by Dc Alden
Roy saw it then, a dark-coloured minivan parked beneath an overhang of trees. A man waved as Roy braked alongside the Volkswagen. ‘Jesus, is that Nate?’ He spun around in his seat. ‘Frank said no phones.’
‘He didn’t say anything about emails.’
Vicky climbed out, Max bundled in her arms. Roy noticed two other men, one behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, the other helping Nate and Vicky. They were hard-faced and square-jawed, with curly earpieces trailing down their necks. Roy was hustled into the rear of the minivan.
‘What about the car?’
The question was answered a moment later when orange flames bloomed inside the Toyota. By the time they were back on the road the vehicle was an inferno. Roy watched it until it was nothing but a red glow beyond a bend in the road.
On the seat in front of him Max was nestled between Nate and Vicky, her protective arms draped around him as she cooed in her son’s ear and smoothed his muddy hair. In front of them were the two security guys, one behind the wheel, the other talking into a radio. Classical music played softly, dialling down the tension. Vicky had clearly made her own arrangements, and Roy felt relieved that the responsibility for their getaway had now been passed to others. He was exhausted, and both he and Max had been lucky to escape with their lives. He hoped Frank had made it out too.
They travelled for miles, mostly country back roads, then on to a busier trunk road, where they changed vehicles again, this time to a larger Ford. By the time they pulled through the tall iron gates of a secluded country estate over an hour had passed. Roy peered through the window as the wooded grounds gave way to open parkland and a large period manor house, its chimneys silhouetted against the night sky.
‘Where are we?’
‘Somewhere safe,’ Nate said over his shoulder.
The Ford braked to a halt outside the main doors. Everyone got out, and Vicky disappeared inside with Max and a waiting man and a woman who Roy didn’t recognise.
‘Wait a minute—’
‘It’s okay,’ Nate said. ‘They’re my family’s physician and paediatrician. They’re gonna take care of him.’
He ushered Roy inside the opulent entrance hall as the heavy doors were bolted behind them. Roy was impressed. ‘Is this yours?’
Nate shook his head. ‘My father’s, owned by one of his offshore shell corporations. It’s used for very discreet business gatherings. I’ve never been here, and neither has Victoria, so we can’t be traced. The grounds are well protected and I’ve brought a team of professionals. We’re quite safe here.’
Roy wasn’t so sure—Josh had brought a team of professionals with him too. In fact, Roy wasn’t sure if he’d ever feel safe again. Was this how former Prime Ministers and billionaires lived, he wondered, always surrounded by security, the constant threat of assassination and kidnap hanging over them twenty-four seven? Roy doubted he could cope with life as a human target.
‘I want to thank you for what you did,’ Nate said as he escorted Roy upstairs.
‘He’s my son. What d’you expect?’
Nate paused on the landing. ‘I’m not looking for a fight, Roy, I just wanted to express my gratitude. Victoria told me what you were up against tonight. What you did, for Max, for her, well, I think you showed a hell of a lot of courage. I admire that.’
‘Yeah, well, you’d have done the same,’ Roy mumbled, a little embarrassed. Nate eased open a door along the hallway.
‘This is your room. Dump the clothes you’re wearing in the bag provided. There are en suite facilities and fresh clothes in the closet. Victoria gave me your sizes. If you need anything else, the phone on the wall will patch you through to housekeeping.’
‘Where’s Max?’
‘He’s along the hall.’
Fifteen minutes later, after a hot shower and wearing new jeans and a T-shirt, Roy found Max’s room along the landing. Vicky was seated by his bedside, still dressed in her black clothes, her hands clasped around Max’s chubby fingers. His son was still, his face scrubbed and cleaned, his hair neatly parted, his cheeks showing a hint of their former colour. Stuffed toys surrounded him, a soft nightlight glowed in the corner, and nursery rhymes played from an iPod on a nightstand. Roy eased himself into the chair next to Vicky as the doctors retired from the room.
‘How is he?’
