02-A Price to Pay

by Chris Simms

  The men were within four metres of Nina when she let out another animal moan and stuck the barrel in her mouth. The weapon cracked and her blonde hair parted as the top part of her skull jumped up into the air. As she slid down the expanse of metal, the plane rose up behind it, now birdlike in size and getting smaller.

  The men descended on her like hyenas. The quilted parka was yanked open and searched. The mobile phone went into the jacket of the leader. Then they were marching back, weapons vanishing from sight. They stopped at the Range Rover and pulled open the doors. She heard the sounds of them rooting about inside the vehicle. One of them spoke.

  ‘Female in the back. Unconscious.’

  Iona could only move her eyes. She looked at her hand beside her face. Each finger was curled in, nails buried deep into the skin of her palms.

  Then they were moving on. A second later, car doors shut, engines revved and they were gone.

  Iona lay on the tarmac. Muscle control was returning to her fingers and toes. Her jaw loosened. Noises. The sound of her breathing, quick and shallow. People speaking from over near the main building. The cars’ engines, merging with the plane’s fading rumble. And behind that, weak but getting stronger, the sound of a siren.

  EPILOGUE

  Iona let the drone of the vicar’s voice wash over her. Manchester Southern Cemetery was immense. While at school, she used to pass it all the time. With Dad as he dropped her off on the way to his job at the university. Or on a coach, taking the school’s hockey team to away matches.

  Then, it was just a space running along on one side of the road; she’d barely given a thought to what lay behind the thick iron fence. Her eyes wandered across row upon row of endless graves. There were two other burials going on as far as she could see.

  A production line.

  The thought was unfeeling and she forced her attention back to the people around her. Martin’s mum and dad, eyes downcast, faces drained of life. The sight of them made her want to cry. About a dozen from the CTU were alongside her, Sullivan and O’Dowd included. She was the only member from Roebuck’s team. Towards the edges were a few uniforms; colleagues from Martin’s early career in the regular police. Nearest the family were a few members of the very top brass, including the ACC. A young female civilian on the far side of the grave sniffed loudly. A girlfriend, Iona guessed. A plane was banking up into the layer of blue. As it tilted, sunlight winked through its line of windows.

  Iona’s mind went back to the private airfield at Woodford. The jet had logged a course for Barcelona, southern Spain. But it had never cut in from above the Atlantic. Morocco or Algeria seemed the likely destination, but no one was sure.

  Whoever had organized that jet was, surely, the person behind the entire operation. He might have had his UK business ruined, but, apart from that inconvenience, he seemed to have got away completely. Iona wasn’t so sure. It was commonly acknowledged within the CTU that the team who’d tried to snatch Nina were with Mossad. The Israelis had lost four soldiers in that checkpoint explosion: the search for Nina’s controller would never end.

  Although diplomacy dictated that accusations of a secret Mossad cell being in Britain were never aired in public, Iona had heard that the Israeli ambassador had been quietly called in to see the Home Secretary. But he’d known nothing of any covert operation running alongside that of the CTU. Nothing at all.

  Nina’s firearm had been used to murder Martin and Liam Collins. Efforts to map her life story were quickly derailed when it turned out that Nina Dubianko had died in 1963, aged six years old. The entire identity of the woman had been artificially constructed on a copy of a dead child’s birth certificate.

  Of Nina’s victims, Chloe Shilling was back in care. The Club Soda story had all been false; the establishment did employ foreign females, but mainly recruited via dance schools or modelling agencies. All workers were legitimately – and willingly – in the country. Madison Fisher was gone and Iona tried not to think about where she might be or what she was doing. Her details were with Europol and British embassies throughout the Middle East.

  Khaldoon Khan’s younger sister was due to be repatriated to Britain. Her family didn’t want her back. Social services were working with Karma Nirvana, a charity that helped girls who’d escaped from forced marriage arrangements. It was hoped she could be placed with a family rather than going into care. Khaldoon Khan was due to be released from custody in Pakistan. He had stated his intention to stay in the country.

  Iona glanced down at the mound of earth to her side. A small beetle had emerged from beneath a half-buried pebble. Its legs were moving with frantic speed as it scrambled for purchase on the layer of fine, dry soil. Centimetre by centimetre, it climbed higher. Iona wondered how long it could continue before tiring. The thing showed no sign of giving up and she liked it for that.

  Roebuck had seen her a few days before. She’d gone to him about the message Martin had written by the Sudoku puzzle, tormented by what it meant. Was O’Dowd in on it? Were they all manipulating her? Roebuck had looked embarrassed. Yes, O’Dowd had passed the snippet to Palmer, Everington’s boss. He, in turn, had passed it on to Sullivan. Roebuck had known about it, too. They’d decided to see how she and Martin worked together; whether it was worth looking at them long term as a team.

  Soon after, Martin had reported to Palmer that she was hard to work with. She had trouble, according to him, about opening up, about working as a pair. Sheepishly, Roebuck had pointed out it wasn’t the first time people in the CTU had said it. She was – undeniably – very competitive. You only had to look at her record, from school onward, to find plenty of evidence of that. Not that it was a problem, he’d added hastily. Unless it impinged on her ability to operate within a team. The Sudoku thing was a ploy thought up by them, that was all. A way for Martin to try and find some common ground, to build a connection with her. She’d remembered the words he’d written and had recoiled.

  10/10! She went for it BIG TIME.

  People were beginning to move. The service had ended. The questions were in her head again. Am I overly ambitious? Do I see everything as an exercise in winning? Me versus the rest of the unit? But I reported that it was Jim who’d worked out the mix-up with the carry cases. He told me to take the credit for it and I didn’t.

  She was aware of how thinking about Jim made her feel. I miss him so much. I need to see him, in person. We have to have the conversation. The booze. If I can help him to stop, if he managed to properly—

  ‘Iona?’

  She looked round. Martin’s family were getting into a black saloon parked nearby. Everyone was hanging back, waiting for them to be driven off. It was a sergeant in Sullivan’s team who’d spoken. He’d never been anything less than nice to her.

  ‘We’re heading to the Abercrombie on Bootle Street for a few drinks.’ He gestured at the uniformed officers. ‘Where Martin used to go before the CTU. You coming?’

  She thought about the city centre pub, a regular haunt of the officers who worked in the police station next door. Jim, she knew, had a day off. He’d be at home, doing nothing. Probably as good a time as any to see him. Sit down, discuss where they both stood, see if there was any chance the two of them could give it another go. She looked at her colleagues hovering in the vicinity of the vehicle. Sullivan was among them. It would be a chance to have a quiet word. Explain how sorry she was about Martin. The doors of the saloon were being gently closed.

  She looked at the sergeant. ‘Is everyone going?’

  ‘Yeah, for a tipple, at least. Most of us aren’t due back on duty, are we?’

  No, thought Iona. We’re not. She could see Jim, sitting in his house, all alone.

  ‘So,’ the sergeant was walking towards the waiting group. ‘Is that a yes?’

  Iona wasn’t sure.

 

 

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