They fell silent, each thinking over the implications of what had happened. Miles drove fast, bouncing the heavy car over the ruts in the road, while Bruno kept a sharp eye on the fields to each side. The light was fading now as Bruno turned to look over his shoulder at the road behind them.
‘How much further?’
‘About six miles.’
‘Well, get a move on. There’s company behind us.’
‘I know. It came out of a field track just back there.’
A battered-looking pickup truck was approaching at high speed. As it got nearer two men in black balaclavas stood up in the back, each waving a heavy weapon in one hand.
Miles had his foot on the floor but the pickup truck was gaining on them. ‘Hold on,’ shouted Miles, ‘I’m gonna knock them off,’ and as the pickup drew alongside them, he turned the wheel of the SUV hard to the left.
But the truck driver had anticipated the manoeuvre and with a burst of acceleration managed to block their sideways move. There was a loud bang as metal hit metal, and the two vehicles each did a sweeping one-eighty and came to a halt side by side, slewed along the road.
The two armed men leapt down and pulled open Miles’s door.
‘Get out. Both of you,’ said one in an accent straight from the streets of south London.
The two climbed out of the SUV, and the man with the London accent motioned with his rifle for them to move away from the car. ‘Get down on your knees,’ he ordered, and when Bruno hesitated he pointed the gun at his head. ‘Get down, I said.’
As they knelt on the sandy road, Miles glanced at Bruno. He had clasped his hands behind his head and was staring straight ahead. Miles knew he was waiting for the shot. Then they’ll shoot me, he thought. There was silence for a moment. A breeze had picked up, bringing a faint smell of petrol from the pickup truck. Behind them one of the men moved close; Miles could hear him breathing, noisily and fast. This is it, thought Miles, trying to come up with something meaningful for his final thought.
But then the Londoner spoke again. ‘This is a warning. Keep out of our business and go home or you’ll end up like that corpse at the farm. Now get back in that car and bugger off.’
And as Miles got slowly to his feet, he saw the man and his colleague leap back into their pickup truck. The engine started, the truck turned in a cloud of dust and drove back along the road the way it had come.
Miles stood with Bruno in the road for a moment, looking after the rapidly disappearing truck.
‘What on earth was that all about?’ said Bruno, his voice shaking very slightly. ‘Why did they let us go?’
‘Are you complaining?’ asked Miles with a tremulous laugh. ‘Perhaps they’ve got too much going on to want two dead diplomats on their hands.’
Bruno said, ‘Maybe that’s it. We’ve been lucky this time. Let’s get the hell back to your Embassy.’
Chapter 20
‘I need a drink,’ said Miles as he parked the dusty SUV in the car park underneath the US Embassy. ‘Come on up. I’ve got a bottle of Scotch in my cupboard.’
As he was getting the bottle and glasses out, Miles’s eye fell on a piece of paper propped up on his desk. He read its message out loud: The Ambassador would like to see you in his office as soon as you get back.
Looking at Bruno he said, ‘Something must have happened. I have a regular meeting with him on Monday mornings and he never asks to see me otherwise.’
‘Surely he won’t still be in his office at this hour,’ said Bruno. ‘Sit down and drink up. You’ve deserved it.’
But Ambassador Thomas B. Rodgers III, not a man to leave his post when there was still business to do, was at his desk.
‘Come in, young man,’ he called out as Miles appeared in his outer office. ‘I’ve had a complaint about you.’
Ambassador Rodgers was a State Department professional. Sana’a was a tough posting, potentially dangerous, requiring diplomatic skills; not the sort of plum Embassy that presidents gave as a reward to their business friends and supporters. Thomas B. Rodgers had been round the block a few times, served in more junior posts in some tough places, and now in his mid-fifties had made it to Ambassador. He was used to dealing with the CIA.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Miles’s voice was calm but his heart lurched. He hadn’t yet made up his mind what, if anything, he was going to say about the events of this evening. He knew for certain that if the Ambassador found out that not only had he nearly got himself kidnapped or killed, but that he had led a British colleague into the same danger, there’d be a request to Langley for his withdrawal. Yet surely the news couldn’t have got back to the Embassy so quickly.
