The Five

by A P Bateman

  Helena had come from nothing. She had been raped and abused by oligarchs on the Black Sea coast, handed around at parties, treated like a piece of meat and made to feel worthless. She had vowed never to feel like that again. She had moved to the West and soon found herself working in lap dancing clubs and on the books of various escort agencies. The same life, just a different location. But she had eventually found a man to take her away from that. Ian Snell had not been a ‘Sir’ back then, but he had been her way out of that life. She had contacted Viktor Bukov soon afterwards. The pair had been on and off lovers since their teens, but Bukov had joined the army, made it into Spetsnaz and rarely came home. When he did, the two would hook up, and that had been crux of their relationship ever since. Now that Helena had found her way out, lived a life of wealth and excess, she had wanted the one person who could make her both physically and emotionally happy.

  Bukov surveyed the scene, studied the buildings. He knew that Gipri Bashwani’s offices lay across the road to the east. That was good, because it would put the late afternoon sun on his back. Witnesses inside Bashwani’s building would unlikely see the muzzle flash from the big .338 Lapua Magnum rifle with the sun behind it. They would not hear the shot either. The glass would be too thick. Other witnesses, those on the ground mainly, would hear the noise, but they would not see Bukov from his elevated position. He estimated to be on his way down to the street before the alarm was even raised. In the car with Helena and safely away before any police presence was made.

  He had already chosen his position. It lay in the lee of one of the air-conditioning units, approximately the size of a large garden shed, and constructed from sheet steel with a felt lined roof. He laid down and opened the bag. He spread out the groundsheet, laid his sandbag on the edge. He positioned himself, tested it. Checked he was prone enough to remain out of view. Two hundred metres distant he could see a figure inside Bashwani’s office. Bukov took out the Barrett M98 Bravo rifle and assembled the barrel and retracted the shoulder stock. The Schmidt and Bender 5-25 x 56 scope was already attached and zeroed to two hundred metres. He took off the scope covers and rested the rifle down, the barrel making a steady indentation in the sandbag. He positioned himself behind the rifle, brought the scope to within two inches of his right eye. Easing his head up slowly, he took in Bashwani’s frame in the sights. He made tiny adjustments, gradually brought the crosshairs up and lined them dead centre on Bashwani’s head.

  The Indian was talking animatedly into a landline phone. His tie had been loosened and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves. His suit jacket hung on the back of the chair. Bashwani was a doer, a man who led from the front and had worked practically every day of his life.

  Bukov felt there could have been better targets, people more befitting the perception of tax dodging, corporate oligarchs, but Bashwani had been right up there in the wealth stakes and Helena had chosen him because of the practicalities. The man turned up for work every day. He was a creature of habit. But most importantly, he was a man who would take Helena Snell’s call. And that, unless Bukov was mistaken, was who the man was talking to at this moment.

  Helena was offering Bashwani a deal. A way for the software giant to get his fingers into the Goliath contract, via the backdoor. She knew the man had tendered for the contract, and she knew how much it had irked him that the government had championed GeoSpec from day one. Bashwani’s company would have provided the motherboards and guidance systems faster than GeoSpec and for a far lower bid. But post-Brexit meant that the government were investing more in the United Kingdom and that had been the Home Secretary’s angle from the start.

  Bukov checked his mobile phone. There was no message. He rested it beside the rifle as he inserted the loaded magazine and worked the bolt action, chambering the .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge. He shouldered the weapon again, eased his eye back to the scope and sighted on the of the centre of the man’s chest. He was not confident of the bullet’s trajectory after breaking through the glass, but he knew it would not deviate drastically enough to be off target for an upper torso shot. Bukov was confident that he would get a follow up shot. This would travel through the bullet hole in the glass, which he estimated would punch out ten inches or so of plate glass.

  The text chimed, and he took his eye away from the man in his sights.

  I’ve put his call on hold now, he’s waiting for me to get back to him. Good luck, my darling x

  Bukov smiled. He put down the phone and sighted in on the last man on his kill list. He could see that Bashwani was resting back in his chair, the phone held loosely while he waited for Helena to deal with an imaginary problem at her end. He eased his eye closer to the sight, checked the crosshairs, lined up on the centre of the man’s chest and took up some pressure on the trigger. He knew there was nobody better in this world with a rifle.

  The shot was his.

  50

  The gunshot was suppressed. Virtually silent. Nobody heard a thing. The figure in the rifle scope slumped forwards, most of his head blown out by the subsonic 7.62mm bullet.

  Rashid kept his eye to the scope and watched Viktor Bukov bleeding out. There was no top to his head, but his heart must have still been beating rapidly as the blood ebbed and flowed like a macabre crimson fountain.

  The rifle had tilted upwards as Bukov had slumped over the shoulder stock. Rashid could see the man’s feet trembling. The left foot particularly, so much so, that for a moment, he was tempted to take another shot and see if it made a difference. But he’d been there before. Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. Other places the SAS had sent him. He’d seen worse. A few more seconds and the man would be dead.

