Clay elevated an eyebrow. ‘Family visit, is that what they call it now?’
Tallis ignored the jibe. ‘The back of the building looks out over a yard and garage with an entrance on to an adjacent street.’
Two hours had passed since the morning’s activities, and they were studying a plan of the building. Unlike most other houses in the area, 65 had a cellar. It was a fair bet the general and his wife were inside. Time critical, the pressure on, everyone recognised the murderous capability of the kidnappers and the obligation to free the hostages unharmed, but paramount the need to know who was running the show.
‘I suggest we move in next door, put in fibreoptics, then set up a negotiating line,’ Beckett said. ‘It’s imperative they understand that we are listening to them and taking their grievances seriously.’
‘Softly, softly?’ Clay folded his arms, surly.
‘You disagree?’
Clay gave another of his big-shouldered shrugs.
‘How would you play it, then?’
‘Set off a car bomb, transmit it to all the news agencies, blame it on the kidnappers,’ Clay said, deadpan. ‘That normally flushes folk out.’
‘Good God, man,’ Beckett exploded. ‘This is London, not a piece of scrub in Afghanistan.’
Clay drained his coffee. Tallis caught the gleam in his eye. The man was having fun. Playing it up for all he was worth. Considering what was at stake, it would seem callous to most. Tallis recognised it for what it was: simple gallows humour.
Beckett returned stridently to his main theme. ‘Our best chance is to offer them something, prove we’re happy to talk, get them to engage.’
Asim strained forward the way he always did when he was interested. ‘Offer them what?’
‘Concessions,’ Beckett said with crisp intonation.
‘What sort of concessions?’
Tallis noticed that Clay watched both men as if they were playing in the men’s final at Wimbledon and he was sitting in the main stand.
‘We leak an article to the press about the UN. We state it’s under scrutiny, start a debate about the reform of its structure.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Clay said, sounding remarkably to Tallis’s ears like the great former tennis champion, John McEnroe.
‘You mean code it in a way that Senka Martinovic knows that it’s an olive branch meant for her?’ As far as Tallis was concerned, this was window dressing. It didn’t deal with the immediate problem. And besides, Martinovic had made no such demands. She wasn’t interested in change, only vengeance.
‘Precisely,’ Beckett said.
‘What about Chatelle?’ Asim said.
‘Fuck Chatelle,’ Clay growled. ‘You wanna kick up a storm? Go right ahead.’
Beckett eyed Clay with open loathing. Clay eyed him back. This wasn’t working, wasn’t working at all, Tallis thought miserably. They’d reached deadlock, and he didn’t like the mutinous look in Beckett’s eye. He wouldn’t put it past the bastard to sabotage the operation out of spite. ‘Fact is, the clock’s on countdown for the hostages,’ Tallis said. ‘We have to go in and go in quickly.’
‘SAS?’ Beckett said, referring to the Special Air Service, and a clear snub to Asim, Tallis thought. They’d have to evacuate half the street and, once the media got hold of it, the black operation would turn neon red. With edits, Tallis said as much.
‘So bluff, make it look like a routine terrorist raid,’ Beckett snapped back.
‘No,’ Asim said, the flex of his jaw suggesting that he was very angry indeed.
‘It’s supposed to be a black op. If it isn’t, what are we doing here?’ Tallis said, his turn to eyeball Beckett.
‘This how you normally conduct business?’ Clay waded in. ‘No surprise…’
‘Shut up,’ Tallis said, hanging on to his composure by his fingernails, frustrated by what seemed to him inter-department rivalry. And then it hit him like a freight train. Asim had run the last mission in Russia. It was rumoured that it had resulted in the cold removal of his SIS counterpart, a man by the name of Christian Fazan. Beckett would know this. Had he got himself caught in beween a grudge match?
Tallis tried to pick up the thread of his argument. ‘We go in nice and quiet. No flashbangs, no drama. If we close down this particular cell, we lose the trail. It’s imperative we take the kidnappers alive.’
‘Then grill ’em,’ Clay said, chill in his voice.
‘Pump them for information and turn them,’ Tallis insisted. If it hadn’t been for the Americans’ enthusiasm for torturing detainees and the allegation of British complicity, Tallis reckoned he wouldn’t be sitting in this bloody awful room now. He looked pointedly at Asim. ‘Bring in Charlie Lavender.’ Subtext: get rid of Clay.
