Assassin Flame

by Tomson Cobb

  ‘Could have been opportunistic by the girl. She picked up a key and a john then panicked when your man croaked. Maybe she had the dress on when he had the heart attack then ran out with it on?’ Jago liked to play devil’s advocate when he asked questions about unusual situations.

  ‘I might have believed that as well at first, although there’s another complication. An old couple booked into the room next door were murdered last night as well. They were both found shot in the head. Looks like a professional hit.’

  ‘Jeez. Any connection to your man Bryan?’

  ‘Not that we know of. Both were in their late eighties. They were in town for the wedding of her granddaughter. The party was at another hotel nearby. The other guests said they left early because they were both tired.’ Thompson gave his answers to Jago’s questions in staccato mode. His military background was clear in the way no words were wasted.

  ‘So they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. What did the CCTV show?’

  ‘That’s another problem. The hotel prides itself on its old-fashioned charm and discretion. Just one camera outside the entrance, none in the lobby or on any of the floors. The recording showed Tom arriving about 6 p.m.’

  ‘It didn’t show the woman?’

  ‘No. That’s the damnedest thing. She doesn’t show up anywhere on the tape.’

  ‘Hard disc, Frank. They stopped using video tape years ago.’

  ‘Yes, well, whatever. No sign of her on whatever medium they use nowadays. The police went back through a week’s worth of video with no sign of her in or out of the place.’

  ‘That is unusual. Why are you here now, Frank? I would have thought you’d be deep in conference with your own security people and the government spooks. The guy’s just passed on yet you’re at my front door. Why?’

  ‘Since the murders we’ve had those conversations with everyone from the PM down. The reason I’m here is because of the questions it raises as regards CUP and the risk that our operations around the world have been compromised.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Jago, I need you to investigate this for us. I can’t run this operation forever, particularly as I now only have Hugh to help me. I told you some time ago that I wanted you to join the company as CEO. Now there’s an even bigger need for you to get involved. Have you made up your mind yet?’

  ‘No. I was about to get in touch with you today anyway. Hiro’s daughter left to go back to Japan this morning. Her father rang her to say that another company is about to close him down.’

  ‘Yes, I know. He called me already. That’s another problem we have. It may be connected to this situation as well, we don’t know yet. It’s why I need another pair of eyes on the job. With your special skills I’m hoping that you can come up with some answers we’ve not been able to find so far.’

  ‘Hiro asked me if I could get my people at GCHQ to check out this company. They already know what happened to me in Tokyo after my report. Would you have a problem with that, Frank?’

  ‘Hell no. More the merrier. As long as there’s no mention of CUP. As far as they know your little adventure was because of Chomsky’s side deal double-crossing his bosses in Chetwynd, not that Hiro works for us. They need to know the structure is still secure. Only a few people know about our covert operations so we need to keep it that way.’

  ‘I realise that, Frank. Okay, let me dig around a bit. See what I can come up with. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thanks Jago. I’ll be at the town house for the foreseeable future so we can meet there next time. Call me any time on my mobile.’

  The departure of his father-in-law left Jago to wonder once again whether the organised crime mob that SIS called Chetwynd were targeting those around him. He was soon to be proved correct.

  Chapter 7

  The meeting with the PM and Home Secretary hadn’t gone well. Tied to the fact that he’d had almost no sleep for three nights, Thompson felt particularly tired. Age had never bothered him before but recent events had started to take their toll on his stamina. He was on his second Scotch when the doorbell rang. A loud thunderclap unnerved Thompson as he opened the door of the house in dark, wet South Audley Street around 8.30 p.m. He’d already checked the security camera to find a distressed young woman, dressed in just T-shirt and torn jeans while she held a baby in one arm, the other struggling with a shoulder bag in the heavy rain. She was in tears, soaked to the skin.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you. I’ve locked myself out of my car,’ she said. She nodded towards the battered old Mini that was parked in front of the house. ‘My phone’s in there so I can’t call my husband for help. The window is open a bit and I need to unlock the door. Would you have an old wire coat hanger by any chance? I’ve done it before with one of those when I’ve locked the bloody door by accident.’

  ‘My dear, all my coat hangers are made of mahogany. I get them from Turnbull and Asser so they wouldn’t prove much use. Come in while I see if I have anything else that might do the job.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much. I was so stupid. My daughter distracted me as I lifted her out of the child seat so I forgot to take the key out of the ignition. You’re very kind, Mr…’

  ‘Thompson. Frank Thompson. Let me have a look in the cupboard. I’m sure I have some stiff wire that might work just as well.’ He turned away from her to kneel down and look into the interior of the wooden cabinet. ‘Yes, I think this might do,’ he said.

  While facing away from her, he didn’t see the girl place the baby on the floor behind him, or take out a small nasal spray from inside her shoulder bag. He did, however, feel her strength as she placed her left arm around his neck then, as he tried to pull her arm away, squirt the contents into his nose, turning her face away as she did. He fell to the floor immediately immobilised.

