Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  “Like me?” The Iman looked at him in bewilderment. “I perform the great prophet’s will. I teach what has to be learned, guide what has to be done.”

  “You’re a sick man. What you preach is nothing but your will. Not the great prophet Mohammed’s, and certainly not Allah’s!”

  Al-Shaqqaf slapped him hard across the face. “You will not speak his name, kafir! You are not fit, not worthy of talking of God!”

  “I love my God,” Rashid said. “And I will go to him with a pure heart, a clean conscience and my faith unwavering. So do what you have to do, but know that you do your will, not his. Know that it is you who will be judged, and you will never see paradise.”

  36

  “It’s not going anywhere,” Chief Superintendent Carter said impatiently. “You’re floundering, almost dead in the water. I don’t want ‘Box putting this all on you, all on us. They’re slippery bastards and the smelly stuff will slide right off them and get stuck on us. The Police Service is in enough trouble with cutbacks and political correctness, I don’t want a bloody scandal. Not this department, not on my watch.”

  Detective Inspector Hodges nodded, but he held on to the fact he had information that his boss did not. He knew the gravity of what lay behind this investigation. “We need a break, that’s all,” he said.

  “We all need a bloody break! I need a break filling out my lottery numbers, my wife needs a break when she gets on the bathroom scales every morning and finds positive thoughts are never going to help her lose weight. It isn’t going to happen. Life isn’t that fair.” He dropped the file onto the desk. “This isn’t a murder investigation anymore. You want a murder investigation? I’ve got two in this week. I’ve got under qualified sergeants heading them up because my best detective has gone off to play spies and taken half of our MIT with him.”

  “It’s still a good murder investigation team without us,” Hodges shrugged. “We got a good lead with the date rape drug; it tested positive with what was used on the four dead agents. We have CCTV through that lead and we’re working it through the usual channels, but still no luck. Something should come up.”

  Carter leaned back in his chair, folded his arms obstinately. “What else? What about the appeal?”

  “A lot of phone calls,” Hodges shrugged. “Same as usual.”

  “Same nut jobs then?” He sneered. “It’s dead. I’ll be damned if I’m wasting anymore time and resources leaving this department short. I want you back on MIT in the morning. You have until then to follow what other leads you may have.” Carter rocked forwards, picked up a sheaf of paper from his in tray and slipped on a pair of spectacles.

  Hodges took his cue and left. He walked back along the corridor to the MIT offices. The first office suite was in use by the acting team. People were at work behind desks and computer screens. There were three briefing rooms with various case briefings taking place. Not many acknowledged him, most were miffed at their extra workload. Hodges walked on and to the second suite which acted as the headquarters for this case. His own personal office was located at the end of the suite and there was a large meeting room adjacent. Calls were being answered on the main switchboard, which was an information gathering and filtering service. Calls deemed useful and genuine were redirected to four uniformed officers who were seated around a hub of phones and computer screens in the corner of the suite.

  “Sir!” A twenty-something WPC stood up and walked over to him. Hodges tensed with anticipation. “Five separate calls naming a Sergei Gulubkin, a Russian immigrant, as one of the men in the CCTV photograph buying the date rape drug.”

  “When you say immigrant…”

  “Russian national, Sir. I checked with immigration and he’s here on a visa, has been on and off for five years.”

  Hodges rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Have we contacted the Russian embassy?”

  “I thought it better coming from you,” she replied. “Sergeant Davies said they’re prickly bastards and it would be better coming from you. Rank, sir.”

  He held out his hand for the sheet of paper she was holding. “Right, I’ll play diplomat, you get digging. I want to find out everything we can on this,” he looked at the sheet. “Gulubkin fellow.”

  “If he’s maintained a visa he should be clean. On our records, at least. You can’t stay here on a visa if you get convicted.”

  “That should be the case. But he looks a proper shit, luv. And he’s been buying date rape drugs. Whether he’s involved in the killing of those agents or not, he’s no boy scout.”

