Captain Vrats laughed. “Nobody will catch me.”
“You can only kill one of us with that pistol,” noted Bale. “Whoever survives will arrest you on the spot.”
“What chance would one man have against three? As soon as they hear the sound of gunfire, the watchmen will come running.”
“Then we must be ready for them,” said Christopher.
He had been edging slowly towards the table and now made his move. Diving suddenly at the captain, he grabbed the barrel of the pistol and turned it upwards. The gun went off with a loud report. Bale reacted quickly. As Christopher grappled with the captain, Bale stepped forward to fell Vrats with a powerful punch to the ear. He then indicated that Christopher should stand behind the door. After blowing out both lanterns, Bale took up his position on the other side of the door. It was a matter of seconds before the two watchmen came hurrying down the steps to see what had happened. Bale knocked the first one senseless and Christopher held his dagger at the other’s throat.
“Find some rope,” ordered Christopher.
“No shortage of that aboard a ship,” said Bale.
The constable left the cabin but came back with some rope almost immediately. He trussed up both of the watchmen then hauled Vrats off the floor. The captain was still dazed. Christopher lit one of the lanterns before holding it a few inches from the captain’s face.
“Tell me where we can find him,” he demanded.
“Who?” asked Vrats, clearly in pain.
“The man who set you on to kill Thomas Thynne.”
“Nobody set me on.”
“His name is Count Konigsmark.”
Captain Vrats was astounded. “How ever did you find that out?”
“My brother, Henry, kindly provided the name,” said Christopher, cheerfully. “He has a gift for smelling out scandal.”
Gravesend was rimed with frost. The passengers who waited at the harbour that morning shivered in the cold. A rowing boat arrived to take them out to the ship. Before they could climb aboard, however, they heard the clatter of hooves and half-a-dozen horsemen came galloping out of the gloom towards them. Reining in his mount, Christopher Redmayne leapt from the saddle and surveyed the passengers. He was disappointed. The man he sought did not appear to be among them.
“Count Konigsmark?” he asked.
Nobody answered. Some of the passengers shrugged, others shook their heads. Christopher’s gaze shifted to the man on the fringe of the group. Tall and lean, he had long, fair hair that spilled out beneath his hat to reach his waist. He was shabbily dressed but, when Christopher took a closer look at him, he saw how impeccably well-groomed he was. The man had poise and striking good looks. There was an aristocratic disdain in his eye. Christopher gave a signal and two of the riders dismounted to stand either side of the passenger.
“You must come with us, Count Konigsmark,” said Christopher.
“But my name is Lindegren,” argued the other, reaching into his pocket. “You may see my passport, if you wish. I am sailing back to Stockholm.”
“No, you are fleeing the country to avoid arrest. The passport is a forgery. This, however,” Christopher went on, producing a letter to wave in front of him, “is not. Do you recognize your own hand?”
“I told you. I am Oscar Lindegren.”
“Then we will arrest you in that name, though we know full well that you are Count Konigsmark. Your countrymen will be shocked to learn that one of the leading figures in their kingdom is party to a brutal murder.” He snapped his fingers. “Take him.”
The two officers grabbed hold of the man. He was outraged.
“Is this the way you treat innocent people in England?” he protested. “You have made a terrible mistake.”
“It was you who made the mistake,” said Christopher, indicating the letter. “You should not have sent word to Captain Vrats that you were leaving Gravesend on a Swedish ship this morning. We found this in his cabin when we arrested him. I’ve ridden through the night to catch up with you, Count Konigsmark.”
“I committed no crime.”
“You paid others to do it for you and that is just as bad. And if you are as innocent as you pretend, why are you sneaking away in disguise with a false passport?”
Konigsmark was trapped. He was hopelessly outnumbered and was, in any case, unarmed. There was no point in further denial.
“Tell these men to unhand me,” he said, peremptorily, “I demand the right to be treated with respect.”
“You did not treat Thomas Thynne with respect.”
“Mr Thynne was a fool.”
“Yet it was he whom Lady Ogle married and not you.” Christopher saw the flash of anger in the other man’s eyes. “I know that you courted her as well for a time. Was that why you had Mr Thynne ambushed in Westminster? Were you racked with envy?”
“I would never envy such a man. He was beneath contempt.”
“From what I hear, he did not have too high a regard for you either.” Konigsmark scowled. “Is that what provoked your ire? Were you upset by slighting remarks that Mr Thynne made about you?”
“He should have remembered who I am,” growled the other.
“Save your breath for the trial,” advised Christopher, slipping the letter back into his pocket. “Captain Vrats is languishing in prison with two other villains. You will soon join them.”
The officers tried to move him away. Konigsmark held his ground.
“I am a member of the Swedish aristocracy,” he said with dignity, “and I insist on the privileges due to my rank.”
“Of course,” said Christopher with a deferential smile. “I’ll make absolutely sure that you are hanged first.”
In fact, Count Konigsmark did not hang at all. Captain Vrats, Lieutenant Stern and Borosky were found guilty of murder and were hanged in the street where the crime occurred. At the Old Bailey trial, Konigsmark was charged with being an accessory but he was acquitted. Captain Vrats went to his death with remarkable equanimity. His body was then embalmed by a new method devised by William Russell, an undertaker. When he was shipped back to Germany fifteen days after execution, the body of Captain Vrats was in an exceptional state of preservation.
