He decided at an early stage that his ultimate goal would be the destruction of what he saw as British interference in Islamic affairs. To achieve this he intended to blow up the Houses of Parliament, a notion that would have been laughed at as utterly ridiculous in his days as an agent, but one he knew could be made a reality by the use of a new breed of super explosives. He had first come across Malponium 23, a liquid variant of PBX explosives, when he was engaged in an MI6 operation against dissident Russians in Chechnya. He had tracked down a young scientist to a remote farm near Grozny and was amazed to discover what had been achieved by combining traditional bomb-making ingredients, such as Torpex, Tritonal and Amatol in a new process that produced results to match those of the destructive power of a nuclear payload.
What struck Stratton as incredible was that the equivalent energy output of a five-kiloton nuclear device could be replicated by using only a fraction of its size and weight, and with no telltale signatures which could be picked up by terrestrial or orbital satellite surveillance.
He spared the scientist’s life, arranged for him to be spirited out of the country, and set him up at a holiday home in the Bahamas. He put him to work, making a new batch of Malponium 23, which was later transferred into small, specialised containers made to look like batteries for laptop computers.
The next problem for Stratton was how to transport the explosive to Britain. His knowledge of the country’s intelligence-gathering methods and operations provided him with a vital edge in being able to operate under their radar. In truth, he believed it would be no great challenge to defeat them.
At first he thought of simply mass-producing a new range of laptops and shipping them, complete with their lethal battery units, to a bonafide electronics wholesaler in London. He knew from experience that MI6 would have no reason to question what appeared to be a perfectly legitimate import trade transaction involving everyday goods. Yes, they might ask for a Customs report on the goods, but would accept at face value whatever turned up in a routine inspection. All that a Customs official would see was the normal inner workings of a laptop, complete with two replica batteries.
He established a small manufacturing plant in Nassau, secured the services of an established distributor, and lowered the price range well below the High Street offerings of leading brands. Just one more manufacturer flooding the market with cheap foreign goods.
The initial plan was to prepare a special order of twenty machines, complete with the Malponium 23 payload, for delivery to a small shop he had opened as a front on London’s Woodburn Road, near Euston train station. It was run by an unsuspecting woman who had replied to a job advertisement placed by a recruitment company, which continued to deal with the business paperwork on behalf of a shell company.
It was all done with Stratton’s usual penchant for patience. Don’t draw attention by rushing into completing the little tasks. Establish a presence, get known by the local populace, and don’t offer an excuse for the authorities to question the legitimacy of a new activity. Take time to build a cover, blend in, and wait for the opportunity.
But then something happened that made Stratton rethink his strategy. The high-ranking politician he had ensnared because of his fondness for little boys had tipped him off about a secretive counter-terrorism outfit that seemed to be operating with a special mandate from the Government, and which was achieving results far beyond those being recorded by the official agencies.
It was a game-changer, not least because Stratton didn’t like dealing with the unknown. Having covered all the bases as far as MI6 was concerned, here was an X-factor capable of throwing a spanner into the works.
He hated off-the-books operations. Having been involved with them on too many occasions, he understood how they worked. No chain of command, no rules, no interference. Cut corners, get the job done, and forget the niceties.
Whoever they were, they needed to be dealt with.
Stratton started digging up everything he could about LonWash Securities. The first report he received told him all he needed to know. One name jumped off the page.
Mike Devon.
One of the new breed. A younger version of himself. They had never worked together, but he had heard about Devon’s exploits shortly before marching through the Vauxhall Cross revolving door to be deposited on Civvy Street.
So what had taken Devon through that same door to a new career? Was a chance to be independent too good to pass up? What kind of operation was he heading up? What kind of resources did he have at his disposal? What were his parameters? Who had he recruited?
As the answers came together, Stratton decided on the simplest method for dealing with LonWash Securities. Divert their attention away from their normal duties. Send them off on a wild goose chase. Give them something to deal with outside their comfort zone.
Put a price on their heads and watch them chase shadows.
It had taken three years for Stratton to put together the components of his London operation. Three years was nothing to a patient man.
Everything was in place, but he needed a hook. There had to be more to it than simply being responsible for a blockbuster event. He needed a sign from Allah that this was what he had been singled out to do. He wanted to leave a legacy that would change the world for Muslims.
The rise of Islamic State provided him with an answer.
Formed as a Jihadist militant group, the IS began a sweep across Iraq and Syria in a campaign of unprecedented terror, which convinced Stratton that here at last was a unifying force with the potential to create a new order. Influenced by the Wahhabi movement’s roots in the Sunni religion, IS demonstrated a capability to unite the Muslim world in a way never before achieved.
They grabbed the attention of America and its western allies with a series of brutal genocides, including the slaughter of children, and announced their intention to establish a modern Caliphate, a state ruled by a single political and religious leader. The West had heard it all before, but when Islamic State began the public beheading of captured American and British nationals, a sombre mood of realism descended on Washington and London.
