“See you soon,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Adrian,” I lied.
“Sayonara, Adrian,” she said, hanging up.
We split up, Oz returning to The Harbour to see what Hugh had discovered. I took a cab across town. The driver dropped me on the north side of Vauxhall Bridge, the emerald-and-vanilla MI6 building behind me.
I liked Pimlico’s careworn heart. A stubborn oasis of normality, besieged by government buildings and swanky houses. There was an old council estate of redbrick flats, grey-haired geezers leaning on balconies while kids mooched about. It lent a touch of humanity to Westminster – otherwise a maze of heritage architecture, bullshit and spin. You’d find spooks, politicians and diplomats in the streets a stone’s throw away. In Pimlico you could find pubs, charity shops and Tesco.
Miss Natsumi’s address was in an apartment block off Warwick Way. A nearby pub gave an oblique view of the communal entrance. I sipped a pint and watched a nervous-looking bloke in a suit walking out of the door and briskly away, only to be replaced by another. I saw no burly Americans lurking nearby.
Two pints later it was my turn. Running a hand through my hair, I crossed the street. I pushed the buzzer and stepped into a hallway. It smelt of cooking, a bicycle propped by the door. The flat was on the third floor. I took the stairs and familiarised myself with the layout: fire escape at the end of each floor, functioning elevator. No CCTV. Miss Natsumi’s front door was red: three locks, spy-hole and a security grille. I rang the buzzer.
“Adrian?” said a voice from behind the door.
“Yes.”
The door opened. The girl was dark-haired, twentysomething, eyes so brown they looked black. I guessed she was Korean, maybe, with a dash of something else. It was a fortunate mix. Too much makeup, but that was the game she was in. She wore a tight, blood-red kimono decorated with black dragons, perfect little feet shod in spike heels. “Come in,” she said easily, “you’ll want a shower.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you.”
The flat was basic but neat. A workplace. It smelt of musky perfume, sex and hygiene wipes. A panic button was half-hidden, next to a wicker basket of multi-coloured condoms. “I’ll get you a beer,” she said, letting the kimono slip open. The girl was slim, with long shapely legs. Her breasts, gravity-mocking, had tell-tale scars underneath.
The situation was as erotic as a trip to the dentist. I sat on the edge of the bed. It was still warm. “Could I have the beer first?” I said, taking in her body. Glocks and dollar signs were tattooed on her hip. “It’s been one of those days.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Now, could we…?” She made the universal sign for payment, rubbing finger and thumb together.
I took five hundred from my wallet and counted it out on the bed. Twenty pound notes. The Queen’s face looked disapprovingly at the ceiling.
“Feeling generous?” she said carefully. “Or was there something special?”
“Just a few more beers,” I smiled.
She returned with a chilled Red Stripe and a glass. I poured it while she jabbed her talons at a docked iPod. Van Morrison wheedled from the speakers. The beer tasted good, sweet and hoppy. I chugged the glass and motioned for another.
“Thirsty boy, I’ll run you that shower,” she said, sneaking a glance at the wall clock.
“Get dressed and sit down, Lucy,” I said wearily. I handed her the card from Fernandez’s wallet. “I’m here for information. Nothing else.”
When she shrugged the kimono back on, there was a stun gun in her hand. It looked like a TV remote, apart from the blue electro-filament crackling at its tip. “Get the fuck out of here, before I put thirty thousand volts through you.”
I stood and nodded. “OK.” Feinting right, I seized her wrist. Nudging my toecap into her ankle, I pushed. Teetering on high heels, Lucy tumbled onto the bed. Glowering, she sat up, tying the belt of her gown tightly around her. The stun gun was in my hand. My fingers wriggled under the wire leading to the panic button on the night table. I wrenched it out with a snap. “The five hundred is for your time and aggravation. This card was in a wallet belonging to an American called Mike Fernandez. What can you tell me about him?”
“Fuck off.”
I followed her eyes. She looked at the door, the window and the night table. Her mobile phone lay on it. “Don’t even think about it,” I shrugged.
“OK. Mike’s been a customer for two months. He’s got a thing about oriental girls, said it came from his time in Korea. He was in the army.” Her laugh was bitter, “y’know, he wants to rescue me from The Life.”
