Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  “So we’ve got both men in the CCTV footage, only we have to wait for Sergei to come back to his brothel and hope this guy pulls through surgery?”

  “That’s about right, boss. An observation post has been set up on the building reputed to be Sergei Gulubkin’s brothel in Camberwell. We can’t do much until he shows his face, other than knock them up.”

  “No. Don’t do that. We’ll wait,” Hodges said. He looked up at the man behind the counter who was holding out a cardboard tray piled high with fish and chips. He nodded when offered salt and vinegar, then took the tray from him and picked up the battered sausage and took a bite. It was greasy and hot and he had to suck air in through his mouth as he chewed in an effort to quell the burning. “If he’s going into surgery, there’s no point wasting the night. Pick me up at seven tomorrow morning and we’ll head over to Brentwood and see if this man can talk.”

  “Isn’t that too early? To go to the hospital, I mean?”

  “No. Shift patterns rotate at eight. Hopefully we’ll get to question him without a doctor warning us off in the interest of the patient’s health.” Hodges held out the tray, offering her a chip. She declined and he shrugged. “If Gulubkin shows his face call me.”

  “How will I know if he’s back?”

  “Because you’re going to be at the OP pulling an all-nighter Watkins,” he replied curtly. “It’ll soon be Christmas and you’ll thank me for all that lovely overtime.”

  43

  The area was flat and featureless. It reminded Marvin of the Ukraine. He had once spent a summer on the Crimea as a teenager and had driven through Ukraine and the endless fields of potatoes, corn, sunflowers and tulips. On the return journey, after harvesting, he had marvelled at how the once interesting drive had been repaid by endless baron fields of mud as far as he could see in every direction. Norfolk had reminded him of that. Their destination was Lowestoft, a port, harbour and seaside resort town just inside Suffolk near the Norfolk border. Marvin had pulled over as instructed at the layby, a popular truck stop, and switched off the lights. He smoked, as did the four Russians. Or at least, he assumed they were Russians, for not one of the men had uttered a word since leaving the warehouse in Newington. At first it had unnerved him, but after a while it did not bother him. He was in charge, and they would do what they were told soon enough. They were friends, or at least business associates of Sergei Gulubkin and Marvin did not like Gulubkin one bit. He failed to see Zukovsky’s appreciation of the man, failed to see Gulubkin’s worth. The man was a criminal. A murdering thief. A mutual associate had once told Marvin that Gulubkin was a rapist of two young girls, and that the man had been marked as such in gulag with a number of tattoos. He had not told Zukovsky, for fear of looking as if he had an agenda. But he thought of the brothel the man ran, the girls there, all barely eighteen. Perhaps younger. It would not stretch the imagination far to see this could have been true. In his opinion acquaintances or associates of Sergei Gulubkin were not men to be trusted and it made him feel uneasy of the task that lay ahead.

  Marvin looked up as another vehicle pulled into the layby. This time it wasn’t another lorry laying up before the port, but a battered red Toyota pickup truck laden with crab pots and fish crates. The driver got out, flicking a cigarette high into the air. The ash burned brightly in the darkness and hit the ground in a shower of sparks. He walked over to the van and around to the driver’s window. Marvin lowered it a few inches.

  “Name’s Arnsettle,” the man said gruffly. He was in his fifties, haggard. He had a trimmed beard and the bushiest greying eyebrows Marvin had ever seen. He could barely take his eyes off them. “You expecting me?” Marvin nodded. “Well then, better follow me. Change of plan, we’re going to go to a berthing on the ‘Broads. Tide’s good for it and there ain’t nobody around to stick their beaks in to our business.” The man’s accent was broad and quite unlike anything Marvin had heard before.

  “A change in plan?” Marvin looked at him. “It will not affect my deadline?”

  “Make it bloody quicker I expect,” Arnsettle leaned against the van and started to roll a cigarette. There was a little moonlight and some ambient glow from the interior lights of the parked lorries. “What are you hauling anyhow?”

