Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  Lies and Retribution

  Text © Anthony Paul Bateman

  2016

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, printing or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

  Author contact: authorapbateman@gmail.com

  Author website: http://anthonybateman1.wix.com/author-blog

  Also by A P Bateman

  The Ares Virus

  At a US research facility funded by the military and clandestine agencies a super-virus has been created as a first strike military weapon. During its conception the anti-virus has furthered the possibilities of medical research by decades. Such is its potential, treachery has struck from within. If the virus is released, then the anti-virus will be worth billions to the pharmaceutical industry. Isobel Bartlett worked on the project and knows its potential.

  After the suspicious death of her mentor, and upon hearing part of an audacious plan to make money from the project she flees the facility with the information needed to culture the viruses to seek help from a contact with the FBI.

  Up against rogue government forces, she is helped by Agent Rob Stone of the Secret Service who has been tasked by the president to investigate a disbanded assassination program after his investigation led him to the bio research facility. The two are hunted mercilessly by an assassin from Washington to the streets of New York. Only when the hunt reaches the wild forests of Vermont can ex-special forces soldier Stone take the fight to the enemy.

  The Contract Man

  When an MI6 agent is found to be keeping records of his missions to protect himself from betrayal he unwittingly makes himself a priority target. But how do you silence the most dangerous man imaginable? Send him into hell on earth…

  While Alex King is sent into Northern Iraq to tidy the loose ends of a botched mission, the archipelago of Indonesia is under communist threat from within its own military. A consortium of worried businessmen call for desperate measures and seek the services of an assassin. But what if MI6 could be duped into taking care of their problems for them? With secret links to China the communist contingent threatens Britain’s trade initiatives with the largest mineral producing country on the planet.

  In the dark world of intelligence, it seems that everybody has their price.

  For Clair

  For the time to write and the support throughout,

  as always

  1

  London

  She had eyes on. She was in position and she was calling it as she saw it.

  “Control, this is Alpha Three Zero,” she paused, her voice activated throat-mic deactivating and opening the air band.

  “Alpha Three Zero, Control go ahead, over.”

  “Alpha Three Zero, eyes on and taking the lead. Over.”

  “Control, Roger, have that. Wait out.”

  She was eighty metres behind the target and out of his line of sight across the street. Her eyes darted to her left at the shop window displays. She kept an eye on the man, but her motions were fluid. She was aware that call sign Alpha Two One was cycling at a leisurely pace fifty metres behind her. If she made the call he would cycle past, take up a stationary position fifty metres or so ahead. He would stop and take a drink or check his phone. There were more scenarios, more counters. They knew the way each other worked.

  At the end of the high-street the mobile control had both visual eyes on and an uploaded wireless link into the CCTV system operating throughout the borough. It was a non-descript four-year-old Mercedes van. It carried the logo of a locksmith on the side. Locksmiths operated all over at all times of day and night. They were in and out of the congestion zone and stopped wherever they were called to work. This van had two trained locksmiths inside. Both were MI5 operatives from surveillance group, or otherwise known as watchers. There would be no call for their locksmith skills today.

  A police vehicle drove slowly past completing a continuous loop. In the rear seats, shrouded from view by tinted rear windows were two armed officers from SCO19. Both men wore body armour and dark blue combat fatigues. Both were equipped with Glock 17 pistols and both wore a Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol strapped to their chests. One carried a Remington .12-gauge pump action shotgun loaded with magnum 00 buck shot. The other carried a 5.56mm Heckler & Koch G36 carbine. It was loaded, made ready and held thirty rounds. It was a high-powered weapon deadly effective to four hundred metres and the SCO19 officer was rated expert with it. It had been chosen for its stopping power and ability to punch through Kevlar body armour at close to medium range.

  “Control, plod are passing too slowly,” the woman stepped into a doorway, her eyes on both the police vehicle and the target now just forty metres distant. “Get them out of here!”

  “Control, have that. Alpha Three Zero, keep eyes on…”

  The police vehicle maintained its speed, the driver sweeping slowly past. They knew the target, but their brief had been difficult – maintain a close distance for rapid reaction, but remain inconspicuous. The vehicle drove on, turned right at the end of the street and set about making another steady circuit. Another police vehicle with a separate armed driver and two similarly heavily armed officers were waiting at the other end of the street listening out for the word on the net.

  Caroline Darby crossed over the road using just her periphery vision to check for traffic. She got within twenty metres of the target, kept walking past and stopped at a shop window. It was an old fashioned sweet shop. The kind that could have spelled it olde and shoppe. She looked at the display of stacked fudge. The window was tinted and clean. It was ideal for watching the target in the refection. She felt a shiver when she caught sight of the children in the shop, a group of mothers with pushchairs and toddling pre-schoolers. She watched the target again. He had stopped, was swaying slightly. The entrance to the underground station was sixty metres away. The tube was due in less than four minutes and the passengers would disembark and fill the streets less than a minute later.