  “You can say that again,” she hesitated. “Two of the tip-offs said he used a local pub in Camberwell. The King’s Head.” She smiled as Hodges grimaced. “You know it?”

  “Not famed for its wine list and tapas menu,” Hodges said. “What about the other three?”

  The WPC shrugged. “I’m not sure they’d be wholly reliable.”

  “Why.”

  “They sounded Russian or East European. They also sounded completely wasted. Like drug addicts, or at least drunks.”

  “But the name is the thing we’re looking at. Five people naming him is what we’re after. What else did they say?”

  “They said he was involved in prostitution. They said he ran a brothel.”

  “His own skanks?”

  “Sounded that way.”

  “They must be desperate then. Maybe they’ve been trafficked? Cry for help?”

  “Sounded that way.”

  “But he’d be known to the local police,” Hodges said. “He would never keep his visa.”

  “Always a chance he’s not known. Maybe he’s really careful.”

  “Sure. What about these girls? How did they get to use a phone?”

  “Maybe they got brave, maybe their captors got careless.”

  “Maybe they’re not trafficked at all. Maybe it’s a wind-up? Maybe Gulubkin does run a brothel. Maybe he looks like the guy in the CCTV photo, maybe he doesn’t look like him at all and a competitor has stirred up things a bit just to get him rumbled. We go in, turn the place over, it gets shut down, but it’s not the Gulubkin in the photo, it’s some other tosser, but now that tosser is out of business. Hell, the girls were probably whores working for this grass.” Hodges looked at the sheet, then said decisively, “No. This is our man. We need a break and maybe this is it. Get onto the local boys and get everything they know about Sergei Gulubkin. Get his photo to them and get somebody senior to call me back. Like ten minutes ago.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What about the other bloke in the CCTV? The Asian guy.”

  “No matches, no calls.”

  “What, not one?”

  “No.”

  “Get it out to Interpol. Gulubkin too. Maybe we need to cast our net further.”

  37

  The two large men and the smaller-built man in the dishdasha worked with Marvin to carry and load the flasks into Zukovsky’s Jaguar. They were not best pleased performing the manual task, but Al-Shaqqaf had snapped the order at Zukovsky’s request and the four men got the task done in just under an hour. Both large men looked exhausted and sat down on the soft earth. Marvin leaned against a tree nearby at the fringe of the clearing and took out a hip flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig. One of the large men gestured for a sip, but Marvin smiled, took another sip and simply said, “Vodka.” The man waved him away, disgusted.

  Zukovsky held a Makarov pistol loosely in his hands. Rashid knelt in front of him, his ankles crossed and his hands on his head. His arms quivered, he had spent the entire time in the same position, occasionally his arms would drop a little and Zukovsky would raise the pistol, aim it at him until he put his hands back on top of his head. From his position Rashid could barely make out the pistol in the gloom. The light was almost gone.

  “Well, Al-Shaqqaf,” Zukovsky said. “Our business is concluded for today. I’ll leave you to tidy your mess.”

  The Iman shrugged. “Very well. Are you not staying to watch?”
>
  Zukovsky shook his head. “It is of no interest to me. Just see that you conceal the entrance to the bunker once you have disposed of the body down there. You can put Khalil down there too.”

  “What of Khalil?” Al-Shaqqaf looked at the body, he had not noticed among all the confusion. “My sister’s boy!”

  “I am sorry. I did not know.” Zukovsky shrugged. “He was a good man, but was killed by MI5. My heart goes out to you and your sister. He was a brave soldier of Allah.” He turned and signalled for Marvin to follow him out of the clearing.

  Rashid watched them go. There was no weapon aimed at him and he looked at the four men trying to assess his options. The smaller man strolled over. He reached under his robes and pulled out a knife. It glinted in what little light was left. Maybe it was moonlight now, Rashid was unsure. He still ached from his beating, his senses nulled and his arms weak from the continuous stress position.