‘No, no, no,’ Beckett protested.
‘Who the fuck is Charlie Lavender?’ Clay said, really rattled now.
‘Someone I’ve worked with before,’ Tallis said, stoutly ignoring Beckett.
‘Someone?’ Clay looked at each of them in turn as though they were running an enormous conspiracy against him. ‘Who is this guy?’
‘Woman,’ Asim said.
‘For God’s sake…’ Beckett began.
‘We’re up against a vicious female terrorist unit. We need a woman. And she’s bloody good,’ Tallis insisted.
‘I protest,’ Clay began, but Tallis hadn’t finished. At last he had a sense of purpose. ‘I recommend we divide up the theatres of war. I take London with Charlie. Clay takes Berlin. After London…’
‘Stop right there.’ Clay snorted out a belligerent stream of air through both nostrils. ‘We’ve already done Berlin and come up empty. Your guy Schwartz should be able to monitor the situation, or let this Lavender woman try her luck. Bosnia is mine.’
If anyone was going to follow up the Balkan connection, Tallis had assumed it would be him. It was his turn to be rattled.
‘Why?’ Beckett broke in, swivelling his gaze to Clay.
‘I already have contacts there. I can see if I can get a lead on Martinovic.’
‘What sort of contacts?’ Beckett suddenly came across as amiable and attentive. His lips parted, although he stopped short of smiling. In an eye-blink, Tallis realised what a brilliant move it had been to bring Clay on board. First rule of British security services: find out what the Americans are really up to. Here was their chance, and Beckett was in there like the proverbial rat up a drainpipe.
‘Iranian intelligence moved straight into Bosnia during the last conflict and never went home,’ Clay said, heat in his eyes. ‘Does that answer your question?’
Beckett issued a deeply satisfied nod. ‘I suppose bringing the woman in isn’t such a bad idea,’ he conceded.
Asim looked at Tallis. He knew that he was being asked to give up Bosnia. If Lavender could come on board it seemed like a small price to pay.
‘Fair enough,’ Tallis said. ‘Go for it.’
We had blood on our hands. Fearing reprisals, the three of us left Germany and travelled for six weeks around Europe, Sabina on a false passport. We did not go home to Bosnia. It did not feel right for either Sabina, or me. If we went back we would go together, the two of us.
On our return to Germany, I kept my promise to Thomas and married him in a simple civil ceremony. Afterwards, we spent three nights away in a hotel in Hamburg. Sabina stayed at home, sleeping in the spare room, the same room that had provided sanctuary for me. I missed her and I worried. Word out on the street was that Bilal was looking for us. With Albanians, the thirst for revenge is strong. It is a matter of honour and of blood.
After the honeymoon Thomas expected Sabina to move out, to where I have no idea. His moods grew ugly. We argued all the time. I insisted she stay. Thomas insisted she leave. It was not a way to start a marriage, he said. I told him to hell with marriage, that we were family now. We were brothers and sisters in arms. For all his fine words, Thomas, I thought, liked only the theory of terrorism, not the reality.
He relented.
We settled down. Sabina found work with a Turk, a Muslim like us, whom we trusted. He ran a garment warehouse. The money was poor, the hours long, but she was protected. Finally, we began to relax. We heard that Bilal had returned to the UK to run his operation there. I believe those were the happiest days of our lives. We were free. We were safe. We had money. Best of all, we had each other. At some time in the future we intended to go back home, although we never spoke openly about it.
So what changed?
I was walking near the Brandenburg Gate. It was a bright, warm day, sun perched high in a sky bereft of clouds. I was enjoying the simple sensation of being happy when I spotted Bilal walking towards me. I froze. My mouth dried. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I thought people would hear. I confess I wanted to weep, me, the fearless one, the one who had killed with a knife. I staggered across the street to the other side. I nearly collapsed with fright. I expected a meaty hand to clasp my shoulder, to force me into a car, to take me to a place of torture. I would never see my Sabina again. She was in mortal danger. Tears streamed down my face. I badly wanted to run. In a daze, I looked over my shoulder, scouring the urban landscape, eyes bleeding with strain. Bilal was nowhere to be seen. Bilal had disappeared. Like the first breath of a baby, I took a big gulp of air.
