The Five

by A P Bateman

  “Do take a seat,” King said.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked incredulously. “Get the bloody hell out!”

  King shrugged. “That’s not happening anytime soon,” he said. He leaned back in the leather chair, swivelled it slightly from side to side.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Practically in my sleep.”

  “What do you want? I thought I told Amherst you were done. Is that it? You’re here to get even with me?” he asked, incredulously. “Pathetic. You’ll do time for this. Threatening a member of parliament? The cabinet no less? The Home Secretary? Your career finished this morning. Your liberty ended the moment you walked in here.”

  King smiled. “Are you sure about that?”

  “My assistant will be here in a moment. I will tell her to call security.”

  “And the police,” King said. “And the Inland Revenue, or whatever they’re called this month. HMRC, I think. And the Prime Minister, I should imagine.” King eased back the chair further, rested his right foot on the desk. “And the newspapers, TV news. Hell, get her to call everybody.”

  The door opened, and Hollandrake’s PA froze. She had stopped so suddenly in her tracks that the coffee splashed over the lip and onto the floor, catching the file and papers with a wash of cappuccino.

  She looked at King, then turned uncertainly to her boss. “Sir?”

  “Alex King, I’m with MI5. I believe the Home Secretary wants you to make some calls on his behalf,” he paused, looked back at Hollandrake. “Security first, wasn’t it Hugo? And then I suggested the police…”

  “It’s alright, Dawn,” Hollandrake said quietly. “Mister King will be leaving soon. Of his own accord. You can break for lunch early, if you like?”

  The woman nodded. She handed the Home Secretary his half cup of coffee.

  “Dawn?” King smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d love a cup of tea. White and one, thank you.” He was pleasant, unassuming with her. She nodded, and King watched her leave. “So, caught with your fingers in the cookie jar, Home Secretary.”

  “What?” Hollandrake said incredulously. “You’re a mad man. What sort of allegation is that?”

  “Goliath. GeoSpec. Investments in shell companies owned by the late Sir Ian Snell, your wife’s name as company secretary to multiple shell companies,” King paused. “Does she know about any of that?”

  Hollandrake made it to the chair reserved for his guests before he crumpled. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow, before looking back at King.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  “From what I’ve been informed, you’ve defrauded the tax man enough to get double digits in prison. Your wife also.”

  “She’s not involved!”

  “So you say,” King said. “But these things are so difficult to prove. It’s a complex old web you’ve weaved. And I understand why. The more complexity in a scheme, then the harder it is to follow to the source. But conversely, when you get tangled up in the threads, it’s difficult to get away from. Your wife, for instance. I haven’t done much research, to be fair. It’s early days. But I imagine she’s a bit on the twinset and pearls side. Rides horses, enjoys the hunt ball, sips the odd Pimm’s at a regatta or two in the season,” he smiled. “Not the sort cut out to bunk up with a tattooed fifteen stone prison-hardened lesbian with an eye on a new bitch.”

  “I said she’s not involved!”

  “But you are?” snapped King. He looked past Hollandrake as the door opened and his PA walked in with a cup in her hand. King took his foot off the desk and smiled. “Thanks for that,” he said. He stood up and accepted the cup. “I think that will be all until after lunch, thanks.” He glanced at Hollandrake. “Is that right, Home Secretary?”

  Hollandrake nodded, but he did not catch the woman’s eye. “Yes, thank you, Dawn.”

  King waited for the door to close behind her. He took a sip of his tea. “Not a bad cuppa,” he said. “A pleasant young woman.”

  “Indeed,” Hollandrake commented absently.

  “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “No!”

  “But you are sleeping with Amanda Cunningham?”

  “No!”

  “But you were,” King said. “We’ve seen the letters. The handwriting has been confirmed by a specialist,” King lied. He was taking a chance now, reaching out on a limb, but he felt sure it was true and the handwriting expert would look at them soon. Caroline had forwarded them to him in her text message, and in turn King had sent them on to Neil Ramsay. Amherst had then confirmed that Sir Hugo Hollandrake had often signed off on internal documents with his elaborate initial. He was certain enough to have forwarded them on to the documentation department where they were trying to contact a graphologist.

