Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  He waited for questions, but none came. “The way I see it is that if the property angle turns up a lead, then well and good. But what if it doesn’t? How about we look at searching for the unusual? What about ignoring Stratton and his companies and looking at all property deals, say over the past year? Is there any way we can insert filters to help us narrow down transactions that were completed in circumstances that merit a closer look? Something that was rushed through? Something that attracted an over-the-odds price? Something that, I don’t know, just got done in a way that ought to raise an eyebrow?”

  Halloran slumped back in his seat. “Boy, you really don’t believe in doing things the easy way. Have you any idea how many property deals are done in London every year? You are looking at trawling through countless thousands of transactions, and that’s gonna need more than just two or three primary filters.”

  Devon responded. “How about if we ignore the house market? I think we’re looking strictly for commercial property, and more likely it will be property that is inner-city based. I think we can concentrate on storage space, lock-up garages, and small wholesale and retail units.”

  He looked at Halloran for a reaction. “Tim?”

  “It’s beginning to sound more doable. I guess there’s no point asking what kind of timescale we’re under?”

  Devon frowned. “Yesterday is probably too late.”

  Halloran pushed back his chair and stood up. “Yesterday it is then.”

  “Before you go, there’s just one more thing.” Devon regretted having to add to the workload, but he didn’t have a choice. “Can you get one of your team to work separately on tracking down all the London retail outlets for a specific range of red laptops?”

  “And the hits keep coming,” Halloran muttered as he left the room.

  Devin turned his attention to Cheadle. “Great job in Austria, Alfie. It was a nice touch to get Hoffmeier to transfer ten million into our operating account. I’ll see to it that Clare Carpenter gets a sizeable share to help her get on with her life, not that it will go any way close to compensating for her loss.”

  Cheadle beamed. “There’s something else I learned from Herr Hoffmeier before he departed for his wings. He gave up the names of two accomplices, Jurgen Kappel and Dieter Neumann. What do you want to do about them?”

  “Nothing for now,” Devon told him. “Don’t worry, we’ll get around to dealing with them when the time is right.”

  Chapter 36

  AN ELECTRONIC door beep signalled the arrival of a new customer and drew Melissa Foster’s attention away from a fashion catalogue that was spread on the counter below her. It was the first interruption of a boring morning.

  She watched as a man closed the door behind him, noting the navy blue business suit, white shirt and Paisley tie. Thick, black-rimmed glasses sat on a bulbous nose, and his beard stubble looked as if it had been groomed to match the length of the black and white buzz-cut surrounding his head. Melissa noticed details such as these, particularly when it came to sizing up men.

  She smiled as her visitor approached the counter and hoisted a leather briefcase onto the surface. “Good morning. I take it you are Miss Foster?”

  “Yes, yes, I am,” Melissa stuttered, not quite understanding how this stranger knew her name.

  Carl Stratton returned the smile, buoyed by the realisation that this woman couldn’t see through his disguise. It was less than twenty-four hours since he had last spoken to her, and had watched from the mail van as she stored away the parcel intended to end her life and those of dozens of other people unfortunate to be in the vicinity of Woodburn Road when he triggered the explosion.

  Now things had changed. He needed somewhere to lie low. The electronics shop, with its unused first-floor storage rooms, was as good as place as any. His first thought had been to kill the woman and stow her body, to be found among the carnage sometime after noon on Friday. However, there was bound to be a husband, or boyfriend, or sister, or mother out there somewhere. If a missing person’s alert was raised when she failed to come home from work, this was the first place the police would come looking.

  A more subtle approach was required.

  “Miss Foster, I represent the owners of this business. I’m sorry to tell you that we are selling up and that your services will no longer be needed.”

  She gasped. “Oh my God, what will I do?”

  Stratton smiled benignly. “Please don’t fret. We have made arrangements for a very handsome severance packet. You will receive two hundred thousand pounds in lieu of your outstanding service. The paperwork will be completed within the next week, but for now I am authorised to make you an interim cash payment of ten thousand pounds.”

  He opened the suitcase and withdrew a brown envelope which he pushed across the counter. “I can tell you confidentially that we received an offer to sell the premises as part of a major redevelopment of this area. It was an offer we could not refuse, but I must warn you that you are to say nothing about this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s really rather simple. Negotiations are at a delicate stage and we don’t want to start rumours until everything has been settled. Tell your friends that you are on holiday, but do not mention this sale to anyone. This is extremely important. Remember, your final settlement depends on your discretion.”

  Stratton wanted to be sure the woman would not draw undue attention to the property. One look at her demeanour told him that she would do just about anything to protect the pay-off that had been dangled in front of her. He asked her for her keys, watched as she gathered her personal belongings, and then escorted her to the door.

  She stepped outside the shop and looked around. “You know, this place could really do with being redeveloped.”

  Stratton smiled. “Trust me, it will be barely recognisable.”

  Devon looked through the fifty magnification binoculars from his front-seat vantage point less than a hundred yards to the east of the building. The downstairs retail unit was in darkness, hardly surprising at six-thirty on a winter’s evening. All shops in this particular area had closed for the day.

