Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  The sirens were clearly audible now, filling the street. Caroline turned and saw Barbara, Swift and Hoist gathered on the landing at the top of the stairs.

  Hoist stared at the dead officer, not raising his glazed and teary eyes as he spoke. “I’m sorry. So very sorry,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  18

  “And you won’t arrest me, right?”

  “No.”

  “Later, down the line?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I will. But not for this.”

  “Can I have it in writing?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not talking.”

  “You are.” Hodges walked over to the double French windows which opened out onto the world’s smallest balcony. Barely enough room to stand. The windows were open a touch. Smoke from a smouldering cigarette in an overfilled ashtray wafted out of the window. He looked down on the alley below. “Or I’m going to throw you out of the fucking window.” The dealer looked at him. There was doubt in his mind, not knowing if he was serious. “I’ve assured your boss. I’ve given my word and pulled more than a few strings. He’s going to give up on this drug lark. Which means, sunshine, you may well be out of a job. But better that, than to be paralysed and drinking liquidised food through a straw. Now, tell me what you know or you’re going out head first.”

  The man hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and sat down. “The deals were done here, or rather downstairs in the bar. There were other places, but this batch was new and as far as I’m aware, they were done downstairs or in the alley.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a DVD in a clear plastic cover. “That’s everyone. Solomon called and told me to put it together. There’s ten nights dealing condensed into about an hour.”

  “Just on the off-chance; were there Arab looking men, or a Russian woman about thirty with black hair buying?”

  The man nodded. “A couple of blokes might have been. Just looked like Pakis to me.”

  Hodges frowned at the racial slur, but moved on. “Okay. I’ll take the disk. I’ll have some officers around here in two days. This establishment better be clean, or you still might take a dive out of that window.”

  ***

  Forester had received news of the hit on the way to the safe house. His driver had shown why he was the man who trained MI5 field operatives in evasive and defensive driving. Forester held the grab handle, braced his feet against the front seat and pulled the seatbelt tight. The driver took the car up to eighty miles per hour on short stretches through the streets, weaved in and out of traffic and mounted the curb at one point. The big Jaguar was a top of the range model with a five litre supercharged V8 engine and the driver made good use of all of the five hundred and fifty horsepower. They conveniently caught up with and become part of the police vehicle convoy responding to the multiple calls coming from the shooting at the safe house. Armed response units, police patrol cars and ambulances weaved through the traffic with blue lights flashing and sirens wailing.

  A cordon was already in place and armed response officers had fanned out around the house, with uniformed officers taking statements from eye witnesses. Houses opposite and to each side were being emptied by police. Forester rubbed his forehead in despair. It could not have become more high profile. His driver pulled the car in towards the curb, where despite having flashing blue lights behind its grill, a police officer waved frantically for him to stop. He walked around to the driver’s window, who unceremoniously thumbed behind his shoulder. Forester wound down his window.

  “You can’t go any further,” the officer said. “Can I have some ID?”

  Forester showed him his card, but it merely showed he was from the Security Service, and not that he was second in command. “I have operatives in that house. Radio ahead and tell them to let me through.”

  The officer looked perplexed. He had clearly been told to let nobody through the cordon, but he hadn’t been ready for this scenario.

  “It’s okay, let him through!” Commander Anderson walked up and lifted the tape. “Forester, what the hell is going on? I’ve lost three more officers! This is unprecedented!”

  Forester looked at him. “What about my people?” He ducked under the tape and walked swiftly towards the house.

  Anderson caught hold of his arm. “They’re okay,” he said. He watched Forester visibly relax. “Look, this has gotten out of hand. My chief has already met with the Prime Minister.”

  “What?” Forester raised his voice, which was a rare thing.

  Anderson flinched. “Look, what else was he to do? There’s a full COBRA meeting being scheduled later today.”

  Forester was seething, he had yet to be informed. Joint Intelligence was a fragile status quo at the best of times, but as director of operations in the country’s counter terrorism and espionage agency, he should have known before a mid-ranking policeman. He pushed past Anderson and walked briskly up the driveway. He paused briefly, horrified when he saw the demolished door and the shattered glass on both the upstairs and downstairs windows. There were hundreds of brass bullet cases over the driveway and they glinted in the sunshine, winking at him from the flower beds and lawn.

  “They forced entry front and back. They must have fired hundreds of rounds,” Anderson said, catching up with him. “They killed my driver,” he said grimly. “Cut his throat like a bloody lamb. He was still in the car. They got both of my officers as they engaged in a firefight. They were outgunned. How can you take on automatic weapons with a bloody pistol?”

  “I’m sorry, Anderson,” Forester said. He looked into the house through the doorway and saw Caroline cradling a cup of tea or coffee.

  “That’s one hell of a lady you’ve got there,” Anderson commented. “She slashed one attacker with a kitchen knife, damned near took his hand off, got his weapon and returned fire. She then saw the lot off with boiled sugar.”

  “What?”

