Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  He resigned himself to the fact that he hadn’t the guts to commit suicide. The only way to keep his daughter safe was to keep his mouth shut. But that didn’t sit too well with Charlie Wilson. Enough was enough. He had to do something, tell someone. He had to get this out of his system before it ate through to his very soul.

  He knew when he was blackmailed into smuggling the small laptop battery units into the country that there was something sinister about them. At first he had hoped they were nothing more than fancy containers for drugs or diamonds, but something had kept gnawing away at the back of his mind. What if the units contained some kind of chemical? He had heard about things like Ricin and what the effects of even small quantities could have if sent in the mail to unsuspecting people. No, Charlie was not having it. He would go to the police, tell them what he knew, and demand protection for his daughter and her family.

  He locked the Webley back in the bureau, grabbed a bag containing his red laptop, and walked out the front door.

  Twenty minutes later he was sitting in a small room on the third floor of the New Scotland Yard building in Broadway. It had taken some time to convince a reception officer of the importance of his visit, but he was finally taken to a lift and ushered into the room to await the attention of a Detective Inspector.

  The rest of the afternoon became a blur for Charlie. He remembered the policeman appearing rather officious and bored at the outset of their meeting, but after leaving the office to check on something, his whole demeanour had changed quite dramatically on his return. Other people had crammed into the small room in the course of the day, and Charlie found himself having to respond to a barrage of questions, often fired at him simultaneously by different officers.

  At around four o’clock, a tall man in a braided uniform opened the door and ordered everyone out. He took Charlie to a plush office on the top floor and assured him that his family had already been taken into protective custody. Charlie himself was to be detained for his own safety. The man, who introduced himself as the assistant commissioner in charge of anti-terrorism, asked Charlie for permission to conduct a thorough forensic check on his apartment in the hope of picking up traces of DNA from the uninvited guest who had held him at gunpoint and forced him into becoming a courier.

  Without hesitation, Charlie handed over his keys.

  Shortly after lunchtime that afternoon Manfred Stelling had walked around the corner of the building in which Charlie’s flat was located. He failed to see the taxi moving out into the traffic stream, or the back of Charlie’s head as he rested against the rear seat. Five minutes earlier and Charlie Wilson would have been a dead man.

  Stelling had carefully picked the lock and let himself into the flat. He had spent over an hour ransacking the rooms, but could find no sign of the red laptop. He knew from the warmish feel of one of the rings on a small kitchen cooker, that his prey was currently home on leave, rather than at sea, just as Carl Stratton told him would be the case. There was no way for Stelling to know how long Wilson had left the flat, but he had decided to settle in to wait.

  Two hours later, Stelling had had enough. He rigged a small explosive device to the gas cooker, set a five-minute timer, and opened all the valves. Annoyed with himself for having missed the opportunity to kill the old seaman, Stelling slammed the door behind him and made his way back to his car, parked two streets away.

  By the time a Scotland Yard forensic team van pulled into the street, the area was cluttered with Fire and Rescue trucks. There was no prospect of saving the building.

  Melissa Foster thought nothing of the high-roof Ford Transit that pulled up outside the door of her Woodburn Road electronics shop shortly after midday. The markings on the side panels clearly showed it was a private mail service, although she couldn’t remember any outstanding stock deliveries. She was happy and content in her work, grateful for the independence afforded by an absent owner. Getting this job so close to home was her one stroke of good fortune in an otherwise dreary life, spent trying to make ends meet while providing constant care to her ailing mother. All in all, however, Melissa considered herself to be one of the lucky ones.

  She smiled as the delivery man opened the door and walked in with a small brown parcel. He set in on the counter, asked her to sign for it, and handed her an envelope. The two exchanged pleasantries before the man exited the shop, leaving Melissa to wonder what it would be like to have someone such as him in her life. He looked the strong, athletic type, even if he carried with him a haughtiness that reminded her of Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, her favourite book.

  She grabbed a letter opener and slid it under the fold of the white A5 envelope. She recognised the letterhead of the holding company which owned her business. There was a brief three-line typed message, instructing her to hold the package unopened for collection on Friday by a representative of a mail-order computer supply business. She glanced at the box and read a label announcing: This Side Up – Laptop Parts.

  Melissa reached out for a yellow Post-It notes block, tore off the top sheet, and scribbled a reminder message about Friday’s collection. She thumped it against the box, before carrying it across the room to a small shelf. By the time she walked back to the counter, she had already forgotten about it.

  It had never crossed Melissa Foster’s mind to wonder why the package had not been delivered directly to the intended recipient.

  Chapter 30

  THE GULLIBILITY of people never ceased to amaze Carl Stratton. He watched through the shop window, shaking his head in bewilderment, as Melissa Foster stowed away the package. Did she really believe that her limited experiences should have landed her such a cushy number? Had she never stopped to consider that jobs in the real world had to be earned by putting in years of foot-slogging toil to justify being given full management of a business in a busy high street store? Probably not. She was undoubtedly one of those people who grew up believing in the Tooth Fairy and clinging to the notion that she would one day win the National Lottery.

