Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  “This is Alex,” Forester said. “Alex King. He has worked with MI6 for… I don’t know… Fifteen years?”

  “Feels like a hundred,” King offered his hand to Caroline. She shook it firmly, glanced at Forester. “I’m joining the team,” King said. “Until this operation is over, at least.”

  “And after that?” she ventured.

  “We’ll see,” King said. He pulled a chair out from the table. “You are treading water. Let’s talk about how to make some headway.”

  Caroline scoffed. “We’ve managed pretty well so far! They’ve tried to assassinate Hoist twice; they’ve failed both times.”

  “Did they?”

  “Of course!” Caroline turned to Forester. “What is this?”

  Forester held up a hand. “Let’s listen.”

  King shrugged. “What does Hoist know? He was worked over in a honey trap, downloaded the information he was blackmailed to do and handed it over. He is a medium-level analyst and processer and has never worked in the field. He knows nothing, unless he has met someone and can ID them, then killing Hoist has very little to achieve. Unless these assassination attempts and in particular the second one, are merely to waste MI5 resources and prevent further investigation. This Zukovsky is known through his association with the Russian woman, Mikail…” King hesitated.

  “Alesha Mikailovitch,” Caroline prompted.

  “Mikailovitch. Zukovsky’s involvement isn’t known, but you have a tip-off from a Russian intelligence officer linking him to a missing nuclear device. We can only connect the dots, but we also have the information that he is in fact a Muslim, and he kept this from the regime for his entire service. We know he was introduced to ISIS fighters, one of these was killed at Hoist’s apartment, and another, Mohammed Betesh, the dead man’s brother has been identified.”

  “Correct,” Forester nodded.

  “According to your GRU contact, these men were the same ISIS fighters Zukovsky met in Russia.”

  “Yes,” Forester nodded.

  “Hoist met Zukovsky?”

  “Yes. But only under his first name,” Caroline interjected.

  “That’s the reason they want him dead then,” King said. “They, or rather, Zukovsky is worried that knowledge of his involvement will play their hand too soon. Up until now it’s radical Muslims running around taking a swipe at the British intelligence services. They want the details on the data Hoist downloaded, and they want to keep you running around with no clear ground gained. Keep you all busy while they set off the device. But first they have to get it in place.”

  “So we’re still no further ahead,” said Caroline.

  “But we are,” King said. “If the device was ready to detonate, then why are they waiting? It’s either not here, or not ready to arm.”

  “And you’re sure of this?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” King mused. “We make Hoist easier to get to. If they try another hit, we know for sure the device isn’t ready.”

  “How the hell do we do that?”

  “Get rid of the security. Send Special Branch away right now. If this place is under surveillance it will create a point of interest. I’ve got to go out for some shopping. When I get back, we send the armed police chaps home. That will be a second point of interest. After that, we’re just a house. No armed guards.”

  “What shopping do you need?” Caroline asked, somewhat bemused.

  “Toys, mainly,” replied King. “The kind I like to play with.”

  26

  King had two hours. That was the time he allotted himself. Forester had returned to Thames House and had arranged for a smartphone to be delivered to the house by motorcycle courier. Along with this was an envelope containing ten-thousand pounds for expenses. By the time King returned to the safe-house a car would be waiting for him to use and inside the glove box would be a credit card in his name with no theoretical upper spending limit. A file containing all of MI5, Special Branch and police findings to date would also be in the car, as well as a letter from Forester for King’s eyes only. This would be King’s warrant, his get out jail free card.

  Caroline had been told to assist King in any way possible. She was not part of Forester’s and King’s agreement, but she knew that what the two men were doing was unorthodox, and most likely illegal. She was correct on both counts.

  Forester had intimated that the nation was in crisis, that desperate times called for desperate measures. He had started to quote Winston Churchill, but Caroline had held up a hand and silenced him abruptly. She could catch the drift, and she had lost the love of her life to terrorism. She was not a fan of law and constitution breaking, but she had to admit to herself that she found the idea intriguing and tempting increasingly so. The British establishment were hamstrung in a world of political correctness and what was considered civilised behaviour. She knew that unless the methods changed, the fight against terrorism would be lost. And ground was never easily won back.

  King rode in the taxi, glancing at his watch. The Special Branch protection officers would be gone by now. Another hour and the armed police units would be pulling out. They had been told to do it slowly, drive past the property, pause and then continue. The act had to be visible to evoke interest. Caroline was not happy about being left without the armed presence, but King had reassured her. His words were rebuked when she pointed out that he would not be here to know.

  King planned to take Hoist out in the car within the next three hours. Attacks were ten times more likely arriving at, or departing from a location. Nine times out of ten an attack would take place getting into or out of a vehicle. If they were not hit they would try once more. If this brought no response, then it was agreed that Hoist would be entered into the legal system for prosecution. He would be the property of the Crown Prosecution Service and all that entailed.

