The time had come to ditch them.
The fools believed their participation in this latest project was just another adventure, something to relieve the boredom of their pandering lifestyles. What they didn’t know was that Hoffmeier had no choice but to accept the demands of a man he had believed was little more than one of his many conquests. As he stretched naked in anticipation on the bed of a Rome hotel six months ago, the awful truth was revealed to Hoffmeier.
His escort for the evening emerged from the bathroom carrying a silenced Walther PPK and threw a file onto Hoffmeier’s lap. As he turned the pages, he realised that it contained the life story of Das Trio Berne, complete with photographs chronicling their early years as young German soldiers through to the present.
He noticed with incredulity that the file also contained photocopied sheets bearing the logo of the MFAA, the post-war investigative unit set up by the allies to recover loot stolen by the Nazis. He had always believed they had escaped the radar of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Unit, but somehow they had been under investigation all this time!
As it turned out, according to the mysterious man holding a gun literally and figuratively to his head, the MFAA file had been removed and all computer records erased in the knowledge that one day the contents would prove useful to the organisation he worked for.
That day had now arrived.
Hoffmeier was given a stark choice. Expend whatever sums were necessary to carry out what was described as an urgent task, or face the consequences of the file being handed over to the appropriate authorities.
There was one other condition. When the job was completed, he was to reveal the details of all assets held by his two compatriots. Their fortunes were effectively to be transferred to this man and the people he worked for.
Felix Hoffmeier needed little time to agree.
Chapter 9
MIKE DEVON’S INTERNAL RADAR WENT on high alert the moment he stepped out the front door of his house and glanced along the almost deserted street. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but he recognised the symptoms of an old familiar feeling beginning to bubble to the surface. It was an intangible sense of danger that had served him well down the years, and he was not about to dismiss it now.
He glanced below as Alan Doyle fired the engine of the Range Rover and looked impatiently towards him, puzzled by his reluctance to bound down the steps, as he usually did.
Devon made a pretence of fixing his collar and buttoning his coat while his eyes roamed both ways along the line of parked vehicles. On his second sweep to the right he clocked a brown Ford Transit, parked neatly about a hundred yards away and looking slightly out of place among the Rovers and Bentleys that dominated the tastes of the exclusive Bayswater area residents. Devon fitted in well with the exclusive neighbourhood, but only because his wealthy parents had bequeathed him the house and a small fortune when they passed away some four years previously.
The Transit could of course be nothing more than a working vehicle for the many tradesmen who found lucrative odd jobs in this part of town. But Devon was taking no chances, particularly when his inner self was screaming for him to go on high alert.
He turned back to the door and spoke in a raised voice. “Don’t wait up for me honey, I’ll be home late.”
He knew that the closed door was screened by the outcropped porch wall and that watchers would not know that Emma was already upstairs packing a suitcase for the planned trip to her parents’ countryside home.
He walked casually down the steps and pulled the Rover’s passenger door open. As he climbed into the seat he noted that Doyle was already cradling his Glock G19. “What’s up, Mike?”
“I think we’ve got company. There’s a brown Transit sitting back along the road. Move off normally and take the first left into the one-way street. It’s a bit cramped with parking on both sides, but it will serve our purpose.”
Cheadle leaned forward from the back seat. “What have you in mind?”
Devon quickly explained what he wanted. As Doyle eased into the road and headed to the corner, Devon’s hand remained on the door handle. As soon as the Rover turned out of sight, Devon depressed the lever and jumped to the pavement, slamming the door behind him and running for a ramp that led to an underground car park for residents.
It was where he kept his father’s prized 1963 Austin Healey MK11, a thirty-thousand pound vintage motor that he was now about to use as a roadblock! Despite being idle for many months, the engine jumped to life on the first push of the button. Devon glanced in the rear view mirror in time to see the Transit drive by in slow pursuit of Doyle, knowing that the big fella was deliberately taking his time to negotiate the narrow street.
Devon gunned the engine, swung the Austin in a wide arc and headed up the ramp. He emerged onto the street barely two hundred yards behind the Transit. Ahead of it he could see the brake lights of the Range Rover flicker out, to be replaced by reversing lights as Doyle aimed his vehicle at his pursuers.
He pushed hard on the accelerator, closing the distance to less than twenty yards. The Transit came to a stop and for a moment Devon wondered whether it would try to ram against him in an attempt at escape. He cared a lot about his father’s Austin, but right now he was too angry to think about the consequences.
He removed a Sig Sauer P226 from a shoulder holster, threw open the door, and pointed the weapon at the Transit’s driver’s door. He saw Doyle and Cheadle spring from their vehicle, using the doors as shields as they too brought weapons to bear on the trapped Transit.
The seconds ticked by.
Devon noticed the window on the driver door of the Transit easing down. A voice from within broke a silence that had seemed to descend suddenly on the scene. “Hold your fire. No need for you fellers to get jittery. We’re with Uncle Sam and we’re only here to help.”
Devon cursed inwardly at the American propensity for laidbackness. There was a lot he wanted to say, but contented himself with a standard order. “Step out of the vehicle, with arms raised. Be advised that if you don’t do precisely as I say we will be shipping you back to your Uncle in a box.”
