by A P Bateman
“Forester knew you were arming me.”
“No, he didn’t. I thought you’d need it. I know I’ll need mine.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“Tell that to Rafan Betesh.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Forester has had enough. The country has had enough. The vast majority, who value the country for the free democracy that it is. Take Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf for instance. Charged with incitement to murder and incitement to commit acts of terrorism, he is behind some of what is happening here. Nothing sticks to him. He was behind the bombing that took away your fiancé, your colleagues, the police. He’s just a cog in the wheel, but he’s a cog that needs removing.”
“So you’re going to kill him?” she shook her head. “What about the judicial system?”
“What about it? It failed you.”
“But…”
“ISIS terrorists operating in London, an old soviet warhorse smuggling a nuclear device, kidnapping MI5 agents. We don’t yet know what they’re doing, but they’re not going to get away with it.”
“And you’ll kill them all?”
King shrugged. “Tough times. Tougher measures. We’re not talking vigilante justice here; we’re talking eliminating a threat that cannot be allowed to succeed. If we are weak now, we will be a target forever. And sooner or later we will be defeated.”
“I’m not happy about it.”
“You don’t have to be happy. You don’t have to help me either. Forester wanted you on this because he trusts you, values you. I’m used to working on my own.”
“I bet you are.”
“Meaning?”
“You’d have to be, in that line of work,” she sipped her coffee and placed the mug purposefully on the table. “I’m surprised you ever got close to someone.”
“It can happen. And did.”
“Forester said your wife was with MI5.”
“I didn’t hold it against her.”
“Funny.”
“She was. Attractive too. And smart. Smarter than me, at least.”
“You met her working?”
“Joint Intelligence operation.”
“I didn’t know her. I knew of her, but I didn’t know her.”
“She wasn’t a field agent. She was an analyst but often overlapped in surveillance,” he paused. “She would have analysed the shit out of this, that’s for sure. She had a genius IQ.”
“And she still chose you,” she smirked.
“She liked a bit of rough.”
Caroline laughed, sipped more coffee. “Well, most girls do, unfortunately.”
***
“You will have to come back later,” the doctor said, not raising his eyes from the clipboard notes he added, “He should be coming round now. But he’ll be feeling rather poorly and I will need to examine him. The consultant who performed the surgery will want to see him first, before he talks to anyone else.”
Hodges nodded. He’d had this conversation many times before. “I understand that, doctor. But the man is a person of interest in a multiple murder investigation. It’s crucial I speak to him, just a minute or so.”
“Look, detective, I understand, but I have my patient’s interests to consider. Now, if there’s anything else?”
“No, doctor, thank you.” Hodges took out his mobile phone and the doctor continued down the ward. He had no intention of dialling, he just needed a prop and an end to the conversation.
“Are we off?” Watkins asked. She had just returned with two coffees from the vending machine. They were hot and the cups were thin. She looked for somewhere to put them, but she was out of luck. Hodges took his, and she repeatedly passed her own between her hands and blew on the slick surface.
“No, we’re not. I’m speaking to that man in there,” he nodded towards the window of the private room.
The window shutters were down, but not folded and the man was clearly visible. A nurse was removing tubes from his nose and reconnecting a drip to a cannula in the back of his hand. He said something and she nodded, pouring a finger of water in a plastic cup and giving to him. She held it while he sipped. He went to drink more and she shook her head, replacing the cup to the table. She marked down something on his notes at the foot of the bed and left the room.
Hodges looked around. There were two nurses chatting to one another at the nurse’s station and a contract cleaner was dry-mopping the floor. A junior doctor, looking tried and haggard was writing something on a whiteboard. Hodges looked at the policewoman. “Watch the door, Watkins,” he said and opened the door. He reached to his right and twisted the blind rod. The blind covered the window and he closed the door behind him.
Rashid looked at him. He had a pallor to his usual milky-coffee colour. His eyes were moist and his breathing was shallow. “Plod?” he asked, his voice raspy.
“How did you guess?” Hodges flipped his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Hodges, MIT.”
“I can’t talk to you,” Rashid said. “I need you to get in contact with the Security Service. I am an agent and my cover has been blown,” he coughed, then continued for thirty seconds or so. He pointed at the glass of water and Hodges passed it to him. He sipped, took a deep breath and passed the cup back. “Please, make contact for me.”
“Nice try sunshine,” Hodges smirked. “But I’ve got a nice picture of you on CCTV buying a date-rape concoction. Want to talk about that?”
“No.”
“You admit it then?”
“I’m not admitting anything. Get in contact with them, and I’ll talk to you.”
“Oh yeah. I’ll go and have a chat with them right now. Then I’ll come back and you’ll be gone. I know how it works.”
“I’m still not talking to you. And you’re wasting time.”
“I’ve got all day.”
Rashid fumbled with his left hand, out of view of Hodges. “You’ll be out of here in five minutes, detective.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. My detective constable is outside watching the door. It’s really quiet out there.”
Rashid shook his head. “Do what I ask,” he rasped. “You’re wasting my time and yours.”
“No, I’m alright pal. Now, what were you doing with the drug? Did you give it to the people you killed? Make them compliant?”