‘Better,’ she said, her eyes never leaving Max. ‘They’ve given him a mild tranquiliser to help him sleep. They’re going to keep him sedated for the next few days. The period of trauma was comparatively short, so with a little luck it’ll seem like a bad dream. In time he’ll forget.’
Roy smoothed his son’s hair with a gentle hand. ‘That’s good news.’
‘I need to get out of these clothes. Meet me downstairs in thirty minutes.’
Roy was dozing when Vicky walked barefoot into the wood-panelled reception room over an hour later. He shifted in the surprisingly comfortable armchair, balling the sleep from his eyes. He was dead tired, his bones warmed by the fire burning in the grate, the logs crackling and spitting. Table lamps glowed around the room. Vicky was wearing loose white trousers and a baggy black top, her wet hair falling over her shoulders. Roy thought she looked beautiful.
‘How is he?’
‘Still sleeping. Like father, like son,’ she smiled, flopping into the chair opposite him. Roy was glad she had the strength to joke, but the smile soon faded.
‘So, how much of a threat is Sammy French to us now?’
Roy shrugged. ‘We’ll know in the next twenty-four hours, although I don’t think Sammy is our biggest problem.’
‘Where did you find him? Max, I mean?’
‘It doesn’t matter. The main thing is we got him back.’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘So, you told Nate, then.’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’
Roy shrugged, stung by a sudden barb of jealousy. ‘No, I just thought—’
‘Frank wanted us to disappear, go on the run. I wasn’t comfortable with that so I told Nate. He set all this up, had the details emailed to an anonymous account. We’re safe.’
Roy shook his head. ‘No one’s safe. Remember all that stuff Frank spoke about?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘The data, it’s safe, right?’ Vicky gave him a withering look. Roy held up his hands. ‘Okay, I was just asking.’
‘Now that Max is safe I need to take a look at it, see if any of what Frank says stacks up.’ She crossed her legs, stared into the fire. ‘I need to thank him for what he did. He’ll be angry that we didn’t follow his instructions.’
‘Let’s just hope he got away.’
‘You don’t think he did?’
Roy rose from the chair, stretched his limbs. He crossed to the window, pulled the curtain back, his eyes sweeping the dark grounds, the black wall of trees beyond.
‘We don’t know anything yet, Vicky. I guess we’ll find out in the next few days.’
The minicab pulled into the empty bus stop two hundred yards short of Hatton Cross Tube station.
Frank paid the driver, adding a small tip, then eased himself out onto the pavement. It felt good to be out in the cold night air again, to wash away the antiseptic stench that clung to his skin. The rain had stopped, and somewhere beyond Heathrow’s boundary fence an aircraft roared along the runway, climbing into the night sky. Frank saw its winking lights fade into the distance, saw the glow of the distant terminal buildings, and realised it hadn’t been that long since he’d passed through Heathrow customs himself.
He was pleased with his night’s work. He’d watched Josh and his team from beneath the lip of the steel grate, up to his eyes in putrid shit, the thin breathing tube snaking up into the rain gulley. He saw the torches sweeping across the festering lake, heard the boots above his head as they scoured the edges of the pit, and watched them reassemble on the other side and disappear back through the fence. He waited until he was certain they were gone, until the UAV had stopped criss-crossing the sky above. Then he waited a while lo
nger, finally crawling out of the cloying morass and stumbling towards the woods beyond the farm. There he stripped, dumping his stinking clothes, the thin dry suit, the buoyancy aid and facemask, locating the holdall he’d stashed earlier that afternoon. He used the portable shower bag and antiseptic wash and scrubbed until it was empty then checked himself for cuts and scrapes. Then he’d changed into fresh clothes, crossed the wood until he reached the main road, and dumped his old clothes into a waste bin outside a darkened pub. Not long after that he flagged down a passing cab.
Now he watched that same cab drive away.
He started walking towards the nearby Tube station. Soon he’d find another taxi, hole up in a decent central London hotel for the night, call a private doctor, get a couple of booster shots. He ran events over in his mind, how he’d infiltrated enemy territory and executed his mission, coming through intact on the other side. Frank smiled; it was just like old times. Hopefully Roy and the kid had made it too. He’d find out soon enough.
