Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  68

  I WAS glued to the TV in my hospital room as the Prime Minister, in suitably grave and earnest tones, explained why the British Government was now going to vote in the United Nations to lift economic sanctions against Russia. Ray Griffiths had sent me a text alert about Marvell’s announcement. When I switched on the TV, the PM was already standing at a lectern outside Number 10. I looked at the PM, his grey clothes, grey hair and grey face. You bloody fool, I thought. You’ve just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Wormwood Scrubs – the first British PM in history to go to prison. Some legacy. I turned up the sound.

  ‘I have been persuaded by the arguments that Russia has recently made several gestures towards achieving a peaceful and mutually agreeable conclusion to the Crimean crisis and that the economic damage both to Russia and also many other members of the European Union is inimical to achieving an appropriate resolution. I, along with the leaders of both Italy and Greece, will now seek to have these damaging economic sanctions overturned at the earliest opportunity.’

  It sounded more Yes Minister than House of Cards. Christ, what a bloody hypocrite. I silenced him with the TV remote.

  According to another text I got from Douglas French, the Cabinet had been violently split over the issue and one senior minister had already quit in disgust. He complained that Marvell had single-handedly ramrodded the controversial change in policy with what he described as ‘one-eyed determination’. Two other ministers were said to be on the brink of resigning. Political commentators on social media were already referencing Thatcher’s once famous phrase with regard to her government’s economic policy: ‘The lady’s not for turning.’ This time, however, they chorused: ‘The honourable gentleman is for turning.’

  The CTC people had just left with Annie, who was going to make a formal statement at their HQ. I’d already made mine, not that it contained much. I hadn’t been able to remember a great deal more about the attack despite a decent night’s sleep. They told me that the cops had found a file match to the fingerprints found on the gun that had fallen under a car. They belonged to a bloke from Kazakhstan who had been arrested for bashing his girlfriend. She later retracted her initial statement and he had not been charged. There was also a file note to say that his visa had expired, so the immigration people wanted him anyway. He had a brother who had also outstayed his welcome in the UK. It made sense to me – one of the CTC guys told me that seventy per cent of the Kazakhstan population was Muslim and the country had its share of radical groups. ‘Shit, all the “stans” are full of extremist groups,’ he told me. ‘And one of those could be the Movement of Martyrs. If it exists.’

  The young nurse popped her head around the door: ‘There’s a toff to see you, Jonno. Are you up for visitors?’ Her name was Karen and she was tickled that I was the editor of UKT. Not that she read it, of course. ‘My dad looks at it in the pub sometimes,’ she said with a sly smile.

  When I saw who my visitor was – well, you could have ‘knocked me down wiv a fevver’ as Nev might have said. Sir Hamish Minto, no less. In the flesh. I hadn’t seen him – had not actually wanted to see him – since that fateful night in Sydney when he’d acted as a one-man dating agency and brought Bolshakov and me together. Given my troubles with the Russian, I hadn’t sought out his company since I’d been in London. Truth be told, I blamed him for my predicament. Surely, he must have known that Bolshy was a shyster before he introduced us?

  The advertising magnate looked a little sheepish when he came over to the bed and put out his hand. I was tempted to tell him to bugger off but a mix of politeness and curiosity made me take it.

  ‘Hello, Jonno. It’s good to see you’re alive. I heard what happened. Mate, I’m so sorry.’

  I nodded, still not sure if I wanted to talk to him. Ah, what the hell, I thought, maybe I’m just getting old but life’s too short to waste old friendships. As Shrek said: ‘You gotta have friends.’ And the truth is, I had plenty of enemies – I didn’t need another one.

  ‘Hamish. What a surprise. I thought you would be too busy sucking up to a certain oligarch to come and see an old friend.’

  He had the decency to look pained. ‘Okay, okay. Maybe I deserve that. But look, I know dear old Bolshy is a bit iffy but he does spend a lot of roubles with my agency. I heard you two weren’t getting along. A great pity. I’m sure it’s all down to some unfortunate misunderstanding.’ He made it sound as if we’d had a minor tiff rather than a spectacular showdown. I refrained from asking if he was aware that ‘dear old Bolshy’ was trying to extort the British Prime Minister to sell out his country.