The doors of the vehicle opened slowly and two men climbed out, their arms stretched stiffly above their heads. Devon could see only the man on the right side, but knew his passenger was being covered by Cheadle. The driver spoke. “Is this really necessary?”
Devon ignored him. “Close the doors and assume the position against the vehicle. You guys ought to know the drill. Is there anyone else in there?”
“Just us,” the driver responded as he slammed the door.
Devon could hear the other door closing and he called on the passenger to walk around the front to join his buddy. When the second figure emerged, Devon had to stifle a laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation. Both men were dressed in Men in Black suits, someone’s nutty decision for the modern-day uniform of the CIA.
“Alan, Alfie, frisk them.” Devon kept his Sig trained on their captives as Doyle and Cheadle completed an expert pat-down. It elicited two FNP-45s, and two identical black leather wallets.
Jeez, thought Devon, when these people go for conformity, they go for broke.
Doyle rummaged through the wallets. “Looks like they are who they say they are. We’ve got agents Sam Buchanan and Tyrell Banks, both fresh out of the Academy, judging by the nice shine on their wallets and shields.”
The taller of the two men, the driver, bristled at Doyle’s flippancy. He lowered his arms and turned away from the vehicle. “I don’t appreciate your tone, mister. We are experienced field agents and I would expect a bit more courtesy coming from your side.”
Doyle was about to respond, but Devon held up his hand and moved forward, sheathing his Sig as he approached the Transit driver. “Which one are you?”
“I’m Buchanan.”
“Okay, Agent Buchanan, you can climb down of that high horse and rein in. What we don’t appreciate is being followed by people who should have had
the courtesy of letting us know they were in town. That way we could have avoided this rather silly scene in front of the good folk of London, not to mention that someone could have been seriously hurt if we had played this differently.”
Buchanan shrugged his shoulders. “We were only just put on assignment this morning, and were running through a familiarisation exercise before making formal contact.”
Devon felt anger welling up inside. His right fist needed a minimum of backlift to deliver a stunning blow to Buchanan’s midriff. The CIA man buckled, the air rushed out of his lungs, and his right knee dropped hard onto the tarmacked surface of the road. He lifted his face to stare in disbelief at Devon. He was just in time to see the fist coming in a blur towards him, but not enough time to avoid the crunching blow that sent him sprawling in agony.
The second Agent began to move towards Devon but was pinned back against the van by an arm that held his throat in a vice-like chokehold. Alan Doyle smiled behind the prosthetic into the man’s face.
Devon waited until Buchanan recovered sufficiently to rise groggily to his feet. “Is that familiarisation enough for you? This little exercise of yours has put my home and my family in the glare of a spotlight. That is not something I’m prepared to tolerate. If I ever see you around here again, or if this distraction leads to something down the line that affects my family, I will come looking for you both, and next time you will stay down permanently. Are we clear?”
The glare of hostility left Buchanan’s eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. We didn’t realise this was your home. We picked up the tail at your office, not knowing where you were going, but we were following mission orders to shadow you guys. This assassin list has got everyone jumpy.”
The mention of the list made Devon angry again. “Who told you about that? Are you working with Agent Chelsea Horgan? Is this her way of repaying the trust we placed in her?”
“I’ve never met Agent Horgan, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. All we know is that our station leader briefed us this morning that you guys were on a target list that could lead to a possible threat to our own network. Maybe there’s a similar list with our names on it. You can’t fault us for trying to find out.”
Devon ramped down his anger a few notches. “No, I can’t fault you for that, but I can fault you for the way you’ve gone about it. I suggest you go back to your base and await the outcome of a dialogue that needs to take place at higher levels. We have to come at this with a clear strategy that doesn’t have us falling over each other. The next time I wanna see you guys is when I ask to see you. Do you copy?”
To his credit, Buchanan held out his hand. “Agreed. Like I said, I’m sorry things went down this way. As long as we’re kept in the loop, we should be able to work through this to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Devon took the offered hand in a firm shake before turning to Doyle. “Give them back their badges and guns. We need to clear the street.”
He turned back to his car, shouting over his shoulder as he walked. “Gentlemen, I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”
***
The image filtering through the Hensoldt 4x21 M1 telescopic sight began to intensify under the caress of the slightest finger-and-thumb pressure on the sensitive dial. The man whose eye was pushed against the viewfinder watched Mike Devon’s face come alive in his crosshairs. The foreshortened distance appeared less than an arm’s length away.
The twelve-inch length of apparatus was usually rail-mounted on a Barrett M95 sniper rifle, which at that moment was folded away in its purpose-designed box in the boot of his car. It would not be needed on this trip. The man had already decided this would be an up-close-and-personal termination.
For now, he was content to treat this outing as the last part of his surveillance phase. He had watched with amusement as the scene played out in the little side street off the Bayswater Road. He had learned much from the morning exercise.