  He ran a hand through his jet black, slightly greasy hair. He’d been in position for over twenty-four hours and realised he could do with a shower. He’d used up his thermos and eaten his sandwiches. He had been nibbling on digestives and sipping bottled water for most of the day. King hadn’t said how long he would be there, but he should have known. The last time he’d listened to him, his hands had been bound and he had very nearly been the star of a beheading video.

  He had chosen his firing position after he had reconnoitred the best position to take the shot at Bashwani. The place that to a true professional, would be the only position worth considering.

  Rashid was a supreme sniper, one of Hereford’s best. When he staked out the roof, decided that it was exactly the place he would have taken the shot, he had then chosen his position to counter-sniper. A taller building to the west. With the setting sun on his back and a decent elevation. A shot of three hundred metres with the Accuracy International 7.62mm rifle and the 7.62x51mm extra heavy 28g soft-nosed bullet.

  Rashid looked at the scanner beside him. He had been able to fix on Bukov’s mobile phone signal and intercept the incoming text message in time. He would admit it had been close. But this was an unofficial operation. He had agreed when King approached him. Partly because it intrigued him - King was a maverick, and he liked the MI5 man with his SAS links and even more shadowy past - and partly because he lived for this sort of thing. The chance to take down a former Spetsnaz sniper on a rooftop in London, while saving an oblivious billionaire businessman? Pitting his sniper skills against a man reputed to have killed a man at six thousand metres? King had Rashid reeled in within the first minute.

  Rashid packed up the scanner and then quickly and efficiently stripped down the rifle. When he had everything squared away, he texted King.

  It’s done. You owe me a pint…

  51

  At first King had thought the text message had been from Caroline. He checked it, disheartened, but also pleased Rashid had come up trumps. He knew the man would. He hadn’t had much contact with him since they had worked together a year before, but they had hit it off and formed a tight bond, like many who fought alongside each other, and in such a brief time. He knew Rashid would do anything for him, but he also knew he would also do the same for the young SAS officer. The first Pakistani and Muslim officer
to have led an SAS unit in a warzone. Rashid had later infiltrated ISIS and even taken up arms against the US-led Iraqi army to maintain his cover. In King’s view, Rashid was hardcore and as good a soldier as he had ever met.

  With no news from Caroline, King had been concerned enough to seek out the watcher team that had earlier put Amanda Cunningham under surveillance. Normally he would have backed off and left her alone. That had been their rule. But this felt different somehow. This was Amanda Cunningham, and nothing would surprise him, after what he had witnessed in Amherst’s office.

  The lead surveillance officer was on route and he wasn’t happy. King couldn’t care less, hadn’t pulled his punches on the phone.

  His phone chimed, and he took it out. He saw it was Ramsay. He had forwarded the photographs of the letters Caroline had sent him. He hadn’t seen why she had sent them, but he had forwarded them higher up the chain. Ramsay was a doer, and King trusted him. He had texted back with Amherst’s revelation and told him that he was to consider Hollandrake and Amanda Cunningham in total collusion. At least until an expert could verify the writing and initials in the photographs of the letters. Ramsay had not seen Caroline, he had checked with Mereweather and Director Amherst, but nobody knew anything. Caroline’s whereabouts was unknown.

  King responded to Ramsay’s text. Told him where to meet and what to bring.

  King thought more about the curious Amanda Cunningham. There had been niggles, things that she had said that didn’t ring true. King was certain she had said she was staying in Truro, but then she had turned up for breakfast in Falmouth. And King had not told her that his windscreens had been shattered, merely that he had suffered car trouble, but she had asked if the company had fixed his windscreen. Could she have been involved? In cahoots with Helena Snell and Viktor Bukov as well as Hollandrake? King was certain of it. But he did not yet know to what extent. Falsifying pathology and forensic reports, or something altogether darker?

  He stepped forwards, his foot crunching on the gravel. He withdrew, placed it back on the soft earth of the garden. There were no lights shining within. He drew the Glock 9mm and held it loosely by his side. He was about to ease around the garden to the path, but changed his mind. Something told him he was running out of time. Or at least, Caroline was. He stepped out, crunched across the gravel and strode up the steps. He reached the door for number three. Amanda Cunningham’s home address. He tried the door, then stepped back a pace and drove a front kick into it, just below the lock. The door didn’t give. Not a bit. But it did when King put three 9mm bullets into the lock and kicked again. The shots rang out and already dogs were barking, lights switching on and there were a couple of shouts further down the street.

  He didn’t have much time. He stepped through the doorway. Kept the pistol aimed in front of him as he swept through, well-practiced and fluid. Although, the stakes had never felt higher. He carried a small tactical torch in his left hand, the pistol in his right, with his right wrist resting on his left. The weapon and torch swept through together, the beam acting as much like a pointer to shoot at as it did to light the way.

