“I’ve never been in a helicopter,” she said with a half-smile.
“Don’t worry,” he said, offering her a hand as she climbed up into the rear, “it’s just like taking a ride in your Giulietta.”
Minutes later, the rotors were at maximum speed and they were lifting off. With only space for three passengers, the two crew members who remained behind watched with a degree of bemusement as their ride ascended into the sky without them.
“What’s the flight time to London?” Caslin asked once he’d figured out the internal communication system.
“I’d say it’s around two-hundred miles and usually we would be looking at around ninety-minutes flight time,” the pilot advised. “Although with a favourable wind I can probably shave ten to fifteen off of that. Are we heading for the London Helipad at Battersea?” Caslin shook his head, a movement unnoticed by the pilot, concentrating on gaining them elevation out of the city.
“No, I want you to set down on the roof of Scotland Yard,” Caslin stated. In the rear, Hunter grinned but no one saw.
“I’ll need clearance for that,” the pilot said.
“You’ll have it,” Caslin said with confidence whilst secretly hoping he could deliver on the promise.
***
The pilot proved to be incredibly accurate with his estimation as they found themselves entering London airspace within an hour. In order to accommodate their approach without a scheduled flight plan, Air Traffic Control directed them to approach via the east and come into London along the path of the Thames at a height of five-hundred feet. They were given clearance to descend once they had passed Blackfriars Bridge and then Waterloo Bridge, bringing them into visual sight of Scotland Yard.
“Are you feeling like you’re coming home?” Hunter asked from the rear.
Caslin smiled, “Hardly. They moved from Broadway a couple of years ago and put it here. They brought the name with them but I’ve never set foot in this building.”
“Shame,” Hunter said. “Still, maybe you’ll get to see some of your old friends.” Caslin didn’t respond. He hadn’t considered that possibility and the thought filled him with anxiety. He buried it.
They touched down on the roof top helipad and both Hunter and Caslin clambered out. Caslin threw the pilot a brief wave in appreciation and they were stepped away from the chopper. Both of them felt unsteady on their feet and Caslin’s hearing was affected by the changes in noise and pressure they’d been subjected to. They were met as they reached the steps down from the pad. A young officer, shielded his eyes from the dust disturbed from the rotating blades.
“I’m DS Collins. Commander Montgomerie has asked me to assist you, sir,” Collins shouted in order to be heard above the roar of the engines.
“Get us to the House of Commons as quickly as you can,” Caslin shouted, leaning in.
“That’s a three-minute walk, sir. Once we’re out of the building. This way,” Collins said, guiding them along a walkway and towards the rooftop access door. Passing through, Caslin was momentarily thrown. A grinning face greeted him as the bearer came striding towards them. It took a moment for him to recognise her. She had grown her hair and altered the colour, at least he thought so but was often the last to notice such things.
“Nate Caslin,” she said approaching and throwing her arms around him. He tensed but was warmed by the gesture. Hunter raised an eyebrow but said nothing as the woman ended the embrace. “Someone told me you were coming but I couldn’t quite believe it.”
“It’s great to see you,” Caslin said, his own face splitting a broad and genuine grin. “You’re looking well. I’d like to catch up but it’ll have to wait.”
“I know. I’ll catch you later,” she said as the group moved on.
“What’s the state of play with Walsh’s protection?” Hunter asked, casting a curious glance in the direction of the woman as they went.
“Under orders from Commander Montgomerie we’ve not communicated with Mr Walsh. However, we’ve deployed spotters on the adjacent buildings and we have roaming plain-clothes teams outside. The pictures of the suspects provided by your DC Holt have been circulated to every member but as yet they haven’t been seen. We are looking to intercept before they can make a move on the target.”
“Excellent,” Caslin said, glancing across at Hunter and reassured that SO15 were at the top of their game. They took the lift straight down to the lobby with no stops at any other floor. They left the building, stepping out onto the embankment and Caslin took an immediate right heading for the Houses of Parliament.
