The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3)

by Dominic Adler

  We headed back underground. Hoffman puked when he saw the dead sentries.

  “Shit just got real, eh?” said Oz, pushing the two geeks into the tunnel.

  It took us forty minutes to make it back to the old post office. Diana stood, arms folded. “Prisoners?”

  I nodded. “They need de-briefing.”

  “I’ll let Harry know. I’ve sent Martin on his way. I’ll bring the van around the side, get straight in.”

  We herded Pilbeam and Hoffman into the van and bound them with cable ties. They sat sullenly, looking at the coffin.

  “This is twisted shit,” said Pilbeam.

  Oz whistled through his teeth. “Says the man planning to crash the world economy.”

  Diana motored through traffic, kamikaze cyclists weaving around us. East London: sari shops and market stalls, pop-up bars and madrassas. The streets teemed with people, basking in hazy sunshine. Jacketless office workers queued for street food. Short-skirted girls flirted with boys in vests while market traders yodelled prices. Beer-bellied men lazed outside pubs, jeering at West African traffic wardens cranking out parking tickets.

  I looked at Pilbeam and Hoffman. This was a game to them, something theoretical. They’d never seen the lights go out. I had, in Basra and Freetown, Al-Amarah and Tripoli. Places under the law of gang and gun. Anarchy spreads, sparks from a wildfire, igniting everything it touches. Grudges are settled. Shops are looted. Then, as night follows day, the raping and killing begins.

  And the terrifying thing? It doesn’t take long. The monster lurks just under the skin.

  Maybe it always did.

  Diana continued her anti-surveillance route, heading south and east towards The Harbour. The ambulance rumbled over cobbled streets as we passed through Wapping. “We’ve picked up a tail,” she said matter-of-factly. “Grey Toyota. Been with us since Aldgate. They’re not being subtle, it’s like being followed by the Italian secret police.”

  I looked at Hoffman. “The car? One of yours?”

  The mathematician peered through the privacy-glassed rear window. “Yes, Security Element vehicle. We have three on standby.”

  I fixed Hoffman with a stare. “Are either of you wearing tracking equipment?”

  Pilbeam grinned smugly. Oz wiped it off with the butt of his SMG. The American grunted and fell on the floor of the van.

  “Take it off,” said Hoffman, cowering behind the coffin. “They’ll shoot us, Kris.”

  Pilbeam fished a slim Apple watch from his pocket and handed it to Oz. Blood dribbled from his mouth and chin.

  “Get rid of that bloody watch. I can lose them,” said Diana, feeding the steering wheel through gloved hands.

  Stripping off my coveralls, I tugged on my suit and shoes. “Give me the watch. I’ll get out and give it legs. They’ll think I’ve got Pilbeam and follow. It’ll buy you time.”

  Oz handed me the smart watch. “I’m not sure, Cal. We could just dump it out of the window.”

  “They’ve still got eyeball on us,” I replied. “There could be more of them out there.”

  Tyres bouncing over cobblestones, Diana accelerated towards a leafy park. It was overlooked by 1930s-era council flats. “I agree with Captain Winter,” she said. “Make your way through the park. You can lead them a merry dance and they’ll have to get out of their car to follow you. Find the post office and make a right, it’ll take you to the station.”

  “Roger that,” I said, passing Oz my SMG. I pulled on my shoulder holster and slid open the ambulance’s side door. I slung my assault pack over my shoulder. “Oz, when you’ve delivered these jokers to The Harbour, locate Monty. Establish an OP and call me.”

  Oz, one eye on the prisoners, shuffled towards me. “Roger. You want me to put the other thing in place?” The other thing. Plan B. The blood-soaked ace up our sleeves.

  I nodded. “Do it.”

  Diana slowed and turned a corner, the grey car out of view. As we passed the park, I thudded to the pavement. Pilbeam’s watch was in my pocket, pinging my location.

  Oz gave me a grim nod, crouching by that bloody coffin. The door slid shut, and Diana drove away.

  I was on my own.

  Chapter seventeen

  The park was leafy salient encircled by concrete and brick. Kids played basketball in a metal-fenced court, laughing and shouting. Young women with buggies chatted, watching their kids toddle around a playground. I walked quickly into the trees and waited.