“But you earn three grand a day, tax-free, and don’t need rescuing?”
She gave a tight smile. “I’ll be out of it next year. I’m moving somewhere sunny.”
I bet she told herself that last year too. “Why’s he got your real name and number?”
“He’s different. Not that it’s any of your business. You ain’t police, I can smell them. What are you?”
“What’s Mike doing in London?”
“Security. Not nightclub doors, proper stuff.”
“Has he told you who his boss is?”
“Mike doesn’t talk about work much,” she sniffed, eyes on the door behind me.
“Where’s he staying?”
“Why not ask him yourself? He’s picking me up at eight. If you’re still here, he’ll kick the shit out of you.”
“You’re involved in something bad.”
Lucy rolled her eyes.
I raised an eyebrow. “I mean get-shot-and-dumped-in-the-river bad.”
“Who are you?”
“Your new boyfriend is a hired killer.” I snapped on surgical gloves and slid my .45 from its shoulder holster. “When Mike gets here, it’s going to get violent. You need to hide somewhere safe. When I’m done, you need to get away, fast as you can. Understand? No point going to the authorities, either. Get your money and bug out. Somewhere sunny, right?”
Lucy’s eyes locked onto the gun. A tear tracked down her cheek. She nodded. Of course, she didn’t understand. How could she?
I drained my beer. “Now, get me another drink. I work better half-cut.”
Chapter twelve
The phone rang a dozen times. I checked the screen: number withheld. Lucy changed into sweat pants and a vest, wiped off her makeup. She looked better, more relaxed.
“What’s this about?” she said.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Fuck off. You come in here, pointing guns…”
I grimaced and chugged my beer.
“Hard man, are you?” she continued. “I suppose that’s easy when you’re the one with the gun.”
I looked at my wristwatch. An old army G10, battered and unreliable. A bit like me. The minute hand yawed towards 20:00. “When Fernandez gets here I’m going to try to do this peacefully. It ain’t gonna work, but I’m going to try. Okay? I want you to go into the back room and wait until it’s over.”
“Screw you.”
I opened a draw. Inside was a froth of lingerie and alarmingly-shaped toys, lube and other tools of the oldest trade. I found a pair of cheap nickel handcuffs and tossed them to her. “Put them on.”
Shaking her head and muttering curses, she obliged. “The keys are in the drawer.”
I took her into the tiny kitchen at the back of the flat and sat her on a chair. I held my finger to my lips. I pinged Oz a message on my phone, told him what was happening. Of course, he wanted to come and help. I told him to stay put.
If I died he could finish the job.
At precisely five minutes to eight, a good soldier, Mike Fernandez rapped on the door. I saw him through the spy-hole, dressed in the same dark suit and tie. I breathed deeply and flexed my fingers. He raised his hand to knock again, an irritated expression on his face.
Wrenching the door open, I yanked him inside. He slithered by, fists up. I jabbed him in the throat with Lucy’s stun gun. He jerked, eyes bulging, and
crashed to the ground. I pulled the black plastic trigger again. Fernandez wriggled like a hooked fish, dry-heaving and gasping. Jamming the muzzle of my .45 into his grid, I dragged him inside.
The second guy was out of sight, further along the corridor. He darted into the room, sure-footed and dangerous. The other American, the guy with the scar on his temple. He studied me over the sights of a matte brown handgun. “Drop your weapon.”
Slowly, I complied.
The American shut the door behind him. “Step back, by the window... now on your knees. Hands on your head, fingers threaded. You know the drill.”
“OK, no problem,” I replied.
“Get the fuck up, Fernandez. This is what happens when you think with your dick.”
Fernandez flopped on his back. Wiped spittle from his chin. He hauled himself into a sitting position and pointed a quivering finger at me. “Who the fuck are you?” he gasped.
“He was at the office, remember?” said the second American, “when the hobo knocked on the door.”
Fernandez shook his head, “you took my wallet, right? Lucy’s card was in there.”
I shrugged.
“You did what?” his partner spat, “you stupid fuck. You know the rules.”