“Do you really think they’ll try and carry out a hit outside such a high-profile location?” DS Collins asked, almost as if he thought it a near impossibility.
“Walsh rarely stays in the same place for any length of time. I think he spends his life travelling the globe and keeps his inner circle incredibly small. That way, his organisation is tight and trustworthy. They might not get a better shot at him than they will today.”
Midday in central London, around the Houses of Parliament was never a quiet occasion. People were milling to and fro, grabbing an early lunch or dashing to the next meeting. Parliament were sitting following the Christmas break which brought out the journalists, commentators and lobbyists who routinely filled the Commons.
Caslin eyed the surrounding buildings on both sides of the Thames but he couldn’t make out the spotters that Collins assured him were present. He felt his apprehension rising. There was something of a media scrum threatening to develop as print journalists jockeyed for position with television crews aiming to get the best shot. Cory Walsh was today’s draw. Caslin felt he had played down his deposition appearance today.
DS Collins advised him Walsh was scheduled to present evidence to the Treasury Select Committee regarding the role played by money laundering in the UK banking system. His appearance was expected to be the lead story on all major news networks in the country with Walsh promising an explosive revelation. This scenario only managed to heighten the trepidation that Caslin fostered. In Walsh’s own words, this was a high-stakes business and Caslin wanted to ensure that at least one man didn’t forfeit his life in pursuit of a code of decency like so many others already had.
Caslin’s phone rang and he answered it without looking at the screen such was the attention he was paying to the gathering crowd.
“Sir, it’s Terry Holt. I thought you’d want to know the phone is active. Are you on site?”
“We’re outside Parliament, Terry. Where is she?”
“I have her just crossing at Lambeth Bridge and taking a right through the Victoria-”
“Tower Gardens,” Caslin finished for him. He drew the attention of DS Collins, “Tower Gardens. Heading this way.”
Collins took up his radio and relayed the information to the undercover team as well as the spotters. Everyone responded they had no eyes on the target. They were close and Walsh was due at any moment. Caslin looked to his left, down Abingdon Street and Millbank beyond. To the right was Parliament Street with the Square in the foreground. From a close personal-protection point of view this was a nightmare scenario despite the high level of police presence. There were any number of buildings where a sniper could operate without fear of discovery and the volume of people made spotting individuals a nightmare. They waited. Holt was still on the line and Caslin asked him, “Where are they now?”
“The signals dropped. I don’t know. When is Walsh due?”
“Any moment,” Caslin confirmed hearing the tension in his own voice. He looked to Collins who shook his head. The crowd appeared to surge towards the road and Caslin figured the star of the show had arrived. Flash bulbs went off at an astonishing rate as Cory Walsh stepped out onto the pavement. His ever-present bodyguards were by his side and uniformed police officers sought to keep the crowd at bay but it was nigh on impossible. Caslin scanned the crowd.
“Talk to me, Terry,” he asked, stress creeping into his tone.
“I don’t
know. It’s probably down to the surrounding buildings disrupting the signal,” Holt stated, staring at his screen. Caslin searched the crowd before him for recognisable faces. And then there was one if not two.
“There!” he said, pointing them out to Hunter and before anyone else could react, he set off. Caslin was certain one of them was Grigory Vitsin and the other, one of Kuznetsov’s security team.
They were within two metres of each other and closing in on Cory Walsh’s entourage. Caslin tried to shout to Walsh’s bodyguards or the officers accompanying him to the entrance of Parliament but with the media barrage of shouted questions and calls for photographs there was little chance of him being heard. The targets were on the other side of the crowd and Caslin burst into the melee pushing and shoving without recourse to try and get to intercept Vitsin or to reach Walsh’s side.
Protests were thrown in his direction but he ignored them as he unceremoniously battled his way through. All of a sudden, the crowd parted before him and Caslin saw the second target and hurled himself forward. His approach was noted at the last moment and he took a blow to the side of his head for good measure but Caslin pressed on taking as firm a hold as he could.