Looking on from the sidelines, Stratton saw a golden opportunity. If Islamic State was to fulfil its potential it needed to demonstrate its capabilities outside the Middle East. His planned attack on London would now be carried out under the IS badge.
Finally, Allah had shown him a way.
First, he had to deal with LonWash Securities. They were too much of an unknown quantity to ignore. He realised quickly that he needed a change in approach for transporting his explosive-filled laptops. Instead of making a single delivery – something that could be stumbled on by Mike Devon’s new agency - he had decided to move the false battery components through a number of couriers, all of whom, like the captain of the container ship operating out of the Bahamas, were coerced into carrying out his wishes.
He now had twenty-four battery units stockpiled in a safe location in the centre of London. Enough to make three lethal packages, each comprising eight units, and each capable of demolishing buildings within a two-hundred yard radius.
The three would be delivered to separate targets in London, using different methods for getting them on site, and ensuring each operation was independent of the other. It would be a failsafe Blitzkrieg, the kind of sudden attack that could not be countered.
The main target was the Houses of Parliament. The removal of one of the world’s landmark sites would be the icing on the cake. The guaranteed death of many thousands of people, including perhaps hundreds of politicians, would reverberate for decades.
Carl Stratton smiled as the Virgin Atlantic Boeing 787 left the runway at John F Kennedy International Airport and climbed to its cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. In a little over seven hours from now he would touch down at London Heathrow to begin the final phase of his masterplan.
Chapter 22
THE SUN THREW shadows across the garden of the country house in Basildon,
Essex. Less than an hour’s drive from central London, the scene could well have been on another planet. Clean, scented air and the chirping of a dozen species of small birds was a world away from the pollution and clamour of a city locked in some sort of crazy fast-forward mode.
Devon sat at a patio table, his hand wrapped around a coffee mug, and watched as his son scampered excitedly across the manicured lawn in pursuit of a butterfly, which steadfastly refused the child’s earnest pleas to fly into his cupped hands. Every so often the boy stumbled, rose to his feet in a fit of giggles, and continued the chase. It was a priceless scene, one that Devon didn’t mind admitting he could observe for hours.
He turned at the sound of the patio doors opening and watched as his wife crossed to the table. He knew she had only just climbed from her bed, yet her hair was immaculately groomed, and there was a hint of make-up on her cheeks. The sunlight hit her face, adding to the radiance of her complexion. It was another scene he could relish for hours.
“Someone got up early,” Emma teased, as she ran her fingers through his hair.
“Thought you deserved a lie-in. Besides, it’s about time I took my early-morning turn with young Michael. I can’t believe how he continues to grow. Must be all this country air.”
Emma pulled up a seat and looked anxiously at her husband. “Did you sleep alright? You tossed and turned a lot during the night.”
“Never better. I admit the past week has been stressful, but seeing you and Michael was just what I needed. We still have a lot to do to wrap up this mess, but I’m hoping things can get back to normal within a few days.”
Emma leaned forward. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Devon didn’t hesitate. He had never kept things from his wife, and he wasn’t about to start now. “We tracked down Dave Carpenter’s killer and, thanks to Claude Bartran, he won’t be killing anyone else.”
“Claude! How did he become involved?”
“Long story short, he did all the donkey work in finding him. By the way, he sends his regards and insists we take up his offer to spend some time at his holiday home in Brittany. I assured him we would.”
“What now?”
“For starters, I intend to visit Clare Carpenter. She deserves to hear about this first hand. I don’t know if it will help, but I made a promise to let her know about any developments.”
“Trust me,” Emma said, “it will help knowing that her husband’s killer has been brought to justice.”
Devon nodded. “My next port of call will be to visit General Sandford. They tell me he is sitting up in bed and ordering the nursing staff around. It will be good to have him back on board, particularly with a lot of loose ends still to be tied up.”
“What kind of loose ends?”
“Alan Doyle and the team are chasing down leads on the three remaining assassins. The last I heard they were in pursuit of a target heading towards Scotland, would you believe? For now, I will let them get on with it. There are other things that need to be done.”
Emma frowned. “I get a sense there is more to this than you are letting on.”
“No, darling. I just need to find the man who paid for these assassins. Maybe then I can figure out the motive. Right now, I can’t help thinking we’re dealing with a lot of smoke and mirrors. There’s got to be more to this than some personal vendetta.”
Emma smiled and reached out to clasp her husband’s hand. “You’ll work it out, you always do. When are you heading back to London?”
Devon stood and walked towards the garden, shouting over his shoulder. “I thought tomorrow would be time enough. What about a picnic this afternoon?”
***
Alan Doyle was out of his comfort zone. A long way out. The brash ex-soldier didn’t usually waste too much time caring what people thought about him. His hard-drinking, womanising days might have disappeared in the rear-view mirror many birthdays ago, but he still retained a certain aloofness and, yes, even disdain, for the fairer sex. He didn’t need women in his life. They weren’t worth the trouble.
