still inside the trigger guard, resting on the half-inch strip of polymer that required little more than a few ounces of additional pressure to send the chambered round unerringly on its way. At the slightest movement from Steiner, Devon would not hesitate to fire.
The fact that he hadn’t already done so was down to a stubborn desire to question his captive. There were things his organisation needed to know, things that Steiner might give up in a futile attempt to save his life. If not, so be it.
“I have a question for you, Herr Steiner. Who paid you to assassinate a Junior Minister of the British Government in London last year?”
“This is absurd, there’s been some mistake. I am not the man you call Steiner…”
Devon cut off the pathetic denial. “You are Max Steiner, a naturalised Austrian born of German parents. I don’t doubt you barely recognise your own name, since you haven’t been using it for more than twenty years. You’ve lived under more aliases that I’ve had hot dinners, but we’ve managed to track you down because you made one fatal mistake that a man in your line of work can’t afford to make.”
Steiner shifted his position to glance back at Devon. There was a look of resignation on his face, but Devon detected no fear.
“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” Devon ordered.
“Okay,” Steiner shrugged, “let’s play your little game. What mistake did I make?”
Devon waited until Steiner twisted back to the forward position. “You chose the wrong playground when you came to London. We don’t like it when psychos run loose in our capital, and we especially don’t like it when they decide to murder one of our elected representatives. In short, you made the mistake of putting us on your trail.”
Steiner appeared as if he were about to turn around again, but thought better of it. “Ah, now I see. You are MI5 or is it MI6? You British are an arrogant lot. You think you are better than everyone else. Well, let me tell you there is more corruption on your little island than anywhere else in the world. The man I killed deserved to die. He had his grubby fingers in a lot of pies, but he pissed off some powerful people by not delivering on his promises. Believe me, the world is a better place without him.”
Devon had not expected the tirade, but knew he had to keep the man talking. “And just what were the promises he failed to keep?”
There was a momentary silence before Steiner responded. “He had been taking large bribes for years on the basis that he was in a position to shift certain energy policies in a direction that would suit my clients. When the time came to deliver, the rat reneged. He got what he deserved.”
“Who were your clients?”
Steiner laughed. “Get real. You know how this works. Everything is done anonymously, Even if I wanted to, there’s no way I could even guess at who the paymasters were.”
“Then I guess we’re done here.” Devon laced the comment with as much menace and finality as he could muster.
“Wait, wait,” Steiner pleaded. “I have details of my payment going from one bank transfer to another. Maybe your people could track these back to the original source.”
Devon knew it was a stall. His finger began a final constriction on the trigger. “I’m not buying.”
“I have one thing you will want to hear.” Steiner’s announcement was delivered with the bravado of a man who believed he was holding the last ace in the pack.
Devon paused before answering. “I’m listening, but you’d better make it quick. I have to catch an early flight home, and to tell you the truth I think you’re fresh out of time.”
Steiner shifted uneasily. “I was contacted about taking out an assignment against British Secret Service agents. I turned it down, but others will take my place. You can’t afford to risk the lives of your colleagues by not listening to what I have to say.”
Devon eased back on the trigger. “Keep talking.”
Steiner unlocked his hands from the back of his head. “Allow me to show you what I received. It’s in my safe.” Steiner pointed towards a large framed picture hanging on the opposite wall.
Devon’s alert radar went into overdrive. Commonsense told him not to proceed, but there was a niggling doubt that Steiner’s claim was too outrageous not to be credible. “You had better do things in slow motion. One wrong move on your part and I’ll spread the contents of your skull over this nice wooden floor. Now, get up and walk to the safe.”
Steiner moved his hands down to his knees and began to rub furiously as if trying to restore circulation. Suddenly he placed both palms on the floor, using them as a lever to propel his body backwards. The speed of the attack blurred the movement of Steiner’s feet, which were thrusted out and upwards in search of a disabling blow anywhere he could land them on Devon’s legs.
It would have worked on most people, but Mike Devon was not most people.
Even before Steiner got to the mid-point of his attack, Devon jumped back another foot and watched as the flailing legs caught fresh air and collapsed to the floor in front of him.
Devon squeezed the trigger on his Glock.
The bullet entered the back of Steiner’s right knee, exploding the patella and sending shards of bone mixed with blood into the wooden floor below. The roar of pain that followed was almost inhuman. It was a high-pitched scream mixed in with laboured gasps and shrieks that would have done a howling wolf proud.