  The taxi pulled up outside the address King had supplied. King got out and surveyed the alleyway, and then the buildings opposite. CCTV pointed down the alleyway from the building across the street. King would not be surprised if the building had been leased solely to fix the camera to and keep the other building looking unsecured, a much lower profile.

  King had called ahead, spoken briefly to his contact. He made his way down the alleyway and as he reached the metal door it popped open a few inches on a tight spring. King stepped inside and the door closed. A PIR operated light switched on and King looked up into the camera. He glanced down and noticed a set of double shotgun barrels poking out of the metal lined wall, almost flush in profile. In the close proximity and the size of the small box he was now standing inside, a shotgun going off would be bad news indeed. King imagined lead bird-shot in the breach, which would bounce around the metal box he stood inside. There would be no escaping the blast.

  The secondary door buzzed open and King breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped inside. He looked to the right and could not see the rest of the gun. It had been built into the adjacent wall and most likely operated from an electrical switch elsewhere in the building.

  “Come up the stairs…” the voice said on an intercom. It crackled slightly, enough to know it was not spoken inside the same room.

  King walked up the metal grated staircase. There were fifteen treads. At the top the landing went left or right. He had been here before, many years ago. The security box, the shotgun and the intercom were new additions. He turned left as he had before and ahead of him a cavernous room opened up. It was stacked to the ceiling with cardboard boxes and wooden crates.

  “MI6, I’m honoured once more,” the man said. He limped towards King, a little wary. King knew the man had prosthetic limbs. He was an Afghan veteran. He did not offer a hand, kept three or four paces between them. The man was cautious. It was a risky business at the best of times.

  King did not correct the man. He had supplied MI6 many times and had shipped for them all over the world. “How’s business?” King asked casually as he looked around the room. “Your inventory
seems larger than it did last time I was here.”

  “I can’t complain,” the man said. He waved a hand to the stack of wooden crates to his left. “Brand new SCAR rifles for a security outfit in Afghanistan. All legal. Then we’ve got AK47’s surplus from Iraq. Those guys are using M16s now, supplied by Uncle Sam. These AK’s have been cleaned and refurbished in India, thanks to cheap child labour, now they’re here to be shipped out to Syria for the boots on the ground. Great Britain PLC is picking up the tab for that one. Arming the locals. I just hope most of them stay out of ISIS’s hands.”

  “So do I,” King said coldly.

  The man tensed a little. “So why are you here?”

  “I need a few items.”

  “Through the books or black ops?”

  “Very black.”

  “What are you after?”

  “Something quiet, something extremely loud and something in between.”

  “Like Goldilocks?” the man smiled wryly.

  “I need a silenced pistol. Quieter the better, ideally .22,” King paused. “I want two combat pistols, both nines with large magazine capacity. A couple of boxes of ammo should do, but I want at least three magazines a piece. Preferably the same models so it can all mix and match in a pinch.”

  “Sensible.”

  “One of those SCAR’s sounds good.”

  “They’re top drawer. They don’t come cheap,” the man paused. “What sort of range do you want?”

  “Five hundred metres, tops.”

  “Do you want deep penetration? Body armour, vehicles?”

  “That could be handy.”

  “I have a few in 7.62mm. The contractors like a few heavy calibres as a fire-support weapon. It’s as close as they get to calling the Calvary. As you know the SCAR comes in 5.56mm NATO as well, all sorts of barrel lengths. M203 grenade launchers can be underslung on Picatinny rails, or a .12-gauge shotgun for forced door entry. You name it and I can build it.”

  “Time frame?”

  “Two to three days.”

  “You’ve got an hour.”

  The man looked at King curiously. “Sounds like a rushed job.”

  “It’s an important job.”

  “Cash?”

  “Of course.”

  “Paperwork?”

  “No.”

  “Urban or rural?” the man asked, then added, “Or desert?”

  “Urban, maybe rural,”

  “The 5.56mm should do it.”

  “No, I’ll go big.”

  “Okay. We’ll go short barrel though. Fold-down stock. You’ll have a range of a solid six hundred metres, but the short barrel will allow room to room scenarios and be easy to store. We’ll go olive. It will be less visual in an urban environment than standard black. A four by forty scope should be okay. I have Schmidt and Bender, naturally…”

  King nodded. “I’d prefer two point five through to ten, then by fifty…”

  “I think I have a compromise. You like a wide angle then?”

  “In urban scenarios I do.”

  “I have a few armour-piercing rounds that can go astray.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take the rest in green dot.”

  “Now you’re getting picky,” the man said.

  Green dot ammunition was the first hundred rounds cast in a batch. After the first hundred the finish is never quite as good. Batches run into the tens of thousands and the military reserves the first hundred rounds as sniper issue ammunition.

  “I’ll take ten magazines. Three hundred green dot, full metal jacketed. Whatever you can get me in armour-piercing will be greatly appreciated,” King said.

  “You starting a war?”

  “No,” King said. “Just finishing one.”

