by A P Bateman
King tucked the weapon back into his waistband and looked at her. He understood Russian enough to know his parentage had been brought into question. He shrugged it off. It meant nothing. He’d gone most of his life being called a bastard, the people not knowing how true it was, or that he even cared. He smiled at the woman in front of him. Dark hair, long and straight, eyes as dark as jet. Her skin was pale, and her features were sharp. She was attractive, but not beautiful. She looked predatory. Something animalistic and ruthless about her. Like she got what she wanted and gave very little in return. She was lithe, but had spent some of her husband’s money on cosmetic surgery. He had caught a glimpse of her before the sheet had covered her assets. She had been a dancer before she had met Ian Snell. At least that’s what the file had called it.
“Helena Snell, I presume?” King asked, but he already knew the answer. Formerly Helena Milankovitch, thirty-three and from Kiev. She and Sir Ian Snell met when she was twenty-eight. He had been twenty-three years her senior and recently divorced. They had married a year later.
“Who the fuck are you?” she drawled, her accent thick, her tone heavy. “And what the fuck are you doing in my house?”
The man on the floor was coming around. King noticed how muscled and toned he was. He was tattooed too. A heady mix of military and prison artwork. King took the pistol back out and took another pace away. It had been a tough and unexpected fight. He could tell that the man had experience and feared nothing. But he’d never met King before.
“I’m with the home office,” he said. “I’ve been assigned to Interpol to investigate the recent murders by the terrorist group, Anarchy to Recreate Society.”
“Well you’re too late. He’s dead,” she spat at him. “What kind of investigator are you? A rubbish one, I bet! My husband is dead.” She looked forlorn, like she was holding back tears. “My poor husband!”
“Yeah, I can see you’re all about the grieving,” King said coldly.
“What do you know!” she snapped. “I am sad, I needed company…”
“Get out of bed,” he said. “Your husband’s not even cold yet. Get up, get some clothes on, wake up lover boy and come down stairs. I want to talk to you both.” He turned around, side stepped the man, who was moaning and starting to roll rhythmically from side to side, and slammed the door shut behind him.
“What the hell?” Amanda asked as King walked towards her.
“The grieving widow,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Less than twenty hours after Snell was shot, and twelve hours after she would have been told the news.”
22
Cape Town
South Africa
Ryan Beard had dropped Caroline Darby back at The Victoria and Alfred Hotel. She had taken the bag containing the gun and the knife, much to his consternation. He had convinced her to leave the two mobile phones. She had refused at first, but it made sense. Beard was a self-confessed techy and he argued that he may be able to get the phones open and find a link to whoever had ordered her hit. If his skills didn’t work, MI6 had people who could get it done. Caroline couldn’t see how it would hurt, there had been a leak somewhere, and that needed to be found. She had insisted she would take the gun and knife though, as she had used them both. She didn’t trust MI6 enough to have that hanging over her. He had protested as much as was practical, but he had to concede it was going nowhere. He wasn’t about to try and overpower her, some battles were better left not started. He shrugged it off like it didn’t matter, but Caroline sensed it did. She imagined some backroom mandarin rubbing his hands together at the prospect of having a hold over MI5. It was part of the reason both she and Alex were behind the concept of a joint intelligence service.
Beard had asked what she had planned to do, and she couldn’t decide whether he was coming on to her or fishing to find out what MI5 were up to in Cape Town. She hoped it was the latter, but was flattered at the notion of the former. She wouldn’t tell him her plans, but he opened the glovebox and nodded at the 9mm Sig. “Take it,” he had said, but she had already noted he didn’t touch it. “It’s loaded but not chambered. I wiped it clean. It’s brand new and unfired since leaving the factory. Completely untraceable. Keep it, then dump it wisely.”
She had hesitated, but finally accepted. The incident had left her feeling shaken. She had walked back into reception, the weapon tucked into the front of her jogging pants and her top pulled down over to conceal it. Her contact from the State Security Agency had been waiting and was surprised to see her still in her jogging wear.
“Ms Darby,” he said, his accent thick and guttural and not dissimilar to the man who had called himself Kruger. The man whose body was destined for the townships. “I am Peter Kruger, with state security.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re an hour late for our meeting. Is everything alright?”
Caroline nodded. She couldn’t tell the man what had happened, but it was obvious that the State Security Agency had a leak. Whoever it was knew Kruger’s name, and knew he had been assigned to chaperone her. “I went for a run and got lost, sorry,” she said.
“Is that blood on you?” Kruger asked. He stepped forwards, but she backed away.
“I tripped and fell,” she said. “I need to shower and change, I’ll be down in fifteen minutes. And I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Caroline turned and walked swiftly through the foyer and to the lifts.
As she waited for the lift, she watched a waitress walk through a door and heard the clatter of plates and cutlery. She followed her in, and saw the source of the noise. The kitchen was immediately to her right, but the waitress walked ahead of her down a corridor, where Caroline could see daylight ahead. She followed and walked past a still-room with coffee and tea making facilities and kitchen porters scraping plates. The waitress veered off to a staff room, but Caroline walked on past and out into a shaded courtyard. She saw the collection of coloured bins and dumpsters. It wasn’t ideal, but she glanced around, then strode over confidently and lifted the lid of one of the bins marked: General Waste. She dropped the bag inside, closed the lid and returned the way she had come.