Devon knew the sounds were an automatic reaction to an appalling injury. He had seen the effects of IRA punishment shootings first hand from his time on the streets of Belf
ast. The so-called “kneecappings” dished out by paramilitary squads had left dozens of young men with permanent limps and terrible tales of the agonies they had experienced.
Steiner wrapped both hands around his thigh, just above the shattered kneecap, and rolled on the floor cursing through gritted teeth. Some observers believe it’s a natural reflexive action to grab a point near an injury in order to cut off the flow of blood. Others say there’s a more subconscious force at work, willing the body to block out pain signals that start automatic transmission from the brain at the first sign of trauma.
Neither works.
Devon ignored the plight of his victim and stepped forward to grab the back of Steiner’s shirt at the neck, pulling the man roughly across the floor towards the wall-mounted painting. He released his grip to let Steiner continue with his wailing before tugging on the painting which swung out on a well-concealed hinge to reveal a centre-dial aluminium door.
“What’s the combination?”
The response was a gargled groan.
“You have precisely three seconds to help me open this door or you lose your other kneecap.”
Steiner became suddenly alert and rasped out a sequence of four numbers.
Devon attacked the dial and was rewarded with an audible click as soon as the last number was entered. He swung the door open to reveal an interior comprising two shelves crammed with bundles of money and an assortment of papers.
“What am I looking for?” Devon demanded in a voice that didn’t expect any arguments.
“There’s a brown envelope on the right side of the bottom shelf. You’ll find what I promised inside.
Devon quickly located the envelope and moved away from the safe. He crossed to a table in the centre of the room and placed his weapon within easy reach. He kept his eyes on Steiner as he tore open the envelope.
There was a sheet of paper neatly folded inside. Devon straightened it out and began reading. He visibly blanched.
The shock of what he was reading was like a piledriver to the solar plexus. He felt as if the air was being driven from his lungs and he could feel his legs giving way under him. He stared at the words, aware that that the letters seemed to be jumping across the page. For the first time, from as far back as he could remember, Mike Devon experienced real fear.
It was the kind of fear that knotted his stomach and blanked out everything around him. He lost all sense of focus, refusing to believe what he was reading, but knowing with the cold dread of certainty that his world was about to change.
He became so engrossed in the paper gripped in trembling hands that he failed to pick up on a new presence in the room. By the time he realised he had company, he knew it was pointless to try for his weapon.
A voice slightly behind and to his right confirmed his thoughts.
“That’s right. You wouldn’t get near it. Step away from the table.”
Chapter 3
ALAN DOYLE WAS HEADING out the door at 7.00pm when the phone trilled on the office desk. For a split second he was about to ignore it, but turned back. He crossed the room and grabbed for the handset.
“What is it, Dorothy?”
The agency night-shift receptionist sounded agitated. “Alan, there’s a policeman on the line who says he needs to speak urgently to someone about one of our employees. I told him you were leaving but he was very insistent.”
“It’s okay, Dorothy. Put him through.”
Doyle waited for a second before the static disappeared. The voice that followed was strident. “Hello, this is Inspector Simon Fellowes. Who am I speaking to?”
“Look, I know you’re paying for the call but I don’t have time to waste. I suggest you tell me what it is you want.” Doyle was in no mood for observing the irritating protocols that policemen all too often adopted.
There was a bit of throat-clearing before the voice resumed. “I’m checking on one of your employees. Can you confirm that a Dave Carpenter works for you?”
Suddenly, Doyle was all ears. “Yes, he does. What’s this is all about?”
“Can you tell me exactly what it is that Mr Carpenter does for you?”
Doyle could feel his temperature rising. “Get to the fucking point, Inspector. What’s your interest in Dave Carpenter?”
“There’s no need for the attitude, sir. Mr Carpenter has been involved in an incident I’m currently investigating. I have to know some details about what he does for you. And what exactly is LonWash Securities?”
The alarm bells were ringing off Doyle’s charts. Carpenter had only left the office a few hours ago to get ready for his wife’s birthday dinner. Had he been involved in an accident?
“Inspector, before we go any further, I need to know is Carpenter alright?”
The silence was barely a fraction of a second, but it spoke volumes to Doyle. He dreaded the next words. “I’m afraid Mr Carpenter is dead.”
“How?”