  ‘How the devil are you, Jonno? Heather sends her love, by the way.’

  ‘I’ll live. At least until the next time those jihadi bastards take another potshot at me.’

  ‘It was definitely Islamic terrorists?’

  ‘Yeah. The police reckon it was a couple of Kazakhs. Two brothers. Probably Muslim fanatics.’

  ‘Kazakhs, you say?’ Hamish’s brow wrinkled. ‘Jeez, that’s odd.’

  ‘How so?’

  He paused for a moment. ‘It’s just that the only people from Kazakhstan that I have ever come across do some work for that bloke Carlos Macrae. Y’know – Bolshy’s man. Brothers, I believe. Macrae uses them as, I suppose you journos would call it, “muscle”. To resolve any, em, business problems.’

  At first what Hamish said didn’t register with me but then it all fell into place.

  He must have seen the fevered workings of my brain reflected on my face because he suddenly looked horrified. ‘Bloody hell, Jonno, you can’t think that –’ He sat down on the seat next to my bed with a thump, his mouth still agape.

  Well, yes, I thought. I do actually think that. I absolutely think that. Suddenly it all made perfect sense, even to my befuddled brain. Two men. Two men on CCTV leaving the scene of the stabbing of Colin Wishart, the UK Today director; two men on the Cow and Calf at the time of Barbara Scaife’s fall; two men leaving Bill Todd’s house; two men accosting Posh in the park. Two men parked outside our apartment. How could I not have realised it before?

  Shiv had been right all along.

  Suddenly I had trouble breathing. Could be my Swiss cheese lung, I thought. On the other hand, it might be the fact that I suddenly realised just how totally bloody naïve and stupid I’d been. This guy, Bolshakov, was ten times more ruthless and Machiavellian than I’d thought. He was hands-down the most malignant guy I’d ever come across. He made that bastard BangBang, the Indonesian pirate boss, look like Mother Theresa. A terrible foreboding washed over me: the storm clouds were gathering; the vultures were circling. One way or another, the whole thing was coming to a head. And I was scared of what that might look like.

  ‘Hamish,’ I said eventually, proud that my voice was steady, ‘there’s a nice drop of red in that drawer. Do you think you could pour two beakers of the stuff? Make them large ones.’

  69

  AFTER HAMISH left, I called DCI Titmus and relayed what Hamish had told me about Black Mac’s association with a pair of dodgy Kazakh brothers and my suspicions.

  ‘Okay, bit of a stretch but we’ll look into it,’ he said. ‘Don’t want the press saying we had pursued different lines of inquiry.’

  Did I detect a hint of sarcasm in his tone?

  Discreetly sipping the shiraz in case the nurse came in, I started reading through Shiv’s copy on the Marvell affair. As expected, it was explosive material: two parts nitro, one-part napalm. The series of interlocking stories had the capability of doing more damage to the UK parliament than Guy Fawkes could have dreamt of more than five hundred years ago. I called the Shiv.

  ‘Can’t talk. I’m with the beagles,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘We’re all spread out in a meeting room at the Hilton. They’re shitting themselves. Screaming that we can’t publish this or run that. I couldn’t be happier!’

  ‘No wonder. I‘ve been reading it. Absolutely dynamite. You’ve managed to construct the whole conspirac
y – from the Marvell family firm heading for bankruptcy to Varvara doing the original deal on behalf of the Russian State Bank and then to our mate Bolshakov putting the squeeze on the Prime Minister. I was stunned by how you managed to firm up the link back to the Russian president via Bolshakov senior. Incredible. How did you manage to come up with that?’

  ‘I met this spook guy once in Bosnia in the early nineties. My first war assignment. He wasn’t exactly James Bond or anything like that, just a so-called embassy attaché in Sarajevo. He and I … well, let’s just say we hit it off.’ She laughed at the memory. ‘He’s still a good contact. He says that Leonid Bolshakov is up to his neck in this whole stinking plot. And confirms he is President Rodchenko’s Cold War comrade.’