  However, the target building differed in one respect from the others around it. It was the only one showing an upper floor awash with lights, and the shadows of people walking around the interior could be clearly seen from the outside, despite the severe opaque glazing designed to ensure privacy for whatever activity was taking place. Devon was pretty sure it was not something as innocent as a pre-Christmas stock-take.

  He had picked out the address from a list of twenty-eight property transactions supplied by Halloran’s analysts who had raised a flag against each of them, for one reason or another. Devon’s initial scan took him barely halfway down the list before he stopped to read the short note against one entry. According to what the analysts could find, this terraced retail and office block had gone on the market for offers in the region of four hundred thousand pounds. The deal was closed within a week for a final selling price of just over one million. The unusual speed of the sale, combined with the inflated price, could be explained away by any number of reasons, including something as simple as long-term speculation on the part of the buyer.

  What stood out, however, was that the deal seemed to have gone through various companies, including one based in New York, in what looked an obvious attempt to mask the identity of the purchaser.

  Devon reckoned it was as good a starting point as any.

  Doyle, Cheadle and Horgan sat with him in the car. Before leaving the office they had pulled down Google Earth pictures of the area and agreed on a two-point entry. The on-site inspection confirmed that a solid brown door beside the shop was a separate entrance to the upstairs part of the building.

  Doyle and Horgan exited the vehicle and made their way to the rear of the building. It was thought probable that there was a separate fire escape for the upper part of the property, but this needed to be confirmed.

  Two minutes later Doyle�
��s voice cut through Devon’s earpiece. “There’s a set of aluminium steps leading to a first floor exit door. We’re good to go.”

  “Copy. On my mark, a go is confirmed three minutes from …..now.” Devon pressed the timer on his wristwatch.

  A second car rolled quietly into a parking spot directly behind Devon’s Range Rover. He glanced over his shoulder and spoke into his throat mic. “We move now. Take your positions.”

  The agency’s two new boys, Terry Hunt and Jim Cross, were tasked with keeping watch on the rear of the building on the off-chance anyone attempted to escape through the shop, after Doyle and Horgan affected an upper floor entry. The other two occupants of the second car, Bob Mortimer and Bill Carlisle, would stand station at the shop front.

  Devon and Cheadle climbed out of the car, crossed the street, and walked quickly to the brown door. There were no exterior cameras covering the property, probably because it didn’t pay to advertise the need for in-your-face security precautions. However, this subtlety didn’t extend to the door, which looked to be a solid chunk of mahogany reinforced by a steel plate and fastened by three mortice locks, evenly spaced from top to bottom.

  Devon dipped into his tool belt, extracted a packet of C4 explosive, and shaped a charge around each of the three locks. He inserted a one-inch aluminium rod into the moulds, brought together the trailing wires, and looped them into a single strand, which was inserted in a square timer. He checked his watch, set the dial for ten seconds, and stepped twenty yards to the side of the building.

  The explosion was little more than three simultaneous pops, resembling the sound of champagne bottles losing their corks. The loudest noise was the door shearing off its hinges and cracking against the inner wall.

  Devon jumped through the opening closely followed by Cheadle. He removed a stun grenade canister from his belt, tossed it up to the top landing, and dropped to his belly on the stairwell. The charge detonated after five seconds, sending a shockwave bouncing off every available surface.

  Three seconds after the explosion Devon and Cheadle were on their feet and bounding up the stairs. They reached the landing in time to hear two flash-bangs from the rear of the building.

  Doyle and Horgan had dispensed with the rear exit door in the same fashion. As soon as it collapsed, Doyle threw two stun grenades into a hallway, and turned away from the blinding light and thunderous roar. He waited five seconds before clambering over the busted door and peering into a room clouded in white dust.

  A figure stumbled into the hallway ten yards to his left. He was a large man, stripped to the waist and wearing a nose-and-mouth mask, which had provided no protection for his eyes. He was using the backs of his hands to knead his sockets, and was oblivious to Doyle’s presence. He continued to stay oblivious, thanks to a wicked karate chop to the back of his neck. He collapsed unconscious to the floor.

  Farther up the hall Doyle saw a second man bolt in the opposite direction. He stopped abruptly, flung his hands in the air, and back-pedalled down the corridor.

  Devon appeared through the white gloom.

  Five minutes later the LonWash foursome completed a full sweep of the property and declared it safe. Devon checked their two zip-tied captives, cursing at the discovery that neither was Stratton or his sidekick Stelling.

  They had got the wrong building!

  The search of the upper floor had uncovered a major drug-assembly operation. Bricks of heroin were stacked high on makeshift shelving and two rooms contained benches that were used for breaking down the product, mixing it with baking powder, and reconstituting it into small two-inch plastic packets ready for selling on the streets. Devon conservatively estimated the worth of the haul at over twenty million.

  He looked glumly at Doyle. “Looks like we’ve been left with egg on our face. And before you give me that No-Shit-Sherlock look we can at least take some comfort from the fact that we are on the right track with our list of shady property deals.”