“I’m not yet at liberty to say, sir.”
Doyle’s mind raced. This was no traffic accident. Detective inspectors don’t get involved in such mundane matters. “Has there been a shooting incident?”
“Why do you say that, sir?”
“Answer the fucking question, man.”
“As a matter of fact there has been what you call a shooting incident.”
Doyle measured his words before speaking again. “Inspector, I want you to listen carefully. You’ve stumbled into something that’s way beyond your theatre of responsibility. I need you to move everyone from the area of the shooting. Set up a five-hundred yard perimeter and leave everything exactly as it is until I get there.”
“You don’t seem to understand this is a major police investigation.…”
Doyle cut in. “Shut up and listen, Inspector. I want the precise location and I want you to do exactly as I say. Make sure you are available on the ground when I arrive. Two minutes after I cut this conversation you will get confirmation from your superior officers to do exactly as I’m telling you. Are we clear?”
Momentary silence again. “This is highly irregular, I don’t know what weight you imagine you carry, but if you think I’m just going to abandon a crime scene on your say-so then you’ve got another think coming.”
“Relax, Inspector. Believe it or not, we are on the same side. Why don’t you wait for that phone call I promised you? In the meantime give me your location.”
“Okay, here it is, but you better have some impressive credentials when you get here.”
Doyle jotted down the details before ending the call. He cursed the absence of his boss, Mike Devon. There was no way to reach him for at least another four hours. Mission protocol dictated an absolute black-out on communications until after the job was done.
Doyle had every confidence in Devon achieving a successful outcome. He just wished he would hurry it to hell up.
Get on with it, he told himself. He knew exactly what Devon would do if he were here. The two went back a long way. They shared dangers and downtime in a history laced with its fair share of ups and downs. There was a kind of telepathy between them, the kind that can only be forged by the sheer necessity of putting their lives in the hands of each other.
Doyle shrugged aside the memories and reached for the phone. He put in a call to retired General Sir John Sandford, the political head of LonWash Securities, an elite anti-terrorist group answerable only to the British Prime Minister. A similar group was set up in America under the Office of the President. The name of the agency was chosen to underline the base of the company’s activities in London and Washington.
Doyle knew Sir John would immediately contact the Metropolitan Police Commissioner who was all too aware of the agency’s counter-terrorism powers. The call to Detective Inspector Simon Fellowes was a shoo-in to be made in less than the two minutes Doyle had promised.
He tried to push thoughts of Dave Carpenter to the back of his mind. There would be time enough later to grieve for a valued colleague and friend. Right n
ow he needed to put his game-cap on and get his team into action.
Doyle was already sprinting for the lift at the five-storey block on Charterhouse Street, not far from the Victoria Embankment, when the Iridium satellite phone was answered at the other end. Doyle didn’t waste time on the niceties. “Alfie, we have a man down.”
“Who?”
“It’s Dave Carpenter.”
“Holy fuck, what happened?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out. I need you and a small team buckled up and ready to roll in five. Get them to meet at your pad. I’m on the way there now.”
Doyle cut the connection, knowing Alfie Cheadle, one of the team’s top operatives, would move mountains to be ready when Doyle arrived.
He stepped out of the lift at the basement garage, and crossed to a black, window-tinted Range Rover, one of a fleet kept at the ready for LonWash operatives. They were a unique job-lot, customised with armour-plating, and awash with all manner of stored weaponry and sophisticated surveillance equipment.
Just as Doyle climbed behind the wheel, the lights tinkled on the dashboard telephone console. He read the receptionist’s name at the bottom of the screen, and tapped the answer button.
“Alan, I have Clare Carpenter on the line. She seems to be hysterical and is demanding to speak with you.”
Doyle cursed inwardly. What was he going to tell her? He still needed first-hand confirmation that her husband Dave was dead. Mistakes had happened before, although he knew it was a forlorn hope in this case.
“Put her through, Dorothy.”
An instant later the sounds of an anguished voice filled the car. “Alan, is that you? Something’s wrong with Dave. He’s late, and he’s not answering his phone. Something is wrong, I just know it. He was supposed to be home hours ago for my birthday surprise, but I already knew he had booked the Italian restaurant. They rang the other day for confirmation and I’ve had to pretend to Dave that I knew nothing about it. So you see, if he had been delayed he would have phoned me, he would have let me know…….”
Absence of Mercy Page 2