Fernandez’s lips were drawn into a snarl. “Hey, Miller, I thought you had my back.”
“You just mentioned the girl might be in trouble,” Miller replied, “which I figured might be part of the territory, with her bein’ a hooker an’ all…”
“Jesus, just let it fucking go. Fucking boy scout.” Fernandez got unsteadily to his feet, looking daggers at Miller. “Now we’re gonna have to get rid of the girl too.”
I gave Fernandez a shit-eating grin. “Who said romance was dead?”
“We make this right,” said Miller. “Interrogate them both and report this up the chain, OK? Then we call the clean-up team.”
Fernandez rubbed a hand across his face. “No way. The big guy will kill me.”
“No, he won’t. This is recoverable,” said Miller. His voice was hard, menace in his words. “I’ve got your back. If you do the operationally correct thing, that is.”
“I’m frosty, OK?” Fernandez pulled his pistol and screwed a suppressor onto the muzzle. “She’ll tell me how he got here.” He stalked towards the kitchen.
Miller kept his pistol trained on me. “Who are you? Why were you at our office?”
“My name is Cal Winter. I used to work for The Firm. I’m sure you know who they are. My last handler was Monty, real name Owen Montague……”
Miller raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“The Firm are trying to kill me. I’m returning the compliment. It’s simple.”
“How d’you find out about De Soto?”
“I suppose you’ve got a leak,” I replied easily. Hands-on-head, I scanned the room. Between me and the door was Miller. He was six-feet tall, brawny, and would empty a magazine into my face before I got off my knees. “I’m minded to discuss it, but I want to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
The American shook his head. “Talk to me.”
From the kitchen I heard a muffled cry. “She’s got nothing to do with me, by the way. Like Fernandez said, I found her card in his wallet and tracked her down.”
Fernandez appeared, a handcuffed Lucy pushed in front of him. His eyes blazed. “Bitch, you set me up.”
“She didn’t,” I growled. “You set yourself up, by being an amateur.”
“You know what? I make him right,” Lucy spat.
Fernandez hurled Lucy on the bed and kicked me in the sternum. The pain was like a steel bolt smashing into my chest. Groaning, I rolled to the floor.
“Have you any idea how much I hate Brits?” Fernandez hissed. He kicked me again, in the ribs.
Miller stepped back, gun aimed at my head. “Easy, Fernandez. The guy is trying to rile you.”
“Well, he’s scored a fuckin’ ‘A’ grade.”
With a crazy growl, Lucy leapt onto Fernandez’s back, handcuffs cutting into his jugular. Reflexively, he feinted, trying to roll her off his shoulder. Her legs pinioned his waist, wrists at his throat. Writhing on his back like an angry human rucksack. Miller’s suppressed pistol made a popping sound. The bullet hit Lucy square in the forehead. She slumped to the bed, a death-hiss on her lips.
Fernandez staggered, righted himself and stared at the dead girl.
Miller adjusted his aim. The muzzle of his gun was a perfect black circle. The smell of gunpowder was sharp in my nose. “Let’s get this thing done.” His finger slid onto the trigger.
The gun was an FN, a Herstal 5-7. Funny, the things you notice before you die. I thought you were meant to remember loved ones.
Miller pulled a face, halfway between discomfort and surprise. He toppled towards me. The back of his head was missing, glistening gore and brain tissue. Fernandez tried to duck. Silent bullets pierced his skull and throat. Hissing like a punctured beach ball, he collapsed next to Lucy’s corpse.
Harry, suited and booted, stood in a cloud of gun smoke. He stalked into the room, Browning-first, scanning arcs. “You okay, Winter?”
“Yeah.”
“Oz told me you were coming here alone. Not very clever.” He lowered his pistol and spoke into a throat mic. “Diana, we need clean-up. Yes, industrial. Medium-sized spill, three customers.”
I picked up my .45 and holstered it. “This was the nearest thing we had to a lead.”
Harry shrugged and passed me a pair of blue surgical gloves. “Search the bodies and grab their phones. We need intelligence on these bastards.”
“If two of their operators go missing, they’ll spark up,” I replied.
“I agree,” Harry nodded, closing the door. “Then again, I reckon this lot are sparked up already. I would be.”
