THE ANGOLA DECEPTION: An Action Thriller
Page 19
The Toyota Land Cruiser was parked outside a car wash business just off the Fulham Road in west London.
When he arrived two African men in coveralls and wellington boots were polishing off the vehicle’s dark bodywork. The Toyota was only a year old, glossy black paint reflected in the water pooled around the large, gleaming wheels, a set of chunky roll bars wrapped around the front grill. Roy wondered if it was stolen, then decided it wasn’t. Sammy wouldn’t risk tonight’s enterprise on a nicked motor.
He climbed inside. The door closed with a solid thunk, the muffled interior smelling of citrus. He leaned over, checked the glove box. Inside was the fake ID, the registration document, a paid council tax bill, an HSBC debit card. He started the vehicle, guided it up towards the main road and eased out into traffic.
Once he got the feel of it he gunned the Toyota all the way to Kingston. He parked at an outlet store, hid the key behind the front wheel, and walked the half mile or so back home. He thought about witnesses and fingerprints, DNA and all the other CSI stuff that could get a person convicted.
He thought about Derek. The Scot was going to die tonight, strangled to death less than three feet away from him. Roy tried to imagine what he would see, the sounds he would hear, and wondered if he could cope with it. It would be nothing like the movies, where a few seconds of mild effort and a soft gurgle was all it took to snuff out a life. No, tonight would be brutal—kicking, screaming, Derek’s throat sliced through, blood and bile. Roy decided he would look away, turn up the radio, anything to avoid the spectacle.
He skirted a parade of scruffy shops, the beating heart of the Fitzroy. He shivered as a bank of dark cloud suddenly blotted out the spring sunshine. Shadows crept across the estate, filling the stairwells and the voids between the towering grey buildings. It was an omen, Roy decided, and not a good one.
He ducked into his own stairwell, twisted up the first flight of stairs. A man blocked his way, a big man, grey crew cut, dark coat, jeans. He had a hard face, cold eyes and a square jaw covered with thick grey stubble. Roy mumbled an apology and tried to go around him. The man shoved him hard against the wall. Then there were two others, crowding him, pinning his arms to his sides. Experienced hands went to work, searching him.
‘No weapons,’ one of them said.
The big man leaned in close to Roy’s ear.
‘Don’t say a word, don’t make a sound.’
Grey Beard smelled of soap and cheap cologne, and spoke with a heavy London accent. Roy thought he was about to die right there in the stairwell. That’s when he saw the small, flesh-coloured radio receiver lodged in the man’s left ear.
Police.
‘I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. You’ll answer by nodding or shaking your head, do you understand?’
Roy nodded several times.
‘Good. Is your name Roy Sullivan?’
A nod.
‘Is there anyone in your flat at this moment?’
Roy shook his head. They’ve come for Derek.
‘Give me your phone and your door key.’
Roy felt the pressure ease off his right arm and he dug into his pocket.
Grey Beard drilled him with those cold eyes and whispered, ‘We’re going upstairs now. You’ll walk ahead. You’ll see two men approaching you from the other end of the balcony. Ignore them. When you get to your front door you’ll unlock it and go inside. You’ll take three paces—just three—then lie down on the floor. You will make no sound at all and you will not move until you are told. Do you understand?’
Roy nodded again. The man handed him his key, mumbled something into a radio. Then he ordered Roy up the stairs with a pointed finger.
Roy reached the landing on shaky legs. Two men approached him from the other end of the balcony, their hands moving beneath their jackets. Roy thought he caught a glimpse of a sling, the barrel of a gun. Jesus Christ. He swallowed hard, tried to ignore them.
He got to his door, fumbled with his key. The men flanked him on either side, three of them crouched low beneath the kitchen window, two in Dwayne’s doorway.
Roy began to sweat, scraping the key around the lock, willing it to slide in.
Then it did, and he marched inside, counting—one, two, three—he was halfway to the carpet when the men moved past him with barely a sound. He heard a door open, a snort as the smell of shit filled the hallway, then the whispered words, different voices; clear, clear, clear.