  An operative entered the park, a sinewy woman wearing a green jacket. She was the same person who’d followed us from De Soto’s office the day before. Eyes hidden behind shades, a day-sack over her shoulder. She stopped and pulled a bottle of water from her pocket to take a drink. It gave her time to watch, take bearings. The grey Toyota appeared on the opposite side of the park, engine idling.

  The woman spoke into a hidden mic. She walked towards me, into cover. She’d checked out the playground and basketball court and decided they were of no interest. I guessed there was a guy in the car tracking the GPS signal coming from Pilbeam’s watch, relaying instructions.

  The park grew denser, in the shadow of graffiti-covered concrete and thorn bushes. I pulled out Pilbeam’s watch and set the alarm function. Thirty seconds. I put it on the ground and stood behind a thick-trunked tree. The operative walked towards my position, talking into her mic with one hand inside her jacket. She circled the area, like a wary animal at a new watering hole.

  Pilbeam’s watch made an audible beep. She glanced at it, distracted.

  I stepped out from behind the tree. “Hide and seek. Not a proper game for grown-ups, is it?” Green jacket went for her gun, but she was already staring down the barrel of my suppressed .45.

  “Okay, I’m going to put my sidearm on the ground,” she replied in a clipped American accent. She placed a weapon on the grass. “Here’s how this goes down: I’m gonna walk away, and you ain’t gonna shoot. Okay?”

  “Wrong,” I said. My .45 hissed. The bullet sliced through Green jacket’s hamstring, making a vivid red slash along her trouser leg. “I’ve got a message for Drexler.”

  The American looked at me, teeth gritted, icy blue eyes lasering into mine. She clamped a hand over her bloodied leg, clear-gel earpiece dangling loose.

  I pocketed her pistol. Yeah, it was an FN 5-7. “Give me your radio,” I ordered.

  She handed me a small body-set on a flesh-coloured harness. I un-jacked her earpiece and keyed the mic. “Drexler, d’you hear me?”

  “Identify yourself,” said a voice. Deep and slow, New Orleans lazy.

  “Cal Winter.”

  “Ah, Winter. I’ve read your file. Shouldn’t you be dead of cirrhosis by now?”

  “I know your plan,” I said. “I’ve got Pilbeam and Hoffman.”

  “The plan? Awesome, ain’t it?” Drexler replied. “Let Kris and Bryan go. Oh, and please tell me you haven’t killed my operative in there. I value my people. Unlike The Firm.”

  “She’s slightly damaged. Why don’t you come and get her?”

  Drexler sighed. “No, she’s a big girl. And I’m running to a schedule. What do you want?”

  “I want you. You are The Firm now, Drexler. Bad mistake. And I’m not having you attack my country with it.”

  “The best you can do is patriotism? Gimme a break. You are one seriously deluded sonofabitch,” said Drexler easily, “at least now I know I know who the pain in my ass is. You’ve killed nine of my people.”

  “Killing people is what we do, right?” I said, “but The Hoffman Curve? That’s something else entirely.”

  “Soon you’re gonna have other concerns, Winter.”

  I keyed off the mic. The American woman, pale-faced and sweating, sneered.

  “Tell Drexler I know about Dungeness Engineering,” I said. “Tell him I know Monty’s true identity.”

  She shook her head. “You’re the one who ran, right? Man, you’re dumber than a bag of hammers. You shoulda stayed in Iceland.”

&
nbsp; “I’ve killed nine of yours so far, and I’m still alive.” I holstered my pistol and stamped on Pilbeam’s watch.

  I left the park the way I’d entered, another Drexler operative eyeing me warily. A big guy, black, with a shaved head and goatee beard. We looked at the civilians mooching about and gave a mutual not now look. In our business there aren’t many rules, but gunfights in public places are frowned upon. London was ever-teetering on the brink of a roving terrorist attack. If we opened fire, we’d bring the city’s entire security apparatus down on our heads.

  “She’s alive,” I said. “In the trees, northeast corner of the park. Single bullet wound to the calf. It’s a graze.”

  “Copy that,” said the American, studying me with casual interest. “Anyhow, I’m sure I’ll be seein’ you later. Prob’ly through a rifle scope.”

  “It’s a date,” I replied, hitting the street.