  27

  Forester had barely sat down at his desk when his internal email binged and he was met with an array of messages from his secretary. There was an update from Detective Inspector Hodges, simply outlining what progress had been made. Forester had to admit that it wasn’t much, although the television appeal had kept him tied to the telephone and his office all morning. Caroline had told Forester of her meeting with the detective, although she had omitted to tell him she had let Hodges know about the device. She had made it clear though, that the police were not to mention or follow on any lead for Zukovsky without informing MI5.

  There was a progress report from Commander Anderson of Special Branch. They had good leads from the van hire company and the CCTV from the offices had been shared with Hodges’ team. Again, the nation’s finest didn’t seem to be getting much further either.

  The third message was forwarded from Major Uri Droznedov of the Russian Federation GRU. He was on route to London and would be seeking an audience with Forester. He wished to join the search for General Zukovsky and the missing warhead. He would have with him certain equipment and paperwork which would aid British bomb disposal units with deactivating the warhead. Forester quickly messaged his secretary informing her to reply at once. He instructed her to send a direct-dial number he could be contacted on.

  There were three messages from the Director. Forester ignored them and scrolled down the list. One was an intel report from a surveillance point in the north of the city. The report would have been filed to operation control, but Forester was an automatic tie-in for this particular operation, meaning that when the information was sent to be updated, the report would split and file itself automatically on Forester’s database. It wasn’t the only operation to do so, Forester kept personally abreast of at least six at any one time. This operation, however, had been hard-fought and he was not about to lose control anytime soon.

  Forester opened the file and read the report. It was a surveillance report on the target and detailed times and locations set out in the log with a timeline, dateline and the location using GPS. The report contained a number of jpegs. Forester opened the first and it showed the target. It was a good quality photograph taken with a zoom lens at a distance. The next showed two men with the target. Both were known bodyguards, two of a potential dozen men the target called upon, depending on the size of the event or the availability of the bodyguards. The third photograph made Forester freeze, his heartbeat rising quickly. His throat tightened and he could hear his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. General Vladimir Zukovsky wore a heavy coat and a tweed flat cap. He carried himself tall and upright, despite his age. The hat was stylish, more Mayfair than farmer. The sort bought at expensive gentlemen’s outfitters and worn on beaten pheasant shoots where champagne was served with canapés between drives. Zukovsky looked comfortable, the other man less so, but over the next five jpegs Forester could see the earnest expression on both men’s faces. But why was Zukovsky there? And what the hell was he and the Yemeni Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf talking about outside the mosque?

  28

  King got out of the taxi just short of the street. He paid with a tip and walked slowly, casually. The sports bag he’d been given to stow the weapons was slung over his shoulder. The SCAR had been calibrated with the use of a barrel mounted sight zero. This was a tool that drove a four inch pin the desired calibre into the muzzle and looked like a small rifle scope. Once it was fixed and true, it emitted a red dot. This enabled the cross-hairs of the rifle’s scope to be zeroed. You merely dialled the windage and elevation adjustments until the cross-hairs sat directly on the red dot. This was calibrated to one hundred metres. King would know where to position the cross-hairs on the target for fifty metres (around three inches low to compensate for the rising bullet) and for two hundred metres (around two inches high to compensate for flattening of trajectory). From his experience longer shots out to five-hundred metres would require elevating the sights of the weapon by eight inches. This was not a precision sniper’s weapon and the sights were utilitarian. They were the best for a multitude of scenarios. All weapons were different and King would have preferred some range time to sight the weapon, but for now it would have to do.

  The rifle was loaded, cocked and the
safety applied. He carried a 9mm Walther P99. It was loaded and made ready. King had purchased a high-draw leather belt holster and it rode snugly putting the butt of the weapon near his right kidney. He had worked so long in this trade, he felt naked without a pistol with him. The weapon was chunky and made its presence known to him as he walked. He felt comfortable with it.

  King surveyed the street. There were a number of cars parked under the trees and the leaves had fallen much in the past week. Piles had blown up, and the dry weather had dried them out to a satisfying crunch when stepped on. The street reminded him of quiet, expensive streets in America. The trees were spaced out every ten paces or so. Here and there the roots had lifted the pavement slabs. The houses were large and the cars were premium brands. It was an exclusive street and he could tell that the people were mainly professionals. Mothers and nannies pushed prams or strollers and a few walked with pre-schoolers. The mothers were older, thirties and forties. They had most likely given up on or taken a break from careers. The nannies were younger, east European.

  As King watched them he suddenly wished he had taken more into account when testing the water with Hoist’s security. The last thing he wanted were stray bullets from a pitched street battle.

  There was no sign of any hostile surveillance. King ventured down the adjacent street. The second safe house was similar in design, but the street looked slightly less expensive. The vehicles were older or down a rung in the premium car ladder. They were still expensive, but there were less of the big three German saloons and SUVs. King marvelled how different one street could be. The buildings were slightly smaller, or had clearly been redeveloped into large apartments or smaller terraced town houses. They were bordered or defined by different shades of paint or fencing and railings. It was still a highly desirable location and would no doubt be unobtainable on the average salary.