The tension seemed to drain from the air after that. Roy stayed on the ground for maybe five more minutes as people stepped over him, the front door opening and closing several times, the conversations around him low, urgent. Finally, a pair of scruffy desert boots stopped inches from his nose.
‘On your feet.’
Roy did as Grey Beard commanded. Every man around him had a gun in his hand, either a pistol or an automatic weapon. He heard the faint crackle of radios. ‘In there,’ Grey Beard ordered. Roy entered his wrecked living room, watched by two silent, armed men. Grey Beard righted the sofa.
‘Sit.’
Roy complied. Any way he looked at it, it was over. They’d come for Derek, and Roy was glad he wouldn’t have to watch a man die, but Sammy’s plans were about to come apart and Max was caught in the crossfire. He had no choice. He decided to tell them everything.
The men guarding him wore civilian clothes, but the equipment beneath their jackets looked military-spec, black chest rigs, side arms, extras magazines, radios, the sort of hard-core gear he’d seen Jimmy wear during his Afghan days. Roy was no expert, but they didn’t look or act like police.
Then another man stepped into the room. He was wearing jeans, a dark blue jacket with lots of pockets and a black baseball cap embroidered with a bird logo and the words Arizona Cardinals. He had dark hair and olive skin, and he radiated authority. He stood directly in front of Roy and unfolded a sheet of paper with a printed mugshot.
Not Derek.
Frank Marshall.
‘Do you know this person?’
Roy frowned. The man was American. Then he remembered Frank’s voice, the cold warning of his words in the park…
‘People are coming after me.’
‘What people?’
‘Bad people. Anyone who gets in their way will die.
Roy forced himself to focus. He had to tell the truth, or a version of it. Enough to convince whoever these men were that he knew nothing. He cautioned himself to keep it simple, to stick as close to the truth as possible. That’s what the refugees and asylum seekers did when they arrived in the UK. He had to do the same.
The American waved the picture in his face again.
‘Answer me. You know this man?’
‘Yes,’ Roy replied.
‘How do you know him?’
‘He said his name was Frank. He came to see me a couple of nights ago.’
Baseball Cap righted an armchair and pulled it close. He sat down on the wide arm, elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped together.
‘It’s Roy, right?’
Roy nodded, the fear rising again. They knew his name.
‘I’m Josh, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the United States.’ He pointed to Grey Beard who lingered by the door. ‘My colleagues are with the Metropolitan Police.’
Roy smiled and nodded. No last name. No warrant card or ID. He saw a broken coffee mug lying on the floor, repeated the mantra in his head; Keep Calm and Carry On…
‘We’re part of a task force hunting Frank Marshall. Marshall is a very dangerous individual, which is why my men are armed. Do you understand?’
‘Of course,’ Roy nodded as gravely as he could.
‘Good. Where is Marshall now?’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, he turned up out of the blue.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He said he had information about my brother Jimmy. He went missing in Iraq three years ago.’
‘What information?’
‘He
wouldn’t say. Said he’d bring me proof. I threw him out.’
Josh waved a hand around the room. ‘Did he do this?’
‘This? No,’ Roy forced a chuckle. ‘I had a party at the weekend. Things got out of hand.’
‘Is that how you got that face?’
‘That’s right. You should see the other bloke.’
‘No time to clean up?’
‘I’m waiting for the insurance assessor. You know how long they take.’
‘And you live alone?’
‘Yes.’
His words sounded hollow. Any minute now this Josh character would slap his face, or punch him, or something. And that would just be the start of it.
‘You want a cup of tea? The kettle still works.’
‘Not right now,’ Josh said. ‘What else did Frank say?’
‘Not much.’
‘Walk me through it. From the first time he made contact.’
Roy massaged his temple, as if summoning up the memory. He imagined the doorbell ringing, a shadow behind the glass, Frank standing in his doorway. ‘It was about eleven-thirty at night when he knocked on the door. He said he had information about Jimmy. They both worked for a company called TDL Global. You heard of them?’
