Capture or Kill

by Tom Marcus

  He isn’t making much sense, but I already hate this. My shoes have quickly become sodden from the wet grass and my coat is letting in rain, drenching my hospital scrubs underneath.

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘The people flying the drones talked to me on walkie-talkies when I got home, they followed two cars that were near the house, I drove to the marina and back. Same two cars followed me and stayed a few streets away from the house. I was being watched. I think they are onto the brothers, who led them to me.’

  ‘They . . .?’ I know exactly who it would be, my question doesn’t need an answer.

  ‘It has to be MI5, or someone like that.’ Mohammed is still panicking.

  No, damn it! We’ve been so careful. I know I’m not being watched. But if Mo is, he could have led them to me. MI5 spreads like a virus, everything I’ve put in place and worked for could be destroyed. Mo is a good man, but he’s made a mistake meeting me. I know what I’m about to do is the right thing. I place my right hand into my coat pocket and I hold onto an inhaler I’ve modified.

  ‘Mo, don’t worry. Have you got your phone on you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, here you go.’

  Handing it over to me, he realizes he’s made yet another mistake. The biggest mistake. His phone will be used to track him here. Mo turns away and tries to change the topic of conversation, but he knows what’s coming; I can’t leave anything to chance. The inhaler is quick, within minutes it will all be over for him. Facing away from me, he tries to put half a step between us. It’s too late.

  I pull the inhaler out and remove the cap, then quickly step towards him and swing my left hand round to grip his face from behind. Almost at the same time, my right hand jams the inhaler deep into his mouth. It cracks against his teeth on the way in. One squeeze, followed by another, and another. It’s more than enough; the highly concentrated strychnine will be forced into his lungs quickly. I release him and his body drops to the floor. He’s choking and trying to grab a breath, his bike helmet rolls away in the wet grass.

  I crouch next to him as his muscles go into spasm. I put the cap back on the inhaler and slip it into my pocket. I can’t leave too many signs. This park is popular with dog walkers in the mornings; his body will be found soon. It’ll take weeks for toxicology to be able to prove cause of death, if at all. By then it won’t matter, my war will have started.

  I hold Mo’s hand, he’s convulsing still. I see this at the hospital all the time, but this is the first time I’ve induced this type of toxin. His breathing slows and his convulsions become less violent, more of a mild twitching. I check his wrist for a pulse and count the beats, but his heart rate is declining so quickly I soon have nothing to count. I’m actually rather pleased it worked so efficiently. Dropping his hand into the grass, I stand up and make my way out of the park.

  The hospital lights are overly bright, as usual. I’m met with a ‘Horrible weather, Dr Kahn.’

  I nod in agreement. ‘Indeed. Horrible.’

  12

  Shit, I’m late! I wake up in the car park next to the drive-through, jerk upright in my seat and immediately grab my phone to make sure I’ve not missed any calls or text messages. Nothing. I’m covered in fast-food wrappers and the car is fucking freezing. I turn on the ignition and put the heater on full blast. I came straight here to get some food before trying to find a hotel to crash in, but my body had obviously decided enough was enough and shut down right here. It’s 0617 hours, no update.

  ‘Anyone, give Logan a radio check.’

  ‘Loud and clear to Alan.’

  ‘Roger, likewise, thanks bud. Just checked I’ve not missed an update.’

  ‘Negative, getting there though. Shouldn’t be long before LH can give you an update. Alan out.’

  I need the toilet and a wash. You have to have a bladder the size of a small planet doing this job, and use every opportunity you can to eat, shit and sleep, because when a target is out and you need to keep hold of them, there are no comfort breaks.

  I head straight to the toilets in the fast-food place as the staff prepare for the breakfast rush. The toilets haven’t been cleaned yet; it stinks of stale piss in here. I rinse my hands in scalding water then turn on the cold tap, reverting back to what I had to do as a kid to wash my teeth: clean finger and plenty of water. I smile to myself, thinking I haven’t come very far from those days living on the streets. On my eighth swig of water my phone vibrates in my pocket, as if it’s excited it finally has news: Ch2 Now.

