Stelling had often wondered what life would have served up to him if he had not crossed paths with Stratton. He was sure of one thing. It would not have been as full of the adventure, excitement and riches that he had enjoyed since the day they made their escape over the Wall. He had relished every moment of the past thirty years, but now it was coming to an end. He could think of no better way of letting the final curtain fall.
He had stopped his invasive cancer treatment several months ago. According to the doctors he would have less than six months. It was then he had decided that his part in the bombing campaign would be his final act on this earth. He would simply drive the vehicle as close to his target as he could get before dialling in the preset mobile number.
He walked past the phone sitting on the table and crossed the room to lift his package from atop an old wooden crate propped up in the corner of the room. He cradled the parcel in both hands as he strode towards a set of stairs that led to the ground floor shop. There was just enough light from a row of outside street fluorescents to allow him to pick his way to the rear of the building where he deactivated an external roller shutter, opened the shop door, and stepped out onto a service road that fed the cluster of retail units.
Directly opposite was a block of lock-up garages. He headed to one that had the number seventeen painted in white lettering across an up-and-over door. It was not aligned with the shop rear, but stood about fifty yards to his right. He set the package on the ground, fumbled for a set of keys, and released the garage door mechanism to reveal the parked Clio. He unlatched the car boot, lifted the package, and slid it into the small compartment.
He was so engrossed in his task that he failed to hear the sound of a vehicle as it rolled into the northern entrance of the roadway.
Chapter 38
DEVON FACED A DILEMMA. He knew with certainty that the Woodburn Road property was where he would find Stratton. The appearance of the address on two separate lists could not add up to anything else. It was what it was – a major break that needed to be handled with the utmost caution because where Stratton was, so too were his bombs.
There was no question of blasting down doors to force an entry into the lair of a man who would not hesitate to throw a detonation switch at the first sign of danger. If he had learned one thing it was that Stratton would wipe out himself, Devon’s team, and a fair chunk of this part of London before he would allow himself to be taken.
The area was surrounded by residential properties, many of which would be devastated by the power of the horrendous blast Stratton could unleash. Homes would have to be quietly evacuated and streets would have to be closed to traffic before any action could be contemplated. The only way an operation of that magnitude could be undertaken was by bringing in the combined weight of all the anti-terror agencies.
He also had to consider the spotlight that would fall on LonWash if they were to be caught in the middle of a botched operation. His team were supposed to operate in the shadows, not out in the open where they would be fair game for the sort of political backlash that would roll like a tsunami right up to the front door of Number 10 Downing Street. The PM would have no choice but to close down the entire LonWash operation. Hell, all of them, including the General, would be lucky to escape lengthy prison terms.
In the end, it was an easy decision to make. As his two-car convoy set off across the city, he hit the speed-dial on his sat phone. Although Peter Ramsden headed up MI6, an agency that was tasked with dealing only with security matters outside the UK, he was Devon’s main point of contact and therefore the only available link to the other agencies. It would be easier for Ramsden to explain what was happening and to mobilise the appropriate security response.
The call went through in a matter of seconds.
Devon wasted no time with a preamble. “Peter, we’ve located Stratton. You’re going to need a full red-alert status with a complete shutdown of the area, a bomb disposal team, the boys from SO19, the SAS, and anyone else you can think of. This could get real nasty.”
“Wow! Tell me what you’ve got.”
Devon gave the address and explained how they had tracked it down. “I know it’s not a locked-on guarantee that Stratton is actually there, but it’s too big a pointer for us to ignore. We’re out of options here.”
“I agree. Stay on the line while I make a few calls.”
Five minutes later, Ramsden spoke again. “Things are on the move. Where are you now?”
“We’re just arriving at the scene.”
“Mike, you know you can’t be part of this? You have to pull out and leave this to the official agencies.”
“Don’t worry, I figured as much. We’re just going to keep a watching brief until the big boys arrive. That’s going to take a while, and we can’t risk Stratton deciding to leave. However, we don’t want to be mistaken for the bad guys. Tell everyone we’re part of your surveillance operation. We’re in two G-registered black Range Rovers at either end of the road. We’ll disappear as soon as help arrives.”
“Make sure you do,” Ramsden replied. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
There was unusual warmth to Ramsden’s voice. “Just wanted to say great job. I’ll owe you a drink when this is all over.”
Devon thought about cautioning against celebrations, but decided against it. Instead he ended the call and watched as his driver, Alfie Cheadle, switched off the Range Rover lights and freewheeled onto a service road at the rear of the row of shops.
He looked down what was little more than a one-vehicle laneway, its surface badly potholed and dimly-lit by a single lamppost bulb midway along its length. Litter was strewn everywhere, blown it seemed from the serried ranks of dented litter bins that stood sentry every twenty yards or so, their lids pointed up as though in mock salute.
Devon looked across at Cheadle. “I’m going to take a quick recce. Let me know when Doyle and his team are in position at the southern end of the road. I’ll be back in less than five minutes.”