  “A long time ago,” Hollandrake admitted. “She got back in contact. She’s in financial trouble, needed a door or two opened for her. It wasn’t something I wanted brought out into the open. I was on her university select committee as an adviser and donor. A patron. She was so vibrant, so beautiful…”

  “Does your wife know?”

  “No.”

  “I believe your daughter is at university now.”

  “So?”

  “Important time for her,” King said. “Wouldn’t be easy for her with a huge story like this unravelling.”

  “Are you bribing me?” Hollandrake smirked. “Is that it? Money?”

  “Your DNA was in Amanda’s flat,” King lied again. He was on a roll. “The bathroom. All sorts in there. Toothbrush, razor, the taps, towels. You rekindled the affair. You both had much to gain and entered some sort of mutual cooperation.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “You don’t deny being there recently?”

  Hollandrake shrugged. “What’s the point?”

  King relaxed. His bluff had paid off. He looked at Hollandrake as he sipped some more tea. He put the cup down on the blotter in front of him. “We’ll kick off with the affair,” King said. “Leak what we have. A sordid affair with a student in an institution where you were patron. How you abused a position of power. Now, rekindled all these years later. Or perhaps it was ongoing? Anyway, right now the DNA is the clincher. A lost report that will turn up on the desk of a major newspaper. Let the press have some fun with it. And then the tax fraud. Both in the minimal and fraudulent amount of tax paid and the over inflated figure of VAT claimed. We’ll let the tax man get the ball rolling on that one.” King shook his head. “You know? The decent public, the majority, don’t like four things. Treachery, corrupt public officials, terrorists and adulterers. I’d say you’ve covered the bases.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Who else knows?”

  King smiled. “Just me.” He took out the Glock pistol, rested it on the desk, the muzzle covering Hollandrake’s chest. “Sorry, force of habit. You ask who else knows, I say just me, you take out a gun and shoot me, claiming I broke in and tried to kill you…”

  “But I don’t have a gun,” Hollandrake said.

  King smiled. “I know. There are metal detectors downstairs. Your close protection officer filed off before he reached them. You walked straight through.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know things. I see things. I have other people seeing things for me.”

  “Are you wired?”

  King laughed. “No, I’m not wired. But I have a phone.”

  “How did you get your gun through?”

  King shrugged. “I know how to do things. I know how to appear and disappear.”

  “Five hundred thousand. Today. To make it all go away.”

  King shook his head. “That’s not a bad figure,” he said. “But you sanctioned the killings. You knew Ian Snell was going to die, and you knew at least four other people would die to cover up the motive for his death. And then there’s the collateral damage. The bodyguards, the chauffeurs, the men o
ut in the South African bush, the innocent family down in Cornwall. And then there’s the South African intelligence agent, the prisoner he was escorting with Caroline.”

  “One million.”

  “And my fiancé. Two attempts on her life,” King paused. He put the pistol down on the desk, took his phone out of his pocket. “Damn. I’m not great with these smartphones, I appear to have been recording this entire meeting…”

  “Five,” Hollandrake said. “Five million, I keep the phone and you destroy all the evidence you have collected. Agree to this right now, I can get the money before the end of the day.”

  “My fiancé,” King said contemptuously. “The first contract killers were going to rape her and cut her throat.” He took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. “The second attempt almost had her burn alive in the wreckage of a car. The poor South African intelligence agent wasn’t so lucky. The prisoner, Vigus Badenhorst didn’t deserve to die. And certainly not like that.”

  “I can get you five today. I can arrange another three by the end of the week,” Hollandrake said. “That’s eight million for your phone and your silence. Think about it. Nobody even wins that much on the lottery anymore.”

  “Who’s your contact in the South African Secret Service?”

  Hollandrake shook his head. “You have to give me something back.”

  “I don’t have to give you anything.”

  Hollandrake held up his hands. “Look. I’ll write down his name for you. I just need your guarantee that you won’t release what evidence you have. That you won’t go after my wife. That all of this will go away.”