He looked ahead, to his next mission.
With the Transition fast approaching they wouldn’t be expecting him. He thought about the equipment he’d need, his route across Europe, the probability of mission success. It was almost zero, but that was okay with Frank. Lately the nights had become longer, the voices louder, his name whispered from the shadows. It would never end, he knew that now, but he would confront those beasts when he was good and ready. First he had to make sure that tonight’s mission had succeeded, that the loose ends were tied up.
Loose ends used to be Frank’s speciality.
He’d deal with one of them in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Well, what d’you reckon?’
‘My head says gangland,’ the Detective Chief Inspector told his subordinate, ‘but my gut says something else.’ He fished a pen out of his pocket and scooped up an empty brass casing from the ground. It was one of hundreds scattered in the mud and concrete around the travellers’ site where the DCI had been since the sunrise that morning. That sun had now climbed above the trees, glinting off the pools of rainwater that filled the potholes on the access road. ‘See what I mean?’ he said, offering up the spent casing. ‘No head stamp. Untraceable.’
‘Perfect,’ the inspector grumbled. He stamped his feet, his breath fogging on the chilly morning air. ‘Maybe we can fob this off onto Trident then?’
The DCI pointed to the charred remains of a large caravan a few metres away. ‘You see any black kids in there? No you don’t. What we do have are a dozen dead gypsies riddled with untraceable bullets, a hit and run out on the lane and a burnt-out Toyota five miles away.’ He stared at the bullet casing for another few moments then placed it back on the ground.
He stood up, knees cracking in protest. The site was criss-crossed with police tape that swirled in the sharp morning breeze. White-suited forensics types combed the ground while more police officers erected tents over the two burned-out caravans. The DCI stood on the road between their blackened husks, noting the missing roofs and melted side panels, the bodies inside that were charred beyond recognition, the remains mangled and twisted into grotesque shapes.
‘They used some sort of accelerant,’ the inspector told him. ‘It’ll be a cast iron bitch to identify the victims.’
The DCI noted the pools of now-hardened molten metal on the concrete and shook his head. This wasn’t normal for the travelling community. He knew that when gypsies wanted to settle something they’d normally do it bare-chested with their dukes up, surrounded by baying crowds in a field or a barn, with chunks of money changing hands on the side. Most gypsies were old school; automatic weapons and fire accelerants certainly didn’t fit the profile. He poked a muddy rut with his wellington boot.
‘What about these tyre marks?’
‘Moulds have been cast and they’re on the way back to the lab.’
‘Witnesses?’
A head shake.
‘You’re kidding me? A bloody great fire fight and no one heard a thing?’
The inspector swept his arm across the horizon. ‘Take a look around, guv. Nearest property is half a mile away, plus there was a big storm last night. Roads were empty, everyone tucked up indoors.’
The DCI shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, this is going to be one colossal bloody headache.’
The inspector nodded, made notes in his pocketbook. He finished writing, tapped it with his pen. ‘You know, there is a bright side. With this lot cooked the local crime figures should take a drop for a while.’
The DCI shook his head, zipping his coat up against the chill. ‘You really are a wicked bastard,’ he grinned.
Frank kept his finger on the buzzer until an angry voice rasped over the intercom.
‘What?’
‘I’m here to see Sammy. I’m a friend of Roy’s.’
He stood back and waited, working the muscles of his upper body as he loitered in the doorway of the Putney club. He kept his back to the crawl of the morning traffic, his face obscured by a black baseball cap, the collar of his jacket snapped up against the wind. A minute later the door opened, and a skinny kid with long hair greeted him.
‘Come in,’ he waved. Frank stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The kid bolted the door behind him. ‘Follow me, I’ll show you up.’
‘I know the way,’ Frank told him, remembering Roy’s roughly drawn floor plan.
‘Good. I’ve got to bottle up.’