I wandered unsteadily in the direction of the Tiergarten. There, sitting on a park bench, I thought about what had happened, how the core of my being had come under attack. Adrenalin pumped through my veins in spurts. I gathered pace and energy. I gathered strength and resolve. Never again would I feel such terror. Never again would I fear for my life, or Sabina’s. I knew then that the hatred that had sustained me all my life would sustain me again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At the sight of Charlie Lavender, hips switching across the room, a wide smile split Tallis’s face. She looked as good as ever. Dark hair to her shoulders, open-featured with olive skin, more deeply tanned than the last time they met and, of course, those fabulous green chartreuse-coloured eyes. And yet, way beyond what she looked like, her intellect was what really turned him on. A top-class professional, Charlie was the epitome of cool confidence. She also had a sense of humour, a quality Tallis highly prized. By the warm expression on her face, she was as pleased to see him as he her.
‘Like old times,’ she murmured, lightly touching his arm.
Tallis beamed. He really hoped so. An image of Charlie naked, straddling his body, flashed across his mind.
With Beckett inexplicably absent and Clay on a flight to the mean streets of Bosnia, Charlie was shown photographs of the American couple and their kidnappers. She’d already been brought up to speed on her role.
‘It’s going to be tight.’ She frowned. ‘Only one of us can enter the cellar.’
‘And when you do, the kidnappers may kill the hostages,’ Asim admitted.
Charlie looked at Tallis who shrugged and pointed at the map. ‘Charlie approaches from the rear, cutting off the exit. That way, she’ll be in place if it kicks off. Meanwhile, I enter the building from the front aspect.’
Asim nodded his agreement, then delivered the equivalent of a newsflash. ‘Bruce Fitz was pulled out of the Spree a few hours ago.’
‘Not good,’ Charlie said.
Tallis agreed. With Paris and now Berlin scuppered, that left only London. His focus sharpened. ‘We all set?’
Charlie gave Tallis a flinty look and smiled.
They left in one vehicle, a five-year-old 1.8-litre Ford Mondeo in navy, not too flash, not too underpowered. Both were armed with Glock 17s. Both wore Kevlar bulletproof vests. Neither spoke en route to the pre-determined rendezvous a street away, though each had a lot to say to the other. Business was business.
While Tallis parked up, Charlie got out and familiarised herself with the area and the target house in particular, returning to Tallis twenty minutes later, as scheduled.
‘No sign of activity,’ she reported.
‘Think the birds have already flown?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘Any sign of life out the back?’
‘Quiet as a grave,’ Charlie said, checking her weapon.
‘Are you absolutely clear on the plan?’
‘I cover the rear entrance. You blag your way in, free the hostages. I follow. Between us we lift the kidnappers. Simple.’ She flashed a confident smile.
‘Got your radio switched on?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Can’t wait.’ She grinned.
‘Stay safe.’ Tallis winked.
‘Don’t I always?’ he heard her say as he set off at a steady pace, the clipboard held loosely to his chest.
On one level he saw the streets, the plane trees punctuating the pavements, the young guy stopping to light a cigarette, the cat scooting across a flat-roofed extension. He saw the van with the wing mirror hanging off, the woman lifting a child out of a battered-looking bright orange Ford Fiesta, the sun glancing off the potholes in the road. He heard the sound of a toddler screaming its rage, a dog barking wildly, and the buzz and grind of urban life from neighbouring streets. At another, baser level he saw nothing, heard nothing, his senses tuned only to the job in hand: the women, the hostages, life and death.
Drawing level with number 65 he crossed over, walked boldly up the path and rapped at the door. Then he heard a scream.
Mrs Everett flew through the air like a child tossed by a banned breed of canine and slammed into the wall. Senka Martinovic stood over her, panting with rage.
‘Martha!’ the general let out, rallying to his stockinged feet. ‘Bitch.’ He swayed unsteadily, eyes bulging at Martinovic, fists tight with anger, punching the air. In one fluid movement Martinovic crossed the cellar floor and pushed the old man over. Curled up on the dirt floor, Laine Everett’s face collapsed with impotent fury. He put his hands over his head and wept.