‘Sure.’
‘Anyway, I made him a cup of tea. He struck me as being a bit jumpy, you know, on edge? He started talking, said he knew my brother, but when I asked him to describe him he couldn’t. Then he started rambling about Jimmy working out in the desert at some factory.’ Roy shook his head. ‘I didn’t believe a word of it, and he kept going on about God all the time, said we were all sinners and we had to repent. That’s when I asked him to leave. I’ve met a few like him before, you know, nutters, attention seekers. They’re all the same, full of shit.’
Josh looked bemused. ‘I’ve seen your website, Roy. You don’t believe the official story of your brother’s disappearance either.’
Roy felt the blood flush his cheeks.
‘I didn’t at first. I mean, who leaves the Green Zone on his own, with all them nutjobs running around? But I’ve spoken to a lot of people over the years, and I think it boils down to the fact that my brother made a single, stupid mistake, that’s all. What’s he done, this Frank fella?’
‘That’s not important.’
He could smell Roy’s lies, his fear, could probably hear his guts churning. He had to give him something. ‘He said he’d be back, said he’d bring proof. Some sort of report.’
He saw Josh’s head cock to one side, heard a sudden tension in his voice. ‘When?’
‘Soon, he said. You’re going to protect me from this bloke, right? I don’t want him coming back round here.’
‘Sure we will.’ The American got to his feet. ‘Wait here.’
Josh steered Villiers into the cramped kitchen. He peered through the blind, at the deserted balcony, at the second floor apartment in the opposite block that now housed a surveillance team.
‘Frank’s been here, no doubt. You get anything from the neighbours?’
‘They say someone else has been living here recently. Blinds and curtains are always drawn and they’ve heard chatter through the walls. I wouldn’t say they were reliable witnesses but then again this isn’t a courtroom. My gut says they’re telling the truth.’
‘Could be Frank. The time frame fits.’
Villiers shook his head. ‘The voice they heard was male, heavy Scottish accent. Yesterday they heard that same voice, shouting and swearing. One of them saw Sullivan’s mystery lodger leave. I showed him the picture. It wasn’t Frank Marshall.’
‘Figures. Taking a shit in some guy’s bedroom isn’t exactly Frank’s MO. So, Sullivan’s lying. Why?’
Villiers shrugged, inspecting the contents of the kitchen drawers. ‘He lives a quiet life, employed, pays his bills. Separated, no girly bits and pieces in the bathroom. Maybe he’s gay. Maybe this Scottish guy was a lover.’ He closed the kitchen drawer. ‘Who is this Sullivan kid, Josh? What’s his connection to Marshall?’
Frank was close, Josh could feel it in his bones. He could also sense the Brit’s frustration. He needed Villiers’ absolute cooperation now. He closed the gap between them.
‘Listen to me, Dave. There are things about to happen that you can’t imagine, events on a global scale that’ll change everything. Very soon I’ll need to call on people, people I can trust—’.
‘You can trust me,’ Villiers cut in.
Whatever Josh was selling, Villiers already had his hand on his wallet. He wanted in. Badly.
‘Your CV’s impressive and you’ve performed well. If I decide to bring you on board it’ll mean a move to the States, involvement in some serious operations. It’ll also mean personal loyalty to me and the utmost discretion.’
‘Whatever it takes,’ Villiers said.
‘That’s good, because if this operation goes bad it will jeopardise future opportunities for both of us. What you see and hear now, you can never repeat to anyone, understand?’ Villiers nodded several times. ‘Good. You back me up on this, help me terminate Frank, I’ll open up a whole new world for you.’
Villiers’ eyes shone. ‘What do I need to know?’
For the next few minutes Josh explained the link between Frank, Jimmy and Roy Sullivan, making sure he left out the part about Messina. That particular pill would need a little sugar-coating. When he’d finished, Villiers began processing the information.
‘If Sullivan is working with Frank, or protecting him in some way, why mention him at all? Frank would know that that kind of information could get a man killed.’
