He headed for the back door, but as he grabbed the handle, a crashing sound came from behind. He turned to see the front door burst open. A figure stood in the doorway. All he could do was stare at it. The bomb had only seconds left. He pulled the back door and the wind rushed in, forcing it wide open.
His eyes remained on the front door. The figure held a gun. Was raising it up, aiming at him. Then suddenly a man landed in the corridor between them, a gun in his hand. He must have jumped down the stairs. Bad timing. As he raised the gun a silent bullet hit the back of his head and came out his eye. The man fell forward and Chandos turned to dive out of the building. He was halfway through the door when the burning fuse reached the detonator.
The explosion was enormous. Staggering. The crack and boom like thunder. The poorly constructed wood and brick building shattered into millions of pieces. The guts of it went skyward. The roof and every wall, floor, stair and stick of furniture disintegrated. Thirty-eight Nigerians were ripped to shreds instantly or sent into the night sky.
The houses either side also got smashed and levelled. Every pane of glass within hundreds of metres was shattered. The shockwave blew in doors and smashed the windows of vehicles in the street, filling the sky with debris for a kilometre upwards. When it came back down, it struck vehicles and roofs blocks away. The raining debris lasted several minutes as the lighter objects floated to earth.
The explosion was heard across much of the city. When it subsided, a huge crater filled with shattered wood and rubble occupied the space where the house used to be. A fire burned.
It was morning before the first emergency services arrived at the scene. That was due to the fact that once the address was known the police were afraid to investigate for fear the explosion was the start of some wild attack by the Islamic revolutionaries. They wouldn’t approach the site until the Army had been brought in to support them.
The building wreckage was still smoking when the sun came up. There had been several injuries in the neighbourhood. The serious ones had been taken to the nearest hospital by friends or relatives. What was left of the destroyed house had already been looted by scavengers, young and old. Anything of value had been taken. Not that there had been much left.
Once people realised that the house had been occupied by a good number of the terrorist gang when the detonation occurred, many concluded that the incident had been an own goal. Clearly an accident. However, a couple of witnesses came forward later in the day stating that they’d seen an armed white man outside the house not long before the explosion.
That piece of information significantly disrupted the earlier conclusions. But since no one could find any evidence of any nationalities killed in the blast besides Nigerians, it was placed to one side. A white man outside the house minutes before sounded odd, to be sure. But it didn’t necessarily mean he was responsible for what had happened.
The Blue Honda Civic, badly damaged and half buried, was eventually examined and the holdall and weapons bag retrieved. The British were invited to examine the evidence. Scotland Yard sent their findings to the Ministry of Defence. It included evidence of explosives in the small backpack. The Nigerian government never received any details of the man they knew only as Berry Chandos who had entered their country that day and several hours later was last seen armed in the immediate vicinity of an Islamic fundamentalist headquarters that was blown to smithereens.
They found no evidence of a second white man.
9
Stratton, in workout gear, ran hard along a residential East London Docklands street, turned a corner into a road lined with apartment blocks of various sizes and went in through the entrance to one of them.
He jogged up a flight of stairs, reached a front door on the fourth floor out of breath, and supported himself with his hands on his knees while inhaling deeply. He took a key from his shorts, opened the door and entered the hallway, closing the door behind him. He switched on the TV, before getting down onto his back on the carpeted floor and proceeding to do some sit-ups.
The news channel was playing a report about an alleged missing Pakistani atomic weapon. The Americans were accusing the Pakistan military of failing to report a missing nuclear weapon. The Pakistan military were insisting that no such incident had occurred and that the Americans had created the story to discredit Pakistan and its military.
Stratton had little interest in the news, as per usual. He received daily international intelligence updates by email produced by military intelligence analysts. The reports included conflict analysis, as well as general governance news. The more salient points. The only interest he had in televised news reports was the occasional video coverage. The media tended to get their hands on eyewitness material before intelligence organisations could.
He stretched his hamstrings and lower back, carried out a series of tension releases and took a moment to relax and clear his head. He sat up to look out of a ceiling-to-floor window. He watched an old wooden boat head slowly along the Thames, its sails puffed out by the wind. It must have been a couple of hundred years old, Stratton thought. Majestic. He fancied the idea of spending a few weeks on board something like that. Working hard, purely for the fun of it. He wondered when he would ever have the time for such things.
He went into the small, modern and well-equipped kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. The apartment was owned by the Ministry of Defence, for the purpose of temporarily housing members of military intelligence and other short-term visitors to the city. As essentially a non-commissioned member of the Special Boat Service, based in Poole, Dorset, Stratton wouldn’t have qualified to use such lavish premises – but he was also a part-time Secret Intelligence Service operative. It was one of the rare perks of the business. This particular apartment, which was quite luxurious and in an expensive area, was far above his SIS pay grade too. It was supposed to be for the use of the equivalent rank of colonel and above only. But the old Army quartermaster responsible for running and maintaining the MoD apartments in the city had a bit of a soft spot for Stratton. From their first meeting Stratton treated the old boy kindly and with respect. And therefore he was always assured plum accommodation whenever he stayed in London, if one was available.