So, why had he taken extra care with his grooming this morning? How come he felt like a schoolkid waiting to pluck up the courage to ask the girl next door for a first date?
The answer sat beside him, their knees occasionally touching, and her perfume doing strange things to his inner workings. Agent Chelsea Horgan was stirring Doyle in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
He needed to get real. Why would a stunning young woman be interested in a one-arm tosser like him? His repertoire that barely extended beyond a detailed knowledge of rugby teams, the inner workings of a car engine, and the films of John Wayne. Yeah, that would make for some sparkling conversation with a young lady, who was probably an avid book reader, frequently attended the opera, and could write a thesis on world politics.
Talk about a non-starter!
He chased the nonsense thoughts from his head and continued to stare at the countryside as it flashed past the windows of the London to Edinburgh train. Two hours earlier, they had tracked one of the assassins, Martin Greene, to a small hotel in London’s Hounslow district. According to staff, he had just booked out after asking for information about trains to Scotland from King’s Cross Station.
By the time Doyle and Horgan had arrived at the station, one of the regular services had just left. They decided to take the next train on the hour-by-hour schedule, hoping to pick up Greene’s trail from Waverly Station in Edinburgh. The LonWash techies, with their usual efficiency, had come up with photos of their suspect, which they would show around the taxi ranks. The might get lucky. For now, it was all they could do.
“Hello, is there anyone at home?”
Doyle turned to face Horgan. “Sorry, I was a million miles away.”
“I was asking you about Mike Devon. You two seem to be very close. What’s he like to work for?”
Doyle was usually reticent about engaging in chit-chat, but he found himself talking freely. “Mike’s one of the good guys. I owe him a lot. In fact, I owe him everything.”
“Let me guess,” Horgan interrupted, “he once saved your life and now you feel you owe him something?”
“It’s not like that at all. Yeah, he did save my bacon on more than once occasion, but the truth is he pulled me out of the neck of a bottle and helped put me back on track at a time when I was at a low point. If he hadn’t looked me up when he did, I doubt I could have survived another year.”
The smile drained from Horgan’s face. “Look, I’m sorry about being frivolous. Care to tell me about it?”
It was the first time Doyle had ever spoken about his earlier life to a stranger. Somehow, it felt right. He told Horgan about the time he spent with Devon on an undercover mission in Northern Ireland, one that had ended in a bloody gun battle in which he had lost his right arm and led to his discharge on medical grounds. “I didn’t deal well with it. I wallowed in self-pity, hit the drink pretty hard, and kept a loaded pistol by the bed while I worked up the courage to end it. Don’t remember much about it other than the days and nights blurred together and there didn’t seem any reason to go out other than to the nearest off-licence.”
Horgan sat listening, reluctant to say anything that would stop Doyle talking.
“Anyway, Mike tracked me down, gave me a bit of a lecture, and made me get my ass in gear. He spent a few weeks at my home, weaned me off the bottle, put me through a crash course to restore my fitness, and then offered me a job with LonWash Securities. I’ve a lot to thank him for.”
“Wow,” Horgan exclaimed, “I didn’t see that coming. I didn’t mean to pry, but I’m real glad you told me. From where I’m sitting I see a two-way street. I’m betting you did a lot for him as well. If you ask me, Mike Devon is a pretty lucky guy to have you as a friend.”
Doyle felt himself blush. He rose quickly. “I need to use the head, sorry, toilet,” he blurted as he stepped into the aisle and walked towards the rear of the compartment.
He was b
ack in less than twenty seconds.
“That was quick.”
“You’re never going to believe who I just saw through the door into the next carriage!”
Chapter 23
“MARTIN GREENE! Wonder why he didn’t catch the earlier train? Boy, this is gonna save us a lot of legwork.”
“Yeah,” Doyle agreed. “Who knows what happened. Maybe the taxi driver stretched the fare by taking him on the tourist trail, or could be he’s just a thicko who couldn’t find his way around a whorehouse with a fistful of cash.”
Horgan smiled. “A rather colourful analogy, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Sorry, just a product of spending too much time around a barracks room.”
“So, how do you wanna play this?”
“We take him here and now. I’m not gonna risk losing him among the crowds at the next station. We go in hard and fast, and put the bastard down before he knows what hit him.”
Horgan raised her eyebrows. “You mean we just mosey on in there and clobber him as we walk past? Think it’ll be that easy?”
“Nothing’s ever easy, but we’ll have the element of surprise on our side. We’ll just be an ordinary couple walking between carriages, with nothing to arouse his suspicion until we’re on top of him.”
Horgan shook her head. “You’re not thinking this through, Alan. Don’t forget, yours is one of the names on Greene’s hit list. Maybe you were even his main target. In any case there’s a chance he has seen a file on you, probably studied your mugshot, and burned those craggy features into his brain. This thing could turn real messy if he jumps up and starts shooting the moment we enter that carriage.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Sure do. I’ll go in alone.”
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