  ‘Jeez, this guy is good value. Where does he work now?’

  ‘If I told you that I’d have to –’

  ‘Kill me. Yes, I know.’

  Shiv said her friend had also given her an outline of how Leonid’s section in Moscow had been causing cyber chaos in the West for years: hundreds of thousands of Russian Twitter accounts spreading propaganda and ‘fake news’ and an army of young, Kremlin-backed hackers disrupting election processes in the US and Europe. The lawyers were particularly jumpy about the stuff about Rodchenko.

  ‘Incredible. Tell the beagles that I said we won’t budge on a single sentence.’ I then quickly told her about Hamish Minto’s shock revelation about the two Kazakh guys working for Macrae. ‘In other words, you were right – the Movement of Martyrs thing was complete bullshit.’

  I then took her through the other suspicious deaths, including her friend Barbara.

  ‘They all could easily have been down to Macrae’s two bully boys. Look, we know both Bolshy and Black Mac are vicious psychopaths. I have a police sentinel outside my door but I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Juggs is here. He’ll look after me.’

  ‘Let me speak to him.’ I heard some whispering and then the photographer was on the line.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Mate, Shiv will fill you in on the reasons but I need you to keep an eye open for two drongos, I can’t give you a description … apart from the fact that they are Eastern European, tough-looking and brothers. But these bastards will probably stand out in a place like the Hilton. Anyone suspicious, give them a wide berth. They are armed and dangerous. Make sure Shiv is safe. Clear?’

  ‘Trust me. She’ll be right.’

  ‘Good, now put her back on. Shiv? I need you to come back here first thing in the morning so we can work out the next steps. We have to move fast, as Bolshy is obviously getting desperate. Anything could happen. In the meantime, I’ll get Doug French to demand a meeting for the two of us with the PM later tomorrow or the next day. We’ll put everything to him. The dodgy bank loan, the Russian sting – the whole stinking conspiracy.’

  ‘We? But you can’t come, Jonno. You need to be in hospital.’

  ‘I want to be there to see his face. And the longer we leave it, the more opportunity the bloody Russian has to … well, kill us both if he can. I’m sure he’ll try again. Listen, Annie’s just arrived so I’ll talk to you later.’ I hoped my wife had not heard that last part.

  Annie looked a lot better than when I had last seen her. Her face was less haggard and her emerald eyes were brighter. She kissed me. ‘Who were you speaking to?’

  ‘Shiv O’Shea.’

  ‘Mmm. You know, I was beginning to get worried that you and she –’

  I could feel my face redden. ‘What?’

  ‘You seemed to be spending more time with her than me.’

  ‘Jesus, Annie, nothing like that, I promise you. It’s just we have a big story on the go. Actually, I want to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Later, Jonno. I need some rest after all that police stuff. Thankfully Mum and Dad have arrived to look after Percy.’ She lay on the bed, taking care not to interfere with any of the plastic plumbing. Her soft, warm curves moulded themselves to my body. I felt a stirring in places the tubes had not yet reached.

  ‘Are you feeling better, my love?’ Annie said, snuggling closer.

  ‘Yes sweetheart. Much better. Just, um, a bit stiff.’

  * * *

  Annie dozed on the narrow bed beside me for about an hour. I used the time to gaze at the face I loved so much.

  Up close, there were a few subtle signs of her past ordeal: tiny crescent creases at the corners of her mouth, a thin white scar at her hairline and a vertical ridge between her eyebrows.

  Once again, I thought how selfish I’d been in recent times. I’d got so wrapped in work. I’d taken her away from the safety and normality of our life in Australia. And I’d put her precious life in danger again. As if she hadn’t suffered enough already. I resolved that once we’d published the story and put the mockers on both Marvell and Bolshakov, I’d make it up to her.

  When her eyes opened, she looked startled to find our noses touching, like a hongi, the traditional Maori greeting.

  ‘What are you up to?’ she whispered.

  ‘Just thinking how beautiful you are. How thankful I am to have found you.’

  ‘I’m so scared.’

  ‘Scared of what? Another attack?’