  I delete the message to avoid having any compromising texts on me and head straight back to the car. Diving into the driver’s seat, I get straight on the net. ‘Anyone read Logan?’

  ‘Loud and clear to Craig, mate.’

  ‘Roger, likewise.’

  Within sixty seconds the whole team is on channel two, ready for an update from Leyton-Hughes.

  ‘Morning team, update on the phone grab from last night. Alan has interrogated the mobile phone network servers and associated cell towers and we now have a location for the phone. It moved to London during the night, shortly after we withdrew.’

  I shake my head. I was right. All that bullshit with feeding the ducks at the marina meant he was onto us. And as soon as we left he made his move. If Alan hadn’t managed to get his phone we’d be back where we started.

  ‘This is a prepaid phone, unregistered, so no name. The text history and calls, Alan is shifting through now. Under normal circumstances we’d have a team of analysts sorting this, so bear with us. The last known location before the phone dropped off the cell towers is on the east side of Waterlow Park near Highgate, north-west London. It’s a couple of hours drive from your location so please all get down to that area as quickly as possible. Ops out.’

  It isn’t a couple of hours. It’s three and a half hours at least, and that’s pushing it. Will our guy still be there? Or will he already have dumped the phone and got himself a new one? I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve fucked up big-time. But we don’t have any other options.

  I don’t bother setting the satnav before I head out of the car park. I’ll do it on the motorway once I’ve got some speed up. I need to try and get ahead of the rush-hour traffic. But there’s no point lighting this car park up with a J-turn, wheel-spinning out of the area, so I keep it nice and smooth heading away from the drive-through and towards the motorway. The roads are clear and there are no speed cameras, so I start piling on the power. The only thing that might stop me now is a random police patrol, but that’s just a chance I’m going to have to take.

  ‘Guys, you read Alex?’

  I could tell from the background noise that Alex was going full throttle as well. ‘Go ahead, Alex.’

  ‘Riaz, you got your bike kit in your car?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I was going to suggest that too. My leathers and helmet are different colours, too.’

  ‘Great, I’ll meet you just before the M25 so we can swap vehicles?’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Smart thinking from Alex and Riaz. If this guy is onto us, changing colours on a bike before London will help us blend in a bit more. I just hope our cars don’t stand out enough for him to recognize us.

  ‘Message from Ops.’

  ‘Go ahead, Ops.’

  ‘Does everyone know where the Victor compound is?’

  ‘Ops, Claire. Is Victor the one just before you get to the Mike two-five?’

  ‘That’s the one. I’ll call ahead at the gates and tell them to expect you.’

  This is where Alan is switching the cars with others in the pool, without going through the admins at headquarters. Treated very much like an overflow car storage site, Victor is a relatively low-risk place to change our vehicles, as there will be limited police personnel on-site, then just a couple of mechanics and some admin staff, none of whom will have arrived yet if we’re being told to change vehicles.

  ‘Alex, roger.’

  ‘Riaz, roger, heading there now.’

 
As everyone acknowledges the new location before heading to the last known area of our target, Alan sends a text message to my phone: Change of clothes, all different sizes, in the lockers behind the cars. Good man.

  I keep to the middle lane as much as I can, overtaking the endless stream of delivery trucks at 120 miles per hour and still accelerating hard. At this speed it takes a huge amount of concentration to avoid a collision. But pushing things to the limit pays off, as I make it to the police compound after what feels like only about thirty minutes. Soon I’m past the discreetly positioned armed guards and into the dark building used to hold cars there’s no space for anywhere else. Alex, Riaz and Craig have obviously driven hard too, and are already waiting by their cars, deep in conversation. I park up next to Craig and join them. Their expressions are grim.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Craig rubs his stubble thoughtfully. ‘There’s some concern the boss is missing things. Have you worked with him before?’

