Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  The words tailed off. Doyle knew the woman was distraught and was talking herself up a storm to conceal what must have been a rising panic over the past few hours. He knew he couldn’t feed her any nonsense. She deserved to know.

  “Clare, I’m sorry but we have received some bad news. Dave has been involved in something since he left the office this afternoon. I just got the call and am on the way to the scene now.”

  “Oh, Alan, you have to tell me. Is Dave dead?”

  Doyle sucked in some air. “I’m sorry. Clare, but we have to think the worst. I promise to call you the moment I get there. Have you someone who can stay with you until then?”

  He waited for the muted screams to die down. After a few moments a more measured voice came on the line. Clare seemed to have composed herself. “Alan, bring him home to me, one way or another.”

  The line went dead.

  What a gutsy lady, Doyle thought.

  He gunned the engine and raced the vehicle out of the basement into the early evening London traffic. Cheadle’s pad was about twenty minutes away, but he intended to cover the distance in little more than half that time.

  As he rounded the corner into the Avenue which housed Cheadle’s apartment block he could see the ex-soldier standing on the kerbside. Alongside Cheadle, he recognised the figures of Bob Mortimer and Bill Carlisle.

  When he skidded to a stop, all three hauled at the doors and climbed in. He glanced briefly at their morose features, threw the vehicle into reverse, and executed a textbook one-eighty handbrake turn.

  No words passed between the men as the Range Rover roared towards the M4 motorway.

  ***

  Nightfall overtook them on the silent run across country. By the time Doyle drew up to the first of the police barricades the moon decided to darken the landscape still further by ducking behind rain-filled clouds. Everything seemed designed to match the mood of the men in the Range Rover.

  Doyle flashed his badge at the uniformed policeman, ordered the removal of the outer perimeter block of two police cars parked in a V-formation, and gunned the engine towards a secondary roadblock illuminated by arced lights in the distance.

  He screeched to a halt at a second, larger collection of vehicles, noting the disquieting shape of a hearse parked on a grass verge. He was out of the Rover before it was stationary and scanned the faces of more than twenty men standing about in small groups.

  “I’m looking for Inspector Fellowes.” His voice carried more anger in it than he intended.

  A small man wearing a black belted overcoat stepped forward. Doyle put him at no more than five-seven, probably in his mid-fifties, with worry lines etched across a face that showed he was attuned to the tragedy of the circumstances in which he found himself. Doyle instantly warmed to the man.

  “I’m Fellowes. You must be Mr Doyle. Please accept my sympathies for your loss.”

  The two briefly shook hands. Doyle introduced Cheadle, Mortimer and Carlisle. No names. They were simply his “colleagues.” Fellowes seemed to accept the lack of formality with good grace, probably knowing there was little point in announcing the roll call of a clandestine agency to the nearby throng of listeners.

  Doyle gently nudged Fellowes away from the group. “Tell me what’s happening here, Inspector, beginning with where the body of our colleague is.”

  Fellowes nodded towards a laneway entrance to his right. “About a half-mile down there. It’s a disused airfield, with one car parked in front of a hangar and another in a field just inside the laneway. I pulled everyone back to here, as per your instructions, but left a man on guard to protect the crime scene.”

  Doyle felt a flare of rising anger. “I told you I wanted the entire scene locked down with everyone pulled back.”

  “Listen to me, Mr Doyle. I entirely respect who you are. I got the call from on high, just as you said I would. I’ve been left in no doubt as to who’s in charge here, but certain protocols can’t be overlooked. I couldn’t take the chance that some night-time rambler might wander into the area from the opposite fields, or that some of nature’s scavengers, such as foxes or rats, might want a piece of the body still lying where we found it. There’s no way on earth I would…..”

  Doyle held up his hand to cut off Fellowes in mid-sentence. “Forgive me, Inspector. I hadn’t thought that one through, and I’m grateful you did. I’m sure you can appreciate this is the one type of call-out none of us ever wants to get. If you don’t mind, I would like to go take a look at what’s down there.”

  The two held each other’s gaze and the moment of tension passed. Doyle nodded at his team and made his way back to the Range Rover. As he got to the driver’s door he turned back to Fellowes. “Inspector, I would be grateful if you would join us. I would value your input.”

  Five minutes later Doyle was staring at the body of Dave Carpenter. The face of the once jovial operative was barely recognisable behind the gaping hole above the bridge of his nose. Doyle replaced the cover sheet and turned to Fellowes. “I want the hearse brought in and the body taken back to a mortuary address in London.”

  Fellowes was about to respond when Doyle anticipated the policeman’s misgivings. “I know your Scenes of Crime people have already completed a preliminary of the area, and taken a whole bunch of photographs. There’s nothing more to be learned from this precise spot. This wasn’t an amateur-involved shooting, and there’s no need to leave Dave lying out here all night. Tomorrow at first light we’ll do a detailed search of the entire area, but for now there’s not much more that can be done.”

  Fellowes nodded an acknowledgement before walking away and speaking into a hand-held walkie-talkie.

  It reminded Doyle that he had his own call to make. And he wasn’t looking forward to confirming to Clare Carpenter that she was a widow.