  Anderson chuckled. Maybe it was adrenaline subsiding, or a grief coping mechanism kicking in. “She put on a pan of sugar. A lot of it. Boiled it to syrup, about three or four hundred degrees Celsius according to a forensics officer who is in there now doing a preliminary. Then she douses them in it like some medieval soldier defending a bloody castle!” Anderson shook his head. “It worked though. The woman dropped her weapon and took off like she was on fire. I suppose in a way she was.” He pointed to the ground in front of the door and the two steps. “See there, it’s all set to, I don’t know what, butterscotch?”

  Forester walked up the steps. He heard the sugar syrup crack as he stepped on a patch and stepped over the doors. Caroline put her cup down and walked over. She was pale. Her mannerisms were similar to someone with the early stages of a cold; shivery and tired looking.

  “Well done. Again.” Forester put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to stop this. I’m going to pull out all the stops to get these bastards.”

  Caroline nodded. She had never heard Forester swear before. “We’ve taken too many hits. Not just today… the bombing… the court cases…” A tear trickled down her soft cheek, another ran down the same path, more rapidly. “Peter’s death. I’m not sure I can take it anymore,” she said quietly.

  “I know,” Forester squeezed her shoulder. “It will be all right. I have a plan. We’re not taking this, or anything else lying down anymore.”

  19

  They were still screaming when the car drove erratically into the parking area of the warehouse that was acting as their headquarters in Newington. Rashid had driven them, Mohammed had scrambled into the front passenger seat and Alesha and Khalil had got into the rear, with Alesha guiding him. Khalil was cradling his hand. The blood was all over him, he could not see and he could not control his agonising screams. Alesha had closed her eyes in time, but her hands and face were terribly scolded and the syrup had set hard. It was still burning where the syrup was closest to the skin. She wailed, more so when she noticed her face in the rear view mirror. Mohammed was in a si
milar state, but had taken a good deal in his right eye. He knew he had been blinded in his right eye, but he was more controlled than the other two. He grunted in pain, but he wanted nothing more than to go straight back and rip the heart out of the British bitch who had done this to them. Rashid had driven swiftly, but kept it legal. The others had all screamed at him to go faster. Khalil had shouted that he needed hospital treatment. Mohammed had denied him this, ordering Rashid to drive back to their base. Their Muslim brothers were bombed daily in Syria and Iraq by infidels – there were no hospitals available to them for burns and shattered limbs. Rashid had remained quiet. He was unscathed. Maybe it was the guilt that had dulled his mood.

  Rashid parked the car and got out. The other three all scrambled for their doors. Alesha barged past him, leaving Khalil cradling his hand and eyes and unsure which direction to walk. Rashid went to him and put an arm around his shoulder. Mohammed pushed past them both and followed Alesha in through the smoked glass door into a deserted and unfurnished reception area. A short, stout Russian with white hair and a matching white beard held the door open. He looked bemused at them. He had seen them arrive on the monitor of the CCTV system he had installed. Rashid guided Khalil in and closed the door.

  “This doesn’t look good,” the Russian smirked. He locked the door behind them and followed the others. Khalil was wailing, he prayed to God, muttered under his breath. Cursed the British woman out loud.

  Zukovsky was studying plans on a table in the warehouse loading bay. He had his back to them, his broad shoulders hunched. He was deep in concentration when Alesha Mikailovitch flung herself at him.

  “Look what they have done to me!” she wailed.

  Zukovsky turned around, visibly recoiled when he saw her face and the wounds she had suffered. He looked shocked. “What has happened?” He looked past her and saw both Mohammed walk in, followed by Khalil. Rashid pulled out a chair and guided Khalil to sit down.

  “Orlev! See to their wounds!” Zukovsky snapped at the stout Russian. He put an arm around Alesha and guided her over towards the others. Rashid had pulled out more chairs and Mohammed was sitting down. He was tentatively easing his clothing out from the sticky, blistering mess underneath.

  “I am no doctor!” the Russian protested.

  “You hold a medical degree, Professor,” Zukovsky glared at him. “You will have learned the basics before specialising.”

  “But decades ago,” he started to protest, but saw the look in Zukovsky’s eyes and thought better of it. “Fetch me some tepid water and towels, or some clean cloths!” he snapped at Rashid. “There is a first aid kit in the kitchen, bring it to me!” He looked at the three of them, bent down beside Khalil, who was still bleeding from his severed thumb. It was evident the man had lost his sight – both eyes were completely white, like those of a steamed whole fish. He looked at Zukovsky, who in turn shook his head dismissively. He turned instead to Alesha.

  Mohammed was more proactive. The man was peeling away the layers of clothing, his teeth grit together as he rode the wave of pain and tore the blistering skin. The boils were weeping their protective fluid, the wounds raw underneath.

  Rashid appeared with a bucket of water, cloths tucked under his arm and a standard workplace first aid kit. He dropped the first aid kit onto the floor and put the bucket down.