‘It concerns Minister Baakrime. You told me that you were hoping to use him as a source of information on arms supplies. Well, you should know that your contact with him has been noticed by the Yemenis, and I’ve been warned that we should steer clear of him. Other members of the government don’t trust him. He’s been making too much money on the side.’ He waved an exasperated hand. ‘I know, I know, most of them are at it in one way or another, but he’s been making more than other people.’
‘I see,’ said Miles, wondering what else the Ambassador had been told.
‘I don’t know how much you know about him, but apparently he’s working with the Russians.’
‘With the Russians?’ Miles was taken off guard and his surprise showed. ‘No. I didn’t know that. What’s he doing for them?’
‘I wasn’t told. But probably much the same as you were hoping he’d do for you. Whatever it is, he’s visited the Caucasus twice in the past year. Dagestan apparently. God knows what for, but whatever it is it seems to be making Minister Baakrime a lot of money. I’d be grateful if you’d steer clear of him from now on. I think he may shortly find himself in prison.’
If he’s not already dead, thought Miles, remembering the hideous sight of the Minister’s son, dangling in the entrance to the farm.
Chapter 21
It was hard work trying to extract any useful information from Milraud. It had needed frequent reminders from Martin that Annette’s treatment depended on his cooperation to get him to fill in any of the details; even then he could only be described as a reluctant witness.
Eventually Liz had got him to admit that the Arab had got in touch with him via a contact in Yemen – a man who had put business his way before. He did not know his identity, he’d said, or who the Arab was – he never asked such questions. The request had been for comparatively small arms, as he’d said at the beginning, and he had been told these were for use by rebel groups in the Arab Spring countries. He had assumed this meant Syria, but he had not asked. It was not his concern. The Arab had said that the arms were to be delivered to Dagestan, one of the former Soviet republics, from where they would be moved on to their destination. He’d quoted an inflated price for the deal and there had been a bit of haggling, but he was very pleased with the final bargain they’d struck.
When Liz asked if he was not surprised that the delivery was to be to Dagestan, he’d said that nothing surprised him. He had both delivered arms to Dagestan before and bought arms there. When she asked more about the black man he’d met in Berlin, all he would say was that the Arab had asked him to meet the man – who he guessed must be arranging the onward shipment, though he couldn’t be sure of this as the man was so jumpy they had had no significant conversation.
As Martin drove her to the Gare du Nord to catch the last Eurostar to London, Liz was mulling over all this.
‘You know,’ she said after a while, ‘I don’t believe a quarter of what Milraud said. The trouble is, I’m so tired I can’t work it out.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised to hear you say that. Milraud’s not one to give up easily. It sounded unlikely to me too; I’m sure some vital parts are missing. I just don’t believe he wanders around the world having meetings with people he doesn’t know anything about. He wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has, with me on his
tail, if that’s how he did business.’
‘I know. And I can’t understand why the Arab Spring rebels would want to buy small weapons at a high price from someone like him. Surely they are getting all they need from Iran and Hezbollah and the like.’
‘Why don’t you stay the night and we can talk about it in the morning?’
‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Peggy rang to say there was some new information about the black man. One of the Special Branches think they know who he is.’
‘Let Peggy deal with it,’ he said, as he stopped the car at the station.
She touched his hand on the wheel. ‘No. I want to do it myself. I want to be sure Monsieur Milraud isn’t going to get away with anything now we’ve got him. For your sake, as well as my own.’
She kissed him on the cheek, jumped out of the car and was gone into the station before he could say anything.
Liz got up early in the morning and was at work by eight. Peggy Kinsolving, another early riser, was already there at her desk in the open-plan office.