“You haven’t a clue what’s going on, detective.” He looked up as a nurse burst into the room. Behind her the doctor Hodges had spoken to earlier was admonishing Watkins. Rashid dropped the control unit on the bed. The button for assistance was flashing. He looked at the doctor as he bustled into the room. “I am not well, doctor. This man is harassing me!”
“Outside, now!” the doctor ushered Hodges aside, holding his shoulder. “I mean it. I’ll have your job if you don’t leave right now!”
Hodges frowned, shaking his head. He pushed his way out through the gathering of medical staff and nodded for Watkins to follow him.
Rashid turned to the nurse nearest him. “I need a telephone, urgently.”
***
Forester had called when he was two minutes away from the safe-house. His driver pulled the big Jaguar to the kerb and Forester stepped out and walked up the steps. Caroline watched on the CCTV and opened the door as he reached the top step.
“Morning,” he said and looked around. “Skeleton staff?”
“Just us,” she said. “I thought you knew.”
“No,” he replied. “Special Branch not here?”
“Nobody’s here. And there’s no armed response outside either.”
Forester nodded to King as he stepped out from the kitchen carrying his sports bag with the rifle inside. “No security?”
“Testing the opposition,” King replied. He dropped the bag down by his feet. “We’ve taken Hoist for a drive about.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“Once more?”
“You’re as bad as he is!” Caroline retorted.
“That’s what
I figured,” King said. “If nothing comes from it, we’ll ditch him off at Scotland Yard and let the anti-terrorism boys pull him apart. Then we’ll get with this detective you’ve got on it and shadow him.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Forester nodded. “I met with a Russian Major last night. He’s trying to find this warhead, knows Vladimir Zukovsky has it. He’s offered to help, unofficially mind you, and feels he may be of assistance.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” King commented. “What’s his name?”
“Major Uri Droznedov. He’s with the GRU.”
“Let’s see how this pans out.”
“Well I hope it doesn’t,” Caroline said. “Let’s just get rid of Hoist and go find this thing.”
“By the book, of course,” said King.
“What am I missing?” Forester asked.
“I just delved a bit deeper into Alex’s remit.”
“And?” Forester asked.
“I thought you bought him in because of the missing file compromising our agent’s security. I didn’t realise he was here to clean up town.”
“I can go it alone,” said King looking at Forester. “I don’t need to babysit.”
“Babysit!” Caroline snapped. “You don’t need to look after me!”
Forester held up a hand. “Stop! Look, Caroline, I should have told you more.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I’ve been in this game all of my adult life,” Forester said. “I’ve never known a time like this. Through the Northern Ireland troubles, Libya, Saddam’s Iraq, Bin Laden’s Al-Qaeda. Nothing has come close to the ISIS problem. Coupled to this we have a weak justice system, terrified of being accused as racist and unsympathetic to different cultures within our country. Howard runs the service with one eye on parliament and the other on his pension. Chalmers is an accountant and regularly vetoes operations of national security in favour of keeping within a ring-fenced budget. Which means that MI5 is compromised. The trouble is this isn’t a business, it’s an agency that looks after the country’s security. Elsewhere, the police are forced to operate through cutback after cutback. They are not up to taking on more and more intelligence work. Customs and Excise have been remodelled and side-lined by the Border Force. It is impossible to share intelligence with them and they are barely fit for purpose. It just as well have been tendered by private security companies. This will happen in due course and our borders will be conceded. The military out-sources so much of its budget that the army was recently discovered to be sourcing foreign intelligence from Wikipedia. We are in crisis. We need to strike at the heart of this and we need to get out in front.”
“So you’re taking us to a dictatorship state?”
Forester sighed. “Caroline, we always have been. Decisions are made every day that were not on a political party’s manifesto. It’s the way it is. You don’t want tuition fees? So you vote a certain way. That party merges into a coalition with your sworn enemy and suddenly the no tuition fees policy is flushed down the toilet. One example in a thousand.” Forester looked at King. “This man has been doing this for MI6 for years. He’s batting for us now, when we really need him. This plot, whatever Zukovsky and Al-Shaqqaf are planning must be stopped. We don’t have the resources, don’t have the intelligence data to mount a long-term investigation. But above all else, we don’t have the time. Not with a nuclear device in the mix. I won’t take the chance of them detonating it. And I won’t have them martyred or copied for ever more. If you are not up to this, then let me know now.”
“I never signed up for killing.”
“You don’t have to,” King said. “Not in cold blood at least.”
“The SAS have orders like these,” Forester said. “Peter would have been a part of operations, or known others to have been ordered to do so.”
“Oh come on! Don’t sink so low as to bring my dead fiancé into this!” Caroline snapped. “Look, I want to stop this device going off and I want my colleagues found and released. But I’m not walking up to someone and shooting them in the back of the head! Not when I can arrest them, or call in the police.”
“No,” said King flatly. “Just help me find them and leave the rest to me.”
Forester fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone. It was set to vibrate and he held up a hand to the pair of them as he took the call, walking into the kitchen for privacy.
“You can live with that?” Caroline asked King. “With killing people who may or may not be armed, who may have surrendered?”