Once inside her room, Caroline closed the door and slipped the chain on the latch. She looked at her phone. There had been no calls or messages. She knew King was busy, and he would message her when he could. She couldn’t remember who would make first contact. King had his rules, a code by which he worked. For the best part, Caroline went along with it. She knew he had once operated within a different remit, but that code that meant so much to him had kept him alive. He wouldn’t break it for anyone.
She had expected contact from Mereweather, but Britain had many unfolding security problems at present and her situation wasn’t going to pose a direct threat to civilian life. But she did suspect that the whole affair would leave some sort of stain on her record. Having to ask MI6 for assistance would not go down well in some quarters. Not hearing from him confirmed this fear for her and allowed her to speculate.
She dropped the phone onto the bed and took out the Sig, checking the action. Like Beard had said, it hadn’t been made ready. She pulled back the slide, chambered the first round and dropped the de-cocking lever before applying the safety. She had been issued with a Sig Sauer model P226 while deployed in Northern Ireland with her old army intelligence unit. She was familiar with the weapon, having spent a few hours on the range with one, transitioning from the sixty-year old Browning. She slipped it under the pillow while she stripped off and went for a shower.
Caroline let the spray play over her shoulders and neck. She ached and felt exhausted. The subsiding of adrenalin had left her feeling weak and lethargic. She had missed breakfast, probably didn’t have time for any even if she could speak to reception. After she had showered, she put the tiny kettle on to boil and made a cup of coffee between dressing and brushing her hair. There were some biscuits with the tea and coffee sachets and she ate them as she dressed. She brushed her hair, pulled it back into a damp ponytail and applied the merest of ma
keup as she drank the coffee. She felt a little better, and as she slipped the pistol into her handbag, she felt secure and in control once more.
She took the stairs to give herself time to think. Her arrival and her reason for travelling to Cape Town had struck a chord with someone. The Home Office had tasked MI5 with the investigation into Anarchy to Recreate Society. They had carried out their threats and murdered the four wealthiest people on the planet. There was one more person on that list. He had his own security, but had blatantly, and very publicly refused twenty-four-hour police bodyguards.
The terrorists, for that was what they were now classified as, were an organisation so new that nobody even used an acronym to refer to them. Did they have influence? They certainly had support from around half the population. People so disenfranchised from society and politics and income constraints and austerity that they even accepted the deaths of the few for the gains of the many. Was there a leak in the Home Office or within MI5? Or was security merely weak in South Africa? Enough for someone connected in the SSA to have been bribed to organise a hit to hamper the Security Service’s investigation?
She had little choice but to go with this man Kruger, if only to keep what had transpired earlier under wraps. She wished that the incident could have been made official, bring the police into the mix and place her in the openness of the system. But if someone was willing to sanction the assassination of a British intelligence officer, there would be others. She knew that trusting the South Africans was now a risk. All she could hope for was to do the job she’d been sent to do and get back on her flight home.
23
King led the way down the stairs and across the hall. Amanda followed, still carrying her medical bag. King turned and watched her, she didn’t look confident and carried the bag like a child nervously carried a satchel on their first day at school.
“What now?” she asked. “You assaulted that man.”
“I didn’t assault anybody,” King replied hostilely. “He fought good enough. Gave the first blow.”
“Well you put a gun in his face first. What was he supposed to do?” she argued. “You fought with him, beat him up. He might press charges.”
King did not reply. He made his way into the kitchen, hunting the source of the monotonous sound. The dishwasher was running, nearing the end of its cycle judging from the light display. King squatted down and studied the display. He couldn’t make any sense of it so gave up and simply opened the door to disrupt the cycle. The steam clouded in his face and some drips of hot water splashed out. He studied the load. Nothing but a few coffee cups. He looked past the steam and water dripping from the spinners. It was a set of six cups, large with a curious curvaceous shape to them. Most likely an expensive set, but in one of the homes of the fourth richest man in the world, King supposed they were bespoke and made by a prominent up and coming artist. He doubted they were from The Range.
King got back up, left the door of the dishwasher open. He walked to the cupboards and started opening them. At the third wall unit, he found the coffee pot and milk jugs, even a small creamer.
“What the hell are you doing?” the man said from behind him. “You pulled a gun on me. You do that again, I fucking kill you!”
King turned around and smiled. “Shall we see?” He smiled. “Back off, Ivan. The gun can come out and play anytime.”
The man squared up obstinately. He had pulled on a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of jeans. They were a fashionable and expensive pair. King thought they would look more suitable on a man ten-years younger. He turned his eyes to Helena Snell. She had barely put on anything at all. A slip and a silk dressing gown. It was short and barely covered her dignity. For what little she had.
“Why are you here? Why did you break in?”
“The door was open,” King said with conviction to her.
“Then why are you trespassing?” Helena asked.
