Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  A general babble of conversation grew in the room as Devon studied the picture, aware that Mortimer was basking in the acclaim of his discovery. Devon held up his hand in the universal sign for quiet. “Settle down everyone. I need somebody to rewind and tell me what’s been going on.”

  Mortimer crossed to his desk to lift a sheet of paper which he handed to Alan Doyle. “Your friend at the Metropolitan Police came through with a CCTV image outside the flower shop where Dave Carpenter stopped off. It was taken from a traffic cam and clearly shows a Mercedes drawing up alongside Dave’s car. We managed to tweak the digital images enough to get a good facial which has been running through our FRS for the past hour.”

  “Did the Facial Recognition Software come up with Nightingale?”

  Mortimer’s smile grew wider. “It might do if you want to wait another few hours for it to complete the full gambit of neural network analysis and 3-D matches….”

  Devon cut in on what he knew was going to be one of Mortimer’s long-winded explanations. “Enough with the biometrics, just give me the shorthand version.”

  “Yeah, sorry Mike. The thing is that while we’ve been waiting on the computers doing their thing, I kept getting the feeling that I’d seen this face somewhere before. I was going through some of our scrapbooks when it hit me. It was on our rogue’s gallery of most wanted.”

  Devon followed Mortimer’s gaze back to the noticeboard, a five-foot square pegboard where more than thirty images of known international terrorists and assassins were pinned. “Good work, Bob. Now, can we dig out everything we have on Nightingale?”

  “Already on it,” Mortimer responded as he dropped onto his seat in front of a keyboard.

  Devon turned to head for his office, shouting at Doyle to follow him. “Might be a good idea to see if our old friend, Claude, can help with this one.” He was referring to Claude Bartran, the former head of France's security services Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale.

  “How come?”

  Devon pointed at the caption on the picture. “Maybe our target was in Paris in 2008 because he lives in the city. If anyone can run him down, it will be Claude.”

  A frown on Doyle’s face showed he wasn’t convinced. “That’s a bit of stretch. A guy in Nightingale’s profession pops up across Europe all the time. Maybe he was just in Paris for an in-and-out assignment, or maybe he was taking in the sights during a break in his murderous routine. Either way, it’s a bit flimsy, not to mention the fact that old Claude has retired and probably gone to seed by now.”

  Devon grinned. “Don’t you believe it. That old rascal will have his fingers on the pulse, and can still call in more favours than just about anyone I know. Okay, I agree it’s a long shot, but it beats the hell out of sitting around here. Even if Nightingale is not in France, who’s to bet that Claude didn’t have a thick file on him at one time or another?”

  “Point taken,” Doyle concurred.

  ***

  Chelsea Horgan watched the commotion from General Sandford’s office. Something big had broken. That much was obvious. She was itching to know what it was, but right now she was skating on thin ice, a predicament made clear by the General’s withering onslaught on all things CIA.

  She had made her report to Langley in an early morning call that was patched through to no less than the Deputy Director, just one of the many politically-appointed suits who rode a desk and never thought it might be a good thing all round to actually mix with the troops once in a while.

  The platitudes had seemed sincere. Great job… good decision-making… the kind of initiative the CIA likes to see in its operatives. Blah! Blah! Stick with it, see what shakes from the London tree. Keep working this on your own and just holler if you need anything. Blah! Blah!

  The lying toe-rag! Less than two hours later she was hauled in by the General to be told two of her colleagues were caught tailing Devon around London. The General’s earlier charm had evaporated, particularly when he recounted how the episode could have put families at risk. “Not something I take kindly to, Agent Horgan. Not something I expect from someone to whom I extended every courtesy.”

  She could see the disappointment and anger etched in his face. And who could blame him?

  She tried everything to persuade him of her innocence, even going so far as to recount the actual details of her call to Langley. “Let me put me this right. I’ll talk to my DD to make sure it won’t happen again…”

  “If it’s all the same to you, Agent Horgan, I’ll do the talking from here on.” The General’s mood continued to darken as he reached for a desk phone, pressed a number for his switchboard, and asked to be patched directly through to the Prime Minister’s personal secretary. He was put on hold for barely twenty seconds.

  There was no preamble. “I need you to clear an urgent appointment with the PM this evening on a matter of national security. In the meantime, request the PM to put a call through to the White House demanding that the CIA Deputy Director of current operations in London makes himself available to take a call from me in the next ten minutes.”

  He returned the phone to its cradle and relaxed back in his leather chair.

  Horgan couldn’t hide her incredulity. “Sir, forgive me for asking, but do you really have that kind of clout?”

  The General’s features lightened and a smile danced across his face. “When you get to my age, Agent Horgan, you learn that you need to take as many shortcuts as possible. I don’t have the patience for diplomacy the way I used to and, truth to tell, I’ve learned that being an old curmudgeon gets me to where I want to go quicker than dancing around people’s bruised egos. We have a situation here that demands I use the full repertoire at my disposal to protect my people. Frankly speaking, this nonsense with your agency needs to be sorted out before any more wires are crossed.”