  I shake my head. ‘Never on the ground. Probably same as you guys, just when he’s been the Ops officer. But I don’t actually know what physical experience he’s got.’

  Before I can expand on that, Claire and Ryan activate the doors from the outside and drive in to join us. Riaz gets Claire and Ryan up to speed with the conversation and Ryan instantly piles in with his take on Leyton-Hughes. If Craig was being diplomatic, Ryan isn’t bothering.

  ‘I reckon if Alan wasn’t holding his hand all through this we’d be fucked. Killing Stormy Weather was a tough call, OK, but it’s so fucking off that he’s missing obvious operational planning and tactics. Just basics. Like the brothers leaving the address: why didn’t he check local transport stations – bus, train, fucking coach depots – to see if they turned up on CCTV? We’ve got the time they left – surely we can set up a radius and cross-reference it all. They had two fucking great big bags for a start, I mean—’

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ Claire chimes in before he can even finish. ‘Has he asked Alan to check the cell towers nearest to the Liverpool address and watch any phones that left the area at the same time as the brothers? Like Ryan said, it’s basics.’

  I get a weird feeling, listening to the two of them. On one hand, they’re fuelling my own concerns about the man who’s making all the tactical decisions; on the other, they’re boosting my confidence in the make-up of this team. These guys are good.

  But how good is their boss?

  ‘Look, I hear what you’re saying. But right now we have to get to the park. Maybe our boy’s found some more ducks to feed. Why don’t we ask Alan quietly what he can do about this stuff while we’re on the road?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’ Riaz leads the way to the key rack. We don’t bother signing for the new cars or writing any details down about the cars we’re leaving. Even in a secret compound like this, all that will make us more traceable. Riaz swaps for a bike and puts his kit bags in Alex’s car, a dark-blue BMW 1 Series. I take the keys to a grey Nissan Qashqai and make my way to the lockers Alan had told me about. As the cars leave, I quickly shift through the huge amount of clothes, all in sealed bags marked ‘Washed’: socks, briefs, trousers – everything for a full clean change.

  I’ve no idea if anyone else stayed in a hotel last night or managed to get home, but I notice Ryan and Claire are in different clothes to last night. I throw on a clean T-shirt, waiting for Claire and Alex to make it out of the building before stripping down my bottom half. Riaz is getting into his leathers as I change into clean pants and socks and put a clean pair of trousers on. Wearing the same soiled, stinking clothes for days on end when I need to pose as a street person isn’t something I had a problem with, but this feels good – nearly as good as getting some sleep.

  Closing up the lockers, I follow Riaz – now on his new bike – out. We’ll need his speed if we are operating in London today. Flicking the car’s covert radio on, I switch it to the team channel and ask for a radio check. Alan is first to reply with a loud and clear, so I grab the opportunity and call him on my phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  A typically guarded response, as all our phone numbers are blocked from appearing on-screen. ‘Alan, it’s Logan, mate. Can you talk?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Can you talk openly?’

  ‘No, I don’t know when I’ll be home, probably not till tonight. Did you get that boiler booked in for a service?’

  ‘OK, mate, understood. Is the boss with you?’

  ‘Great, yes that’s fine with me.’ OK, Leyton-Hughes is obviously within earshot.

  ‘OK, mate, give me a ring when you can or we can speak in person later.’ Hanging up, I know Alan will continue to have a fictitious conversation to completely cover his tracks.

  Soon I’m weaving through the traffic towards the park and it’s Leyton-Hughes who breaks the silence on the net. ‘Message from Ops, all to acknowledge.’

  I respond along with the others, but from his tone of voice, I don’t think he’s about to deliver good news.

  ‘Police are at the park after a dog-walker found a body. Initial reports are giving a description that matches our unidentified male from Liverpool. They’ve also recovered a phone at the scene.’

  I just manage to stop myself from pounding the steering wheel with my fist and drawing attention to myself, but I still shout ‘Fuck!’ at the top of my voice. A cyclist passing me on the inside glances my way with a look of alarm. Well, the good news, I tell myself wryly, is that our target is still in the same location and isn’t going to move any time soon. The bad news is he’s fucking dead. And we can’t even look at his phone.