  The flat was small, and King had covered and cleared it inside two minutes. He switched on the lights and switched off the torch and pocketed it. He tucked the pistol back into his waistband and went into the bathroom. He was aware that if Caroline text messaged him from here, then she would probably have done so in the secure surroundings of the bathroom. A door you could close behind you without arousing suspicion. He looked through the bin, checked the cabinet. He could see the men’s razor and toothbrush that Caroline had mentioned in her text. He took the towel off the radiator, checked it over, then dropped it on the floor as he walked back outside. There was nothing of any significance in there.

  The kitchen was different. He could see the blood splatters on the floor. Just a few specs, but enough for his heart to pound against his chest cavity. Was it Caroline’s? There was no way of knowing. Not until it could be tested for DNA.

  “What the hell?”

  King spun around, saw Ramsay standing in the corridor. He lowered the pistol. He had drawn it and aimed it with twenty years’ practice and it showed. Ramsay’s eyes were wide with fear and his face pale.

  “Come in, don’t be shy,” King said,

  “Where did you get that gun?”

  King shrugged. He pointed at the floor. “Blood. You need to get it tested. I suspect it’s Caroline’s.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Ramsay took out his phone, thumbed the screen and dialled. He stepped back outside and started to speak quickly.

  King saw another man hovering near Ramsay. He looked uncertain what to do.

  “John Adams?” King asked. He’d tucked the pistol back into his waistband and covered it up with his jacket.

  “Yes. King?”

  “That’s me,” he said. “Have you got it?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “No buts. Put it on the table.”

  “We were assigned to the surveillance.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  “Our remit was to observe the target going to work, and allow your agent to gain entrance to the target’s flat. As it was, it was a damned near-run thing. I got through to your agent in time, but she must have passed her on the street.”

  “And you didn’t check that she was okay?”

  Adams shrugged. “I thought we were job done. We were off to the next OP.”

  King snatched up the package and walked past the man. Walked past before he punched him. He met Ramsay in the corridor. “Have you got it?”

  Ramsay nodded. “Look, Alex, there are official procedures you’re negating. Anything you record will be inadmissible in court.”

  “I’m not after evidence,” King said. “I’m after confirmation.” Ramsay followed King down the steps and along the path. King turned back to him. “What are you driving?”

  “Dark grey Vauxhall,” he said. “Over there.”

  They crossed the road together. Ramsay was on edge, he walked around to the boot of the vehicle. He glanced both ways and King sighed. It was evident that the man was not a field agent. Ramsay took out the bag and handed it to him. “We’ll arrange its return later.”

  King nodded as he took the bag. He didn’t say anything else, simply walked back to his BMW and dropped it onto the passenger seat as he got inside. He glanced across the street at Ramsay. The man was standing by his car and talking on his mobile phone. No doubt, arranging for a forensics team to come and go over Amanda Cunningham’s flat.

  King could hear distant sirens. There was a blue, strobe-like phosphorescence in the distance. It would be the police in response to the gunshots. King saw Ramsay take out his identification wallet. He would be getting ready to Section D the police and any press when they arrived. Keeping the discharge of a firearm quiet was going to take a bit of selling, but King would ditch the weapon when he was done. There wouldn’t be anything to tie it to him.

  He started the engine and pulled out onto the road. Drove a few streets before he pulled in, leaving the police behind him. He opened the briefcase Adams had given him and switched on the display within. The tracker planted on Amanda Cunningham was indicated with a code written on a post-it note. Typical MI5 tech. King punched in the code and a dot appeared on the screen. It flashed slowly. King adjusted the screen and could see it was a static dot on a map. South of his position, near the river. He knew the area. It wasn’t the best part of town. He pulled back out into the road and followed the tracker, but he already knew that it would lead to Amanda, and not necessarily Caroline. But blood had been on the floor of Amanda’s flat, and this was the only lead he had to go on. Right now, he would bet his life that the blood did not belong to Amanda Cunningham.

  52

  Caroline was coming round. She felt groggy and her jaw ached. Her neck was stiff, just taking the weight of her head was an effort, as she moved her chin from her chest, sending shooting pains down her spine. She was aware she was seate
d, and the upright position made her feel unbalanced. She squinted at the light, the bare bulb dazzling her eyes, forcing her to blink. She tried to move her hands, but they were stuck. She squinted again, realised they were taped in front of her. Her arms were restrained too, at least three strands of silver coloured duct tape was wrapped around her elbows securing them to her waist. She tried to force her arms out, twist her wrists, but they were simply too tight.

  She couldn’t remember anything since the kitchen. Then she thought of Giorgi touching her, the look in his eye. The thought of him made her squirm on the chair. She had no idea if he had interfered with her. She tensed her thighs, her buttocks, didn’t feel any different down there. Prayed he hadn’t done more to her after the chloroform had kicked in. She thought about Amanda Cunningham and her concern, if not callously for evidence of foul play not to show up on Caroline’s post-mortem. She realised the desperation of her situation, and her heart raced in response. She needed to calm herself. There was always hope.