Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  “I want to kill her,” she said emphatically. The waitress had chosen the wrong time to ask if the food was to their liking. She hesitated between them. “I want to kill the fucking bitch who did this to me!” She looked up at the young waitress. “What do you want?”

  Zukovsky held up his hand. “Everything is wonderful, my dear. Please, leave us alone.” He nodded and smiled at the perplexed young girl and she busied herself at a service table, folding napkins. He turned to Alesha. “Enough. You will draw attention to us.”

  “I mean it,” she said. “If this is about revenge. I want mine!”

  Zukovsky nodded. “And you will get it. But we have to complete this. Maybe our paths will cross again.”

  Alesha pushed her plate away. “I’ll see that they do.”

  After they had paid, Zukovsky drove the winding series of roads that led them to the King Harry Ferry. This took them across the narrower end of the Carrick Roads across the River Fal, a hundred-metre expanse of water to The Roseland. The ferry only took five minutes. It operated on chains that were sunk in the deep water. The ferry dropped its ramp and they followed a small procession of vehicles onto The Roseland Peninsular. When they cleared the woods and reached the top of the hill the expanse of rolling fields dotted with farmhouses and distant villages was breath-taking. The traffic thinned, each vehicle taking various smaller roads and tracks until they were alone on the narrow road travelling around tight corners and up and down with the hilly terrain. They followed the signs towards Gerrans and Portscatho and after a series of turns they drove down a narrow track and the sea appeared in front of them. The road swung right and there was a small concrete slipway to the sea ahead of them and a sandy parking area to their right.

  “This is it,” Zukovsky said.

  “I noticed the last ferry was nineteen-twenty hours. Winter timetable.”

  “Yes. We will come by road through Truro. It apparently takes twenty minutes longer. We shall return by that route today to familiarise ourselves with the road layout.”

  Alesha got out and walked to the edge of the slipway. She looked out at sea which was green and slick-looking, then turned and looked at the steep earth bank behind her which led to the farmland beyond. She turned to Zukovsky when he stood next to her. “Ideal,” she said.

  “Perfect, isn’t it?” He looked out at sea and the endless horizon.

  She reached and held his hand. “It will not be long now,” she said softly. “You have been so patient, my love.”

  53

  King pulled the BMW to a stop behind Hodges’ car. They had dropped off Sergei Gulubkin at Scotland yard where he was being processed until Hodges could get there to question him. Hodges had agreed to meet them at a service station in Newington and lead the way to the warehouse Rashid had informed him about.

  “My man hasn’t reported anything,” Hodges said walking up to King’s open window. “I can’t get hold of him either.”

  “What was his brief?” King asked.

  “I told him to get down here and check it out,” Hodges dialled DS Mathews’ number again, then put the phone back in his pocket tersely. “There’s a good signal here. We’re all on the same network. It’s not like him not to pick up.”

  Detective Constable Watkins walked over. “I’ll scout about, see if I can see his car,” she said. “Maybe he’s parked around the back?”

  “All right,” Hodges said. “But be casual, don’t get seen.”

  King opened his door and Hodges stepped back a pace. “Look, let’s clear the air,” he said. “Caroline told you about the missing warhead. It’s a big deal. I needed all I could get out of Gulubkin before he hit the system.”

  “We have laws. It’s the thin end of the wedge when we start to ignore them.”

  “You’re not used to my world.”

  “But you’re operating in mine!” Hodges shook his head. “If it goes to trial, then the fact Gulubkin was refused medical treatment, was questioned improperly and then abducted means the odds are stacked against him being found guilty of anything. In fact, the CPS will probably fail to even bring it to court. The best friend of the criminal is a police officer who doesn’t go by the book. And in your case, MI5 don’t even have the power of arrest.”

  Caroline, who had got out and walked around the car to them, added, “But in our defence, Inspector, we have a duty of care to ensure that further terrorist activities do not take place. We were using our powers of exclusion to ascertain the threat was no longer clear or present.”