He had been given the address late the previous evening and had parked in time to see the Ford Transit trying clumsily to blend in with the neat row of upmarket vehicles. At first, he thought he had run into one of his professional rivals, but the show of badges he had just witnessed told him that the clowns in the black suits were obviously law enforcement of some variety. Strange that everyone’s wires seemed to cross in such a comical fashion – still it was entertaining, if nothing else.
What concerned him was that these people seemed to be hunting in packs. Something must have ratcheted up their nerves, probably the fact that they knew they were facing a concerted campaign against their ranks. He didn’t dwell on how that could have happened. In his line of work you played the cards as they fell.
He watched now as his mark climbed back into the vintage Austin, reversed towards the ramp turn-off and descended into the underground garage. The Range Rover followed close behind.
Five minutes later the Rover re-emerged, this time followed by a small Renault Clio, driven by a woman, no doubt the wife. Both cars proceeded slowly to the end of the street before branching off in different directions.
The man lifted a leather suitcase from the passenger well, alighted from the car, and walked confidently to the front door of Devon’s house. He smiled at the faded brass Yale keyhole disc. Ten seconds later he was inside the porch with the door closed behind him.
He scanned the interior looking for a security keypad. There was none, although it came as little surprise. The absence of a CCTV system on the outside, coupled with a cheap and cheerful door lock, had already convinced him he would find little to tax his skills. He shook his head in bewilderment. So much for the great British intelligence services! They were meant to guard the nation, yet they couldn’t be bothered to take the time for even the most basic security arrangements in their own homes. He detested such sloppiness.
The man was a Serbian national who left his homeland eight years ago to pursue a career he had become proficient at, during those days in his country’s history where the ability to take a life had become a pastime among his contemporaries. Back then he was known as Dragan Boskovic, a name that had rarely been heard since - lost as it was behind the various passport names he had conjured up in his travels around Europe.
Boskovic surveyed the cramped interior porch area with an eye for the kind of detail an interior designer would apply. In his case, though, he was not trying to imagine a makeover. Rather the opposite. The small space was ideal for what he wanted to achieve.
He stooped to open the briefcase and extracted a cube of C-4 explosive. It was little more than a pound in weight, but he nonetheless cut it in half with a pocket knife. More than enough to do the job.
He had already spotted that a coat rail, screwed into the wall about head-height, three feet from the door, would be the ideal depository for the explosive. He began to roll the malleable compound between his palms to produce a sausage-like shape about the width of the wood which held the coat rail in place. The wood made a perfect backing to direct the charge towards the door.
He pressed the C-4 firmly into place and then extracted a small, cylindrical detonator, which he bore into the compound. Sticking out from the detonator was a wire attached to a pocket watch. This was no ordinary watch. Its innards had been removed and replaced with a small solar-powered battery that would create a sufficient energy surge to race up the wire and transform the putty-like blob into an explosive maelstrom, capable of reducing the foyer to rubble. Not to mention vaporising the poor soul who detonated it.
Boskovic removed a roll of double-sided tape from his pocket, tore off a small strip, and fixed it to the back of the watch, which he placed on the wooden floor. Next, he pulled out the watch dial and trailed a thin wire over to the door mat. He lifted the mat to one side and set the dial gingerly on the ground. Just like the rest of the watch, this was no ordinary dial. It contained a miniature blasting cap, which could be activated by the slightest pressure. He used the tape to fix it in place, before covering it with the vinyl mat.
Someone standing on the mat would break the dial and complete the circuit.
He had judged the placement of the dial to take account of someone opening the door, placing their feet on the mat, and then readjusting their feet to close the door. Somewhere within those movements they would come into contact with the blasting cap.
He went back to the watch, and pressed a small button on the side until a counter moved up to five seconds. That’s all the time he would allow. He removed his thumb from the button and stepped away. The device was now armed.
Boskovic closed the briefcase and walked down the hall in search of a back door. Three minutes later he climbed into his car and drove away.
Chapter 10
“WE’VE NAILED THE BASTARD!” The yell which greeted Devon on his return to the office belonged to Bob Mortimer, standing with the kind of grin a Cheshire cat would have been proud of, as he pulled a picture from a wall-mounted noticeboard and waved it at the assembled room. “He’s been staring down at us all this time.”
Devon had just stepped out of the lift, slightly lost in thoughts about Emma having to leave town, and still smarting about the idiotic antics of the CIA Laurel and Hardy duo. He knew immediately that Mortimer’s antics signalled some sort of break in the clouds.
“What have you got?”
Mortimer handed off the A4 glossy sheet, barely able to contain his excitement. “This is one Charles Nightingale, all-round scumbag, and the man who we now know murdered Dave Carpenter.”
Devon glanced at the grainy features, the result of a head and shoulders shot taken with a telephoto lens that captured the subject emerging from the revolving door of a hotel entrance somewhere in Paris in 2008, according to a hand-scribbled caption. It was the full face and broad beam of a heavyweight, with dark brown hair tumbling over the ears to touch hideous sideburns that were a throwback to the seventies. A small white scar snaked from below the right eye to the corner of a bulbous upper lip. The eyes were narrow slits below bushy brows that lent an added look of darkness to a face of evil.
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