‘Here’s the number to call,’ Peggy said, handing Liz a piece of paper. ‘It’s DS Halliday from Cheshire Special Branch. He said he’s fairly sure he knows the black man.’
Halliday wasn’t in his office until ten, but when he answered the phone he sounded cheerful and eager to help. ‘I’ve had your photo. I’m pretty certain I know your guy. It looks like Lester Jackson, who owns a club in Wilmslow. I’ll send you one of our pictures of him, so you can see what you think. He’s well known to me and my colleagues.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘He’s a tried and true bad guy, involved in trafficking drugs and women. But the frustrating thing is we’ve never managed to pin anything on him – not a single thing. The only trouble he’s been in that I know of was years ago. Some teenage scrapes, and one arrest for burglary – but he was underage, and I don’t think he even saw the inside of a young offenders’ institution. He’s never done time as an adult.’
‘You say he owns a club. What sort of club?’
‘It’s called Slim’s. In Wilmslow, which is in my bailiwick here in Cheshire. He gets quite a lot of the football fraternity in the restaurant and there’s gambling and girls, and drugs, of course. Sometimes it gets a bit wild at the weekends but nothing too bad, just some young footballer drinking too much or snorting too much coke and getting involved with the paparazzi.
‘There’s an upstairs operation as well, with girls providing special services, as you might say, but we’ve had no complaints and we’ve never bothered them up to now. Recently Immigration have been sniffing around. They’ve a strong suspicion that some of the girls may have been trafficked, probably from Eastern Europe, and they think he may be selling women on, because his own upstairs operation isn’t very big. Between you and me they’re planning a raid pretty soon and I’m helping them. I’ve got my eye on one of the girls as a possible inside source. The club’s in Cheshire, like I said, just inside our border, but Jackson lives in Greater Manchester’s area. You should talk to them; they know him pretty well. How’s he come across your radar anyway?’
Liz said cautiously, ‘We’re investigating a dodgy-looking arms deal on the Continent and it’s possible he may be involved.’
‘Guns? Jackson’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but as far as I know he’s never sold weapons. Still, there’s always a first time – he’s not somebody who would turn down an opportunity.’
‘If I wanted the Manchester angle who should I contact?’
‘You should probably call the Deputy Head of Special Branch there.’ His voice sounded unenthusiastic.
‘Not the Head then?’
‘No, he’s new. It’s his deputy who knows Jackson. He says he’s been helpful in the past.’
‘What. You mean he’s a source?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But you’re better off getting the story from him.’
Halliday sounded oddly wary and Liz decided not to press the point. ‘OK, the Deputy Head it is. What’s his name?’
‘McManus. Do you want me to ring him first?’
‘Not Jimmy McManus?’ said Liz before she could stop herself.
‘Yes. That’s him. Do you know him?’
‘No, not really,’ she said, trying to recover from the surprise. ‘I met him quite a time ago. I’ll ring him myself,’ she added, though her heart was sinking at the prospect.
When the photographs came through Liz looked at them carefully, trying not to jump to conclusions. Some had been taken in the street, some in what looked like a restaurant but was probably the club. But there wasn’t any doubt – it was the same man. The same handsome face, with wide-set thin eyes, a sharp chin made sharper by the width of the high cheekbones. Afro-Caribbean, almost African but lighter-skinned, just the dark side of café au lait. Hair neatly cropped and, in all the pictures, very smartly dressed.
‘What do you think?’ asked Peggy, looking over Liz’s shoulder, unwilling to hope for too much. ‘Could it be our chap?’
‘“Could be” is the understatement of all time. He’s our man all right.’
‘But do we have any real evidence he’s one of the bad guys? Maybe he’s just a respectable businessman holidaying in Berlin.’