  He aimed the Transit away from the pavement and joined the flow of traffic heading into Central London, already dismissing the silly woman from his thoughts. Come Friday, she would have served her purpose.

  Stratton took the opportunity to look around as the van sped down Woodburn Road. It was one of the busiest outer-limit regions of the city, with shops, office blocks and schools crammed into a few square miles, surrounded by the districts of Enfield, Hounslow and Harrow. He had chosen well. A major explosion here would cripple the entire western side of the city. More importantly, it would divert attention away from his primary targets in the southeast.

  But, he chided himself, he was looking too far ahead. He had just over two days to go, and there were things still to be done, starting with the removal of Sir Norman Melrose. Now, there was a man beneath contempt! Quite apart from his baseness in the pursuit of young boys, he had found the politician an altogether contemptible person, willing to sell out his soul and his country for his own self interests. It was because of people like Melrose that the Islamic world could no longer live in the shadows. The world needed to be cleansed of the filth and hypocrisy represented by these elitist fools. Melrose would die tonight.

  He looked at the dashboard clock and estimated he would arrive in time to watch Melrose climb from his official Government car and disappear into the luxury of his riverside apartment. He did so most evenings at precisely seven o’clock. Stratton would wait for the security detail to leave for the evening, and then he would provide Melrose with a one-way ticket to hell. He relished the prospect of drawing the knife slowly across the bastard’s white neck.

  He nosed the Transit into a parking spot opposite the apartment entrance, noting he had five minutes to spare. He killed the engine and looked up the street, not quite believing what he was seeing. Stratton had been around too many corners not to realise that a pair of black, window-darkened Range Rovers, abandoned at the kerb fifty yards from his position, were security service vehic
les.

  Before he could marshal his thoughts, the door of the apartment building opened and three men stepped out, each carrying two sealed plastic bags. They walked to the rear of the vehicles, and placed the sacks into the boot compartments. A fourth man emerged from the building and stood on the top step. He fished into his pocket, removed a packet, and lit a cigarette.

  Stratton froze. He recognised the face of Peter Ramsden, now head of MI6, and one of the rising stars by the time Stratton had left the service. Their paths had rarely crossed, but he remembered Ramsden’s reputation for being able to read intelligence tea leaves, and for his ability to plan the most intricate of operations.

  It was obvious this was no social call. Stratton knew at once that Melrose had somehow been compromised. This changed everything, but his dark mood didn’t last for long. He did not for one second downplay the significance of Ramsden being on his tail, but maybe, just maybe, he could use this to his advantage.

  Felix Hoffmeier woke shortly after three o’clock. His bedroom was bathed in darkness, save for a sliver of light shining through a partly-closed curtain. He checked the red glow from the digital screen of a small alarm clock on a bedside cabinet, wondering why he had stirred in the middle of the night. A glass of brandy and a strong sedative usually meant he could depend on getting an uninterrupted eight-hour sleep. He snorted in annoyance, and rolled on his left side, pulling the quilt over his shoulders.

  A minute passed before Hoffmeier realised he was not going to get back to sleep. It was not because he wasn’t tired. It was because he sensed a presence in the room. He shot upright in the bed, staring into the gloom. Gradually, the figure of a man began to take shape.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” Herr Hoffmeier. “Now, I want you to carefully reach across and switch on your table lamp. If you do anything silly, I will be forced to kill you, and that would be a pity. I feel we should get to know each other first.”

  Alfie Cheadle was enjoying the moment, his first major assignment flying solo. He had left London in the Dassault shortly after a final teatime briefing with Devon, and was wheels-down in the executive jet section of Vienna’s international airport within two hours. After clearing an onboard cursory customs check, he had retrieved his Glock 19 from a hidden compartment, deplaned, and taxied across town. He spent several hours in an all-night restaurant before making his way on foot to Leopoldstadt, an attractive suburban retreat on the bank of the Danube. Breaking into Hoffmeier’s house was a piece of cake, despite the impressive-looking array of burglar-alarm boxes dotted around the exterior.

  “What is the meaning of this? What do you want?” A tremor in Hoffmeier’s voice betrayed his attempt to appear relaxed and confident.”

  Cheadle was in no mood for small talk. “We need to talk about why you engaged a bunch of assassins to target the company I work for. I want to know every last detail about the operation, and I want you to point me in the direction of any others who were involved in this conspiracy.”

  Felix Hoffmeier had been around too many corners not to know when the game was up. It really didn’t matter how these people had tracked him down. All that mattered was that he somehow extricated himself from the situation he now found himself in. He had known too many men like this one, men who would have no hesitation in pulling the trigger. He had to come clean and hope he could find some leverage that would mean saving his skin.

  Hoffmeier held nothing back. He explained about his past and how this was used against him. He recounted the methods he had employed to recruit the assassins, and revealed the laborious email trails that were followed on the instructions of a man he kept referring to as Mutterficker, a name that lost nothing in translation.

  Cheadle delved into his pocket for his smartphone, pressed a few buttons, and showed the screen to Hoffmeier. “Is this your Mutterficker?”

  “Ja, that is he,” Hoffmeier responded as he gazed at the e-Fit image.