He got out of the vehicle, taking care to squeeze the door noiselessly behind him. He walked slowly, keeping to the shadows as he counted off the shop units. When he arrived at number seventeen he noticed the roller shut was curled up into its casing, the only one that was not secured. Even more curious was the fact that the inner door to the rear of the electronics shop was showing an opening of three or four inches. Either someone had got careless, or they had left in a hurry.
He cursed at the thought of missing Stratton. Without hesitation, he withdrew his Sig Sauer, toed open the bottom of the door, and stepped inside.
Manfred Stelling was about to exit the garage when he detected movement to his right. He looked up the road to watch a black-clad figure standing outside the shop, and taking an unusual interest in the wedged-open door.
When Stelling saw the man withdrawing a weapon and walking into the shop he broke into a cold sweat. His first thought was that somehow they had been rumbled, although he couldn’t understand how that was possible. Maybe the bitch who had been paid off with a smile instead of a bullet had developed a loose tongue. No, he reasoned, she had looked too greedy to want to risk promised severance pay.
His next thought hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. “My God, the mobile phone!”
The realisation that he had left the detonation unit on top of the table galvanised Stelling into action. If this was a takedown by the security services he would have to get to that phone. Nothing mattered more than triggering the bomb!
He reached back into the car boot, retrieved the package, and set off at a run towards the rear of the shop. When he detonated the device he wanted it to be at the front of the building where it would do the most damage.
He stormed through the open entrance and set the package down on the nearest bench he could find. He would return for it later when he had dealt with the intruder. He dug into a coat pocket and withdrew a Beretta, before carefully picking his way through the
ground floor storage area towards the internal stairway.
When he turned the corner to peer up the ten-step flight, he could see the man already near the top. He couldn’t miss from here. He lined up a head shot and fired.
Devon had stopped on several occasions to get his bearings and listen for any sign of activity. The silence was unnerving. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the monotonous beat of a clock and occasionally the muted crack of a floorboard, not enough to signal a footstep, but that odd sort of settling sound that wood makes in in a deserted building.
He found the opening to a stairway and began a slow ascent, careful to place his feet on the outer edges where there would be less risk of disturbing loose floorboards. He had almost reached the top when his ear was assaulted by a loud burst of static.
“Mike, on your six, on your six!” Cheadle had watched from the car in amazement as a large man appeared out of nowhere and followed Devon into the building. He knew he had waited longer than he should to break radio silence, but prayed his shouted warning into the throat mic would not be too late.
Devon instinctively rolled to his left and tried to bring his gun to bear on whatever threat was lurking behind. He had barely time to register a blur of movement before he experienced a sharp pain across the side of his head and things started to go black. Before he passed out, his finger contracted on the Sig’s trigger.
Moments later the haze lifted. He could feel a burning sensation across the top of his ear and warm liquid was flowing down his cheek and neck. He tried to move his legs, but they refused to function.
He waited a few seconds before trying gingerly to lift the upper part of his body. Ignoring a wave of nausea, he looked down to see a bald man lying across his knees. At least he wasn’t paralysed! He kicked out and watched the man flop over onto his back. It was Manfred Stelling.
Devon looked at three blood-filled holes in Stelling’s chest. He could only wonder at how he had climbed the stairs after taking a devastating burst of nine-millimetre Parabellums.
He pushed the thought from his mind. One down, one to go. Where the fuck was Stratton?
He looked around for his Sig and found it on a lower step. It must have slipped from his grasp when he passed out. He wrapped his hand gratefully around the butt and began climbing, aware the light-headedness he felt was restricting him from operating at not much better than fifty percent capacity. He would need a lot more than this if he ran into Stratton.
“Mike, Mike, you okay? I heard shots.” It was Cheadle’s voice.
“Yes, I’m good. Hold the outside perimeter. Stelling is down. I’m on the top floor, but so far no sign of Stratton.”
Crouching on one knee Devon peered around the corner to look at a single large room. It was sparsely furnished, with no obvious place for a man to hide. He stood up and moved slowly across threadbare carpet, sweeping his gun in a two-fisted traverse of the entire area. There was no-one here. He moved to the window and looked across the lights of the London dawn. “Where are you Carl?” he murmured
A sudden noise drew his attention back to the room. He had to blink to make sure he was not imagining what he was seeing. The image was like something out of a zombie horror movie.
A blood-soaked Manfred Stelling shuffled into view. His right hand, still holding a Beretta, was flopped at his side, while his left arm wavered at shoulder height as if he were trying to swat a fly. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, and a low wailing sound caused a froth of bubbles to erupt at the corner of his mouth.
Devon watched bemused as Stelling continued his ponderous advance. This was a dead man walking, but the message somehow hadn’t yet got through to his brain.
Then Devon noticed Stelling’s fixated stare. The eyes were glued to the top of a table less than three feet away. There was nothing unusual about the table, except…. except that there was a mobile phone sitting on it!
Stelling made a lunge for the table, his hand reaching out to grasp the phone. In that instant Devon knew it had to be the detonator. Perhaps all it needed was the merest touch of any button.