  “That is none of your business,” Marvin said coldly. “My employer has paid you well.” He tapped his chest pocket. Arnsettle could clearly see a rectangular bulge under the jacket. “I have the remainder of your fee with me, you will receive it once you get us to Norway.”

  “No bother,” Arnsettle said, lighting his cigarette with a disposable gas lighter. The light showed up the lines in his craggy face. “You follow me. It will take about half an hour.”

  Marvin watched the man walk back to his truck. He took the Makarov pistol away from the door, where he’d held it pressed against the door lining in line with Arnsettle’s stomach the entire time. He made it safe by pressing the de-cocking lever and slipped it back into his pocket. One of the men seated behind him grunted and lit another cigarette. The men smelled feral, unwashed. One of them broke wind and another laughed. Marvin wound down his window and started the engine. He was starting to wish he had been given another task. Even being around a nuclear warhead seemed favourable.

  Arnsettle drove erratically, the crates and pots swaying from side to side as he took the pickup through twisting, winding turns that thread through marshland and areas of agricultural land. The Toyota had a brake light out. Marvin cursed the man. Sometimes the smallest of details drew attention. The roads were quiet, but it wasn’t until they pulled off the road and onto a gravelled track that Marvin relaxed. The chances of driving past a police car were much slimmer now.

  The track was potholed and to the edges of the track there were heavy tyre tracks in the mud, which looked considerably deep and wet. Arnsettle drifted and threw up huge clods of mud which hit the windscreen of the Mercedes van. Marvin tutted and worked the washers and wipers. One of the men in the back said something. Marvin thought the man might be Polish.

  The prisoners started to complain at the road surface. The ride was so harsh that the front wheels occasionally cleared the ground. Some were grunting and groaning, most were nauseous and a few had been sick. The stench of vomit had become overpowering. A prisoner had attempted to start a dialogue with his captors and had been swiftly beaten by one of Gulubkin’s men.

  Marvin could see a boat ahead. It was far larger than he had imagined. The boat was moored alongside a wooden jetty that looked rickety and insubstantial. There was a reflection from the partial moon on the water and by the light it provided Marvin could see the expanse of water was considerable. Whether or not it would have enough depth for the boat to sail at low tide, he did not know. He could not see land on the other side but he supposed there was not enough light for him to see that far.

  Arnsettle parked the pickup next to a small wooden shed. There was a small motorbike with a learner’s L-plate above the number plate. Next to this was parked a small hatchback. It was an old model with a few dents catching the moonlight. Three men were gathered around the hatchback smoking and joking about. They were laughing, but they stopped as Arnsettle got out. Arnsettle addressed them and they nodded and walked to the gangplank leading up to the boat.

  Marvin could see the name Ebony written on the prow. She was a large trawler type with a crane mounted at her stern. Marvin had no idea how big she was, but there looked to be considerable deck space and at least a hundred crab pots lashed forward of the deck hatches. There were several hundred crates stacked in rows and lashed together with ropes and chains. Marvin had read about the crab fishing on this coast, especially Cromer crab, a famed port for crab fishing. Although tonight, the captain and his crew would earn considerably more than they would have setting their crab pots.

  Marvin got out of the van and looked at the boat. The gangplank was narrow and he couldn’t envisage getting the twelveprisoners into the boat without taking off their hoods. In fact, the ramp was so n
arrow he doubted they’d get up unassisted, and there was barely room for two to walk abreast. They would have to remove the hoods and guide them from behind clutching their shoulders. He would need a guard on the boat, another with the prisoners in the van and one to guide them aboard. He would need to brief Gulubkin’s men on what to do. He walked to the side door and opened it. All three men sat on the rear seat smoking. There was a fog of smoke surrounding them which dispersed in the cold breeze. The orders were curt and in Russian and the three men nodded. They picked up their weapons, two had compact AKS 74-U carbines and the other carried an AK47. They stuffed some spare magazines into their pockets and stepped outside.