  “Alpha Three Zero, this is Control… Sit rep, over.”

  “Control, target is stationary. Repeat, stationary. Population light, under four minutes to rush hour, over.”

  “Alpha Three Zero, are you calling it? Over.”

  “Control,” she hesitated, turned around and watched the target, who was shifting nervously from foot to foot. She couldn’t see his lips, but she knew he was chanting, praying and steeling himself for his next action. “Sit-rep for SCO19 drive past ETA? Over.”

  “Alpha Three Zero, wait out…”

  She could see the side of the man’s face. It looked as if he had not shaved in days, his hair was lank and he looked drawn, haggard. He was different from the man they had been watching for the past three months, but it was definitely him. The life seemed to have left him this morning, only a husk remained. When they had first received the intelligence he had been a boy of seventeen. Now he could pass for thirty. And he did not look well.

  “Alpha Three Zero, this is Control. Bravo One four minutes. Bravo Two, on route ETA three minutes…”

  Caroline Darby looked at the street ahead of her and to her left. She turned back to the shop window and watched the group of women and children. They had paid, were handing out sweets to the children as they made their way to the door. She looked back at the man, but he was staring at her. Eye to eye. There was a moment’s hesitation and she looked away. He started to unbutton his coat. She looked up to the underground exit and entrance behind the target. A group of people were at the top, more were behind. The people reaching the top fanned ou
t in one hundred and eighty degrees heading for the square, the taxi ranks and the three streets that funnelled off the station.

  “Control… Not enough time… Calling it… Armed units in! Go… go… go!” She stepped into the doorway of the shop and rammed her outstretched hand hard into the nearest woman’s chest. The woman fell to the floor, taking her toddler with her amongst a tirade of verbal abuse from her companions, but she didn’t hear, was already pulling the door shut as she turned around and made her way back onto the street.

  Mohammed Ashkani was staring at her, his jacket almost completely unbuttoned. She could see the vest underneath. She could see the sewn pockets bulging, the wires protruding and the old fashioned mobile phone attached. She glanced to her left. No sign of SCO19, but she could hear the sirens. Ashkani looked at her, and then raised his head, his eyes almost completely white as he seemed to enter a trance. He was mouthing plenty, but it was silent.

  Last prayers.

  Caroline Darby was fit and slim and used to running. She had been an MI5 officer for four years and had served as an officer with the Royal Logistics Corps for two years before signing up with Army Intelligence for another four. She had made the twenty-five metres to Ashkani in a few seconds and wrapped both arms around his own as she had barrelled into him and taken him to the floor. She kept her arms around him, and by the time he had reacted and started to fight her off, she had linked her hands and was bear hugging him with all her strength. The pair rolled on the hard, damp concrete, but she held firm. He would need a free hand to operate the device, she was sure. She was thrown onto her back, but used it to her advantage wrapping both her legs around his thighs and pulling his legs to the ground. It was a ju-jitsu technique and one she had trained to do in the gym many times. Now it was real, but it was working. Still Ashkani fought, but with all he had left, which was the back of his head. He snapped his head back and after a few attempts he cracked her nose. Her eyes welled with tears and she could barely see, yet she hung onto the man for dear life.

  People were starting to gather and Darby knew that she was on borrowed time until some well-meaning citizen attempted to break the pair up.

  “British Security Forces! Stay back!” she screamed. “He has a bomb!”

  At once the group stepped back, some just a pace or two and others sprinting away, and to her relief she could see two firearms officers from SCO19 sprinting towards them. The lead officer hesitated for the briefest of moments, he saw the vest, saw the same bulges and wires and mobile phone that Darby had seen and in an instant he drew his pistol and lunged the last few strides. The pistol came alarmingly close to her own face and as the muzzle connected to Ashkani’s temple the officer fired once and Caroline Darby felt the man go limp in her arms. Her ears were ringing and she felt the thump of noise from the gunshot resonate in her chest.

  “Wait, keep hold of him!” The lead officer shouted. He bent down and assessed the vest and position of the man’s arms. He pulled the body’s right arm from his chest and let it drop limply to the ground, all the while covering with the 9mm Glock. He then looked to change his mind and cuffed the body’s wrists. “Okay, easy. Nice and slowly…” He helped Darby out from under him and rolled the body over onto its front. Darby took the officer’s hand and lifted herself up to her feet. The other armed officer had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and given to her. She dabbed her bloodied nose and winced.

  The second armed response unit was at their side now, weapons up and scanning everything through their sights. Running in also were at least ten MI5 and Special Branch officers in various conditions of perspiration and rates of breathing. Uniformed police officers were starting to take control of the crowd gathering witnesses into groups and taping off the area. SOCO were taking charge of the body and two young RAF bomb disposal officers were leading a team of MET bomb disposal officers in through the cordon. The RAF boys were on hand because of their experience with suicide vests in Afghanistan.