Frank jogged up the stairs, flexing his limbs, getting his heart rate up. When he reached the top floor a man beckoned him into the office. It was only when Frank got closer that he realised it was a woman.
Tank.
Frank’s eyes flicked to her empty hands, the room beyond, the gap beneath the door. No shadows there, no heavies waiting. He stepped across the threshold, ready for a sudden assault. None came. His eyes roamed the room, picking out the details from Roy’s brief; the large windows overlooking the street, the palms, the expensive rug, the period oil painting above the desk.
The man behind that desk stared at Frank with baleful eyes, a moneyed looking dude with grey hair and a tanned complexion. A large newspaper was spread across the desk in front of him.
Sammy French.
Tank motioned him to raise his arms and gave him a sloppy pat down. Sammy waved him into a chair. He watched Tank close the door, then she moved somewhere behind him, out of his eye line. That was okay with Frank. She wore leather sneakers, and they creaked when she moved her feet.
‘Haven’t seen anyone favour a female bodyguard since Gaddafi,’ he smiled. ‘The Israelis have some competent operatives though.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I doubt you’re in their league, ma’am.’ The woman didn’t respond, just flared her nostrils.
‘Now, now, that’s not very nice,’ Sammy tutted, folding his newspaper and tossing it to one side. ‘People think Tank can’t handle herself because she’s a woman. Personally I think she can hold her own with just about anyone. I saw her break a man’s neck once, a bloke about your size. He’s buzzing around town in one of those little electric spastic chariots now.’ Sammy laughed at his own observation. ‘All right, enough of the banter. Let’s start again, shall we…?’
‘Frank.’
‘You said you were a friend of Roy’s, yeah?’
Frank nodded.
‘Strange, I didn’t think that little shitbag had any friends. Well, I don’t know if he’s told you, but Roy’s in a bit of trouble, Frank. He was supposed to do something for me last night—’
‘You mean the accessory to murder thing?’
Sammy paused for a beat. ‘Roy’s got a big mouth. Tell me, Frank, who are you exactly?’
‘A friend. He told me about your plan, and as a friend I advised him to stay at home.’
‘Really?’ Sammy leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘Probably not the best advice you could’ve given him.’
Frank shrugged. ‘That’s a matter of opini
on.’ He took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Tank’s reflection watched him in the brass desk lamp. ‘Nice picture,’ he said, nodding at the Fusilier behind Sammy.
‘So tell me, Frank, you’re American, right?’
Frank nodded.
‘How d’you know Roy then? What are you, a long lost relative? A boyfriend? Is that it, Frank?’ Sammy laughed, hooking a leg across his knee. ‘You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if Roy was a shirt lifter.’
‘Do you always feel the need to insult people?’
Sammy scratched his chin theatrically. ‘Let me see…actually, yeah.’ He wheeled his chair closer to the desk, his arms folded in front of him. ‘The thing is, I’ve got a terrible temper, Frank. Got me into a lot of trouble when I was a kid. I hurt a lot of people, mainly because I didn’t know when to stop hitting them. It was the same when I first went to prison, everyone trying to give it the large one. They all came unstuck. I’ve calmed down over the years, but occasionally I get this terrible urge to do some damage. When that happens I try to control my emotions with a bit of levity.’
‘Have I upset you?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Were you abused as a child?’ Frank watched Sammy’s eyes narrow and held up a hand. ‘Hey, I only ask because I grew up in an orphanage, saw a lot of kids with a lot of problems. Many of them came from broken homes, dysfunctional families—all that can lead to feelings of guilt and anger, emotions that are usually expressed in the form of violent acts.’
‘What are you, a fucking psychiatrist?’
Frank laughed. ‘Hell no, but there’s been times when I could’ve used one. You ever feel like that, Sammy? You ever feel like the whole world is against you, that not one living soul on this planet could ever understand the crushing guilt, the anguish that drives a man into black despair? The screams of a thousand tortured souls haunting you in the night?’
Sammy frowned. ‘Jesus, you must be one fucked-up individual.’
‘Oh, Jesus knows all right.’
‘Come again?’