  Cheadle motioned for Hoffmeier to climb out of the bed. He stood aside to let the German cross to the bedroom door. “I need you to go to your study, power up your laptop, and do precisely what I tell you.”

  Hoffmeier looked at the Gemtech suppressor threaded into the barrel of the pistol. The hand that held it was rock-steady. “I will do whatever you ask.”

  Cheadle had already scoped out the house before interrupting Hoffmeier’s sleep. He had spotted the laptop and had decided he would be taking it with him. You never knew what the LonWash tech boys could pull from a hard drive.

  He ordered the German to write all passwords on a notepad, then watched as he powered up the machine. The launch screen was awash with folder icons, some familiar to Cheadle, but most displayed pictures and logos he had never seen before. He quizzed Hoffmeier for twenty minutes, demanding explanations for most of the programme functions, and ensuring any encryptions were removed.

  He learned nothing new. Devon was right about it being nothing more than a dead end. But it was a dead end that had to be tied up. It was time to do just that.

  Cheadle stepped away from the desk and aimed the Glock at the back of Hoffmeier’s head. “I want the names of all your accomplices, and that means anyone who was involved in this operation. Don’t make the mistake of holding anything back.”

  Hoffmeier was in no mood to protect his lifelong friends. “My partners were Jurgen Kappel and Dieter Neumann. It was they who planned all this and forced me to work with them. I begged them not to get involved, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  Cheadle ignored the obvious attempt at blame-shifting and pointed his weapon at the notepad. “Write down all contact details for these men. I want to know every address where they might be found.”

  Hoffmeier scribbled furiously. When he finished, he tore off the top sheet and handed it to Cheadle. “There, I have done what you asked. There is no need for you to kill me. I am just an innocent businessman who was duped by two friends.”

  Cheadle’s response was to aim the Glock at the centre of Hoffmeier’s forehead. “There is just one more thing. By our reckoning you set aside ten million Euros to pay the assassins. They won’t be needing it, but we know of at least one widow who will.” He fished in his pocket for a scrap of paper and set it on the desk. “You will transfer ten million to this numbered account and don’t try to build in any fancy recall transaction.”

  Hoffmeier saw his way out. “Ja, that is only fair. I too have been a victim and I don’t want any part of this blood money. This will make things right.” His fingers attacked the keyboard, and suddenly pop-ups started appearing on the screen. After several minutes he leaned back in his seat. “There, it is done.”

  Cheadle ordered him to unplug the machine and stow it in its case. He slung the strap over his shoulder, and backpedalled towards the door. “Do not turn around. Wait for five minutes after I leave.”

  “Ja, Ja.”

  Cheadle reached the door and pushed down on a brass handle, but he wasn’t ready for leaving just yet. He shouted back across the room. “Turn around! You didn’t really think you could buy us off.”

  Hoffmeier spun in the chair, his eyes wide with fright. His brain didn’t have time to process the small flash that erupted from the suppressor. The hollow-point 9mm cartridge entered just above the centre of his forehead, expanded on impact, and turned parts of his frontal and parietal lobes into a gooey mess.

  Chapter 31

  THE HUNT FOR Carl Stratton was now six hours old. According to one of the most detailed forensic audits ever undertaken by the Bank of England, he was profiled as being in the top one hundred of the world’s richest men, with interests in a variety of multi-national companies, all of which were squeaky clean. Although he had personal accounts in a dozen countries, nothing of concern could be found in the statements of transactions that were being poured over by a team of twenty analysts. Carl Stratton was either a man with nothing to hide, or one who knew how to bury things he didn’t want to be found.

  An examination of the
records of the National Property Database and the Valuation Office Agency elicited no evidence of property, be it commercial, domestic, or industrial, held in Stratton’s name. Nor was there any mention of his leasing premises, or paying UK taxes, or even holding a mobile phone contract. To all intents and purposes he had left England shortly after resigning from MI6, and never returned.

  For the most part, the investigations were led by MI5, Britain’s internal security service, but it was left to MI6, the local equivalent of America’s CIA, to chase down the most promising lead. The summary of Stratton’s business activities showed he was headquartered in New York, with a penthouse apartment in Manhattan. A call to Homeland Security resulted in six agents racing to the address.

  A bemused doorman was able to tell them that his former resident had left on a business trip. The names of all flight passengers travelling out of LaGuardia, Newark and JFK within a four-hour window of Stratton leaving the apartment were checked. The search drew a blank. Next, it was decided to match passenger boarding photos against the e-Fit that had been jpegged from London. The facial recognition software took less than ten minutes to find a ninety-seven percent match. Stratton had used an alias.

  The information was relayed back to Peter Ramsden at MI6. He sent a team to London Heathrow to scan arrival security footage, a job made easy by knowing the exact flight check-in time. Stratton was pinged on a number of cameras as he moved through Customs and baggage clearance areas. The watchers saw him meeting with a large bald man in the arrivals lounge, and were able to switch to exterior camera footage to track the pair to the short-stay car park.

  A pole-mounted camera at the exit barrier clearly showed the faces of the two men in a beige-coloured Daimler. What it also showed was the vehicle’s registration plates.