  King picked up a pen and tossed it over to him. “Go on then,” he said. “A little test of faith.”

  Hollandrake picked up a sheet from the file, folded it over and scribbled down the name. He got unsteadily out of his chair and passed it down to King. He glanced at the pistol on the desk, started to hesitate.

  King smiled. “You won’t make it,” he said. He snatched the paper off him and Hollandrake flinched. King folded it and slipped it into his pocket. Hollandrake ignored the pistol and returned to his chair.

  “We have a deal?”

  “What?” King asked.

  “You’ll help this to all go away,” Hollandrake said. He coughed, clearing his throat. “The affair, the tax, everything else…”

  King shook his head. “You know that won’t happen, right?”

  “What?”

  “That’s not how this is going to play out,” King said. “You are the Home Secretary. You are odds-on favourite to be the next Prime Minister. Everyone knows the PM is not going to make her full term. You advocated multiple murders…”

  “I have been responsible for millions going to charities and worthy causes! To people in dire need!” Hollandrake snapped. “Anarchy to Recreate Society showed people what the rich really were.”

  “The rich?” King asked. “Cheats, liars, megalomaniacs. Like yourself, for instance? People who don’t pay enough tax, who falsify their figures.” King picked up the envelope, turned it over. “You’re going to answer for your involvement in, or awareness of Anarchy to Recreate Society and the murders they carried out. And that makes you complicit to murder, an accomplice. You’re going to answer for South Africa. You are going to be investigated by HMRC as well as the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. Your efforts to corrupt an investigation by paying off the lead pathologist to falsify her findings in the forensic investigation of a man’s murder will be handed over to the police. And your wife will answer to her involvement in shell companies owned by both you and the late Sir Ian Snell. The Goliath ICBM contract will be quashed. Your involvement in securing a contract in which you have a substantial conflict of interest will be laid out for debate. I imagine the government will fall like a house of cards. When you walk into prison, the only way you’ll ever leave will be in a box.”

  Hollandrake had turned pale. Ashen. King thought he looked about ready to have a heart attack. Which was apt considering what King was about to do next.

  King picked up the envelope and tossed it across to the Home Secretary.

  “What’s this?” he asked, but his expression had not changed.

  “It’s a way out.”

  “What?”

  “Go home. Kiss your wife, phone your daughter for a chat and pour yourself a large Scotch. Then take the pill.”

  Hollandrake opened the envelope, peered inside. The pill was a capsule. It was red at one end and green at the other.

  “It will bring on a heart attack,” King said. “You won’t know what is happening after a few minutes. You’ll be mourned. Your obituary will be clean. You’ll be page one in the papers and opening feature on the tv news. And Mrs Hollandrake gets to keep her twinset and pearls, ride her horses, attend the hunt ball and sip a Pimm’s at this years’ regatta.”

  48

  He applied the tape first around her wrists, her hands in front of her. Then, he pulled her up into a sitting position, wound the tape around her elbow and worked it around her back until he pushed it through the crook of her other elbow. He doubled the table back and repeated. He pushed her back down and her head struck the floor. She winced, but was still unconscious. It was a sign she would be regaining consciousness soon.

  Giorgi looked down at Caroline, reached out and cupped her left breast. He smoothed his hand over the soft mound, gently squeezed, then worked his way slowly to her right. He smiled, a thin, predatory smile. His eyes were set hard and he watched her face as he fondled and then, lowered his touch.

  Caroline opened her eyes, exploded into action, kicking and shuffling to get him off her. She couldn’t work her arms, struggled to comprehend what was happening, reason why she could not fight this vile beast off her. When she realised she was bound with tape, she panicked further.

  Giorgi looked shocked, but he smiled again as he pushed her back down onto the floor and slapped her hard across the cheek. She recoiled, seeing the blow coming towards her, but was unable to block or avoid it. She could see the next blow, and this time, his fist was bunched. She clenched her teeth, and dipped her head, but gasped as the punch glanced off the side of her head, stunning her. He followed up with another punch, this time catching her jaw.