  Chapter 4

  THERE WERE TWO THINGS about the threatening voice that were immediately clear to Devon.

  The instruction to stay away from his weapon was delivered with the calm assurance of a professional, someone he sensed wouldn’t hesitate to fire if he made the kind of move that went against what he was ordered to do.

  The second thing was equally obvious. The voice belonged to a woman.

  Devon knew it could be a lethal combination.

  He remained stock still and let the seconds drag out before speaking. “Couldn’t help but notice the twang in your voice. I’m guessing you’re a Texas girl who’s a long way from home.”

  “Yeah, after this is over I’ve got a few miles more to travel than you. It can’t be more than a short-hop flight from here to London.”

  Despite the circumstances Devon smiled. “Touché.”

  A few more seconds dragged by before the woman spoke again. “I overheard enough of your discussion with our friend Steiner here to know that you’re probably not my enemy but I should warn you that the pathetic creature you just shot in the leg is the reason I’m here. Anything else, including you, is just collateral.”

  Devon glanced across at Steiner who was still clutching his ruptured knee as he sat up to face the new visitor to his mountain den. He held out a bloodied hand in a plea gesture to the figure behind Devon. “Thank God you’re here. This man shot me for no…….”

  Devon watched as Steiner’s chest exploded and his body catapulted against a wooden cabinet. There was a final twitch before the head slumped lifeless to the floor.

  It was a classic three-round burst from a semi-automatic and Devon spun in reflex to face the shooter. The woman was dressed from head to toe in black, the neoprene suit accentuating the curves in her slim but muscle-toned body. She held a FNP-45, the Belgium-made “cocked and locked” packet of raw stopping power that has been doing the rounds of USA law enforcement agencies for a number of years.

  The silver and black outline was now pointed directly at Devon.

  “Damn you,” Devon yelled. “I needed to question this bastard. You’ve stumbled into something that’s none of your business, and
now people could die because of your stupidity.”

  The woman reached her left hand up to the top of her head and yanked off the black ski mask. A jumble of red hair cascaded over her shoulders and she give an exaggerated shake of her head to force it into position. She had piercing green eyes and a tanned complexion that radiated sexuality. Devon had to force himself to remember that she had just coldly ended a life.

  She glanced over at her fallen victim before turning back to Devon. “Get down off your high horse, mister. I’m betting the Texas farm that you came here to put an end to that piece of shit and now I’ve saved you the trouble. Why not show your appreciation by handing over that sheet of paper that seems to have gotten you in a bit of a tizzy?”

  “First things first,” Devon responded. “I’ll see your Texas farm and raise you a row of Mayfair houses that you’re CIA. If that’s the case we’re on the same side and you can lower your weapon.”

  She smiled the kind of smile that in other circumstances might have stirred a touch of carnal lust. “Okay, you win. So what alphabet agency are you from? No, don’t tell me, let me guess. I’ll go for MI6, the British Secret Service. And don’t tell me your name is James Bond.”

  Devon waited until the gun was lowered. “Sorry, you don’t get to know about my employers. Let’s just say I’m involved in counter-terrorism and leave it at that. I’m Mike Devon and right now I need to communicate the information on this sheet. Lives are literally at risk.”

  She moved across the floor, swapped the gun to her left hand and held out her right. “I’m agent Chelsea Horgan. Let me see what’s on that paper while you make your call.”

  Devon quickly shook hands, thumped the paper on the table and sprinted across the room, shouting as he exited the kitchen door. “I have to get a sat phone from my bag.”

  He retraced his steps to the hillside lookout point, grabbed the rucksack and bolted back to the house, fumbling inside the satchel as he ran through the garden. By the time he reached the living room he had already retrieved the Iridium satellite phone and was punching in a speed-dial code as he tore the paper from Chelsea’s hand.

  As he waited on the connection to activate he glanced again at what was written. It was a typed message, the print-out from an email with no attempt at encryption. He read it again slowly.

  You have been chosen to carry out an urgent termination mission on the following people. You may select as many names as you believe you can handle within two weeks of this date, but your selection must be communicated to us within 24 hours of receipt in order that alternative arrangements can be made with some of our other assets. You will be paid one million US dollars for each name selected. Half your fee will be paid into your named account upon confirmation of your selection with the remainder paid on successful completion of your tasks. The targets you may choose from are as follows:

  General Sir John Sandford

  Mike Devon

  Alan Doyle

  Alfie Cheadle

  Bob Mortimer

  Bill Carlisle

  Dave Carpenter

  You are reminded that in accordance with our previous contracts you will not discuss the contents of this directive with any individual and that failure to complete your mission will result in serious repercussions.

  It was Devon’s entire frontline team, not to mention the General himself. What did it all mean? How had someone obtained information that the British Prime Minister was not even party to? Who had the juice needed to attempt such an operation?

  He was pulled from his thoughts by the familiar voice of Alan Doyle in his ear. “Is that you Mike? Have you finished up in Austria?”

  Devon launched in without preamble. “Listen Alan, I’ve stumbled across something you need to know about.”

  “Yes, there’s something here you need to know about too, Mike.”