  Arnsettle stood at the gangplank and stared at the weapons. He looked at Marvin as one of the men pushed past him, walked sure-footedly up the ramp and stood at the top on the deck. He held his weapon loosely and confidently, waiting for the first prisoner. Marvin opened the rear door and pulled the first prisoner out and unsteadily to their feet. He pulled the prisoner to the jetty, took the hood off him and pointed him towards the gangplank.

  “Up!” Marvin snapped.

  Arnsettle shook his head. “What is all this?”

  Marvin took the pistol out of his jacket pocket and held it loosely by his side. He waited for the prisoner to be guided into place and helped up the ramp by one of the men. “I am from the Norwegian intelligence service. These are terrorists of the state. They were denied extradition by British courts, but are being taken back to face criminal and terrorist charges.”

  “But the guns? The hoods?” Arnsettle said. “I thought you were smuggling drugs or booze.”

  “You are being paid a great deal of money,” Marvin interrupted. “You do not get to pick and choose. You will take us to Norway and you will return and forget everything you have seen tonight.” Marvin took out the wedge of fifty-pound notes and held it out for him.

  Arnsettle hesitated a moment, then took it from him. He looked at the money, which was three-fingers thick. He felt the heft of it, ran his thumb over the corner and flicked the notes like a child would a sketchpad, then turned and walked silently up the gangplank and boarded his boat.

  44

  The atmosphere in the car was tense. Zukovsky had driven to where Sergei Gulubkin was waiting in his van. Gulubkin had shown him the footage of the safe house from where the drone was standing by. The young man controlling the drone had expressed his concern that the battery-life of both the aircraft and the camera would be running low and that it should be brought down from the church spire to switch to fresh packs. Zukovsky had agreed and instructed the man to use the drone for another purpose. The young man had re-started the drone and landed it safely beside the van on the pavement and proceeded to carry out his adjustments. Mohammed had been instructed to drive closer to the house and retain an eyes-on surveillance. Alesha had been ordered to walk back to Sergei Gulubkin’s position for new orders. She had been outraged that she should be taken off the surveillance and had started to express this when Zukovsky had snapped for her to wait in his Jaguar. He had given the men their instructions and returned to the car, where Alesha sat in silence. As they left the M3 motorway and travelled along the A303, it seemed the woman would continue her silence unless Zukovsky made the effort. He inwardly cursed using her for this, mixing business with pleasure.

  “I am sorry to pull you off the surveillance, my dear,” he said. “But you will be invaluable to me on this errand. The most important part of this operation. Khalil and Rashid’s deaths have changed matters somewhat. Sergei’s reserves have had to take their place with the prisoners.”

  She said nothing, merely unfolded the vanity mirror in the sun visor. It illuminated and she shuddered at her reflection. “I don’t care about the stupid surveillance. Just look at me!”

  “Is that what this is about? Alesha, your scars will heal.”

  “Not without surgery!” she snapped. “It’s more than that! It hurts so much. I have been taking handfuls of painkillers every hour. I feel drunk on them. I want that MI5 bitch who did this to me. I want to kill her slowly.”

  “Focus agent Mikailovitch! We have a mission to think about! This is not the time for retribution!”

  “That’s all this is!” Alesha turned and looked out of the window. She stared out across the moonlit fields of Wiltshire as the car cruised past them at sixty miles per hour.

  Zukovsky’s phone rang. He had set it to Bluetooth and answered hands free. “Hello?” he did not recognise the number.

  “This is Al-Shaqqaf.”

  “Yes.”

  “Rashid has got away.”

  “What?”

  “He fought with my men. He got away.”

  “He beat all four of you?”

  “No. He wounded one, killed two.”

  “Did he wound you?”

  There was a long pause. “No, my bodyguard did his job, got me out of there. We got back to where we had parked, but you had already left.”

  “And then what?”

  “After a while, we ventured back. Searched the area, but he had gone.”