  “Enough!” Amanda barked at him from the doorway. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Just having some fun,” he said, his Russian accent thick and guttural.

  “You’ll get your fun later,” she said.

  Caroline spat out a glob of bloody spit and coughed, blood seeping down and irritating the back of her throat. “You’re letting this pervert assault me?” She shook her head. “Jesus, you’re messed up! Killing is one thing, but as a woman, you condone him touching me like that?”

  Amanda glared at Giorgi. “No, I do not.”

  Giorgi stood up. He stood six two and had plenty of covering over his muscular frame. He looked like he lifted weights and ate burgers in similar quantities. He was pale and sweaty, flushed pink from his recent exertion. Caroline grimaced, thought him a repulsive beast.

  Amanda walked over and dropped her medical bag on the table. “You’re a bloody fool, Giorgi. You don’t touch her again. You certainly don’t do anything sexual to her. Do you understand?”

  Giorgi nodded.

  Caroline looked relieved. She relaxed a little, although she glared daggers up at the Russian.

  Amanda made her way to the fridge, opened the icebox and took out the ice tray. She laid out a tea towel and upended the ice tray. She folded the ends in, walked back to Caroline and placed it on the side of her face. The cold soothed her, took the sting from the slap, the dull ache from the punch.

  “Thank you,” said Caroline. Her voice calm, her tone grateful. She had done hostage courses in both the army and MI5. She knew the importance of pushing the human element. To show your captors that you are a person, a being of equal importance.

  Amanda moved the compress gently, covered her
face, then took out an ice cube and rubbed it over Caroline’s lips. She eased it inside her mouth. Caroline was grateful for it, taking it and swilling it around her mouth with her tongue, both easing the swelling and slaking her thirst. Amanda gave her another, then stood back up.

  She turned to Giorgi. “You’d better hope this bitch doesn’t bruise easily,” she said. “Or I will have to find a way to graze her cheek, make it look like she did it falling into the river.”

  Caroline gasped. “What?” She struggled with her bindings, went to sit up but Giorgi pushed her back down.

  “Not too rough!” Amanda shouted. She walked calmly to the table, opened her medical bag and took out a glass bottle and a cloth. “Here, I have some chloroform.” She opened the bottle, carefully poured some onto the cloth and walked back.

  Caroline could not take her eyes off the bottle. She tensed as Amanda knelt back down. “Please…”

  Amanda said nothing. She folded the cloth over, then pushed it into Caroline’s face. Caroline lurched and kicked out wildly. She groaned, but with every second the cloth remained pushed into her mouth and nose, her movements slowed. After about five seconds, her eyes closed, and she relaxed, dropping back lifelessly to the floor.

  49

  Bukov opened the doors to the service stairway, checked behind him as he stepped through and closed the door. The stairway smelled of concrete and dust. It had not been painted in here. There was no need. The stairway was used infrequently. The maintenance crew used it once a week to access the window cleaning system and carry out routine checks on the air-conditioning. Much of their work was now computerised, with checks made on the operating systems using a tablet with Wi-Fi. He had been told that chances of being compromised by a member of the maintenance team were slim, and he was to eliminate them in any case. He would. He had no problem with collateral damage.

  He opened the door at the top, peered cautiously around the gable and stepped out onto the roof.

  Events had transpired, or conspired even, to move the plan along. To take what he had been promised, to exfiltrate in time and to disappear meant that Gipri Bashwani needed to die today. There was simply no time to delay. The press would have their story, the people supporting the manifesto of Anarchy to Recreate Society would have their speculation realised, and would continue to support the cause. There would be none, of course. Not unless, like terrorists of ISIS or Al Qaeda, people took to the cause of their own accord and claimed their actions under the banner of Anarchy to Recreate Society. Bukov could live with that, despite being solely involved so that Helena Snell could inherit and claim her deceased husband’s assets, Bukov believed that he had done some good. Money had been off-loaded by the wealthiest, given to the needy, and he had shaken the new world order to its core. The acquisition of wealth, of multi-billionaire status, would never be the same again. He was proud that Helena’s plan had been realised. Proud to have taken a pivotal role in it.