  Horgan tried to pick her words carefully. “I’m truly sorry if anything I did will lead to a falling out between the CIA and any intelligence agencies based in England. In truth, I still don’t understand where this operation of yours fits in with the likes of MI5 and MI6, but something tells me you guys are rather high on the totem pole and have probably been doing business with our side for some time now. I’m just a grunt on the ground that has to live with the need-to-know rules, but I would urge you to consider not freezing us out.”

  The General leaned forward as if to emphasise his next point. “Very commendable of you to stand up for your agency, my dear. The truth is that none of this is your fault. The UK and USA agencies have been playing these little games since I was in nappies, or diapers as you would say, but every so often we need to reset the parameters….”

  The sound of the telephone interrupted the General’s discourse. He lifted it off the receiver and hit the speaker button.

  “General, I have CIA Deputy Director John Madison on the line.”

  “Patch him through.”

  After a few seconds a staccato voice filled the console. “Is this General Sir John Sandford?”

  “It is. Thank you for calling, Director Madison.”

  “We both know that I didn’t have very much choice in the matter. Can’t say I appreciate the way in which I was roused from my bed. Couldn’t this have waited a few hours?”

  Horgan squirmed at the largely one-sided conversation that followed. This old boy was quite something. She had heard of people being taken down a few pegs, but this was the mother and father of all lectures. If she was being honest, she enjoyed every bit of it. The bastard on the other end of the line had well and truly shafted her. He deserved everything he got.

  “To summarise,” the General intoned, “you will ensure your agents do not repeat the exercise of following my operatives. You will also ensure you do not go digging into any matters concerning this investigation unless you have my express permission to do so. In short, Director Madison, you will stand down your people until I am ready to make use of your resources.”

  “Are you seriously sugges
ting that we sit on our thumbs and then jump to it whenever you decide you might need us?”

  The General winked across the table at Horgan before responding. “Couldn’t have put it better myself. Besides, I’ve decided to allow your Agent Horgan to piggyback our operation for a while. She has struck us as a very capable and dependable ally who will be able to look after your interests and report regularly to your Station Head in London. Do you have any problems with that?”

  “Where is Agent Horgan now?”

  The General glanced at Horgan and held a finger up to his lips. “Right now she’s sitting in on a briefing with our full team.”

  There was a momentary pause before Madison responded. “Agent Horgan is not familiar with our London operations. In normal circumstances she would have already returned to Washington. I must insist on one of our senior London agents joining up with you instead of Horgan.”

  “This is not open for discussion, Director. Agent Horgan stumbled into this and we’re happy to keep her on board. I could, of course, make this official by going up your chain of command.”

  “There’s no need for any more phone calls, General. However, I want it clearly understood that if American interests start to surface in this investigation, then all bets are off. I can be just as much of a playground bully as you when it comes to protecting my people.”

  The General laughed. “Good for you, Madison. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, I think I’ll let you get back to your missed sleep. It was good talking with you.”

  Horgan watched him hit the off button. “Did you mean what you said about me sticking with your operation?”

  “Yes. I allowed you to listen into that conversation so that you understand the ground rules. Are they acceptable to you?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  ***

  Devon and Doyle were deep in conversation when Horgan stepped out of the General’s office and moved towards them.

  “That old codger Claude is still trying to take the Parimutuel to the cleaners with his daily tilt at the horses. He swears that if he had saved his bets all these years he would already be a multi-millionaire.” Devon was referring to the former French intelligence officer’s love of gambling, though in fact he knew Bartran wagered only modest amounts.

  “Can he help us with running down Nightingale?” Doyle asked.

  “What do you think? Says he’ll be glad of something to do. He’s intending to pay a call to the GIGN offices and will let us know what he finds. Knowing Claude, he’ll probably camp out there until something shakes loose.”

  Devon became aware of Horgan’s presence and turned to face her. “I see the General has been making it clear what we think of the CIA.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s quite a boss you have there. He has spelled out how things are to go from here on in. He has also agreed that I will be sticking with you guys for a while.”

  Devon frowned. “I want you to know that I advised differently. Seems to me that the CIA has become a distraction we don’t need just now….”

  She held up her hand to stop him in mid-sentence. “No need to go any further. The General has already read the riot act, and one riot act per day is enough for any gal. I wanna help, but only as part of your team. Anything I report back to my station will only be by your say so.”

  “Fair enough. I’ve already briefly introduced you to Doyle here. You will be working closely with him. Alan, why don’t you bring Chelsea up to date on where we are with our friend in France?”

  Devon turned and marched down the hall, knowing that Doyle’s face was starting to redden again as he ushered Horgan to his office.