‘Good point. And Sullivan said Frank kept mentioning God. The pastor and the witness in Twickenham both confirm the religious angle.’
‘So maybe he really has flipped?’
‘It’s looking likely.’
Did that make Frank more, or less, dangerous? Josh speculated. He glanced at the corkboard on the wall, fingered the utility bills, the fast-food flyers, a USB key drive. ‘Still, something’s not right with this Sullivan kid.’
Villiers extracted a large kitchen knife from a block on the counter. He ran the blade across his palm. ‘I could go to work on him. He doesn’t strike me as the type who’d last long.’
Josh shook his head, ‘No, let’s wait. He said Frank was coming back. When he does we need to be ready. Let’s get surveillance up on Sullivan, covert tail, GPS phone track, the works. And we’ll need the local cops to back off, in case Frank gets spooked. Can you fix that?’
‘I’ll get an op order flashed, keep the neighbourhood teams out of the way.’
‘Okay. In the meantime we cut the kid loose, see which way he runs. If he’s lying about Frank we’ll know in the next couple of hours. If that happens, you can get medieval on him.’
Roy thanked Grey Beard for returning his phone. Josh offered him a card.
‘That’s my direct number. If Marshall makes contact, call me immediately.’
Roy flipped the plain white card over in his hand. The name said Josh Keyes, a mobile number scrawled in biro beneath.
‘What happens if he turns up at my door again?’
‘Act normal. Let him in. Help will be on its way.’
‘Okay.’
The men left the room, stepping over the debris. When the last man had gone, Roy ducked into the kitchen. The USB was still there, along with the report, pinned behind a special offer from Domino’s Pizza. He flopped into a chair, heart pounding, his thoughts swirling like a sink full of draining water.
Frank was telling the truth.
He was being hunted. And the men hunting him, they weren’t police. Did that mean the rest of Frank’s story was true? If that was the case, Sammy was the least of his problems.
He changed into his work clothes and pulled on a coat. He paused by the front door and looked around. It didn’t feel like home any more. It had been violated, fond memories banished like exorcised ghosts. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was Max.
‘There’s two of ’em down there, in a grey Mondeo. Walk to the stairs, duck down, then double back. Works every time.’
Roy mumbled his thanks, did as instructed.
A minute later he was jogging across the estate, trying hard to resist the urge to look behind him. He entered the Fitzroy’s bustling convenience store, striding towards the counter at the back. Behind it, three Asian men of varying ages served a steady stream of customers, bagging purchases, printing lottery tickets and reaching for alcohol or cigarettes in the display behind them. One of them, a slick-haired man in his twenties, smiled when he saw Roy.
‘More Scotch, my friend?’
Roy glanced over his shoulder. ‘I think someone’s following me, Raj. You got another way out of here?’
He led Roy through a fly strip curtain and into the storeroom beyond, twisting through a maze of bottled water, tinned goods and pet food until they reached the back door. Raj hit an alarm code and pushed the door open. ‘Who’s after you?’
‘Don’t know. A couple of dodgy-looking blokes have been hanging around the block. I think they’re watching me.’
There was a van parked in the narrow alleyway outside, its red paintwork faded, bodywork dented in a dozen places. Raj tugged the side door open, waking the man behind the wheel.
‘Manish will take you off the estate.’
The bearded Manish bolted upright in his seat.
‘Thanks, Raj.’
‘Come back and see us,’ he smiled. ‘Doing a special on Johnny Walker this week.’
The van grumbled into life and drove out of the alleyway. Roy stayed low in the back. It stunk of petrol and rotten vegetables.
Manish eyed him in the rear view mirror. ‘Where to?’
Roy told him, and a few minutes later he was crossing the outlet car park and climbing into the Toyota. He drove to Kingston and parked in the multi-storey car park beneath John Lewis. He made a call from a public phone at the train station then switched his Blackberry off. From there it was a brisk ten-minute walk along the river to Vicky’s smart apartment block. He pushed the buzzer and waved at the video camera.