“Yes,” King shrugged, then added, “You have to know how to compartmentalise. They’re terrorists. They are ISIS. They are planning to kill thousands, maybe millions of British citizens. Babies, children, women, the old, the infirm. Pacifists. Charity workers, medical workers. Decent people,” King looked at her coldly. “Now, I was in northern Iraq not long ago. I saw the carnage left behind by an ISIS raid on a region. Babies and children beheaded, not cleanly, a good proportion of spine ripped out along with the head. That’s what happens when blunt gardening tools are used. Men castrated, women raped, people burned alive in cages. It goes on and on. These people, people like Al-Shaqqaf’s supporters, or his bodyguards have been out there, and in Syria doing all of these things. Now they strut around in our country preaching hate against the west. Well we can’t allow that, can we? They’ll never stand trial for those raped women, those beheaded children, those castrated men. Well, we skip the trial and go straight to punishment that’s all.”
Caroline remained silent. She looked up as Forester walked back in.
“We have a significant break,” he said. “An agent we had with Al-Shaqqaf has had his cover blown. He’s been stabbed and he’s not in great health, but he called in and a debrief and security team are on route to his hospital. Hodges is already there following a lead and I’ve told headquarters to instruct the agent to start speaking to him. I’ve called Hodges to send him back to the hospital. Seems he was sent packing with a flea in his ear by the doctor. He’s going back to start debriefing and sit in on the debrief team when they get there.”
“How did Hodges find him?” Caroline asked.
“A uniformed officer who was called to the hospital after staff reported the stabbing recognised him from an internal bulletin, resulting from Hodges’ appeal. Seems it worked after all,” Forester smiled. “I’m going to head down there now.”
“You had someone in Iman Al-Shaqqaf’s mosque?” Caroline asked incredulously. “But weren’t you worried his details would be on the files Hoist downloaded?”
“Yes, I was,” Forester said matter-of-factly. “But we’re not the bloody boy scouts here. It took us five years to get an asset in place and when we finally did we couldn’t jeopardise him. Likewise, we couldn’t risk compromising him for his own safety. We couldn’t go out of our way to observe him either. We put a watch list out with the surveillance team in residence, but even they didn’t know he was an asset.” Forester walked to the door, put his hand on the handle and turned back to them. “This is the break we need. Get Hoist out there again and let’s see if the enemy are going to make a move. It feels wrong that they didn’t try anything last time.” He opened the door. “Like Hoist wasn’t a target at all…” Forester stopped in his tracks and looked in bewilderment at the drone hovering above his Jaguar, just metres in front of him at head level. He hesitated for a moment.
A moment too long.
46
The detonation was blinding, the explosion so loud that neither King nor Caroline could hear anything in the aftermath. Both were hurled backwards by the shockwave and the windows on the side facing the explosion shattered, showering them both with glass. King had landed on his back, but instinctively rolled onto his front. The sensation of soundlessness was similar to diving deep into water. There was pressure in his ears. Gradually, the sound of his heartbeat returned, thudding in his chest and pulsating in his neck and ears. He rolled on his side and looked at Caroline. She was staring at the ceiling, glass o
n her chest and face and blood weeping from cuts to her neck and cheek. She turned to him and opened her mouth to say something. King couldn’t hear what she said, but was aware of a popping sound outside. He pushed himself up and looked for Forester. Again he heard the popping, this time louder. He’d heard the sound before. Muted and distorted after a similar explosion.
Gunfire.
“Get up!” he screamed at Caroline. He was reaching for his weapon when the man came in through the shattered doorway, the AK47 aiming down at Forester’s still form on the floor. King’s muscles were tight and slow, aching from the violent blast. He gripped the rubber butt of the Walther and snatched it clear of the holster as the muzzle of the AK47 flashed and Forester’s body arched and danced on the floor, hit repeatedly by round upon deadly round of 7.62mm copper and lead.
The flashing muzzle stopped and turned in slow motion, swinging around towards King and Caroline. King had the 9mm pistol up and started to fire, not yet on target but firing away as he came up to aim, hoping to put the gunman under pressure. The gunman broke left and dived into the kitchen, his weapon blasting away as he moved, King’s rounds going wide and striking a tight pattern of holes into the plaster. Sound was returning, and as if a switch had been flicked, time caught up and slow motion was merely an illusion. Caroline was up and moving towards the lounge. Her pistol aimed at the doorway of the kitchen. An explosion rocked the house, but deep within. King looked in the direction, but it seemed to come from upstairs.
The adjoining doorway!
“They’re entering both houses!” he shouted to Caroline. He sprinted to the stairwell and leaped the first three stairs but there was an almighty eruption of automatic gunfire and the plaster and wooden bannisters were cut to shreds. He fired straight into the muzzle flashes and was reaching for a spare magazine as he leaped the rest of the stairs and crouched on the landing. The sights of his weapon searching desperately for a target.
Caroline had made it to the lounge where Hoist was crouching behind the leather sofa. He was trembling and had dropped his coffee on his lap. She looked at him, but didn’t have to tell him to get down. If the pile of the carpet were any deeper he would be hidden from view.