Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  There was no sign of anybody watching the house here either. King made his way back into the other street and climbed the steps. He knocked on the door and stared into the CCTV camera. The door opened and Caroline stood in front of him.

  “Took your time,” she said.

  “Shops were busy,” he said dryly. “I’ve got some goodies though.”

  She looked at the bag as he dropped it down on the floor. “These are for you,” she said, holding out a set of electronic key-fobs. “A dark blue BMW parked two down from here.”

  “Nice,” King commented. He had noticed the 5 Series as he walked past. He took the keys from her. “Are you driving?”

  “A Mini Cooper,” she replied. “Parked one door up.”

  King took one of the key-fobs off the ring and gave it to her. “Here, just in case.”

  “Thanks,” she said quietly.

  “Who else is in?”

  “Hoist is in the interview room with two of the service’s interrogators. Or should I say, interviewers?” she smiled. “Whatever, they’re questioning him.”

  “Who else?”

  “The couple who run the place.”

  “Send them out,” King said. “Tell the interviewers to go. Let’s have some time alone with Hoist.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to see if we are under surveillance. I want to see if Hoist is still important to them and I don’t want any more collateral damage.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re paid to take risks. Besides, I hear you handle yourself well.”

  “I’m not armed.”

  “I’ll boil up some sugar.”

  “Funny.”

  “I have a P99 in the bag,” King said. “Do you want it?”

  “I haven’t used one before.”

  “Pull the trigger and aim the other end at what you want to hit. It’s a very simple weapon, like a Glock. I can put a pan of sugar on if you prefer.”

  “Idiot,” Caroline said sardonically. “Just give it to me.”

  King unzipped the bag and passed out the Walther and three magazines. “There’s an integral safety on the blade of the trigger. It won’t fire unless this is depressed,” he said. “Each magazine is loaded and holds sixteen rounds.”

  Caroline held the weapon and felt its weight, which was not inconsiderable. The butt was made from soft rubber compound and textured. Most handgun manufacturers making modern combat pieces had gone down this route, in combat your hands sweat so you need a more tactile grip than the walnut of the old Colts and Brownings of the first and second world wars, or the hard plastic composite of the Berettas or Sigs of the eighties and nineties. It sat snugly in her hand without having to grip it tightly. She aimed it at a point on the wall, getting a feel for the wide fixed sights. She pulled back the slide and it held back in position. When she inserted the magazine, she depressed the slide release button and the weapon jumped slightly as the slide shot forward and chambered the first bullet. The weapon felt heavier now, but better balanced. King held out a holster for her. She took it and clipped it to the waistband of her trousers, on her left side somewhere between her hip and her belly button. It was conceal-carry holster and all but the clip was on the inside of her trousers. She nestled the weapon inside. She was good to go.

  “Look’s good,” King commented. “I like a woman who accessorises well.”

  “I bet you do,” she said glibly. “I imagine a matching set of bra and panties would impress you.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Just coming down to your level.”

  “You’ll have a long way to go,” King smiled. “Right, time to let the staff go, I think.”

  29

  Forester had thought about calling in the surveillance chief on the Islington Mosque. However, he had called ahead and arranged to meet at an independent coffee shop nearby. He did not want the man taken away from his job for longer than necessary.

  The officer in charge was a fifty-year old called Vernon Keller. He was quiet and unassuming with rounded shoulders and balding hair. He was losing it on top but had not yet realised that cutting it short would look better than accentuating the baldness by growing what he had left. He was ideal in surveillance and worked exclusively as a watcher. He would occasionally lecture and demonstrate counter surveillance drills to new recruits. He was noted for carrying three different pairs of glasses in contrasting styles and changing them regularly while on operations. His counter surveillance drills were perfect. Nobody ever remembered seeing him.

  Forester scanned the restaurant for a moment, saw him sitting at a booth in the corner. The man had his back to the wall and watched both outside the window and the other customers with a series of casual glances. He had a large coffee in front of him and a slice of chocolate cake. Forester walked past the counter, asked for a tea and walked over to the operative.

  “Hello Vernon.”

  “Sir.”

  “The cake looks good.”

  “Blood sugar levels. Need a pick-me-up.”

  Forester watched the man take a bite. He wished he’s ordered something to go with his tea. “Long shifts?”

  “Aren’t they always?”

  “So, Al-Shaqqaf met with someone outside the mosque.”

  “It looked casual, grew in intensity and then the Mullah throws a big one. Points the finger, shakes his head and starts shouting. The old man pulled him down a peg or two though. They didn’t leave on a handshake it’s fair to say.”

  “Parabolic?”

  “We picked up bits and pieces on the directional microphone. We’ve had parabolic sound on them but they’re not daft. They’re using ultrasonic waves to screw up the microphones.”

  Forester nodded. “So they’re taking active counter measures?”

  “Oh yes,” Keller said. “They are sweeping three times daily. They’re using their own equipment.”

  “And have you got anything inside?”