  Chapter 11

  IT HAD BEEN A LONG DAY for General Sandford. The loss of one of his men burrowed deep into his soul. He felt Dave Carpenter’s death as keenly as if it were his own son. He had always been like that. From the moment he took command of his first regiment in those almost-forgotten army days, and continuing into his work with various strands of the security services, he was fiercely protective of the men under his charge.

  Yes, he rode them hard. He demanded a relentless regime of training and retraining and insisted on old-school discipline. It was done to keep them at their peak, to provide them with the skills needed to survive in a murky world. In return, he offered them total support, both in their professional and private lives. It was the kind of leadership that bred fierce loyalty and mutual trust.

  It was why he now sat facing Mike Devon outlining his plans to spend money. A lot of money. He had prevaricated too long on giving the green light for a shopping list he had drawn up months ago. He would wait no longer.

  Devon looked on bemused as the General made a succession of telephone calls, the first of which would set LonWash Securities back a cool ten million. It was the latest in the range of Dassault Falcon executive jets, a luxury 10-seater that could set his team down anywhere in Europe or the Americas without the frustrating booking and boarding delays experienced with commercial airlines.

  Sandford made clear to Devon that the Dassault 2000Ex was not intended for cushy junkets. It was for mission-critical flights that would provide the unit with a distinctive edge. Powered by two Pratt and Whitney Canada engines, the jet was capable of 0.8 mach speed that would shave crucial hours off the time needed to get where they wanted to go. It also came with an Iridium ST3100 Aircell unit, which provided instant access to satellite communications.

  Devon was impressed, but he had one query. “How do we deal with the logistics of getting available pilots, not to mention storage and maintenance?”

  Sandford smiled. “Already taken care of. Three months ago I hired two experienced pilots, highly rated by all accounts. They have been on a small retainer to keep them available until now. They don’t know it yet, but they start with us full-time tomorrow.”

  “So this was not a spur of the moment thing?”

  The General looked rueful. “It was something I should have done long before now. To tell the truth, I’m not sure why I’ve waited. It’s not as if we can’t afford it, and the events of the last few days have convinced me we are dealing with an imperative to move this organisation up a few notches. I made a sizeable deposit to secure the option to buy and, as you’ve just heard in my call to a very grateful broker, the final payment will be transferred later today.”

  Devon was about to speak when the General raised his hand. “Before you ask, the jet will be delivered to a rented hangar at the Trafalgar Flying Club’s private airfield near Stansted. We already have our own maintenance crew itching to start work. It will give them something else to do besides running constant checks on our Bell 407 helicopter.”

  The wide-eyed stare from Devon was just what Sandford expected. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? It arrived yesterday after I’d haggled a good bit of change from two million. We already have a helipad on the roof, so we will be good to go from this evening.”

  “Sir, you’re telling me we now have a jet and a helicopter?”

  “Yes. The helicopter will be more practical and efficient for moving around the UK. It can be whistled up and on the helipad within ten minutes. All the licences and permits are being rushed through the Civil Aviation Authority, which will list us as a priority one carrier. I’ve had it on my mind since that cross-country chase to safeguard your wife last year.”

  Devon frowned as he remembered how Alan Doyle had pursued a hitman assigned to kill Emma Devon and her son. After a frantic two-hour dash, Doyle had just managed to intercept the assassin before he ran Emma off the road. In the end she had swerved and crashed down an embankment, but had survived thanks to Doyle’s intervention.

  Sandford snapped him away from the memory. “Next item of business is to beef up our personnel. By my reckoning we need at least four new recruits. Our resources are being stretched to the limit and we need to ensure we have the capability to match whatever is being thrown at us, not just with this current crisis, but for everything that lies ahead. I’ll leave that
to you and Doyle to decide.”

  It was music to Devon’s ears. “We have a standby list of potential new operatives. Alan has narrowed it down from a trawl he did six months ago among his old Special Forces buddies. I dare say we can match you for getting things sorted pretty quickly.”

  “Good,” the General responded as he shuffled papers on the desk. “I’m also pressing ahead with the conversion of the top floor into sleeping quarters for all staff. The showers and toilets were completed last month, but I intend to accelerate the creation of a dozen rooms, each holding beds for at least three people. I have builders coming in to work around the clock until they are finished.”

  “Why the panic now, if you don’t mind me saying?”

  The General rose and paced the office. “There was always a certain logic to having live-in quarters for staff pulling long shifts or being needed for standby. I have to admit though that with this hit-list I’d be happier if everyone is confined to barracks, so to speak, until this blows over.”

  Devon was unequivocal in his agreement. “It will make things a lot easier for us, but what about those people with families? We can’t risk leaving them exposed. These assassins might use the families as bait.”

  “I think I’ve got that one covered. I’m arranging a two-week holiday charter to Spain for the families. Everyone will be shipped out for a bit of sunshine to leave us free to find these bastards. Our finance boffin, John Avery, will be going around today to make arrangements. I want this completed within forty-eight hours, by which time all essential staff will gather up what they need and report back here to their new temporary address.”