  She took out the hypodermic, rolled up Thompson’s sleeve and inserted the needle. She turned to the child who had started to sound impatient where she lay on the floor, her tiny legs in the air.

  ‘Don’t cry little one. This won’t take long. Then I can let them know you’re here so you can go back to your mummy. Sshh now, while I do what I have to do.’

  The girl took out a small dictation machine. After she’d rolled Thompson into an upright position, she squatted on the carpet in front of him to wait for the drug to take effect. All had gone to plan once again, of course. Attention to detail was the key as always. The thunderstorm she had not anticipated, so even the weather gods had been helpful.

  She started to hum quietly as she gazed into the face of her latest client.

  Chapter 8

  Hyde Park was now alive once more after a long dormant winter, Jago and dog were agreed.

  His lean face, covered in part by the sweat-stained Nike baseball cap which was an essential part of his park run clothing, was creased in concentration. The aroma of freshly mown grass permeated the air around them as they completed the last part of their run. He could see the tourists weren’t covered in as many layers either. That was always a sign that temperatures were on the up, which always put more smiles on everyone’s face.

  They crossed the main road to make their way up Clarendon Place. An expensive part of London where wall-mounted plant holders had suddenly filled with expensive full-grown blooms of many colours and varieties as if by magic. The fact they’d been sown weeks before, far from a part of the city not known for its seedsmen, was beside the point. Both man and dog had by now achieved the desired level of fatigue so each was grateful for a chance to regain their breath as they strolled slowly up the street.

  Cyprus, Hong Kong, Japan, London. Questions raised from his recent exploits in those locations forced Jago to compartmentalise them all into the formulation of a plan of preferences, priorities and necessities. He knew, though, that they all led to a difficult decision.

  Should he leave the service a second time to move to Tokyo for a new life there with Natsuko, in the sybaritic lifestyle that hi
s personal circumstances now provided after Frankie had left everything to him in her will? Should he instead take up Frank’s plea to join Chiltern University Press and work with him to run the covert spy operation under the cover of a traditional publisher? Or should he just continue his reclusive relationship with the Special Intelligence Service alone?

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he wandered up the narrow street, the dog matching his step alongside. Yet another option was, of course, to simply revert back to being just an investigative journalist again and ignore all the different pleas. The piece he’d started after the Volkov murder had now turned into a much more detailed investigation after the death of Chomsky, so he reckoned he could get it published with a little more work. He’d already had overtures from several publications across the globe after his exploits in Japan had become known, so it was one way to bring light onto this criminal organisation. He’d also received a call from a TV company in California to make a documentary so he was spoiled for choice in those departments.

  He was reminded of the legend of Jason. Were his own personal Sirens about to lure him onto the rocks? Could he tie himself to his own mast rather than become bewitched by equally beguiling entreaties with similar risks? Some Homer from his university days appeared unannounced in his head:

  To the Sirens first shalt thou come, who beguile all men whosoever comes to them. Whoso in ignorance draws near to them and hears the Sirens' voice, he nevermore returns, that his wife and little children may stand at his side rejoicing, but the Sirens beguile him with their clear-toned song, as they sit in a meadow, and about them is a great heap of bones of mouldering men, and round the bones the skin is shrivelling. But do thou row past them, and anoint the ears of thy comrades with sweet wax, which thou hast kneaded, lest any of the rest may hear.

  From a similar mythology, he wondered whether the woman who presumably killed Bryan should be classified as a Harpy instead. Almost invulnerable with super strength coupled with the power of regeneration, their only weaknesses being the heart and fire.

  Bizarre memories. Jago had often considered whether the lonely life he’d been living had created a paranoia that might not be reversed. He had no wife any more, nor the child that was buried unborn with her after the unknown driver had killed them both. Was it some sort of redemption he craved from the guilt that woke him each night covered in perspiration? Or was it a simple need to keep himself occupied? Whichever way he considered the situation, a simple answer didn’t present itself. Perhaps he thought, as he often had throughout his past life, that events or someone else would make those tough decisions for him. He was to be proved correct in his assumptions once again.

  Jago had just walked out of the ground-floor shower when the summons to attend came from the mobile he’d left in the kitchen earlier. He was surprised when the caller announced himself as Hugh Colvin from CUP.

  ‘Jags. Thank God I’ve found you at last. I’ve been after you for the last two hours.’

  ‘I’ve been out on my run around the park, Hugh. What’s so important for you to call me at this time of day? It’s usually Frank who phones me at unearthly hours.’

  ‘That’s what I’m calling about, Jago. Frank’s been taken ill. He’s in a private room in the Royal Brompton Hospital in Chelsea.’

  ‘What? I saw him only last night, when he knocked on my door. What’s happened? Is he okay?’

  ‘We don’t know, Jago. They called me because they couldn’t get in touch with you. I’m in Bristol, so as he has no other family it just leaves us both on the contact list now Tom is dead.’

  ‘Yeah. He told me about all that last night. What the hell’s this all about, Hugh?’