  “It will have to keep. Someone is targeting our people for assassination. You have to get them together and hold them in a secure location until I get back there.”

  There was a slight pause that unnerved Devon. “Jeez, Mike, you’re too late. Someone has just taken out Dave Carpenter. What’s going on?”

  Devon felt a chill run down his spine. “Dave’s dead? What happened?”

  “We’re still trying to piece it together, but there’s no doubt it was a professional hit. I’m still at the scene but it seems he didn’t have much of a chance. I will do a full run-through at first light. Are you telling me we are all on someone’s hit list?”

  “Who’s with you, Alan?”

  “I’ve got Bill, Alfie and Bob here. Look, what’s going on?”

  Devon’s voice was harsher than he meant it to be. “No time, Alan. Keep everyone together and when you finish in the morning get back to Charterhouse Street. Nobody is to leave the building and for fuck’s sake watch your back. I’m going to contact the General, but I need you to arrange an escort to bring him to headquarters. Do it now”

  “Will do. “We’ll break into pairs. I’ll send Cheadle and Mortimer there pronto.”

  Devon cut the connection and hit another speed-dial button, praying the old man hadn’t gone out and left his phone behind. It answered on the first ring.

  “This had better be good. I’m nursing a brandy and engrossed in a good book.” As usual, there was warmth in the General’s voice. Far from being tetchy, he had made it clear on numerous occasions that he was to be disturbed at any time, day or night, if something needed his attention.

  Devon filled him in on the night’s events. When he finished speaking, the General’s tone changed dramatically. “We’ll get the bastards who did this, Mike, and I don’t care what it takes to hunt them down.”

  “Yes sir, but right now we need to get you to Charterhouse Street. Two of our men are on the way to you as we speak.”

  “Way ahead of you. I’ve now got a Walther in my hand instead of the brandy. I’ll be waiting for your team to arrive.”

  The response was nothing more than Devon expected. Far from being a shrinking violet the old man had seen his fair share of combat and danger, someone you wouldn’t have wanted to get on the wrong side of in his prime.

  Devon tapped the end-call button and slumped down on a dining table seat. It took a few seconds for him to realise Horgan was speaking.

  “Bad news? I couldn’t help but notice your name on the assassination list. Who are the other names?”

  He pondered for a moment about what to tell her, but decided he first needed some answers. “Let’s get to that later. What are you doing here? What’s the CIA’s interest in Max Steiner?”

  She smiled. “I’m not here. Officially I know nothing about Steiner.”

  “And unofficially?”

  Horgan’s smile disappeared. “I suppose you could say he shit in our backyard once too often. He had been on our radar for some time and last year we tried to intercept an assassination attempt he made on a New York union official.”

  “I take it your intercept was unsuccessful?”

  Devon watched as the young woman’s eyes seemed to glaze over with moisture. He waited while she regained her composure. When she spoke again there was sadness in her voice. “No, we stopped him alright, but he killed one of our agents before escaping.”

  “Was this someone you were close to?”

  “He was my partner. We were very close. Nothing romantic, but we were a great team and he had so much to live for. He was only twenty-five when that bastard ended his life.” She pointed towards Steiner. “It has taken us nine months to track him down and now we can finally close the book.”

  Devon rose from the table and walked across the room. A thought suddenly struck him and he spun back towards Horgan. “Where were you earlier? Were you watching me the whole time I was getting ready to make my move?”

  The smile returned. “I was about to break cover when I saw you arrive at the rear of the house. I was holed up about fifty yards from where you settled in. I figured you were going to be the patient ty
pe and I confess I was thinking about having to dispose of you when the music seemed to galvanise you into action. I’m glad it did. Wouldn’t have looked too good if the CIA bumped off one of our cousins.”

  It was Devon’s turn to smile. “Don’t be too sure you would have been successful...”

  “Aren’t you forgetting I got the drop on you?”

  “That was inside the house when my mind was on other things. It would have been a whole different ball game out there in the undergrowth.”

  Horgan looked like she was about to continue the point-scoring, but seemed to think better of it. After a short pause she walked over to Devon. “How about telling me what’s going on with that list of names and what precisely were you doing here this evening?”

  Devon filled her in on his mission to avenge the death of a Minister of the Crown and then quickly returned to the table to repack his rucksack. With his back to her, he continued. “As you probably gathered, I knew nothing about the existence of that list until I read it here this evening.”

  “So, what about the phone calls? Was the news you received about someone on the list?”

  “Yes, it was a member of my team. He was gunned down in England a few hours ago. It looks like Steiner was being truthful when he told me he turned down the assignment, but someone quickly filled his shoes. Now, it was nice meeting you Agent Horgan, but I have to get back to London.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “What? Are you mad? This is nothing to do with the CIA. Thanks for your help, not that I needed it, but I think it’s time you headed back to Texas.”

  The green eyes blazed. “Don’t get smug with me. If your agency has been targeted for elimination then I can’t take the chance that other intelligence agencies including ours aren’t also in someone’s crosshairs. Seems to me that I need to brief my people and the best way of doing that will be to accompany you back in London.”