  Orlev looked at him. “Soak the cloths,” he said. “Then wrap the burns.”

  Rashid did as he was ordered. Alesha shrieked when he placed the wet cloth against her cheek. She glared at him and took the cloth from him. She bent and took another wet cloth out of the bucket and placed it against her breasts. They had been terribly burned as well. She folded the cloth so that her hands would cool as well.

  “We will need cold water next,” Orlev snapped at Rashid. He looked at Zukovsky, then said, “Shock could set in if the wounds were doused in cold water. They are continuing to burn and we must bring the temperature down steadily. Cold tap water next, then iced water if possible.”

  “There are refrigerated cans of drinks,” Zukovsky offered. “You could cool the next bucket with some of those.”

  “That will do,” the stout Russian said.

  “What about me? I need a cold towel,” Khalil said. “Hand me one.” He looked in the general direction, but he could see nothing.

  Zukovsky placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come with me,” he said. “We will bathe your face in the bathroom sink.” He helped Khalil to his feet and walked him out of the loading bay. They took the corridor and Zukovsky led him into one of two cavernous storage rooms.

  “My thumb… it still bleeds,” Khalil said. “I need to go to a hospital. I am blind, General. Maybe a hospital will save my sight?” Zukovsky said nothing. They had reached a car. It was a ten-year-old Jaguar saloon. He opened the boot with a key fob. “Where are we? What are we doing?”

  “You are right, my friend,” Zukovsky said. “I will take you to a hospital. But you must be sure to say nothing. And I will have to leave you. If you are arrested, I cannot help you.”

  “I understand,” Khalil said. He was shaking, his voice trembling. “It hurts so much.”

  Zukovsky let go of him. He stepped back a pace, and took the Makarov pistol out of his jacket pocket. It had a curious looking hexagonal nut on the end of the barrel, into which, Zukovsky screwed in a six-inch-long suppressor. Often and incorrectly referred to as a silencer. He aimed at a point behind Khalil’s right ear. At the brain stem. He fired once and the tiny pistol coughed. The ejected case clattered on the hard floor and Khalil slumped forwards over the edge of the boot. Zukovsky put the weapon on the ground and manoeuvred the body into the boot, lifting its legs and tucking them inside. He closed the boot lid, picked up the weapon and walked back to the open doorway.

  20

  SCO19 armed response units drove both front and rear of the convoy. Both vehicles were police liveried with blues and twos operating on top. They were Land Rover Discoveries with bull bars mounted to both protect their engines if rammed and to damage any potential attack vehicle. Each vehicle held four officers. All were armed with Glock 17 pistols, Heckler & Koch MP5 machine carbines and each vehicle was equipped with a .12-gauge shotgun and a 5.56mm Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle. Behind and in front of these two vehicles were two black Land Rover Discoveries from the Metropolitan Police Diplomatic Protection squad. Again, each carried four armed officers equipped with Smith & Wesson Sigma 9mm pistols. Sandwiched in between were Forester’s Jaguar and a plain blue Vauxhall Insignia saloon. The lead vehicle was calling out the route and police vehicles ahead were holding back traffic at choke-points and traffic lights. Progress was swift. Forester looked at his driver, catching his expression in the rear-view mirror. The man was loving life.

  Caroline Darby rode next to Forester. The vehicle in front carried Hoist, Commander Anderson rode next to him.

  “Matters have become clouded,” Forester said.

  “They’ve become unexpected, I’m not sure they’re clouded,” Caroline mused.

  “I have received news. The worse kind, I’m afraid.” He ran a hand over his face. Caroline had seen him do this when he was overly tired or stressed. It was as if he were wiping with an imaginary hot flannel. “I received word from a Russian intelligence officer, an army major with the GRU. A warhead that went missing has been traced to a Russian former general named Vladimir Zukovsky…”

  “An associate of Alesha Mikailovitch? I read the file,” Caroline interjected. “What are we talking in terms of warhead?”

  “Nuclear. Short range, high yield. Enough to make Hiroshima look like a village fete firework display.”

  “So in terms of destruction?”

  Forester rubbed his face again. “The system was designed to be detonated in the air about two thousand feet or so above the target. If it detonated in any British city, it would be almost total devastation for a five-mile radius. However, they do not have the resources to launch it, so it would supposedly be detonated on the gro
und. In that scenario we’re looking at approximately a mile radius. It’s all to do with resistance. Buildings, bridges, hills and rivers lessen the radius. The warhead reaches temperatures six times hotter than the surface of the sun.” He shook his head. “What kind of men make such things?”

  “This is all related though,” Caroline said. “Why else would Alesha Mikailovitch turn up on our radar? What about the dead agents?”

  “Connected. There’s more. We have missing agents as well. Undoubtedly connected.”

  Caroline shook her head. “But if they have plans to launch a strike, then why the need for killing or capturing our agents? Why the need to silence Hoist? After detonation, none of it matters.”