  Hodges shrugged. “It’s a different world. But mark my words, your actions this morning will not see justice done.” He took out his ringing phone, his words hanging in the air. “Yes?” he paced away and spoke quietly. He put his phone back in his pocket. “That was Watkins. Mathews’ car is parked to the side of the building. She said she can hear a metal door unlocking to a loading bay.”

  “We need to cut off the exit,” King said. “It doesn’t sound good.”

  “I’ll call for back up,” Hodges said. “We stay put for now. I don’t want any escalation.”

  King shook his head. “If they failed to kill Rashid, then they know it’s only a matter of time before he informs the authorities about this place. We have Sergei Gulubkin but if he clams up, then we have nothing. This place is the only lead we have and if there’s somebody in there, they cannot be allowed to escape.”

  Hodges looked indecisive. He shook his head. “No. We wait for back up.” He turned, started to dial on his phone.

  King got into the BMW and started the engine. Hodges turned and waved his arms, but King had the car reversing rapidly and he swung the wheel hard, engaged drive and the car J-turned smoothly without any loss of momentum. He accelerated quickly and took the left turn into the carpark at speed, the tyres squealing and the car juddering as the traction control cut in. He could hear the gunshots over the engine noise, recognised them as pistol rounds. As he rounded the building he could see Watkins taking cover precariously behind a sign advertising the previous business. It was wood and PCV and she was dodging the splinters as the bullets smashed through with no real loss of velocity. King swung right and put the car in front of the sign, slamming on the brakes.

  “Get in the back!” he yelled. Watkins needed no further encouragement and got the door open. She struggled at first, but King remembered the automatic locking and pressed the button on the dash. Watkins flung herself across the rear seats and the gunfire continued, this time the copper-coated lead tearing into the steel, aluminium and fibreglass of the BMW. The passenger window blew out and both of them were showered with tiny square fragments of safety glass, glistening like diamonds in the bright light of day.

  King still didn’t have eyes on the threat, but he knew the approximate direction, and as he slung the car into a U-turn, the rear wheels powering the car and swinging it around like a pendulum he could see the man crouched by the side of the rising corrugated door of the loading bay. The man jumped wildly as gunfire broke out to his right and King saw Caroline crouched down, firing double-taps with the Walther P99 he’d given to her earlier.

  The man ducked back inside the warehouse and the door started to come back down. King got the BMW out of the arc of fire and yelled at Watkins. “Get out!” She struggled with the door and rolled out onto a stretch of grass near the pathway to the warehouse. King slammed the BMW into reverse and shot back the way he’d come, straightening up and then speeding up at a forty-five-degree angle towards the lowering corrugated door. The BMW struck the door at its reversing speed limit, the valves of the six-cylinder engine reverberating from under the bonnet. The door folded like baking foil and the sound boomed and echoed around the interior of the warehouse. The side and rear impact airbags inflated and King was thrust deep into the seat. There was no shock factor, however, because of the deliberate nature of the manoeuvre. King opened the door and rolled out to present a smaller target. He brought the Ruger pistol up to aim, but the man had disappeared. Caroli
ne appeared at his shoulder, her weapon up. Watkins peered around the edge of the doorway. She was unarmed, but she was brave.

  King turned to her. “Wait outside. Liaise with back-up. They need a clear picture of what’s going on.” He moved forwards, keeping the Ruger trained in front of him. He could hear Caroline moving behind him. She had his back.

  Ahead of them they could hear breaking glass. An alarm sounded and above them a red light flashed and spun like an old fashioned police light. King reached the end of the loading bay and cautiously rounded the edge of the corridor. Caroline shuffled close to him, her weapon aimed past King’s shoulder.

  The man was old, in his seventies and his hair was white. He was short in stature and overweight. He was dressed in an old fashioned tweed suit. King studied him, studied the grip on the pistol aiming at the back of Hodges’ head. Studied the grenade in his hand, the pin removed. The man’s hand gripped the lever tightly, his knuckles white and his hand shaking minutely.

  “Get back!” he shouted. He pressed the barrel of the pistol harder against the detective’s head.

  “Put the weapon down,” King said coldly. “The police are on their way. Armed response units. You’ll never get out of here alive.”