  ‘Yes, but more scared of losing you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘My God, Jonno, you were nearly en route to heaven!’

  ‘Hell more likely,’ I said.

  ‘Do you remember when we were saved from the pirates by that Indonesian naval patrol boat? We thought we were safe, only for them to throw us in prison for drug smuggling. That’s how it feels now. We might have survived the jihadi attack while Posh didn’t, but I can’t help feeling there’s worse to come.’

  I was wondering if it was a good time to tell her that the danger had come from Bolshakov, not the Islamists, when she continued: ‘The guns and the violence brought it all back … you know, flashbacks from our time on Rehab Island? Made worse, I think, because I’ve been writing down background material for my book project.’

  I felt dampness on my stupid hospital gown. Annie had begun to weep quietly. ‘Sorry. I hate being a wimp,’ she said.

  ‘You’re the bravest person I know.’

  ‘It’s just that earlier I had to formally identify Posh’s body. So harrowing. I feel such guilt. We had a duty of care. Isn’t that what they say? And yet it’s our fault that she’s dead.’ She blew her nose. ‘The police told me her body will probably be released by the end of the week. Then we can send her home.’

  ‘I think you should definitely go back too. You and Percy.’ I needed her to go. I wanted her out of danger’s way.

  ‘But I can’t just leave you here in hospital.’

  ‘I won’t be here.’

  Annie sat up. ‘What do you mean … you won’t be here? You’ve been shot, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Look, love, there’s something I need to tell you. The story we’ve been working on. Shiv and I. It involves the Prime Minister, a Russian plot and at least one murder, probably more. I warn you – it’s like a Shakespearean tragedy: Macbeth meets Julius Caesar.’

  I then took her through the whole incredible conspiracy, including the involvement by Borya Bolshakov and his twisted family, the Kazakh brothers and the confrontation I was planning to have with James Marvell.

  ‘You’re saying that Posh died because of your boss? Not Muslim terrorists? But that’s unbelievable! Are you sure you haven’t been squeezing that morphine thingy?’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s all true.’

  Annie gazed intently into my eyes. ‘Jonno, why don’t we all just leave now? Go back to Sydney, bury Posh and get on with our lives. Why risk more trouble with these horrible people?’

  ‘I have to finish this. Bolshakov and Carlos Macrae must be exposed and answer for their crimes. And Marvell, for that matter.’

  Annie wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. He did it to save his family.’

  ‘
Don’t be. If we hadn’t found out about Bolshy’s diabolical scheme, he’d have ended up making Kim Philby look like a small-town police informer.’

  ‘Why not just hand over everything to the police?’

  ‘Professional pride, darling. I want to see it all over the front page of UK Today.’

  ‘But with Bolshakov gone, what will happen to the paper?’

  ‘Someone else will buy it.’

  ‘Will you want to stay on? With a new owner?’

  ‘You’ll be the one to decide that when this other business is over.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Annie said with a smile. ‘I have something else we need to talk about.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  70

  THE SQUAT, heavyset Kazakh stood outside the entrance to the Hilton, smoking a Turkish cigarette. He scratched the white half-moon scar that punctuated the hard-man stubble on his lower cheek, the result of an old knife fight, with his other hand. It was bitterly cold but dry. Dusk was imminent. The self-styled ‘security consultant’ was wearing dark clothing, a heavy jacket, scarf around neck and chin, and a beanie hat. His name was Mukhtar Shatsky. He was one of five brothers from a small village near the ancient city of Taraz in a southern Kazakhstan province that was once reduced to rubble by Genghis Khan.

  Bored with the wait, Shatsky thought back to his days as a paratrooper in the Kazakhstan Army’s 36th Air Assault Brigade. That, too, had involved a lot of waiting around. But it had provided him with the right pedigree for a second career in the private sector where he had honed his natural-born killing skills as a mercenary. He’d earned his spurs in scrappy conflicts in various African states and in Yemen, where he’d fought for the Saudis during the Houthi Insurgency to put down the Shiite-led rebellion. He had worked for Carlos Macrae on and off since arriving in London in late 2014 after fighting for the Russians in the Ukraine.