He had arrived in the city for an MI6 communications and coding refresher course. It had been a good excuse to get out of Poole after his tour of Afghanistan. There had been nothing much going on after the hamlet-clearing operation. On completion of the comms course he was looking forward to taking some leave. But he hadn’t been able to get his old boss off his mind. Most frustrating was not being able to get in contact with him. Stratton wanted to know how he was getting on. It had been less than two days since their meeting. Obviously, if Chandos was concerned about an assassin monitoring him, he was unlikely to have an open line of communication with anyone.
Stratton stirred his tea. He took a sip as he tried to put Chandos out of his thoughts. Burns had recommended him for leave after the op. It would be nice to take a girl-friend somewhere. But there was a minor problem with that idea. He didn’t have one. No old flame came to mind who he might call either.
He went into the bedroom to get out of his PT kit and take a shower. As he reached to turn on the shower, he heard a faint beep come from his laptop which he’d left open on the living room table. He chose to ignore it for the moment. If the SIS or SBS wanted him urgently, they would call or send a coded pin message to his mobile phone. That was a tone he’d usually respond to right away.
Ten minutes later, he stepped from the bedroom wearing a shirt and a pair of casual trousers and returned the empty mug to the kitchen. The TV in the living room had changed from news to sports and he paused to watch an excerpt from a recent rugby game. His computer on the desk gave a reminder beep. It was a distraction he couldn’t ignore for long.
He went over to it and touched a key to bring the screen to life. The subject message to the email window was profound and to the point.
CHANDOS DEAD
&n
bsp; He didn’t recognise the email address. Stunned, he tapped a key to open it. A message appeared: DOWNLOAD Z-CRYPT SOFTWARE – OPEN Z-CRYPT FILE IN SECURE, OFFLINE ENVIRONMENT. There was an attachment. Its extension showed it was a Z-Crypt file. Whoever sent it didn’t want to risk it being read by anyone else.
His secure memory stick was on the desk and he plugged it into the computer and typed in the password. He accessed the browser and found the Z-Crypt software. He downloaded it. The secure stick allowed him to access any internet site and read the data without leaving a trace on his laptop.
He looked at the message again as the software installed itself and wondered who could possibly have sent it. The software opened and invited him to select a file. But there was no password on the message. He examined it again, wondering if he had missed something, and the laptop pinged again.
Another email from the same sender. He opened it but all it contained was a series of numbers, letters and symbols. The missing password, Stratton presumed.
He copied it into the password window and hit enter. The attachment promptly opened. It was a letter addressed to him. He sat down in front of the computer as he read it.
I KNOW MUCH OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT LED TO OUR FRIEND’S DEATH, THE ONES THE AUTHORITIES WILL NEVER FIND. THEY REMAIN A GREAT CONCERN. ANYONE WHO INTERFERES RISKS FALLING UNDER THE GAZE OF THOSE WHO SANCTIONED HIS DEATH. IF YOU WISH TO KNOW MORE I AM PREPARED TO MEET WITH YOU. BUT TELL ME THIS: WHAT WAS CHANDOS’S FIRST COMPLAINT ABOUT YOU?
PLEASE DESTROY THIS LETTER AND THE EMAILS ASSOCIATED WITH IT IMMEDIATELY.
BULLFROG
Bullfrog. The codename Chandos had given to him regarding a trusted friend. Stratton sat back, shocked by what appeared to be confirmation of Chandos’s death. There was every possibility that it was misinformation. But he suspected he was clinging to a false hope.
He wondered how the man had died. Until he heard otherwise, he would assume Chandos had been killed by the assassin. He looked at the email again. The address and details. He wondered if the invitation was a trap of some kind. Perhaps it was from those behind Chandos’s death, cleaning up anyone he was associated with. If they were so smart, they would have known he had met with Stratton that day in the pub. But then, why would they want Stratton out of the way? Chandos had told him nothing of any significance.
And the messenger asked for a proof-of-life question to which only Chandos would know the answer and who had supposedly told them. Stratton asked himself why he would actually want to get involved in any of this. Much as he had admired Chandos, he didn’t want to risk his own life for something that was of great importance to his former boss but not him.
He looked out across the Thames. The river had turned dark-grey, reflecting the clouds that were gathering. To walk away and show no interest in the cause of Chandos’s death was not something he could easily do. He wondered if there was anyone he could confide in. Hand it over to. There would be an investigation into Chandos’s death. Stratton was not an investigator. Furthermore, if the assassin was real, then Stratton would be well out of his depth. As indeed Chandos had been.
He couldn’t think of anyone he personally knew and could trust who was qualified enough to investigate the incident. And even if he could have, he’d precious little to hand over to them anyway. He wondered who this Bullfrog character was. If Chandos died as a result of what he knew, why was Bullfrog still alive? He apparently knew the same things. Whoever killed Chandos possibly didn’t know about Bullfrog. Despite himself, Stratton was intrigued by it all.
But not quite enough to get involved. He deleted the emails and the Z-Crypt file and password and ensured there were no further traces of them. He opened the saved addresses file. In it was Bullfrog’s. It was the only way he could reply to the curious individual. His finger hovered over the DELETE key.