Using his momentum, he put the man off balance, placing his own leg behind the target’s and flipping him backwards. They both ended up striking the pavement with Caslin atop his quarry. The advantage of surprise was quickly lost however and despite having the initial upper hand, Caslin found himself heaved sideways and away. His opponent was younger, stronger and clearly more adept at street fighting. Caslin rolled and came to his feet just in time to block an incoming strike. He failed to block the second or the third and felt a swift kick to his stomach and he crumpled.
Looking up through the corner of his eye, he expected the knockout blow only to see a blur pass before him, swiftly followed by his opponent hitting the ground face first. The fog in his mind cleared and he saw Hunter standing before him, extendable baton in hand.
Rising, Caslin had no time to convey his gratitude as Vitsin came into view, barely steps from Walsh. Caslin screamed and charged forward. Walsh’s security reacted at the same time and advanced to intercept the Russian. The first took a glancing blow from a cosh as Vitsin wielded it from side to side. His expression, one of maniacal fury.
The second grasped Vitsin’s wrist and they became locked together in a battle of wills as much as one of physical combat. Caslin raced forward and dived head first into Vitsin’s midriff, knocking the wind out of him. The Russian staggered but managed to maintain his position until DS Collins arrived in the fray and between the three of them, they managed to overpower and wrestle him to the ground. Despite their superiority, Vitsin continued to fight like a man possessed of an inner strength that Caslin couldn’t comprehend.
“You’ve failed, Grigory,” Caslin barked as they disarmed him. “It’s over.”
A scream went up from behind and Caslin felt the crowd surge once again, only this time away from them. Vitsin was on the floor with both Walsh’s security and DS Collins pinning him to the ground. Caslin knelt and turned to see Cory Walsh staring at him, a look of astonishment upon his face. He took a step forward, then staggered for two more before collapsing to the ground. Caslin looked around and then he saw her. Her hair was cropped short and recently dyed. She cut a figure in stark contrast to the one he remembered but it was undeniably her.
“Nyet, Raisa!” Vitsin shouted from his position on the floor before letting out a guttural, primal scream that carried despite the commotion encompassing them. Caslin saw the blade in her hand. It was four inches long and glistened with fresh blood. Cory Walsh’s blood.
Hunter stepped forward striking Raisa’s wrist with her baton and the blade dropped to the floor, as did the young woman with a corresponding yelp of pain. Hunter was on to her in a flash pinning her down and securing her with handcuffs. Caslin scrambled over to where Walsh lay, immediately seeing the darkness spreading beneath his neatly pressed white shirt.
“Call for an ambulance!” Caslin shouted to no one in particular as he reached forward, tearing open the shirt and looking for the entry wound. He found it in the chest and he applied pressure with both hands to try and stem the flow of blood. There was only the one wound but the blood was reddish-brown.
Caslin knew that was serious. The darker the shade of blood, the more vital the organ was that had been punctured. He was in no doubt that Walsh’s heart had ruptured. Caslin sought to comfort him as Walsh reached out, gripping his hand. Their eyes met and Walsh appeared to be pleading with him, fear etched into his face but no words were forthcoming. Caslin watched as the light faded from his eyes and within moments, Cory Walsh was dead.
Caslin tore his eyes away from the man lying before him, fighting back the tears. He looked to Hunter who stood a few feet away appearing somewhat shell-shocked. Raisa Kuznetsova hung her head refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. Grigory Vitsin wept unashamedly. Caslin scanned the crowd, watching on intently in a stony silence. An eerie calm descended before The Palace of Westminster, the likes of which was unseen with the possible exception of Remembrance Sunday. Caslin’s gaze fell on one figure in particular. He seemed to notice the scrutiny and turned to walk away. Caslin stood. His hands as well as his forearms were covered in Walsh’s blood but he didn’t care.