  “Yeah,” Doyle agreed, “but we still have another twenty-seven to run down. We’re going to have to share this out among some of the other agencies. There’s no way we’re going to be able to get through this.”

  Devon thought for a moment. “First things first. Contact the office and get this called in as an anonymous tip about a drugs war. At least we’ll brighten up the day for the Met’s Drug Squad. Before we head back, let’s break into four pairs and each check another two properties while we still have the night as our friend. If we come up empty, then we’ll have to pass the list to Counter Terrorist Unit.”

  Chapter 37

  IT WAS SIX-THIRTY on Friday morning by the time the full team reassembled in the LonWash boardroom. One look at weary faces told the story of a wasted night. Five of the searched properties were vacant, two appeared little more than storage areas for used furniture, and the one remaining building was a bedsit where four teenage occupants were trying unsuccessfully to recover from a riotous party. They scarcely appeared to even notice their unwelcome intruders.

  “We’re banging our heads against a brick wall.” Doyle looked at Devon for confirmation.

  “No argument here, Alan. Part of me is saying we should keep going, that there’s something here. Maybe we just got unlucky and we’ll find what we’re looking for if we keep plugging away, but the other part of me is shouting out to quit while we’re ahead. If we do keep on this track it will take us days to run down the other addresses. And that’s time we just don’t have.”

  “So what’s the alternative?” Doyle asked. “Do we hand over the list and look at things from another angle?”

  Devon couldn’t hide his frustration. “That’s just it. I’m fresh out of ideas. I really thought this property search would take us to Stratton’s door. The sonofabitch could be hiding anywhere. I'm open to any and all suggestions.”

  Silence descended on the room. Everyone looked at each other, but nobody spoke. The mood was broken by the noise of the door opening, or more precisely, the noise of the door being almost flung off its hinges. Tim Halloran stepped into the room wearing a grin that ran counter to the sombre stares of his colleagues.

  “Wait one!” he shouted with typical exuberance. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

  Devon’s eyes flared into life. “Tell me you’ve found where Stratton is holing up.”

  Halloran was momentarily thrown by the comment. “Sorry, not my department. I’ve just run through the check on establishments selling the red laptops. Turns out there are only five outlets in London.”

  “Oh Christ,” Doyle moaned. “Not more doors to bang on.”

  “I don’t think you understand. I happened to be mulling over the list when it dawned on me that I should cross-reference it against our other list….”

  “And?”

  “And, bingo!” One of the outlets is also one of the properties that we flagged up as a dubious transaction. It’s an electronics shop on the Woodburn Road.”

  It was rare for Stratton to feel so agitated before a mission. Usually a cool-headed operator, he found himself unable to quieten down the growing list of doubts that had racked his thoughts for the past twelve hours. He had never known so many things to go pear-shaped in such a short space of time, and the realisation had left him wondering what was around the corner.

  His normal routine of grabbing a few hours’ sleep before the start of an action phase had given way to a night spent pacing the small upstairs storage room whilst glancing continuously at his watch, and willing the hour hand to move faster.

  Finally he was ready. He lifted a large shoulder-strapped backpack and began carefully to fill it with an array of items sitting on a rickety table. First into the bag was a tablet computer, which was wired to a joystick console that resembled an Xbox component, and looked for all the world like a child’s play toy. It was anything but.

  Next he caressed the battery-bomb package into position, ensuring it was held rigid by wadding in a number of spare t-shirts. The package was wrapp
ed in Christmas paper and would hardly rate a second glance at this time of the year. Heightened security measures in place around the city meant he couldn’t discount the possibility of a random stop-and-search by fidgety police patrols.

  The last item to be inserted was a workman’s high-visibility jacket bearing two parallel strips of yellow fluorescent piping, the kind of change of clothing that would dramatically alter his appearance in the event of a pursuit.

  He zipped up the bag and turned to the other items on the table. A fifteen-round Beretta, already threaded with a silencer, was pushed into the waistband of his trousers at the bottom of his back, and two spare magazines were stuffed into the pockets of a dark blue anorak. He then lifted a Tonto combat knife, sporting a nine-inch blade, and strapped to the inside of his left leg.

  Only three items remained on the table. He checked the printed numbers attached to the mobile phones and grabbed two of the sets, which disappeared into the pockets of his trousers. The third phone was left sitting where it was.

  He stood back from the table and glanced at Stelling. “This is it, my friend. You know what to do?”

  “Please no speeches, Carl. We’ve had a good run, and it is fitting it should end this way. It has been a pleasure. I’ll see you on the other side.”

  Stratton looked like he was about to embrace his long-term friend, but seemed to think better of it. He simply nodded, hoisted the backpack on his shoulder, and walked down the stairwell to the front door.

  Outside, he looked at his watch. It was exactly six forty-five. He pulled on a black beanie hat and walked purposefully up the Woodburn Road. Just another workman ready for an early shift in a city that was already coming alive.

  Manfred Stelling peered through a pulled-back corner of the lace curtain and watched his mentor disappear from sight at the end of the road. He fought back a tear at the realisation it would be the last time he would see him. He owed him much, and now it was time to repay the debt.