‘For God’s sake,’ Bina cried. ‘Leave them alone.’
‘Leave them? We should have got rid of them. Now this!’
‘It’s probably Nasik.’
Nasik had been sent to collect the van, the getaway vehicle for when the job was over. Bina exchanged glances with Senka. They both knew what Nasik’s presence meant for the fate of the hostages.
‘Since when did Nasik knock at the door? This is your fault.’ Senka rounded on her. ‘Someone saw you.’
‘Nobody saw me. I took care. I had my hood up. They will go away.’
‘What if they don’t?’
Charlie scoured the surrounding area. Nothing other than a white van tootling along the road and a Vauxhall Vectra half parked up on the pavement on the opposite side, its sole occupant a man filling out a form. Sales rep, she thought, her focus swivelling to the target property. The back entrance consisted of a metal gate that had seen serious action flanked by a rickety garage on one side and a thick laurel hedge on the other. Beyond, a path of slabbed concrete that was chipped and full of weeds, a clothesline haphazardly strung from a drainpipe to a fence post and a pile of old rubbish. She checked her watch. Any moment now Tallis would issue the order.
Tallis froze. He spoke into the microphone attached to his collar. ‘Charlie, there’s a problem. I heard a scream.’
‘Want backup? It’s cleared this end.’
‘Roger that. I’m going in.’
About to force an entry, he heard the hollow sound of footsteps in empty space. ‘Contact,’ he muttered. Taking a quick step back, he arranged his face into an expression of warmth and friendliness. The door opened. He recognised the woman immediately.
‘Hello,’ he smiled. ‘I’m doing some market research in your area and I wondered if you could spare a few minutes of your time to talk t…’
‘Sorry. I’m busy.’ She started to close the door.
He stepped forward, putting his body in the entrance. ‘I can make it really quick. It’s one of our more interesting surveys, dairy products, the type of…’
He pounce
d like a big cat bringing down moving dinner. In seconds he had one hand clamped over the woman’s mouth, the other holding the gun pressed into the small of her spine. He held her tight, her body compressed into his. He could smell her hair, her skin and her fear. Roughly frisking her for weapons, he discovered she wasn’t armed. To his surprise, she put up no resistance. He spoke in her native tongue.
‘If you move without my permission I will kill you. Do you understand?’
The woman didn’t move a muscle. He eased the pressure minutely on her mouth. He repeated the question. She tilted her chin.
‘Good girl. Are the hostages below?’
She dipped her head in answer.
‘We’re going downstairs, nice and easy. We will trade your life for theirs. No heroics. No bullshit. That way everyone gets to stay in one piece.’
Again he eased the pressure. Again she nodded that she understood what was expected of her.
‘How many kidnappers, including you?’
This time he released enough pressure for the woman to speak. Just so she knew he was deadly serious, he pressed the muzzle of the gun more closely into her vertebrae, grinding enough into her bone to cause pain.
‘Three,’ she said hoarsely.
Christ, Tallis thought.
No sooner Charlie had spoken than she noticed that the white van had parked. There was nothing unusual about it, nothing that screamed alarm bells, and yet experience told Charlie that something was off. Perhaps it was the sight of a dark-skinned woman of Middle Eastern origin stepping out of the van. More striking still, the man she’d taken for a sales rep was also out of his vehicle. Spotting him, too, the woman broke into a run, a strange, intent expression in her eyes. The man crossed the street, walking with cold detachment, as if he breathed ice, his hand already reaching inside his jacket. Danger electrifying her, Charlie slipped the rusty metal gate open, darted behind the rear of the garage and took out the Glock. Seconds later the woman shot past pursued by the man. Two shots thudded through the air, the sound muffled by a silencer, and the woman went down as if someone had cut her legs from underneath her. Charlie watched as the man crouched and, coldly professional, checked for a pulse. Satisfied that his victim was dead, he straightened up, replacing the gun in its holster, turned, then stopped. Chill eyes staring into Charlie’s, he seemed to smile as he reached back into his jacket. The move cost him. She let off two shots, one in the chest, one in the abdomen, creating a tsunami effect and sending his whole system into shock and death. The man’s smile slipped lopsided from his face as he crashed to the ground. Fearing a major screw-up, Charlie hurried past towards the house.
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