He couldn’t push down the key.
He started to close the laptop but was unable to do that either. He couldn’t turn his back on Chandos. Not as coldly as that. He had to find out more at least. Once he had all the available information he could decide what to do. He owed Chandos that much. Meeting with this Bullfrog character wouldn’t commit him to anything. If Bullfrog wasn’t a target of those who had killed Chandos, Stratton could expect a meeting between them to be safe. There were holes in the logic. But then he could hypothesise all day.
He initiated an email addressed to Bullfrog. CHANDOS COMPLAINED I WAS A SCRUFFY BASTARD ON THE PARADE GROUND.
He sent it, got to his feet and walked to the window. He tried to remember what it was he had been thinking about prior to the email. It came to him. His vacation. An idyllic Mediterranean fishing village. A pretty girl beside him. The image was becoming blurred, though. Interference from his sudden sense of obligation.
His laptop beeped again.
He walked over and looked at the screen. Another encrypted attachment. The message said, same password. He sat down and opened the file through his secure memory stick.
THE CHESTERFIELD HOTEL. MAYFAIR. 1400. AT RECEPTION YOU WILL USE THE NAME MR BOUYANC AND ASK FOR A KEY TO YOUR ROOM.
There was no date. That meant today. Stratton looked at his watch. It was almost midday. This Bullfrog was keen. That suited him – he was due to return to Poole that evening. He could get the meeting out of the way and be home for the evening. With luck he could be packing a bag that night and heading for an airport to somewhere the following day.
Think positively, he told himself. He couldn’t get involved in anything to do with whatever Chandos was into. That was pretty obvious. But he still couldn’t accurately recall the image he’d had of the idyllic Mediterranean village.
10
Stratton took the Underground into the centre of the city and got off at Hyde Park Corner. He walked past Wellington’s old house and along Park Lane in the direction of the Dorchester Hotel. Before he reached it, he turned into the backstreets of Mayfair. A few blocks later he arrived at the Chesterfield Hotel. It was a tastefully appointed Victorian structure with an attractive frontage.
He walked into the lobby and to the reception desk. A portly lady in a smart uniform jacket looked up at him from her paperwork. Her professional expression hinted at a smile – she asked how she could be of help.
‘Mr Buoyanc,’ he said. ‘I’d like a key to my room, please.’
She checked her register and then took a key card from a box, programmed it in a machine and handed it to him. He looked at it. There was no indication of the room number. He looked at her.
She seemed unsure why. ‘Room twenty-seven,’ she said, hoping that was the answer to his look.
‘Yes,’ he replied, as if it hadn’t been the reason he’d glanced at her. ‘Thanks.’
He made his way through a sitting room towards the elevators. Before he reached them he stopped, turned around and looked back at the entrance. He had instinctively carried out a fundamental anti-surveillance procedure intended to reveal if anyone was behind him.
There were four people in his immediate view. He discounted three quickly as potential monitors: one was sitting in a chair sipping a cup of tea, a pot and several sandwiches on a small table in front of her – she would have had to know he was coming. Another was a doorman entering the hotel with a suitcase – that would have to have been planned too, and way ahead of his visit. The other was a waiter passing through the sitting room – as before, implausible. The fourth person was a man who had just walked into the hotel – a possibility. The man was walking directly to the reception desk without as much as a glance in Stratton’s direction. He spoke briefly to the receptionist, who handed him an envelope. At that moment the man looked towards a lady coming out of the restaurant, beamed a smile. They embraced lovingly and went into the restaurant together.
Stratton wasn’t sure why he had carried out the drill. It was the sort of thing he did automatically on operations, but in his head he was practically in rest mode. Or at least trying to be. It was evidence, if he needed it, that he
was starting to get edgy about the whole thing.
He walked into an open elevator and pushed the button. The doors closed and a few moments later opened on the second floor and he stepped into a plush corridor, which was quiet and empty. The thick-pile carpeting silenced his footsteps as he walked along it.
He arrived at room twenty-seven and placed the key card in the slot. A small green light flickered and he pushed down the handle, opening the door.
He remained in the doorway at first, half-expecting someone to be in the room. The instructions had been brief. Then he stepped inside, closed the door and remained where he was as he surveyed the room. It was expensively furnished in an antique style. A bed, desk, armchair, television. But no person. No Bullfrog.
Everything had been so precise. The coding, the timings, the key waiting for him. He told himself to be patient, the meeting would happen. He walked into the room and sat in the armchair, waiting in silence. The place was really quiet, the passing vehicles outside near silent.
He checked his watch. Bullfrog was six minutes late. He asked himself how long he would give it before leaving. Ten more minutes would be good enough, he decided. A sound came from the far corner of the room. A click. His eyes shot to a door near the window. It must lead to an adjoining room. Another click. It was being unlocked from the other side.
The handle turned and the door began to open. A figure stepped into the room – a woman wearing a formal business jacket and matching skirt. She looked to be in her fifties, hair short and red. She wore a little too much make-up. Stratton suspected she would have been attractive in her younger days.
Assassin (John Stratton) Page 9