‘No. Milraud admitted he had a rendezvous with him and that the mysterious Arab set it up. What he hasn’t told us is why he met him and what they said to each other – nothing, according to him, except to arrange another meeting, but I don’t believe it. That’s just one of the things he’s holding back. So far we don’t have anything on Mr Jackson, and the Germans couldn’t hold him just for standing in front of a picture in a gallery, but I’m convinced he’s in it up to his neck. A Mercedes that comes out of nowhere, a private jet that diverts to God knows where, and most of all the contact with Milraud – that’s enough for me. And Halliday says he’s a tried and true bad guy.’
She looked at Peggy, who seemed convinced. ‘Now,’ said Liz, looking pointedly at her phone, ‘I’ve got someone else to ring to try and find out more.’ And Peggy took the hint and left Liz alone to make the call.
Chapter 22
‘Special Branch. McManus speaking.’
The voice was familiar, even after all these years, but it was more subdued, as if its owner had lost some vitality. Liz said brightly, ‘Hello there, it’s Liz Carlyle from MI5. I’m assuming I don’t have to say “remember me?”’
There was a long pause, followed by the quick sharp laugh she remembered well. ‘You can say that again. Hello, Liz. I take it this is a business call.’
You bet it is, she thought firmly. ‘I sent round a photograph recently asking for information. I’m surprised I didn’t hear from you. It’s been identified as one Lester Jackson. Apparently you know the man.’
There was another, shorter pause.
‘Yes, I do. I didn’t see your photograph. What’s he gone and done now?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me. Has he got form?’
‘Strictly speaking no. But this isn’t Little Lord Fauntleroy you’re asking about. Why are you looking at him?’
‘He’s cropped up possibly in contact with someone we’re investigating on the Continent,’ she said cautiously. ‘We’re trying to work out what role he might be playing.’
There was another pause, then McManus said, ‘I would have thought the Continent was a step too far for our friend Jackson.’
‘Oh really. Why’s that?’
‘Frankly, this guy is not the sharpest knife in the box. He’s home-grown and strictly a small-time villain. On his own patch he does OK, and most of his business is legit – his club has its dodgy angles but the restaurant’s not bad. To tell you the truth, there’re a few shenanigans that go on upstairs, but nothing to get excited about. I’m surprised to find him showing up on your radar.’
‘Your colleagues over in Cheshire seem to take a different view.’
‘You must mean Halliday.’ McManus gave a derisory snort. ‘He’s a young
man who gets a bit over-excited. Not much goes on in Cheshire and he’s got a bee in his bonnet about the club. He’s cross that he’s never managed to get anything on Jackson.’
‘He said Jackson was a source of yours.’
‘Is that what he called him?’ McManus laughed, but there was nothing amused about its tone. ‘Listen, the guy’s helped me out on a few occasions, pointed me the right way when I was bringing down the coke traffickers in this town. He’s done enough for us that we leave him alone.’
I get it, thought Liz angrily. Let Jackson traffic in women in return for helping out once in a while with drugs. Drugs got the headlines, while prostitution was just seen as a necessary evil – however many lives it ruined, however many women it kept in a kind of slavery. ‘So why was he in Berlin then?’ she asked. Immediately the words were out of her mouth she wished she hadn’t been so specific.
‘I haven’t a clue. But believe me, if he’s got himself tangled up in something big-time, Jackson is not playing a large role in it. He’s small beer, Liz. Honestly.’
‘OK. Thanks for letting me know.’
She paused for a second, feeling awkward. Then McManus said, his voice softening, ‘It’s been a long time. So how goes life for you?’
‘Good, thanks. Same employer, as you can see.’
McManus laughed. ‘I always had you down as a lifer. You had the talent, and the commitment. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up running the whole shebang one day.’
‘Don’t count on it.’ McManus had always been a charmer when he wanted to be. ‘But what about you? You must like Manchester if you’re still there.’
‘Like? I don’t know about that.’ His voice was flatter now. ‘It’s a living. I can’t complain.’
‘Oh.’ It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. ‘Well, I’d better get moving; we’ve got our weekly brief in a minute. Thanks for the info.’
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