It was all over in a blur. Devon raised the Sig and fired a double-tap through Stelling’s forehead. The big man smashed lifelessly into the table, sending the phone spinning into the air.
Devon caught it one-handed, before sinking to the floor and falling into another bout of unconsciousness.
Chapter 39
THE SIXTY-SEATER river cruiser was not much to look at. Unlike many of her fibreglass contemporaries the Maid of Inishfree was fashioned out of good Somerset oak and was as hardy a seagoing vessel as anything around her in the berthing wharf close to Westminster Bridge. But as she bobbed sedately at her mooring, she showed clear signs of neglect in a garish yellow-and-black paint job, which had flaked badly on all sides and complemented a polka-dot pattern of the worst kind of dark-stained rust on her rivets.
The interior was no less appealing. Rows of bench seating were covered in patched-up brown leather, cracked and stained by countless passengers with no thought for her wellbeing. It had been a long time since anyone had applied sandpaper or varnish to the once ornate decking surrounds, never mind that any thought had ever been given to regular treatments of warm, soapy water.
Despite her shortcomings she was popular with tourists, her rigid canopy cover with open sides providing a perfect view of the many tourist attractions the Thames had to offer. In addition to her cruise schedule, the Maid also provided a river transfer shuttle for landmarks such as the Millennium Dome and the former Royal Naval College at Greenwich. She was an instantly recognisable part of daily river life.
What the old girl lacked in grace and charm above the waterline, she had her compensation below decks where two Volvo Penta D4 engines could propel her up to thirty knots, well in excess of the eight-knot limit imposed on most stretches of the main tidal waterway.
The engines were recent additions, having been fitted under the directions of Carl Stratton shortly after the boat was purchased. They were linked to a sophisticated computer-control panel, which provided real-time diagnostics capable of adjusting oil and diesel flows, and ensuring the strict regulation of speed.
Unknown to the Captain, the computer could be accessed remotely. Once activated, the fully integrated wireless-controlled system would effectively become an auto pilot, at the whim of an operator who could dictate steerage, speed and direction. The Captain would not even be able to turn the engine shutdown switch.
Shortly after seven-thirty Stratton stepped onto the deserted deck. A morning gloom hung over the misted waters as he easily bypassed the cabin lock and descended to the boat’s lower viewing compartment. He moved forward to the bow, lifted a small square wooden grate, and carefully lowered his package into a rope-storage box.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting at a window table of a greasy-spoon cafeteria, tucking into a full English breakfast. He had another four hours to kill.
Devon awoke to a blinding light and a familiar voice.
The light was a pencil-torch shining directly into his left eye. It was held by a white-coated man who was using his thumb and forefinger to press back the eyelid.
The voice belonged to Alan Doyle. “Nice to have you back in the land of the living. You gave us quite a scare.”
The haze slowly lifted to allow Devon to focus on the faces around him. His head throbbed and he reached up to feel a bandage pressing against his scalp.
The white-coated man spoke. “Take it easy, Mr Devon. You’ve suffered quite a bit of trauma and you need to lie still. We’ve given you a blood transfusion and you have six stitches inserted to close a two-inch wound that gouged a nasty rut along your left parietal ridge. There shouldn’t be any lasting damage, but I would like to run a scan just to be sure.”
“Where am I? What time is it? What’s happening?”
Doyle eased the doctor out of the way and bent forward. “Relax, Mike. You’re in the back of an ambulance. We’ve been moved outside the co
rdon, thanks to the good offices of Peter Ramsden. You’ve been unconscious for just over an hour and have missed all the fun. You’re not going to believe this, but they found two bombs during an initial sweep of the electronics shop. You’re a bloody hero mate.”
“Have the bombs been defused?”
“Yes. First reports suggest that had they detonated we would have been kissing goodbye to about a half-mile radius of buildings. Pretty powerful stuff by all accounts.”
Devon sat up and swung his legs off the ambulance gurney. “I need to speak to Ramsden. Something doesn’t add up here.”
As if on cue the back door of the ambulance opened and Ramsden stepped in. “How’s the patient?”
Devon ignored the query. “Peter, I need you to tell me everything that’s happening.”
“The long and short of it is that thanks to you we now have two bombs that won’t be causing death and mayhem. Your man Cheadle noticed Stelling carry a package into the rear of the shop and we found it in a store after the briefest of searches. We thought that was it until one of the bomb squad members found a second device wedged into a shelf at the front of the premises…..”
Devon cut in. “You do realise there is at least one more bomb to be accounted for. Stratton didn’t just walk out of there empty handed. He’s already en route to his target. We have to find him.”
Ramsden nodded agreement. “Here’s what we have. A CCTV picked up a man matching Stratton’s general build climbing into a taxi at the top of Woodburn Road. We’re trying to trace the driver to get a drop-off location to help with a follow-up scan of all available traffic and buildings cameras. It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but given time we might get lucky.”
Absence of Mercy Page 21