  “Not since our stuff was discovered and he did his big civil liberties speech to the press and in court. We’ve come close. We have had a few assets in there at prayers. They haven’t had the chance or inclination to risk getting caught though. We can’t get a team in there now, they have people in there around the clock.”

  “Are the transcripts ready?”

  “I have them here,” Keller said. He opened his laptop and turned it around so that Forester could see the screen. “It’s a mess. Ultrasonic has cut it to pieces.”

  Forester pressed the play icon on the screen.

  “…ood faith. You told me he cou.. .e counted .. you t..d me to trust you. How … I trust … now? … … me. I need you to put this right.” This voice was Zukovsky’s.

  Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf responded: “Without me there would be no …..tion and you should remember that I have stood by you and …. big ide.. now show me you can .. ..is!”

  Then Zukovsky shouted: “I have told you where. Just be there!”

  “Is that it?” Forester said.

  Keller nodded. “They strolled away from the mosque, came closer to our position. The ultrasonic waves were on the cusp. They couldn’t break the parabolic microphone. But they shouted this at one another and the Iman threw his hands in the air and stormed back towards the mosque. The old man shouted as he drew nearer to us. We got his whole sentence.”

  Forester smiled. “I want a big team on this. I want to know where the Iman has been told to go and I want him and every single one of his heavies followed. Get mobile units on this, both foot soldiers and vehicles. We have a chance of linking him to another investigation and I want the other man in that recording. He is my priority.”

  30

  The tattooed Russian kept his eyes on the scene. The monitor was fixed to the dashboard of the van and he could see the front door of the safe-house and the steps leading up to it. Through his colleague’s precision placement and landing of the drone he could also make out the gate of the safe-house garden on the adjacent street. The dro
ne had been landed on top of a church on the street running parallel. The Norman spire provided a flat landing zone in an area of pitched roof tops, and the wide angle feature allowed a tremendous panorama, but it would not be possible to pick out individual faces or features through such a low magnification aperture. It had been an inspired piece of armchair aviation and the young man seated in the passenger seat next to him hadn’t been exactly modest as he whoop-whooped his way to a perfect landing. The drone was now shut down and powered to standby.

  The tattooed man’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He always kept the phone on silent as a security measure. He looked at the display, recognised Mohammed’s number. “Yes?”

  “We are on route. Are you sure the police vehicles have gone?”

  “That’s what I said,” the Russian replied indignantly.

  “I know what you said!” snapped Mohammed. “And the undercover vehicles?”

  “Gone.”

  “And the target is inside?”

  “We cannot confirm.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The tattooed Russian grit his teeth and clenched the phone. He did not like Mohammed. But he respected the general and any decision he made, and that was enough for him to remain calm. “To preserve the flying battery life of the drone, and to maintain a visual on the houses indefinitely it was necessary to land. This required the camera to be used solely for manoeuvring. It took five minutes to make the landing safely. We cannot confirm one hundred percent that the target is still inside.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  “Hamilton Street, six streets away, running almost parallel.”

  “Stay there. We will come to you.”

  The line disconnected and the tattooed Russian put the phone back in his pocket and kept his eyes on the screen.

  31

  Jeremy Hoist walked into the lounge with the two interview specialists trailing behind him. Swift looked displeased at the interruption. Barbara looked impassive, but she threw the file down onto the table and a few loose pages edged out.

  “Thank you,” King looked at both specialists in turn and glanced at the file. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “This is highly irregular,” Swift snapped. “Deputy Director Forester will hear about this.”

  “I’m sure,” said King.

  “May we speak with you without the subject present?” Barbara asked. She was flushing red up her neck and through her cheeks.

  “Have you found out anything other than what you already had at the previous safe-house?” King asked.

  Both interview specialists looked agitated. Swift glanced at Hoist then back at King. “Not in so many words,” he said. “Look, let me talk to you in private.”

  “I think we’re way past that.”

  “What do you mean?” Barbara snapped.

  “Look, the way I see it, your man here has been coerced into divulging information. He has been caught. I don’t think he has anything else to say. You have had him long enough,” King paused. “Leave all of your findings here. Take the day off and wait to be reassigned. Forget you ever heard this man’s name.”

  Hoist frowned. “What do you mean?”

  King stared at him, watched the man’s indignant look soften and confusion set in. King had the ability to make people question their motives and emotions with a look. His eyes seemed to dare, but few ever did. “Change of tactic. When these two leave I will take about ten seconds to learn if you have more information. After that, we’re changing tack. We’re seeing how much these Russian friends of yours want you and what they are willing to do to silence you.” King turned to both MI5 officers and nodded towards the door. “Mind how you go. Keep your wits about you, this place may be under surveillance.”

  Caroline shrugged and showed the two specialists out. They followed, but they were not happy about it.

  “Then I’m little more than bait!” Hoist protested. “I want a solicitor and I want to exercise my right for silence!”

  King balled his fist and punched Hoist in the chest. The punch came from King’s waist, perfectly straight. At the last moment he dropped his left knee and twisted his right hip. The punch now doubled in power and landed squarely in the man’s solar plexus and he dropped to the floor, all of his air expelled and unable to take a breath. Hoist looked up at him, shocked and still unable to breath.