I patted down the corpses. Miller’s wallet had no ID or clues inside. His phone was a cheap supermarket burner. “There’s nothing here, Harry.”
“Then double-check,” he grumbled.
I made safe the Americans’ guns. They were both suppressed FN Herstals. “You don’t see these very often,” I said. Then I remembered Briggs, stalking me in Iceland. “The man who tried to kill me in Hellissandur carried one.”
Harry took one and squinted at it over his glasses. “I’m not familiar with the model. They issue these on The Firm nowadays?”
“Yeah, looks like they’ve gone upmarket. You can’t source this kind of military-grade kit in the UK, not through criminal suppliers. These gats are box-fresh, serial numbers removed.”
“What if we track The Firm’s suppliers?” said Harry, unloading Miller’s piece. “Five-point-seven millimetre? Fucking silly calibre. Like this twenty-round magazine though.”
“US Secret Service use them, I think.”
“Americans,” said Harry, pulling a face. “the CIA wouldn’t dare procure on UK soil, and like you said, underworld armourers don’t get their hands on this sort of stuff. It’s more likely it came through one of our conduits.”
I unloaded the handgun. “Is it a lead we can exploit?”
“Possibly,” the old handler replied. “Follow the enemy’s Main Supply Route. That way, you’ll find his headquarters, one way or another. Diana might know something.”
I nodded. As a triggerman, I just took receipt of weapons. Sometimes The Firm let us source our own for added deniability, which was one of Oz’s jobs. That was usually when we worked in the UK. The rest of the time we picked up equipment in-theatre and left it there.
Diana arrived with a dour-looking man she called Colin. They changed into bio-hazard overalls and face-masks before putting stuff into plastic sacks. Colin had a rucksack full of cleaning agents, power tools and hard brushes.
Harry nodded at Colin and showed Diana the FN pistols. “Where would we get hold of these?”
Diana dropped Miller’s phone in a Faraday bag. “I imagine the only armourer capable of supplying those would be The Dutchman.”
Harry shook hi
s head. “That snake? He was blacklisted before I retired.”
“Perhaps the new management un-blacklisted him?” she replied. “After all, he’s the best in the business. Shall I give him a call?”
I headed for the door. “No. We surprise him.”
“I agree,” said Harry. “He’s a slippery fucker.”
“He trusts me,” the GROUNDSMAN replied, perching on the edge of the bed. She sighed while Colin rolled Lucy’s body onto an unzipped body bag. “You two will end up in one of these if you’re not careful.”
“That’s the game we’re in,” said Harry. He looked at the body and shook his head. “Poor cow.”
Diana tapped a number into her phone. She spoke in fast, fluent French. “Ludo, we need to speak. No, it’s not about that… it’s urgent. Where are you? No… don’t give me tradecraft bullshit now. It’s urgent, bebe. The usual place?”
Harry shot me a look. I gave a Gallic shrug in reply.
“Okay, you’re there now? That’s good,” Diana continued. “Yes, see you soon.”
“The usual place?” said Harry, who now had two guns. “Bebe?”
“Grow up, Henry,” Diana Vaillancourt purred. “I’m GROUNDSMAN. I meet whoever I like, as often as I like. Ludo Haak has a little crush on me. I flirt with him. That’s the end of it.”
Harry holstered his Browning and dropped the FN in a plastic sack. “If you say so.”
“Yes, I do bloody well say so.”
I snapped off my surgical gloves. “Where is the usual place?”
Diana scribbled an address on Harry’s hand with a biro. “It’s a warehouse. Wandsworth.”
“Let’s go,” said Harry.
Diana smiled. “Good to see you back at work, Henry.”
The old handler kissed her and shot me a look. “Someone’s got to put this cake-and-arse-party back on track.”
Oz was parked nearby, in a nondescript hire car. “I told you not to go in there alone.”
“Sorry, mum,” I replied.
“Wanker. Where we going?”
“To meet an arms dealer in a dodgy warehouse,” I said, tapping a cigar from its tube. I find the aroma helps mask the smell of my trade.
“Why?” Oz replied, checking the rear-view mirror.
The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 9