A CASE OF ASYLUM
Michael Jecks
It had cost him a fortune, that passport. Not because it was illegal, but because his need was so obvious. Someone in his position couldn’t afford to stay, not even when his wife and daughter remained. When the authorities were after you there was only limited time to escape; and the desperate have to pay.
He’d known he’d have to bolt when he realized he was being watched.
The farm had long been the centre of attention, and the dogs had patrolled his fences enthusiastically all through the hotter weather, their ridged backs terrifying his workers when they materialized from the bushes, heads lowered in truculent demonstration, brows wrinkled and glowering. Alan had loved those two, the dog and the bitch. When he found their corpses out by the boundary fence, even as he wept over them, he was reviewing his options. The two were proof that an attack would come soon.
The government didn’t want his family. Others might – it was possible that they could be held and ransomed – but even here women and children tended to be safe. No, it was him they’d try to “arrest”; him whom they would shoot and leave in a dirt track far from anyone. Not the dignity of a grave for someone who worked against this government.
He’d escape and go to England. Where people were free.
Paul Jeffries yawned and glanced across the Arrivals hall to Jeannie.
She was wearing her “invisible” clothes today: grey trouser suit; a small briefcase of ballistic material holding her laptop hanging from her shoulder; dark hair bobbed in a vaguely professional cut; her face partly concealed behind small, rectangular glasses. But it couldn’t hide her delicate bone structure. Like Michelle Pfeiffer, Paul reckoned. Really good looking, but with a sort of healthiness about her. Pfeiffer was almost unwell looking,
with those big pale eyes and all. Jeannie was plain gorgeous once you noticed her – not that many did. She just blended into the background, the best of their intake.
He lifted a finger to his right eye and scratched at the eyebrow three times – “I need a pee” – saw her acknowledge tersely, and moved away from Arrivals to the toilets.
She was often short with him. Probably she’d guessed he was crap. She’d been with him almost from day one, and perhaps because she was so much older and more confident in herself, she resented his laziness and stupidity. That was his impression, anyway. Meanwhile, all he wanted to do was rip her clothes off and get sweaty with her.
It could just be the shift. Most hated this – first thing in the morning, keeping an eye on tourists, holidaymakers, businessmen, and Christ knew who else, but Paul liked it. He’d always wanted to make use of his degree, and although this wasn’t the way he’d anticipated things panning out, with his good second in Anthropology and Psychology, he was happy enough. Standing about here, simply watching the folks walking back into the country was itself an education.
Sometimes the best part was watching the others who worked here. Especially cops. Jesus, he’d almost jumped a crew last month. He’d seen them shoving packets into pockets before walking to customs, and it was only when the first in the line had held up his warrant card at the gate that he’d realized they’d come over from Holland. There were enough who’d go there for a smoke, and these had brought back a small stash. Bleeding idiots, if you asked Paul. He’d never smoked, and didn’t see why others should.
Jeannie smoked sometimes. It had been useful, when she’d been watching someone who was a smoker. There was a sort of fraternity among the morons. They’d stand and exchange sidelong, self-effacing grins; rapport established without words. She’d been able to get closer to them by bringing out her own pack and apologetically nodding towards their lighter. Fluent in Arabic and Swahili, she’d been able to stand nearby and listen without their having the faintest idea. Not that many would look twice at her anyway. No one thought that a coloured woman would work for a disgraced government like this British one.
Yeah, she was a diamond among the watchers.
He washed his hands, fastidious to the last, left the toilets and strolled over to the concessions. Buying good filter coffee, he moved over to the farther side of the hall, from where he still had an unimpeded view of Jeannie.
“Hi, Pete! How’s it hanging?”
“Dave. Nothing so far today.”
David was the massively ineffectual section head of the team. More proof of the rash of urgent recruiting and promotions in recent years, and the perfect example of the Peter Principle – once a moderately competent operative, as manager of the team he had reached his own level of incompetence. Soon it would be noticed, and another effective watcher would be removed from the field. Daft.
After 9/11, the British government had reversed decades of under-investment in immigration and customs controls, and started making changes. The disaster of 7/7 in London added urgency to the new policy. Where politicians had floundered ineffectually, the big guns of business took their opportunity.
Weapons and surveillance companies had suffered with the peace dividend after the cold war, and turned their best sales teams onto the police and politicians. Police commanders keen to exercise more authority demanded better guns, more cameras, identity cards, new laws to ban everything from airguns to congregations larger than two people with a child; and a callow, incompetent government swallowed every worst-case scenario presented to them. The power to arrest and hold men and women, uncharged, returned for the first time in four hundred years.
With these came the need for accurate surveillance on the ground.
The Watchers had been all but disbanded under previous administrations, but suddenly they were needed. Once-redundant officers were offered new packages, tempted with golden hellos, but few wanted to return. Burned once, they were less eager to return. So Human Resources had to seek new blood, returning to the usual fertile grounds: the universities. Not only Oxbridge, either. The new government couldn’t swallow that sort of injustice. The new world order demanded equality in controlling the public.