  “I could kick the life out of you and there’s nothing you could do about it,” King said. “So when you get back up, shut up, do what I say and answer my questions honestly. If I suspect you are lying, you’ll be on the floor again. Continue to lie and you won’t be getting back up.”

  Caroline walked back inside the room and looked at Hoist on the floor. “Are we okay here?” she asked King.

  “Fine.”

  “He appears to be on the floor.”

  “You’re too bright for ‘Box.”

  “Nothing gets past me,” she chided. “Is he getting up anytime soon?”

  “It’s not important, I can punch him where he is.”

  Hoist rolled tentatively onto his stomach and performed an elongated push-up until he was on his knees. He got back to his feet and stood unsteadily.

  “At least twelve people have died because of you,” King said coldly. “I don’t mind doing this all day. Let’s go over it, just in case you have forgotten. Four dead MI5 agents at the quayside. A dead special branch officer at your flat. Four dead surveillance operatives, two MI5 and two from Special Branch. And three poor souls from Special Branch at the first safe-house. Now there are missing MI5 officers. I’m not going to feel bad knocking you about if I don’t like your answers.”

  “I’ve told them all I know…” Hoist was cut short by a savage kick to his groin. He cupped the pain but went down hard onto his stomach. King stepped backwards a pace. He looked up at Caroline. “I’ll have a tea if you don’t want to watch this.”

  “You can make the tea. I don’t mind taking over.”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “No, I’m sweet enough.”

  King looked down at Hoist. “Get up. We’re going for a drive.”

  The man looked up at him, struggled to his knees. “Where?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  King ignored him. He looked at Caroline. “Have you ever done CP work?”

  “I did some close protection in the Army. When I was with intelligence.”

  “Now there’s a contradiction in terms. Army intelligence,” he said. “All right. I want you at four o’clock. Hoist is twelve, you’re three feet back at four.”

  “Enough to draw a piece and pull him down by his collar if anything kicks off. I know the drill.”

  “Good. I’ll be at…”

  “Ten o’clock, three paces in front,” Caroline interrupted.

  “Yes,” King replied. “Covering a one-eighty-degree arc-of-fire. You’ll have the same.”

  “Your car is the destination?”

  “Yes.”

  “Halfway point?”

  “Retreat if the threat is ahead. Past half-way…”

  “Push on to the vehicle,” Caroline finished his sentence. “Are we okay to engage?”

  King nodded. “Forester is black-bagging this. Don’t stick around for plod to get involved. MI5 headquarters is out of bounds, so emergency rendezvous points will have to be ad hock. I’ll need your mobile number if we get separated.”

  Caroline took a business card out of her pocket and gave to him. “Forester wrote down two addresses on the back. Both are safe-houses in the city. The first is emergency rendezvous point one, the second is ERP two.”

  King read both and handed the card back to her. “If you don’t know the addresses, memorise them and destroy the card.” He looked at Hoist, who was now standing meekly, his hands still cupping his groin. “We’re going on a drive. We have to walk from here to the car, and most likely from the car back to here. If we are attacked, crouch low. Caroline or myself will most likely take you down. You will be pulle
d or pushed one way, and your feet will be kicked or swept the other. Like a judo trip. If we engage with gunfire, you will be pinned down to the ground. Don’t fight this, it’s to stop you getting up and being shot. When you need to move, you will be pulled and shouted at. Go with it, it is to get you to cover or safety and to stop you being shot. Are you clear?”

  “Yes,” Hoist said meekly. “I didn’t mean for harm to come to anyone.”

  “But your actions did just that,” King said. “And you had a choice. You made the wrong one, and you knew it was the wrong decision when you made it.” He looked at Caroline. “Are the safe-house operators clear?”

  “They’ve gone for the night,” she paused. “One out the front door and one out of the back house.”

  “Good. Hopefully it will have been noticed. I am going to check on the car, I’ll take my bag to it first and have a casual look about,” said King.

  Caroline smiled. “I thought you were getting me a cup of tea?”

  32

  “What the fuck happened to you?” the tattooed Russian stared at Mohammed’s face as he stood next to the open window. “That must smart a bit,” he smirked.

  Mohammed struggled to speak, the skin had tightened, contracting painfully between movements. “It is of no consequence,” he said sharply. “My wounds will not follow me to paradise.”

  The man looked at the burns to Mohammed’s face. The skin was raw and scarring, but in places it looked like it had burned down to the bone. Patches of hair were missing on the side of Mohammed’s head. His lips were thick and blistered. “That’s if you can see your way there,” the man chided. “Your eye looks like a boiled egg. Does the general think you can fulfil your duties like that? I’m surprised he let you out.”

  “Do you want to call him on it?” Mohammed glared at him with his one good eye. “Call him now and ask if he’s made the right decision.” The tattooed Russian shrugged, scratching his face. Part of his cheek was a tattooed skull with a dagger through it. The drips of blood from the dagger’s tip ran in blue ink down the side of his neck. “I thought not,” he said coldly. “What is the situation with the target?”