“I’m asking the questions,” King said. “Do cousins do that where you come from? It gets cold in the Ukraine. Do you keep warm at night doing your own cousin?”
Amanda frowned, but both Helena and the man glanced at each other.
King leaned back confidently against the counter top. “So, you met Ian Snell, fell in love and married. Sweet. Then you brought over your cousin,” he paused, looking at the man who was glaring at him. “Ivan Kerchenko. Ex-army captain and a former bodyguard to Vladamir Putin, no less. So perfectly qualified to look after the wife of one of the richest men on the planet.” King shook his head. “Ivan Kerchenko, your cousin.” Helena looked at the man beside her. She bowed her head, was about to speak, but King cut her off. “Except, it’s not Ivan Kerchenko, and he’s not your cousin.” He turned and stared at the man. “Viktor Bukov. You served with Helena’s cousin in the military and borrowed his identity. You had similar skills and experience, except you later served in Spetsnaz.”
“Spetsnaz?” Amanda asked. “What’s that?”
King smiled. “Russia’s best of the best. Their equivalent to our TA. That’s territorial army.”
“Niet!” Bukov screamed. “Your SAS!”
“If you say so chum.”
“Except we’d eat your SAS!” Bukov sneered.
“Of course you would,” King smiled. “It looked that way when you were butt naked and unconscious upstairs.”
Bukov took a step forwards, closing the gap between them and squaring up to King who was still three paces away. “Watch what you say!”
“I’m right here, mate. No need to stop walking,” King said coldly.
“Viktor,” Helena said quietly. “Calm down. They are here to ask questions. To investigate Ian’s murder. We must co-operate.”
King winked at Bukov. “Do what the boss lady says, Viktor. There’s a good lad. You’ve had a knock on the head, maybe you should take a seat and have a mug of warm milk and a biscuit.” He looked at the cupboard with the remainder of the set of cups. “Oh, hang on, you seem to be out of mugs.” He looked at the open dishwasher. “So, what’s that all about?”
“You’re here to talk about coffee cups?” Helena scoffed.
“And you’re here to have sex with your long-term lover less than twenty hours after someone blew your husband’s brains all over the patio,” King paused, looked at Amanda. “Are they even meant to be here?”
She hesitated, looked at them both, then back to King. “No,” she said. “The tape meant it’s still off-limits. There was a non-admittance order taken out. There was meant to be another twenty-four hours to allow for the autopsy and subsequent findings before anyone was granted further access.”
“So, washing dishes in the middle of a murder investigation would be a bit of a no-no then?” King said, his tone off-handed. “Well, to me, that would look like cleaning up something you didn’t want found in an investigation.”
“We had some coffee,” Helena said, tiresomely. “So, sue me, that is, if you can afford to,” she scoffed.
“And the sex?” King mused.
“I fuck who I want!” she snapped.
“I suspect your husband wasn’t aware he was employing your lover to look after you in that way. He had his own protection team, you must have had to convince him to circumvent it, have your own personal close protection. And from what I’ve seen, you don’t get any closer than that.”
“You know shit,” she replied. “Have you read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”
“It never made my reading list,” King smiled. “Maybe if it had pictures.”
“Ian turned a blind eye to my extra-marital needs.”
King shook his head. “No, I don’t think he did. I don’t think he had a clue.”
“Prove it,” she said. “Are you done here?”
King shook his head. “Not by a long chalk.” She frowned at the expression. He added, “No, I’m not. Now open up the patio doors for me.”
24
Tokai
South Africa
It was a fourteen-mile drive from Cape T
own to Tokai and the notorious Pollsmoor prison. The traffic was reasonably light, and Tokai had good roads and a decent one-way system that meant they avoided hold-ups and made swift progress. The car was another white Toyota Land Cruiser, standard government issue in these parts, and Kruger drove expertly, keeping at the high end of the speed limit and seeing obstructions well in advance. Caroline suspected he was trained in evasive driving. There was an automatic rifle in the rear foot well. Kruger had told her it was loaded, cocked, but the safety was applied. The fact that it was there made her tense, and she was relieved she carried the 9mm pistol that Ryan Beard had given her.
South Africa was a dangerous place. A country where tourists could fall foul at the merest of wrong turns. But the fact that Kruger had told her about the rifle made her relax about both his identity and her ability to trust him, if not for the risk of violent carjacking that was so rife in South Africa.
Pollsmoor Maximum Security Prison was the place where Nelson Mandela said he did his hardest time. It was built to hold four thousand four hundred prisoners in four separate mediums, but recent figures from the judiciary department showed there were in fact seven thousand three hundred inmates incarcerated. It was desperately overcrowded and only getting more so.
The prisoner Caroline was there to see had been unlucky. Even after the bulk of the blame had been directed by his defence towards his deceased brother for the tax evasion, and his lawyers further proving he was ancillary to defrauding the state, Vigus Badenhorst had been sentenced to two years. His defence had lodged an appeal, but it had been overruled.
A year meant everything in Pollsmoor. The difference between hell and purgatory. Sentences over a year meant that you were in a completely different lock-up, with a completely different type of prisoner.