  I took a deep breath. Any half-decent surveillance team would try to anticipate my route and send an operator ahead of me. The station was an obvious destination. So I walked in the opposite direction. The streets in Wapping are a maze, old Victorian streets mashed-up with hyper-modern apartments. I knew it well. My grandfather used to live in Limehouse. Every weekend him and dad would abandon me outside a pub in Narrow Street with a bottle of cola and bag of crisps while they drank.

  The Americans, used to running parallel surveillance in cities built on grids, or in Third World souks, quickly lost me. After an hour, I was satisfied I’d dry-cleaned myself of watchers and hailed a black cab. The driver skirted Limehouse, snatches of river peeping between warehouses. Then the Isle of Dogs; the thumb-shaped apron that bends the Thames into a ‘U’ shape. It was quieter, riverside streets of identikit penthouses and office blocks.

  Up ahead I saw a police car, blue lights blinking. Cops looped crime scene tape between lamp-posts. Behind them, fiery smoke billowed above the rooftops. I approached the nearest policeman. “What happened?”

  The cop looked me up and down. “I think there’s been a fire,” he said, using the voice policemen reserve for people asking stupid questions. “Stay well back, please.”

  Doubling back, I ran through a park, a shortcut to The Harbour. Kids were sunbathing and smoking joints, gazing blankly at the plume of smoke.

  I knew The Harbour would be burning. Gouts of orange flame belched from the windows, smoke spewing from the roof. Firefighters directed hoses at the blaze, ambulances bumping over the kerb. The air was hot, peppered with debris. A Sky News outside broadcast van reversed onto a verge, scattering onlookers. People lined the cordon, trying to get home.

  “Did anybody get out?” I asked nobody in particular.

  “I think so,” said an old Jamaican lady in a neat pink coat. “They took someone to an ambulance.”

  “I saw bodies,” said a kid wearing a baseball cap, “they was, like, totally dead, man.”

  A police sergeant stood on the cordon issuing orders over her radio.

  “I’ve got friends in there,” I asked her. “Did anyone make it out?”

  “I can’t say right now,” the cop replied. “We’re looking for witnesses. Did you see anything?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Where are they taking casualties?”

  “Royal London,” she replied, looking at her clipboard. “Can I take your name?”

  “No need, Sergeant,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I don’t think there’s much point.” I turned on my heel and started walking. The cop called after me. I ignored her. In the park I sat on a bench and tapped Juliet’s number into my burner with trembling hands.

  “Hello?” said a woman’s voice. It wasn’t Juliet.

  “Is Ms. Easter OK? I’m a colleague.”

  “You’re speaking to DS Paterson, Limehouse CID. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Adrian Clay.”

  “Okay, Mister Clay. Juliet’s suffering from smoke inhalation, but she’s going to be OK. We’re going to talk to her in a little while.”

  “Are there fatalities?”

  “We’re not passing on any details until next of kin are informed,” she said firmly.

  “I understand.” Walking to the edge of the park, I hurled the mobile in the river.

  And, if Hoffman and Pilbeam were to be believed, London had 48 hours left. No, I thought, make it 46...

  The traffic jam on the island worsened, emergency vehicles weaving in and out of the gridlock. A police helicoptered chuntered overhead, the major incident circus coming to town. I headed back towards Limehouse. My satellite phone trilled. “Cal? It’s Juliet,” said a hoarse, weary voice.

  Stomach churning, I swallowed something bitter. “What happened?”

  “Arson attack. I don’t know how they started it. Our CCTV was hacked five minutes before the attack.”

  “How did they know about The Harbour?”

  “I don’t know, Cal.”

  “And the others?”

  “I think Harry and Diana got out okay, and Oz left before the fire. Hugh was back at the Mayfair office. We left Pilbeam and Hoffman in the basement car park.”

  “Assume they’re dead. We’ve got less than 48 hours before Drexler puts a crazy plan into effect. It’s doomsday stuff, incredible.” I outlined Pilbeam and Hoffman’s story.

  “That fits with what we learnt about Drexler while you were away,” said Juliet.

  “Yes, but who’s paying for all this?” I replied. “Drexler has to have a customer. The Firm never self-tasks.”

  “I agree, but I’ve got the police asking questions.”

  “Discharge yourself, I’ll come and get you…”

  “No,” she replied. “I’m compromised. Let it stay that way. I’ll lead them on a wild goose chase, keep the bastards busy. When I’m clean, I’ll get in touch with Marcus.”