Stepping away, he saw Hunter looking at him, her mouth moving but he didn’t register the words. Walking past her, Caslin followed the retreating figure towards the main entrance picking up his pace as the man glanced back over his shoulder and noted the interest. He in turn, increased his own speed passing through the security gate having revealed his identification to the officer on duty. Caslin approached but the uniformed constable held up his hand.
“I’m sorry, sir but the Palace is in lockdown,” he said apologetically. Caslin took out his warrant card and raised it whilst identifying himself.
“I’m DI Caslin from North Yorkshire Police.”
“I’m sorry, sir but you’re not cleared,” the officer stated.
“Then tell me who that was,” Caslin indicated towards the man who had been allowed through only moments earlier. “You can do that, surely?”
“That was Lord Payne, sir,” the constable stated. Caslin looked beyond the officer and stared towards the entrance as if willing the man back into view.
“Should I know him?” Caslin asked.
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” the constable replied, unsure of whether the question was rhetorical.
“He looks familiar but I can’t place him.” Caslin muttered, flicking a dismissive gesture towards the constable signifying it didn’t matter and turning away. Hunter came to join him.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Caslin cast one furtive glance towards the building behind them and gave a casual shake of the head.
“Ah… forget it. It’s probably nothing.”
Chapter 27
Entering the custody suite, Caslin and Hunter were guided towards the cells. DS Collins led the way. The booking-in area was rammed. There was hardly ever a quiet day for the Met. A whistle drew his attention and Caslin turned and to his surprise it was aimed at him. Hunter recognised the woman they’d briefly encountered earlier as they came down from the helipad. Caslin warmly welcomed her approach.
“Isabel,” he said in greeting. There was no embrace on this occasion. “You’re looking great.”
“I can’t say the same for you,” she replied, “but the black suits you… and it’s flattering.” Caslin glanced down at his shirt and laughed nervously. Someone had been kind enough to raid the stores and find him some clean clothes. He now wore the jet-black undershirt of the Met’s standard issue uniform. Hunter exaggerated the clearing of her throat. Caslin glanced across.
“Oh, sorry. DS Hunter meet DI Isabel Covey,” Caslin said, introducing them.
“Sarah,” Hunter added. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Covey said taking Hunter’s offered hand.
“Isabel w
as my DI when I was based here,” Caslin added, remembering their time fondly.
“DCI now, Nate,” Covey added, with a wink.
Caslin inclined his head, “Congratulations. Thoroughly deserved, I expect.”
“Yes, it was,” she said smiling. “Listen, I have to go but check in with me before you shoot off, will you?”
“I promise,” Caslin said.
“You promised three years ago too,” Covey said, moving away before looking over her shoulder and adding, “but you broke that one.” Caslin waved with a mock grimace.
“Shall we?” DS Collins asked, inclining his head towards the cell block. “I don’t know how much time we will have.” Caslin agreed.
A uniformed constable came with them holding a set of keys. He led them into the block and took the second left turn. The corridor was short with doors to eight cells, four on each wall, facing one another. Approaching the second one on Caslin’s left, the constable slid in a key and unlocked it pulling the metal door wide. He stepped aside.
“Give him five minutes,” DS Collins told the officer who nodded. Caslin entered but the others remained outside and the door was closed. Raisa Kuznetsova sat with her legs brought up before her, hugging her knees on the vinyl-coated mattress, the only source of comfort in the eight-by-four-foot room. Her head was pressed forward and she rocked gently to and fro. She didn’t acknowledge his arrival.
“Raisa,” Caslin sought her attention. After a few moments she took a deep breath, sniffed, drew her wrist across the base of her nose and raised her head. Her eyes were puffy, bloodshot and lined red. She had been crying. Her right hand and wrist were bandaged, no doubt down to the force of Hunter’s strike with her baton.
“What do you want, Mr Caslin?” she asked softly, her voice almost cracking with emotion. She was trying to process the enormity of what she had done this day. It wasn’t going well.
“I just want to know why?” Raisa snorted a laugh in response but it wasn’t genuine humour, then the tears fell once more.
Blood Money Page 27