  Hodges was on his knees. His hands were on his head and he looked scared. He had a look of contempt towards King, like he was willing him to know that waiting for back-up was the way to go. King ignored him, stared at the old man instead.

  “I said get back!” Orlev shouted.

  Caroline moved across the corridor and stood in the open doorway of a lavatory and changing room. She gave Orlev more to think about, but she had lost King as cover. But King could see what she had achieved. Orlev had the weapon not just aimed at, but touching Hodges. If he moved the weapon, he had two guns aimed at him. To take the gun away from Hodges was to die. To shoot Hodges was to lose his only bargaining chip, and with two guns on him he had no chance. It was check, but not yet checkmate. Hodges was holding it all in the balance. Orlev was clever though, a scientist. He looked at both of them for a moment, then as quickly as he had assessed the situation, he threw the grenade between them.

  The grenade was a canister about the size of a drinks can. The grenade spun through the air and the spring-loaded handle sprang off and travelled alongside the grenade as it arced and tumbled towards them. King dived across the corridor and cannoned into Caroline taking her to the floor. Orlev took the pistol away from Hodges’ head and fired twice at King. Both shots missed and carried on into the loading bay. King landed on top of Caroline and the pair slid on the newly mopped floor. They looked at each other momentarily, their faces inches apart. The grenade detonated and they heard the whoosh of smoke being released under the pressure of compressed air. King rolled off her and brought the Ruger up to aim at the doorway. Caroline was up now too and the chunky 9mm pistol was covering King from his right and rear.

  “Smoke grenade,” he said.

  “Well, duh!” Caroline countered.

  King edged his way out of the lavatory. Smoke filled the corridor, but already he could see that Orlev and Hodges were gone. “Come on!” he shouted.

  “Where?” she asked, but followed him as he ran. He was sprinting through the loading bay towards the BMW. King got in and Caroline jumped in the passenger seat next to him. The airbags were deflated and hung from the sides of the seats and the headrests like uninflated party balloons. “Where are we going?”

  “The man’s car is in the warehouse. He must have gone for Hodges’ vehicle out the front.” He drove out, disconnecting from the twisted metal of the ruined door. There was a series of gunshots. “Oh shit!”

  The BMW rounded the loading area and powered into the carpark. Orlev was bundling Hodges ahead of him towards the vehicle. He had the pistol in front of him. DC Watkins lay on the ground, a still and foreboding figure.

  “Oh no!” Caroline gasped. “The bastard! She wasn’t even armed!”

  Orlev looked around, aimed the weapon and fired three shots at the approaching vehicle. Hodges tackled him, but Orlev smashed the barrel of the pistol across the man’s mouth and he went down. Hodges looked up into the muzzle of the pistol, his hands in front of his face in a vain attempt to protect himself. King slammed the car to a stop and got out, the Ruger aimed at Orlev and the open door providing some cover. He fired twice and the .22 silenced pistol merely coughed. Both bullets hit Orlev in the right thigh, a mere inch apart. Orlev spun like a top and fell. Hodges scrambled away on his back, pumping his legs like pistons to get clear. King ran the ten paces or so and stepped on the pistol, with Orlev’s fingers still wrapped around the butt. The man was moaning, his leg was sprung back with his heel touching the back of his thigh. Part of his hamstring was severed and the bleeding was spurting in time with the sporadic muscle cramps he was experiencing. King bent down and retrieved the pistol. He held it out to Hodges, who was nursing his mouth with a bloody handkerchief.

  He looked at King and said, “If only we had waited.”

  “Bollocks!” King cut him off. “We’ve got a nuclear warhead targeted for somewhere in Britain and not a clue where it is. We’ve got a dozen missing MI5 agents and if we lost this guy, then it’s one less lead and we haven’t got many, in case you hadn’t noticed. Plus, you’ve got a missing officer.”

  “Where’s your back-up?” Caroline asked, walking up the grass embankment from where Watkins lay.

  “I never finished the call,” Hodges said. “You took off around the back, I thought I had better go in through the front, or risk losing him.” He shook his head. “Oh Christ, Watkins!”