  “Juliet, I’m going to try to drag Drexler down to one of The Firm’s old office buildings, a place called Dungeness Engineering. Tell Harry.”

  “The doctor’s here,” she whispered. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll call soon,” I said.

  Juliet, Harry and Diana were out of the game. I needed a place to clean up and plan my next move. I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to a pub in Bermondsey. It was called The Black Cat. Propping up the bar was Dmitri Aseyev. Dmitri was ex-MVD Spetsnaz, the former head of security for a Russian oligarch called Sergei Belov. The Firm contracted me to be Belov’s trouble-shooter, but the gig soured. Dmitri took my side. That made him persona non grata with both the oligarchs and the Kremlin.

  “Skol’ko let, skol’ko zim!” said the big Russian. Dmitri was gym-ripped, with dirty blonde hair and a flat, Slavic face. He was dressed in black – 501s, tailored shirt and Chelsea boots. A gold orthodox cross hung around his neck, a gem-studded watch strapped to his wrist. “Cal Winter,” he smiled in heavily-accented English. “I smell death on you.”

  “At least I’m consistent.” I accepted the big Russian’s bear-hug, ribs burning.

  Dmitri patted my shoulder holster and smiled again. “Drinks!” he boomed. The barmaid shot him a look. “Cal, Kronenbourg with a Maker’s Mark chaser?”

  The landlady was a top-heavy blonde with crimson lips and a scowl. She teetered towards the beer pump. I reckoned she’d be a proper handful in a fight. “This is Shona, my beautiful new lady,” said Dmitri proudly.

  Shona tried to smile, failed, and went back to pulling pints. The pub was empty, apart from a couple of old geezers grumbling in the corner. Fruit machines flashed like robots from a 50s sci-fi movie, the smell of stale beer and fried food tickling my nose.

  “She is miserable witch,” Dmitri half-whispered.

  “Fuck off Dmitri, or you can start paying for your drinks,” Shona hissed, “or piss off back to fucking Russia.”

  “To be accurate, my love, I am from Tatarstan,” he sniffed.

  “All the same to me,” Shona replied, rolling her eyes. “I should’ve found a Polish fella. At least they work. Russians just drink, fuck and
fight.”

  “You see?” said Dmitri happily, “she knows us so well.”

  “Sorry, darlin’,” I said gently, peeling a wad of twenties from my pocket. In Bermondsey, my officer’s mess syntax slips effortlessly into Estuary. “Put this in the wood. Have a drink on me, eh?”

  Shona perked up. “You didn’t tell me you had classy friends, Dmitri. This one would scrub up nicely, if he didn’t look like Mike Tyson had given ‘im a goin’ over.”

  “I do not have classy friends,” Dmitri laughed, pointing at my face. “This one especially. What does the other guy look like, Cal?”

  “Dead,” I replied in Russian.

  Dmitri stuck to English. “So, is mercenary soldiering still as stupid a profession as I remember?”

  “I’m trying to get out of it,” I replied.

  “And how is that going, my friend?”

  “Badly.”

  Dmitri told me about his new life. When he wasn’t bouncing club doors, he drove Saudi princes around Knightsbridge and leant on debtors for local ‘businessmen.’ “I would prefer to be in Kazan, but life here could be worse,” he said. He nodded at Shona’s denim-clad rump and winked.

  “I’m glad things are working out. I need help,” I said.

  Dmitri poured a glass of vodka into his beer and stirred it with a finger. “Of course. What is it you need?”

  “Right now, just a secure internet connection, a shower and an untraceable phone.”

  “Is this all, Cal Winter?” the Russian laughed. “You shall have anything you wish.”

  “You are a good friend. I’m grateful, Dima,” I replied in Russian, using the intimate short-form version of his name.

  The giant ruffled my hair. “I forget sometimes, how you understand us.”

  “He speaks your lingo?” said Shona, plonking another pint of the numbers in front of me. I drained it in two gulps and signalled for another.

  “Yes, Cal is just like a Russian when it suits him. Drinking, fucking and fighting.”

  “Well, two out of three ain’t bad,” I replied.

  “Shona, I’m going to be busy, baby,” said Dmitri gravely, touching his heart. “Angel moy, never forget that, eh?”