Yes, the services were taking on people from the smaller universities. The main thing was, bodies on the streets and at ports. Which was how Paul had slipped in, really. And how David had been put in charge of his own team when he was scarcely able to use a phone, let alone the radios.
“We have a new one,” Dave was saying.
Paul took the file with surprise. It was not usual for his leader to present him with a file so conspicuously. Just as Paul was not allowed to have his earpiece plugged in, because the little clear plastic coil gave away his profession, all briefings were supposed to be given in the room out at the back, behind the Special Branch area. He glanced at it, and felt a little worm of anxiety moving in his belly. “What is it?”
“FARC. Watch the BA flight from Bogotà. Twenty minutes.”
Andy Campbell was in the armoury already. His vest was itching, the heavy weight of the ceramic plates pulling at his shoulders as he pulled out the magazine from his H&K sub-machinegun, then drew back the cocking lever to empty the breech. The cartridge flew out, and he caught it with a practised snatch of his hand. He racked the breech a couple of times, from habit, pulled the trigger to ease the springs, and put the gun down on the table.
He wouldn’t be here many more times. He’d been a specialist shooter here at the airport for some months, but he couldn’t carry on. Not once he’d admitted what had happened.
It was last night. He’d knocked off bloody late after doing a favour and working a shift at Heathrow because they’d had a minor flu epidemic. Jack, his partner, and he’d taken overtime and given them a hand, but he’d known he had to be up at four to get to Gatwick airport for the first shift. He’d been dog tired, though. Knackered. So when he got home, he’d started undressing in his hallway, before going up to bed. He had three hours to kip before the alarm was going to go off, and the last thing he wanted was a row with the missus about his hours again. So he’d left his clothes downstairs, his handgun on the belt. The sub-machinegun he took upstairs, of course. But the Glock stayed there in the hall.
He knew he shouldn’t have brought it home, but shit, when the hours were this daft, what the fuck were you supposed to do? If he’d driven to the airport armoury last night to dump his guns before going home, he’d have had no time to sleep. All the lads took risks sometimes – it was the old rule: don’t get found out.
Well, he would be found out this time. Some fucker had broken into his house, gone through the stuff in the hall, and his Glock had been nicked. Bloody gone, just like that. Today he’d been able to get away without it, saying he’d left it behind, and he had the H&K, so there was little enough to be said, but when he got home tonight, he’d have to have a good hunt, just in case. Maybe it had fallen down behind the umbrellas, or got kicked along the hall . . . Andy just prayed – Jesus, please don’t let it be – yes, that either the thing hadn’t been taken by some crook who was going to use it to hold up a bank or something, or that it hadn’t been thrown away in the road outside his house.
He’d looked, of course, he’d looked everywhere, and just now all he could feel was a cold sweat breaking out at the mere thought that he’d be discovered at any moment. He had to get back home and make sure that the thing wasn’t just lying there.
God, but any moment he could be called to be asked what the fuck his gun was doing in the hands of some drugged up shite who’d been holding a hostage or . . .
“Andy? Stop that. We’ve got a shout on. Some wanker with bombs or something. Get tooled up again.”
He had to stop thinking of his real name. Now he was Ramón, not Jean-Jacques. Ramón Escobar. The lightness in his belly was unbearable as he peered down through the window at Britain.
It was surprisingly green. He wasn’t used to that. In Bogotà the city lay almost dea
d on the equator, although at that height it was hard to believe sometimes. The weather was not too hot. Not like Africa. The temperature in Colombia remained constant, and there was little in the way of seasonal variation. No summer and winter, just a slight change, a little cooler or a little warmer.
Like this, it was very green. You took off from Bogotà airport, and all you could see for miles around was greenhouses. The hothouses spread all over the plain, and even when the plane lifted and the ground fell away from that high plateau up in the mountains, the glass reflected the light all about the area. They said that Colombia’s biggest legal export was cut flowers to America, and . . . Ramón could believe it. Easily.
Here, though, the plane was slowly descending through wisps of pale cloud, and beneath the greenness was . . . darker. Not so rich and blooming as the plant life of Bogotà. It looked harsher, as though the trees and shrubs were struggling more to survive, and it was easy to see why as the aircraft drew nearer to the ground. Here the greyness of concrete and tarmac was all about, but without the bright colours of jacaranda and bougainvillea to ease the sight. No, here, all was unrelenting, grey, miserable, and he felt the tears welling again to think that this place was his refuge.
His sanctuary in his exile. His new motherland.
The system was well worked out, and they swung into action as soon as the papers had been digested.
Paul walked casually away from the main hall as soon as he had checked the details in the print out and glanced up at the arrivals display. The plane was close, but not here yet. He had time.
Jeannie had seen the discussion, and now was play-acting as only she could. She looked up at the boards, and frowned at her watch, looking about her with a discontented expression, before wandering off in the direction of the women’s toilets. Paul made his own way through a security barrier with a palmed card shown discreetly to the man at the gate, and into the Special Branch section. She was waiting for him.
The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries Page 50