  “And the bodies? Rashid, your men?”

  “We put them in the bunker and left.”

  “That would have been hours ago! Why have you left it so late? Rashid knows about the warehouse! The uranium is there!”

  “But the device is not yet in place.”

  “On its own the warhead will knock out twenty streets. It is an airborne delivery system that detonates at about two-thousand feet above the target. The uranium will turn it into a dirty bomb and cause the damage we are after. You must get over to the warehouse and move it. Take it to the target and wait for me. I will call professor Orlev and give him new instructions, tell him to expect you there immediately.” Zukovsky ended the call. “Fucking amateurs,” he said. He glanced across at Alesha, but could only see her expression in the reflection of her window. The profile he saw from his position was unscarred and the reflection was faint, hiding the horror of her injury. For a moment he had his beautiful Alesha again. The woman who had stolen his heart on the coast of the Black Sea. The moment passed in a heartbeat though, when he realised she had been smiling at the way the call had ended.

  45

  There was a sliver of light in the sky. It was darker outside now that the streetlamps had switched off, but the natural light of dawn was purer. Alex King loved dawn. Wherever he was in the world he always tried to catch it. He felt the air was fresher, cleaner. It made him aware of something else too – that he was alive and had made it to another day. He had lived so much of his life under such uncertainties and knew he could control very little in life, but he took one day at a time and today was no different.

  He sipped some tea from a mug, the liquid was hot and strong. Caroline had made it and had not used enough milk. He did not say anything, but the tea was so hot he nursed it and watched out of the window waiting for it to cool. Already dawn was turning to day and the light was brighter and the sky clear. It looked like it was going to be a rare sunny autumn day. He had decided to take Hoist on one more drive through the city, another test of the enemy’s surveillance and intentions. If nothing came of it he would meet with the policeman, Hodges, and see what leads the man had.

  “Tea no good?” Caroline asked as she walked into the kitchen. She had just taken a coffee into Hoist, who as instructed, had got dressed and was waiting in the lounge.

  “Just hot,” he said, taking another sip.

  King had just showered and dressed after sleeping for a few hours on the sofa in the lounge. He had wanted to be ready to move, and also provide a guard downstairs. Caroline had taken a room upstairs, but had remained dressed, her weapon nearby as King had suggested. Between them they had slept and showered in rotation.

  “Forester called while you were showering,” said Caroline. “He’s coming round in about half an hour, traffic permitting.”

  “Did he mention if he had any new developments?”

  “No.”
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  “Great.”

  “Just like my…” she hesitated. “I was about to say ex, but he’s not. My fiancé. You’re just like Peter. He was a man of action too, hated waiting.”

  King shrugged. “I can wait all day. All week. I just need to know what I’m waiting for. Forester called me in on this, but there’s nothing. We need something more to go on.”

  “Hodges is following up leads from his appeal. Maybe something will come from that?” Caroline paused. “Why exactly are you here? I mean, there’s plenty of agents from General Intelligence Group.”

  “Forester didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “You should speak to him.”

  “I’m speaking to you.”

  “You’re asking, not speaking.”

  “Don’t be a smartarse,” she said. “Why you?”

  “I have skills.”

  “They’re not in detective work.”

  “He has Hodges for that.”

  “So what has he got you for?”

  “To assist you.”

  “Bullshit,” she waved a hand at the sports bag. “You’ve got an arsenal in there. I mean, pistols yes, but you’ve got a rifle and a silenced pistol. What do you need a silent pistol for?”

  “For silent kills.”

  “So you admit it? You’re here to kill, nothing more?”

  “There’s also my wit and my sparkling conversation.”

  “I’d stick to killing if I were you.”

  King drank half his tea in a large gulp. It had cooled a little. “You have a firearm on you.”

  “So?” she snapped. “People tried to kill me yesterday.”

  “MI5 don’t carry firearms. Not in mainland Britain at least. You could be arrested just like any man on the street for being armed.”