  A tall, thin man in his early fifties stepped through the huddle and looked down at the young female MI5 officer. “Bloody well done Caroline! Bloody well done! He’s on his way over now,” he paused. “It was a no show at Lima One. The suspected bomber didn’t show. Operation stood down, watchers still in place. He’s pretty pissed off that you got all the action! Said you better not have taken any unnecessary risks… What are we going to say to that?” He smiled and walked away towards the gathering of uniformed officers at the far end of the security cordon.

  From across the square a young man watched. He was dark and young, in his early twenties. He was drinking coffee at a café table. It was a generic coffee house but it was a fine cup of Arabica. Black and sweet. He couldn’t fault it. He had already paid at the counter so after he drained the remnants he stood up and walked across the square without looking back.

  A young police officer had finished fastening the cordon tape and was walking back to his sergeant for his next set of orders. The man ducked under the cordon and strode confidently to the crowd near the body. A nearby police officer looked up, but ignored the man in his smart suit and confident gait. He skirted the body and entered what he guessed to be the inner sanctum of law enforcement officers; some armed and looking paramilitary, others uniformed or plain clothed. He looked at the woman who was cleaning the blood from her nose.

  “Allah Akbar!” He shouted as he ripped open his suit jacket and pressed the button on an old fashioned looking mobile phone clipped to the front of the vest. “Allah Akbar!”

  God is great.

  Caroline Darby looked up at him, bewildered, catching on a second too late. The last thing she saw before the explosion and her hearing was shattered and her life changed forever was the image of her fiancé fellow MI5 officer Peter Redwood pushing through the crowd, nudging the bomber aside as he threw himself on her and knocked her to the ground.

  2

  Eight months later

  Charles Forester had attended Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf’s court case on many occasions. The Islamic cleric was accused of preaching anti-west, anti-Semitism and anti-Christianity from the mosque he preached from in Islington. The Crown Prosecution Service could not get the initial charges of conspiracy to commit murder to stick. Nor could they get the coercion charges through. Both young men involved in the bombing attended the mosque, however if they misinterpreted the Iman’s sermons and teachings of the Holy Koran then it was not down to him or the other teachers at the mosque or that of the neighbouring mosques with which they worked. Instead the blame had been laid squarely at the feet of modern Britain and the disaffected Muslim youth within. After the neighbourhood rioted upon the discovery of listening devices planted by both police and MI5 in their mosque Mullah Al-Shaqqaf had brought his own lawsuit and won. The CPS countered with an extradition case to send Mullah Al-Shaqqaf back to his birthplace of Yemen. This case had now collapsed and Mullah Al-Shaqqaf was free to walk the streets of Britain and preach his sermons of hate from the mosque once more. The CPS was going to build another case.

  The news cameras and reporters were jostling on the steps in front of the court building and Mullah Al-Shaqqaf, sandwiched between half a dozen minders posed arrogantly, silently waiting for the noise to die down before he gave another of his notorious victory speeches. He was well practiced.

  Forester studied the man’s bodyguards. All were thick-set and above average height and weight. They had a seasoned look about them. Not a nightclub bouncer’s well-practised hard and menacing stare, but the eyes of seasoned combat veterans. It had been suspected that they had been drawn from Islamic State fighters who had plied their murderous trade in Syria and Northern Iraq. Certainly each of them had subsequently had periods of time off the radar. Investigations had shown that they had all been part of Brothers of Islam aid work convoys, but the charity had lost contact with them and been unable to account for them for their duration with the relief work parties.

  Forester had been around long enough to know a lost cause. He knew
the odds of sticking something on Mullah Al-Shaqqaf were too high. The man had notoriety, a host of academics and legal experts behind him and the support of an enraged local population, affronted by the establishment’s insult to their faith. There would be other extremists to go after and other extremists that the law would successfully prosecute and either imprison or extradite. You win some, you lose some. But Charles Forester, deputy director of MI5 had lost too much in that explosion, and he was not losing this fight at any cost.

  3

  Remastiani, Ural Mountains, Russia

  The last time Vladimir Zukovsky had driven to the mountain retreat it had been in an old Volga Gaz-24. A modified KGB model with an extra ten horsepower over the standard model and blacked out windows. He had been honoured because at the time the army had been using Trabants. Much had changed now. Now he drove his own Audi saloon, purchased new from a showroom in Moscow. Unthinkable at the time of his last visit. The Soviet Union as he knew it had changed also. The Russian Federation was his nation now. And the satellite countries which had made up the great sleeping bear that was once the USSR were now largely independent states. The barriers had fallen and the country was now rotten to the core. Multi-billionaire oligarchs now ruled from behind the scenes, pumping money and influence into the government. Western imperialism was driving the country towards the brink of devolution. A nation where people seemed either to be dirt poor or millionaires. People who stood to make a change were killed.

  Zukovsky had been a General on that last visit. Other things had changed too. Now the once great power, the KGB was called the FSB, which does not translate as Federal Security Bureau, but rather the Federal Security Service. The full name is Федеральная служба безопасности Российской Федерации (ФСБ); Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii.