Devon sat in silence for a few moments before responding. “You seem to have thought of everything. Might I ask where all the money is coming from?”
Sandford laughed. “Least of my worries, dear boy. What with the profits coming in from our legitimate Government-sponsored private security contracts, not to mention the funds we’ve managed to liberate from the scum we have to deal with, we are what the city would call cash rich. We are a private enterprise and, as such, we don’t have to worry about oversight. An organisation like this is expected to have all the corporate frills, so why not start acting like we belong among the high-fliers, no pun intended. Don’t know about you, but I rather enjoy a spending spree from time to time.”
He was still smiling when he returned to his seat. “Now, I have a meeting to attend with the Prime Minister. I want you to accompany me as part of our new security arrangements. That way, I can brief you on the way back to my club where I intend to spend the night. A lot is riding on how the PM reacts to what’s going on.”
“Suits great,” Devon told him. “I’ll take Alfie Cheadle with me. He lives alone, so after we drop you off we’ll swing by his house to pick up his belongings, and then head over to mine to grab a few clean shirts, among other things. As you know, Emma’s gone to her parents so Cheadle and I will be the first house guests of Hotel LonWash. We’ll make arrangements for the others to filter in when the renovations are completed.”
***
The General’s meeting with the Prime Minister couldn’t have gone better. He had arrived at the back entrance to Downing Street determined not to accept anything less than full control over the activities of all covert agencies until this crisis had passed. The PM had to be made to understand that the attack on LonWash Securities went to the very heart of the country’s ability to successfully combat terrorism.
It was one of the reasons why the General had bypassed his usual briefing with the PM’s top aide, Sir Norman Melrose. Although Downing Street had made it clear the door was always open to Sandford, it had become custom and practice over the years for Sandford to feed everything through Melrose. Apart from the PM, Melrose was the only Government official to know the true nature of LonWash Securities, and the intelligence work they carried out on behalf of the country.
The General regretted leaving Melrose out of the loop. The aide was a staunch ally of the organisation and had proved his worth on countless occasions by helping divert attention from its operations and following through on whatever he was asked to do. The General would make it up to him.
Right now he needed to look the PM in the eye. He wanted to see for himself if the man blinked at any of his requests.
The General’s reasoning for taking control had a solid foundation. He was a member of the Government’s crisis COBRA committee, and it was known he had the ear of the PM when it came to dishing out advice on security matters. This had provided him with the ideal shield for LonWash Securities, an organisation the heads of other agencies believed had benefitted greatly not only from the General’s vast experiences, but also because of the inside track he had cultivated with the PM.
There were times when MI5 and MI6 had cut across LonWash operations, but saw them as little more than the blundering intrusions of a private sector firm, albeit one that seemed to have a lot of political clout. Sure, there were jurisdictional arguments, but these were usually resolved through the interventions of the General, a man they admired and respected for his services to his country, even if he had swopped his uniform to build what appeared to be a nice little nest-egg business.
What they couldn’t know was that the General was still serving his country, perhaps more diligently than any of them. All the private contracts and apparent lavishness of LonWash was designed for one purpose only. They were a camouflage for the true nature of the organisation, the development of a covert team that offered lethal responses to the actions of terrorists.
They didn’t build cases, they closed them. They didn’t believe in giving an enemy of the State his day in court. Instead, they offered only a one-way ticket to obscurity.
In the ten-years since he had established LonWash, the General had managed to keep these activities hidden from view. But now someone, somewhere, knew all about them. Unless the person could be found, there was no telling where this would lead.
He needed to convince the PM to agree to give him a certain carte blanche.
As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. He had rarely seen the PM in such a foul mood. As he eased back into the rear seat of the armoured Range Rover on the return journey from Downing Street, Sandford could still remember the parting words. “I don’t care what it takes, or what it costs, you find these people and put them out of business. If anyone stands in your way, or feels you don’t have the authority to do what you need to do, you have them call me. Until further notice, you are top of the tree of every police force, security agency, coastguard, customs, or whatever organisation your investigation cuts across.”
After relaying the main bullet points to Devon, who was behind the wheel, the General’s mind whirred with a succession of thoughts and ideas about how to proceed. He needed time to think this through. He was determined to prepare a strategy that would galvanise the vast resources that had just been placed at his disposal.
He was glad of his decision to head to his club, knowing that for most of the evening and into the early hours of the morning he would make use of one the club’s private suites to meet with people who didn’t usually like to have their feathers ruffled by interference from outsiders.
Chapter 12
THE ASSASSIN SAT IN HIS CAR just a block away from the world-famous Harrods department store in the heart of Knightsbridge. He had parked up more than an hour ago, with a clear line of sight to the imposing five-storey Georgian building, one of many on a street that housed some of London’s most exclusive offices and private members’ clubs.
Only a small, polished brass plaque - fixed into place at the top of three steps leading from the pavement - announced this as the home of The Shannon Club.
The uniformed attendant standing guard under an expansive gold-braid awning was a clearer indication that there was something special about the otherwise unadorned building.
The Club was founded in 1820 by a group of the city’s leading financiers. It was strictly a gentleman’s club, which was proud of its boast that in almost two hundred years no female had stepped foot inside its hallowed precincts. Over the years the bankers and investment brokers had allowed their ranks to be swelled by industrialists, retired Army personnel – provided they were at or above the rank of General – and by politicians, but only if they had held office as a Minister of the Crown.
Applications to join the Club were unheard of. Potential members had to be put forward in the strictest confidence, without their prior knowledge. Existing members voted by using small black or white balls, which were deposited in a locked box in the grand hallway on the second floor. If the box contained even one black ball at the appointed time of opening, the individual would be turned down and his name prohibited from being put forward again for a period of at least five years.
It was an antiquated organisation that had clung to its traditions despite the march of modernisation in the outside world. To General Sandford it was an anachronism, but one that served his purpose well. He used it as a retreat, making use of its luxurious lounges, its five-star cuisine, and its total assurance of discretion. It also had an upper floor of bedrooms that matched the finest of London’s hotels and were at the disposal of members who needed to stop over for the night, or who had become too intoxicated to make their way home.
At fifty-thou a year, membership of The Shannon Club didn’t come cheap, but as many of its patrons often observed: “If you need to ask how much, you most likely can’t afford it.”
The assassin knew the history of the place. He had read about it during his research on General Sandford’s movements. He knew his target v
isited here often and had determined this would be the best spot to carry out his assignment. He had waited here patiently for each of the past three evenings, and had snorted with derision every time someone entered the building. The decadence of the place made him want to throw up.
The lights of a vehicle entering the street caused him to jump in his seat.
The General watched as Devon eased the Range Rover against the pavement directly outside the Club. In the passenger seat Alfie Cheadle was already reaching for the door handle.
“Don’t bother, I can take it from here,” the General commanded.
“I’ll walk you to the door…”
“That’s not necessary.”
Cheadle swivelled to face the General. “Sir, our orders are to stay with you and, with respect, it was you who issued those orders to the whole group. None of us are to be alone over the next few weeks.”
“I know what I said, Alfie, but believe me this is one of the safest places in London. Besides, no one knows that I’m a member here. I intend to stay the night. You can pick me up at 8am. Now gentlemen, I will bid you goodnight. Go home and get some sleep.”
The General pushed open the door and stepped onto the pavement. He noticed the doorman stiffen and reach for a wall-mounted keypad. It was a regular occurrence. His job was to ensure that by the time a member reached the top step the number sequence would be completed and the automatic door would spring open. It would not do to keep a member waiting.
On this particular evening, however, the new arrival would not reach the top step.
The assassin waited until the Range Rover passed his position. The tinted windows meant he couldn’t see into the interior, but it had the look of a Government-issue vehicle, and that was good enough for him to swing into action. When it slowed and pulled to the kerbside, his reactions were immediate. He grabbed a Mini Uzi submachine pistol from where it was lying under a blanket on the passenger seat, thumbed the safety switch to off, and climbed out of his car.
He transferred the pistol to his right hand, which he held down by his side as he crossed the road. He was less than fifty yards from the Range Rover when the rear door opened.
He tensed as he continued his walk. If the person who alighted was not his target, he would simply mount the pavement and walk away in the opposite direction. If it was his target, he was a dead man walking.
He recognised the familiar shock of white hair and the side profile of his target as the man slammed the door behind him and began to walk toward the steps leading to The Shannon Club. There was now less than twenty yards between them. He hoisted the Uzi and pointed it at the receding back of General Sandford.
“For fuck’s sake, what are you doing?” Devon yelled at the General, but by that time the rear door was slamming shut.
Devon had already unbuckled his seat belt and pushed open his door to block the General’s path. As he rose to his feet, he became aware of a shadow approaching the car from the rear. He didn’t wait to look. The hairs rising on the back of his neck was all the warning he needed.
Devon dived low, aiming for the General’s knees in a classic rugby tackle. Even as the old man’s legs give way and he started to topple on top of Devon, the sound of automatic gunfire filled the quiet street with a deafening and foreboding echo.
The General’s body seemed to spasm as he collapsed on Devon, who rolled over him and screamed back at the car’s interior.
“Alfie, danger, danger on your nine.”
It was a superfluous warning. Cheadle had detected the movement through the car’s side mirror and was scrambling across the car to dive out the open driver’s door when the shots rang out.
Glock in hand, Cheadle threw his arm across the roof of the vehicle and began firing at the gunman whose response was to shift the Uzi in the direction of the new menace. He squeezed out a long burst, which forced Cheadle to duck behind the Rover’s armoured exterior.
By this time Devon had his Sig Sauer P226 unholstered. He rolled out from the rear of the vehicle, taking less than a millisecond to acquire his target. The figure was about ten feet away, turning the Uzi away from Cheadle’s position to point directly at him.
Devon didn’t give him a chance to depress the trigger again. The Sig spat out four quick 9mm rounds, all aimed at the gunman’s head. Devon watched as the figure was thrown backwards to crash heavily onto the tarmacked road.
Devon jumped to his feet, raced past the vehicle, and sprinted towards the spreadeagled figure. He kicked the Uzi away from the outstretched hand and stared down at a mangled face. His rounds had all found their target. For good measure he added a fifth, drilled directly into the dead man’s forehead.
He rushed back to the Rover, dreading what he would find. Cheadle was bent over the General, and there was a large pool of blood spreading out from below the prostrate figure.
Devon tried to walk forward, but his legs refused to budge. It was as if they were paralysed by shock. He would never forgive himself for not protecting the one man he admired above all others.
And then he heard the faintest of moans.
Chapter 13
THE SOUNDS OF EARLY MORNING rush-hour traffic drifted up from the streets to the New York penthouse apartment where Carl Stratton was hunched over a laptop reading the encrypted email that had pinged him awake.
Despite the brief contents expressing apology for failure, Stratton smiled at what he was reading. While he had slept, one of the assassins commissioned by Das Trio Berne, the bungling triumvirate led by Felix Hoffmeier, had made an attempt on the life of General Sandford. The General was currently in an intensive care unit at the Princess Grace Hospital in London’s Marylebone district, but his chances of survival were not known.
Alive or dead, it didn’t matter to Stratton. The fact that an attempt had been made, and that the old bastard had been put out of commission, would serve its purpose just as well.
For the time being, at least.
Stratton took stock of what had been achieved by Hoffmeier’s hired guns. One man dead, another in hospital, and no news on any of the other targets. To top matters, the assassin who had tried to snuff out General Sandford had been killed at the scene. No wonder Hoffmeier’s email was full of apologies and promises to do better. In any other circumstances Stratton would hop on a plane and pay a final visit to the former Nazi murderer.
Instead he continued to smile.
As he reread the email message he noted one other interesting piece of information. The CIA had somehow gotten involved. It was a lot sooner than he expected, but it might just help things along.
When he had first confronted Hoffmeier in his hotel room several weeks ago, Stratton had held out little hope of any meaningful culling of the LonWash Securities top team. What he had needed was a patsy to throw a spanner into the works, although he had hoped things would have progressed a lot further by now.
It was time to nudge them along.
He spent the next hour working on a new email mandate, but this time it would not go to Hoffmeier. In an important break from protocol, Stratton decided to make direct contact with the list of assassins, a list he had insisted on receiving as part of Hoffmeier’s original instructions.
There was nothing direct, however, about the way in which the emails would eventually end up in the inboxes of the recipients. Stratton was a computer genius, well-versed in the methodologies of piggybacking servers and bouncing the message across several continents in an untraceable trail of confusion.
Anyone trying to backtrack would simply run into a spaghetti configuration of red-herring codes. There was simply no way of breaking through.
Unless the original sender wanted you to.
The challenge for Stratton was to lay a few crumbs, an IP address fragment here, a longer-than-usual server bounce there. Done in such a way that it would appear to an expert to be the result of carelessness or amateurishness on the part of the sender.
Satisfied he had ticked all the right boxes, Stra
tton hit the send button and eased back in his chair. His grin had just got wider.
He loved manipulating people. It was what he had done for the past twenty years, mostly spent standing in the shadows while his various bank accounts grew to obscene amounts, money that he needed to fulfil a lifetime ambition.
Find a weakness and you can make most people do just about anything. That’s what he had done with Hoffmeier and his two cronies, Jurgen Kappel and Dieter Neumann. In many ways he admired how as young men they had seized the opportunity to rise from obscurity to the heights of power, crushing minions with a ruthlessness similar to what he himself had demonstrated on many occasions. In another era he might have enjoyed working alongside them, but their time had been and gone.
He had stumbled across their exploits quite by chance when he hacked into the computers of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Programme on behalf of a client who wanted to trace a priceless artefact believed stolen by the Nazis in Paris in 1942. He was fascinated by a number of post-war investigations that kept throwing up the names of Das Trio Berne, and became convinced that these men had pulled off one of the greatest financial coups of the twentieth century.
He had quickly downloaded whatever information he could find about them before computer-scrubbing all mention of them from official MFAAP records. In less than six months he had compiled a detailed dossier of their financial activities over almost half a century, in the knowledge that the opportunity would arise to bend them to his will.
He had done much the same thing with a prominent politician whose proclivity for young boys was brought to his attention more than a decade earlier. Stratton had bided his time, spending considerable sums in gathering evidence, including videos, to ensure his target was snared. He pounced at just the right moment, shortly after the man was appointed to one of the top positions in the Government of the United Kingdom.
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