  “I’m sorry. She’s dead,” Caroline said. “I just checked.”

  King bent down and pulled Orlev to his feet. He dragged him to the rear of the BMW and shoved him inside. He was bleeding and screaming, but he could barely move.

  “What are you doing?” Hodges asked, bemused.

  “You said earlier that I was operating in your world,” King replied. “Well, you’re in mine now. So you can walk away, or you can get some payback for Watkins and find out what has happened to DS Mathews. King got into the BMW and looked at him coldly. “Which is it to be?”

  Hodges mopped the blood from his mouth and looked around. The warehouse was at the end of a road and it was a Sunday. It was deserted. Hodges looked back at King for a moment, then walked around and got into the backseat next to Orlev.

  54

  King pushed Orlev into the wooden chair and stood back. He tossed the roll of duct-tape to Caroline and kept the silenced Ruger pistol aimed at the man’s chest. Caroline pulled out a length and wrapped it around the man’s wounds. Two small bullet holes front and back. Orlev winced as she bound it tightly. Next, she fastened his right ankle to the chair leg. She wound it round twice and tore it off. She repeated the process with his other ankle, then with both wrists and the sturdy chair arms. She was mindful not to get into the line of fire with King’s pistol.

  They had disabled the alarm, but the red light still spun and threw crimson shadows on the walls and ceiling. King had taken a look at the control panel and was confident it was not a monitored system.

  Hodges stood at the open boot of Orlev’s car. Just a few feet aside on the floor rested Watkins’ body, where they had moved it and covered with a wrap of polythene sheet. The sheeting was opaque, but after it had been folded three or more times it was not easy to look through and hid the young police woman’s features from view. Hodges was staring at Mathews’ body in the boot. It was twisted and already pale and stiffening. The tiny hole in the forehead was at contrast to the gaping chasm of the rear of the skull. The boot lining was matted in thick, sticky matter. Blood had drained and pooled and congealed. Hair was matted to the fabric of the lining, when the body was eventually moved, it would be a messy and undignified affair.

  Caroline looked at King. “Do you think he’s okay?” she asked, nodding towards the detective. “He looks broken.”

  “Not a good day for him,” Kin
g replied. He looked at Orlev. “But it’s going to get a whole lot worse for you.”

  “Idol threats!” Orlev snapped indignantly. “Look in my wallet! I have diplomatic immunity!”

  Caroline reached inside the man’s jacket and pulled out a thick, tattered leather wallet which looked decades old. She tossed it to King. He tucked the pistol into his waistband then thumbed through the wallet. King had seen the Russian Federation diplomat card before, and this looked original to him. He frowned at Caroline and she walked over and looked at it. She turned to Orlev. “What are you doing with this?”

  “I’m a diplomat, sweetie,” he sneered. “I could fuck you here and now and if you cried rape, I’d still go free and be allowed home.”

  She slapped him across the face. It was hard and fast and would have hurt less had it been a punch. Orlev recoiled and glared at her. “You’ll pay for that. You will all pay for this.”

  Hodges walked over. He had seemed broken moments before, but as he walked he had regained his resolve. He seemed possessed. “He was about to become a father!” he shouted, pointing back at the car. “His wife was expecting!”

  Orlev sneered. “Yes. He mentioned it. He seemed to think I’d care somehow,” he paused. “Now, get me untied and call my embassy. You are breaking the convention of international diplomacy. If you do not release me this minute, you will have started an international incident, of which there will be no good outcome for yourselves. Call my embassy, chalk it all up to a learning curve and get on with the rest of your lives.”

  Hodges was on the man like a rash. He struck him and hit him, but with no control or thought to his intentions. He was in a rage and the blows were both clumsy and ineffective. King pulled the man off of him by his collar and when he tried to attack him again, he hooked the man’s foot with his own and he fell to the floor. Orlev stopped flinching, he had a small cut to his brow and his eyes were watering. He smirked and shook his head in disgust. “I have whores hit me harder and I pay them for it,” he sneered.