  ‘We are working through some options here, but continue to head into the area until we have more intelligence. Ops out.’

  Options? What fucking options? We’ve totally screwed up. Not only did the target spot our surveillance, but now he’s literally a dead end. Where the hell do we go from here?

  No doubt the rest of the team are thinking the same thing. But at least one of them is trying to stay positive. ‘Ops, wait one, it’s Alex. Can we see if the brothers used any local transport stations in Liverpool? They left with two big bags, so we can use time and distance to see if they pop up on CCTV, or any phones that moved on the cell towers when we know they left the house. Or any other phones in the area of the park when this unidentified male’s phone went off?’

  For a few seconds, there’s just silence. Then, as we hoped he would, Alan responds. ‘Alex, I might be able to help with that.’ He hesitates, and I can sense Leyton-Hughes hovering in the background. ‘There wasn’t any movement on the cell towers, apart from this unknown’s phone, that matched the time of the brothers leaving. But I’m working on a lead now. It’s just taking some time. I should have something for you very soon – by the time you get into the area of the park. What I’m doing takes slightly longer than doing it officially because, well, I’m not doing it officially, if you get my drift.’

  ‘No worries. Appreciated, thanks, Alan.’

  The rest of us chip in with our thanks, but the grim feeling that we’re wasting our time remains as we continue towards the park. A few minutes later, Riaz shouts up that he’s in the area, and soon we’re all taking up natural positions on the surrounding streets. No doubt the rest of the team, like me, have made up a cover story for themselves to explain why they’re in the area. No doubt they also know that the best thing about working in London is that most people are too focused on where they’re going to actually lift their heads and take any notice of anything that’s not right in front of them. But underneath the ingrained professionalism that forces us to keep going and not make any mistakes, there’s a growing feeling that none of it matters any more. Since Blindeye went into action, two people have died and we’ve got precisely nothing to show for it. If I was Leyton-Hughes, I wouldn’t want to have to explain that to the DG.

  I’m jolted out of my gloomy thoughts by Alan, who sounds surprisingly upbeat. Or is that just his personality? ‘Team, update from Alan.’


  It’s a scramble to be first onto the net to respond to him. Craig was fastest on the button this time. ‘Go ahead!’

  ‘Apologies for this taking so long – it took time cross-referencing everything. I checked to see if any phones had been switched off using the cell towers around the Liverpool address. Of the phones that were switched off, two of them were later switched on for two minutes on the outskirts of Birmingham. Judging by time, distance and location, these phones would have had to travel by car.’ This is obviously important. Otherwise Alan wouldn’t be explaining it all to us step by step, but I can’t see yet how this helps us. ‘During those two minutes, they both sent a similar message to different phones, which could be girlfriends or partners. The phones switched off again and then in the early hours of this morning switched on again for thirty seconds at a street just south of your position. They’ve remained switched off since.’ Yes! This time I do bang my fist on the steering wheel, but in celebration. But there’s still more to come. ‘I cross-referenced those cell tower movements with the other databases I have access to and I’ve got a vehicle registration number for you. Ready for details?’

  A car! Somehow the clever bastard’s got a fucking car! ‘Go ahead, Alan,’ I tell him, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  ‘Agar Grove – page sixty-two in your map books. Two minutes south of your current location. The vehicle is a silver Ford Mondeo, X-ray two two one, Kilo Golf Golf.’

  I’m already moving, having memorized the grid of surrounding streets, and then Riaz blasts past, swerving into the bus lane to undertake the morning traffic. I follow suit. As we get closer I’ll back off the speed and settle back into being a regular driver, but now that we’ve been given a ray of hope, I’m determined to make these extra seconds count. As I turn into Agar Grove a quick check shows the rest of the team briefly filling my rear-view mirror before breaking off to cover the different positions needed to make sure a vehicle or someone on foot can’t leave the street without us seeing them.