  “You are a pig and you will be slaughtered like one,” the man flicked the knife in his hand, the blade glinting as it rotated. “I can push through your throat and sever the arteries and windpipe and you’ll know next to nothing about it. Or I can slice and saw my way through and you’ll die slowly, drowning in blood and gasping for air that will never come.”

  The two large men pushed themselves off their backsides and walked over. They stood near, one each side of Rashid, but they had not yet made any effort to hold him. The robed man stepped nearer and Mullah Al-Shaqqaf smiled down at him.

  “Treacherous beast! Shame on you! You, son of a whore!” he spat. “You, godless scum!”

  The man in the robes stepped closer. He spun the knife again, but Rashid lunged forwards, caught hold of the handle and thrust the blade deep into the man’s groin. The large men were caught off guard, but they had started to move. Rashid was slow to get up and he swiped the knife to his side catching one of the men across the kneecap. The man wailed and retreated a step. The other large man was putting himself between Rashid and Al-Shaqqaf. Rashid stabbed the man in his buttock and got to his feet. The man winced, but he had a knife of his own in his hand and slashed backwards and caught Rashid across the cheek. Rashid recoiled, but came back to the fight. The robed man was on his knees cupping his testicles and Rashid sliced the man clean across his throat. A shower of blood spurted out in one hundred and eighty degrees and everybody got some on them. The man fell forwards and lashed about frantically, his limbs kicking or flailing about in all directions.

  Rashid backed up a couple of paces. He had the advantage, the shock factor was high. He squared off, looked at both wounded bodyguards. Al-Shaqqaf turned and ran for the treeline, he stumbled and crashed into the undergrowth. He got back to his feet and kept running. Both bodyguards hesitated momentarily, most bodyguards did. They were men of action, physical. But their job is to protect, not merely to fight. One of the men remembered this and took off after his charge. He did not look back as he scrambled into the treeline, a hand clasping his bleeding buttock.

  Rashid breathed heavily. It was down to one on one. He gripped the knife tightly, checked his stance. He knew how to fight with a knife. It was important not to focus on the blade, not to rely upon it. You boxed, or fought martial arts style. The knife was an extra opportunity, not the sole weapon. If you focused on using only the knife, you missed a hundred opportunities.

  The man was large. He stood six foot one and at least fifteen stone. He worked out. His neck and shoulders were thick, his arms were well muscled, tightening the fabric of his coat. “Are you really a spy?” he asked. He didn’t square up, did not seem ready or willing to fight. His knee was badly gashed; it had sliced to the bone. He was losing a great deal of blood. Rashid said nothing. His face was sliced open and blood flowed down his cheek and over his lips. “I’ll fight you,” the man said. “But this is all wrong.”

  “Whatever.”

  “No man, it’s all gone too far.”

  Rashid didn’t want to risk another fight, but he could not stay here. If the others caught up with Zukovsky and Marvin, they had pistols. They could be coming back at any minute. “Back away,” Rashid ordered. “Do it now!”

  The man put his hands in the air and stepped back a pace. “Look,” he said. “I got into all this because I genuinely believed in the plight of my Muslim brothers. But in Syria, man? Well, it opened my eyes, that’s all.”

  “Then give it up.”

  “It’s not that easy. They suck you in. This shit here, these containers, it’s big, isn’t it?”

  Rashid nodded. “It’s off the scale. It’s radioactive at least. Nuclear, maybe.”

  The man shook his head. “I can’t do it anymore. It’s wrong, too big.”

  “Tens of thousands will die, thousands of fellow Muslims.” Rashid, lowered the knife a little. He glanced at the treeline. “What’s your name?”

  “John,” the big man said. “John Bahatti.”

  “So what are we going to do, John?”

  The man looked at the treeline again. “I want out.”