  ‘Complicated. Yesterday, a baby was snatched from her pushchair while her mother was in the ladies room in a department store. The Met had searched for the kid all day, then they got an anonymous call last night. Said the kid could be found at the house of Sir Frank Thompson in South Audley Street. You know it don’t you… his place in Mayfair?’

  ‘Sure I do. Go on,’ said Jago as he ran upstairs to dress, the phone switched to hands-free.

  ‘Well, when they got there the door was unlocked. It was on the snip, as if the door had been left deliberately to be opened. Anyway, they found the kid asleep, in perfect condition, on the floor propped up in some cushions taken from a settee. Frank was unconscious, flat out nearby. He’s not in a good way, Jago. He’s been taken to a private room in the Brompton. Can you get over there fast?’

  ‘I’m ahead of you, Hugh. Just about to leave the house to grab a cab.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I’ll get there myself as fast as I can. It’ll be a few hours though. I’ll call you again when I’m closer. Bye.’

  Jago finished in the bedroom and ran back down the stairs to be greeted by the wide eyes of the dog at the front door. It was clear she’d listened in and could sense the bad vibes given out by her master.

  ‘Stay here Chob. There’s food and water for you in the kitchen. I’ll be back later.’

  Chapter 9

  Jago had visited many hospitals in his work as a hack journalist. In the early days, while employed by a local rag, he would often be assigned to camp out in the waiting room of the local accident and emergency department. His job then was to collar as many nurses or doctors as he could to get information on some poor reprobate who had been found stabbed or beaten up on the street. In more recent assignments, he might be invited to the private wards by criminally minded businessmen or politicians who wanted to provide their side of a dubious story before they were arraigned by the courts.

  This place was a little different. The Brompton was one of the top heart centres in the capital. At least Frank was in the best place, thought Jago, as the cab drew up in front of the entrance.

  ‘I’m here to see Sir Frank Thompson but I don’t know which room he’s in. Can you point me in the right direction?’

  ‘Can I have your name please, sir?’ replied the girl at the private patient reception desk. No communal NHS ward for Frank, he thought.

  ‘Jago Hale. I’m his son-in-law. He doesn’t have any other family,’ Jago replied.

  ‘I see. Could you take a seat then Mr Hale? I’ll have someone come to meet you.’

  A few minutes later a nurse in a blue uniform entered the room. She checked the four other seated people before she came up to Jago who stood oblivious, facing the window, deep in thought.

  ‘Mr Hale?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Jago as he turned.

  ‘Would you like to come this way please?’

  He followed her along a corridor until they reached a wall with a memorial plaque that recorded the date of an official opening by a minor royal some years previously. She turned right then pointed him towards two large men in dark suits who stood either side of a door a little further down the passage. One of them came forward to Jago.

  ‘Your name, sir?’

  ‘Jago Hale. I’m Sir Frank Thompson’s son-in-law.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Can I see some ID please?’

  Jago recognised the monotone voice and well-trained manners of a government security officer. They’d be from SO15, or Special Branch as they used to be called until some years ago. He didn’t ask, just showed his wallet which contained two credit cards and a driving licence.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Could you wait here a moment?’ The large man didn’t wait for an answer. He strode off and knocked on the door that was under their protection.

  Jago didn’t have to wait long. The man reappeared after a minute to beckon him forward. He walked into the room while the close protection officer stood aside in the hallway, closing it behind him as he entered.

  ‘Hello Jago.’ Jago was surprised to be greeted by Simon Toye. He’d expected a senior spook to greet him but not a top man from MI6, his own field controller to boot.

  ‘What are you here for, Simon? Why is MI6 interested in my father-in-law? Before you answer that, where is he?’

/>   ‘He’s next door. Not too good I’m afraid. Been given some sort of drug cocktail. The analysts are trying to find out what it is. So far they haven’t come up with the answer.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’ Jago knew the games that Toye liked to play. This wasn’t the time for subterfuge so he wasn’t in the mood for a cat-and-mouse conversation with the guy.

  ‘Sorry Jago. I can’t give you all the details, suffice to say that we believe the woman that did this to Thompson was the same one that took out Tom Bryan a few days ago. You’ve heard about that of course.’

  Jago didn’t know whether that was a statement or question. He decided to say as little as possible until he learned more.

  ‘I have. Frank called in yesterday to tell me about it.’

  ‘What did he tell you, could I ask?’ Toye said, without any inflexion in his voice.

  ‘That Bryan had a heart attack after he had his end away with a hooker in a hotel room.’

  ‘We don’t believe he died that way. Did Thompson also tell you that there were two other murders in the hotel the same night?’

  ‘He did. Could they have been the real targets?’ Jago decided he would push Toye as far as he could to see if he’d offer what else he knew.

  ‘Not probable. Both in their eighties, there for a family wedding. Not very well off so they’d decided to splash out on a top hotel as a special occasion. We don’t think a professional assassin would be contracted to take them out.’

  ‘You mean assassine I think, Simon. Female version. So you’ve decided this was the work of a contract killer. Who do you think this woman is then?’