  “Good,” Rashid said. “I can help you with that. But first I have to get away.”

  “You’ll help me? Tell the people you work for I helped you?”

  “Will you help, John?” Rashid asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll get you out,” Rashid lowered the knife and cupped his bleeding cheek. He looked at his hand and was surprised how much blood he had lost. He walked up to John Bahatti. “Say I ran off and there was nothing you could do with that knee injury. I’ll get somebody to make contact with you. They’ll get you out when the time is right…”

  Rashid did not see the man lunge until it was too late. The knife came up and under, spearing his gut and driving to the hilt. The man cupped his other hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer. He twisted the blade, ripped it out and drove it deeply inside him once more. “Treacherous infidel,” he spat at him, his face right up to him, so close Rashid could feel the warmth of his breath. “Godless whore’s bastard…”

  Rashid swung his arm and drove the knife deep into the man’s neck, cutting him silent. Blood oozed over the back of his knuckles, warm and sticky. As both men fell to the ground, Rashid’s knife drew clear and the arterial wound spurted a plume of blood twenty feet towards the edge of the clearing. The sound of the blood hitting fallen leaves sounded like the beginning of rain. Rashid landed on his side, foetal. The knife was still in Bahatti’s hand, but it rested still. He looked into the man’s eyes, but they were already lifeless. The blood flow had stopped; the man had bled out in seconds.

  Rashid rolled over onto his back. He looked up into the bare canopy. Stars were visible, cloud scudded in front of them, but largely the sky was clear. The forest was silent. Calm and peaceful. He felt a wave of tranquillity wash over him as he listened to his own breathing, and it surprised him that a part of his mind told him it was not such a bad place to die.

  38

  They had been back inside the safe-house for almost two hours. A curious feeling, a mixture of relief and disappointment at not being hit on their expeditionary drive around London. Hoist was most relieved and sat nursing a coffee in a small and secluded lounge area. He had switched on the television and was flicking aimlessly between the satellite channels. His expression was glazed, he was less indignant at his situation, more resigned to his fate. He was going to be caught up in the resulting consequence of his actions for the foreseeable future.

  Caroline leaned against the kitchen counter. She felt like drinking wine, or perhaps something a little stronger, but sensibly opted for coffee. King was seated at the kitchen table drinking a second cup of tea. The bag with the SCAR rifle and ammunition was on the table, unzipped, and both still wore their pistols in the belt holsters.

  “I felt sure we’d have something, thought they’d nibble the bait,” King said.

  “I’m just glad they didn’t.”

  “I wish they had.”

  “How can you want that? I fought the
m off and it was terrifying. How can you want to fight? And with them making the first move?”

  King shrugged. “I’ve done it most of my life.”

  “Some life!”

  “This one is better than the one I had before.”

  “Before MI6?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you before?”

  “Nothing.”

  Caroline smirked. “You had to be something.”

  “I was nothing,” King replied. “What were you?”

  “College, university, army.”

  “That’s something. I was nothing.”

  “You had to be something,” she said. “You didn’t just leave college or university and go into MI6, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t go to college or university. I didn’t even finish school.”

  “Really?”

  “School of hard knocks, university of life,” he grinned.

  “Is that on your CV?”

  “My CV would be very short. Pre-service, at least.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I survived. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

  “You’re being deliberately evasive.”

  “I hardly know you.”

  “What, you want me to buy you dinner first? See a film?” Caroline shrugged. “It’s not a date. You don’t want to say, I won’t ask.”

  “Good.”

  “Still, I don’t understand how you can be so matter-of-fact about putting us out there as bait for an attack, and be disappointed when we weren’t.”

  “Our soldiers did just that in Afghanistan every day. Rules of engagement. They had to be fired upon first. Or perceive action as a direct threat. You were in the army, you know that.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but they had a bit more kit than we had, a bit more support from nice big Apache helicopters. I never served in a warzone, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Army intelligence?”