Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

Macrae had found him and his younger brother Nikolai via a small private military and security contracting company in North London called Steel Security. It was run by two ex-SAS guys who had been booted out of the regiment after a trophy video of them allegedly torturing young men in Iraq appeared on a newspaper website. Now they made a lot more money recruiting similar men like themselves – feral dogs of war.

  The Shatsky brothers had been paid well to perform a number of creative criminal acts at Macrae’s bidding. These included the kidnap of the wife of a Birmingham businessman, and the killing of two journalists. Mukhtar was alone today because Nikolai had had his wrist fractured during the Kensington job a few days before. No matter, he thought, today there’s only a woman to take care of. He would do her and then go back to Kazakhstan with Nikolai until things cooled down. Macrae had told him about his brother’s gun being found. The police would be looking for them both soon.

  His phone gave a slight shudder in his jeans pocket. He looked at the text … it simply said: ‘She’s left room.’

  The signal he was waiting for. Flicking the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, the assassin went through the hotel entrance and walked towards the conference rooms at the rear of the building. There was no one else about … just two girls on reception chattering to each other.

  His heavy boots tapped out a military tattoo on the marble floor. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked, his right finger tracing the star logo on the handle of his Makarov PM semi-automatic pistol – a favourite of the former Soviet Union special forces – while his left grasped a deadly Kizlyar Strazh combat knife. He saw an attractive redhead coming towards him, talking on her phone. But there was a man with her. Odd couple: she, petite and elegant, he, big and burly, with as much polish as a chipped toenail. Fuck. That was not part of the plan.

  No matter. Shatsky looked around but there was no one else visible. Good. He changed his trajectory to head the pair off and took the gun out, holding it down the side of his jacket. He stopped about four feet from the pair and began to raise the gun.

  * * *

  Juggs watched the man coming towards them out of the corner of his eye. Jonno had said there might be two men but he could only see the one. Another assailant could be behind a pillar.

  The photographer tensed. This bloke definitely fits Jonno’s description, he thought. Tough, Eastern European, suspicious looking … nothing like your normal Hilton guest. He radiated menace. Looks like he’s concealing a gun. As they walked along the corridor, Juggs automatically began edging ahead to put himself between the man and Shiv.

  As if in slow motion, the man’s arm started to come up. It had a pistol at the end of it. Shiv shouted something but Juggs had already taken a half-step forward and was swinging the camera he had been holding by its thick neck strap. There were two loud bangs as the makeshift weapon wrapped itself around the man’s wrist.

  There was no time to check if Shiv had been hit by any bullets. Juggs’s old commando training kicked in – thank God for muscle memory – and he pulled the gunman towards him with the coiled strap and savagely headbutted him. Juggs felt his own nose break as their heads collided. He could only hope he’d done more damage to the other guy. Obviously not, because he was immediately wrapped in a bear hug. He felt his ribs creak as the life was squeezed out of him. His own arms were trapped so Juggs had only one option: knee the guy in the nuts.

  He heard a sharp intake of breath and felt the man’s grip break loose. But then the photographer felt himself grabbed by the crotch and neck, lifted and body-slammed onto the floor on his back. Fuck, this guy’s strong, Juggs registered as he gasped for air. He had no time for further thought because his attacker had slammed down on top of him, pinioning his arms and legs in a classic wrestling move. Juggs smelt sweat, cigarettes and damp clothing. Then he felt steely fingers at his throat, squeezing and choking. He tried to shift him, raising his thighs and lower back, but to no effect.

  Juggs began to feel light-headed. Then he felt a sharp, white-hot pain in his side. ‘Gah!’ he screamed.

  * * *

  Shiv O’Shea watched in horror as the attacker stabbed Juggs with a wicked-looking black knife. She had to do something. Then she spotted the man’s gun lying next to Juggs’s camera on the heavily patterned carpet. She dropped to the floor and scrabbled forward to pick up the weapon. It felt heavy in her small hand, but she turned and put the short barrel against the man’s head as he raised the knife again.

  ‘Stop!’ she screamed.

  The blade remained in mid-air.

  ‘Drop it!’

  The man turned his face up towards her but kept hold of the knife.

  ‘Drop the fucking knife,’ Shiv screamed again. Then the assailant grinned, and flicked the blade towards her, slicing her wrist. She dropped the gun as blood spurted.

  By now a small crowd had congregated in the corridor, including the lawyers. They all looked on, aghast that something like this could happen in a four-star hotel.

  ‘Call the police,’ Shiv shouted as she tried to stem the flow of blood. But then she felt a strong hand on her shoulder and a knife at her throat. Snarling at the spectators, who shrank back, the attacker began to frogmarch her along the corridor towards the lobby.

  Shiv looked back at her friend. Juggs appeared in a bad way, his face contorted as he writhed on the floor, holding his injured side.

  The man pushed her through the sliding doors at the hotel’s entrance, the blade held cold and sharp against her carotid artery. The porters and a small group of arrivals scrambled out of their way in terror. Shiv had been in tight spots before but nothing as deadly as this. She heard sirens. Too late, she thought. The assassin had been sent to kill her and there was now nothing to stop him. Besides, she was losing blood fast from her slashed arm.

  They reached an SUV parked in the loading area. The man fumbled in his pocket for a remote. Then there was a beep and the vehicle’s lights flashed. He gripped her by one shoulder as he used his knife hand to open the driver door. Up close, she noticed a spider web tattoo emerging from his collar and spreading up his neck to his ear.

  Oh my God, Shiv thought in terror, now he’s going to cut my throat. Her mind went into overdrive … The bastard will leave me dying on the forecourt while he drives off to safety. I can’t fight him with one hand. That Russian oligarch bastard will have won. She closed her eyes as she felt the blade scratch her neck again.

  ‘Let her go! NOW!’

  Juggs! He sounds really pissed off, she thought with a hysterical giggle. She felt her assailant stiffen and the knife cut deeper. Then there was a loud bang.

  Shiv fell to the ground.

  71

  I WAS sitting up in my hospital bed and eating what looked like another patient’s brain biopsy when my cell phone chirruped. It was Mike Kelly, my new deputy. Well, acting deputy … he still had to pass the final audition. Reluctantly putting aside my thoughts about Annie’s wonderful news, I asked him how things were going back at the office.

  ‘There’s good news and there’s –’

  ‘Let’s have the bad news first,’ I said.

  ‘Carlos Macrae is in the building. Claims he’s the new acting CEO.’

  ‘Ah, shit,’ I said, thinking that UKT had a lot of people acting all of a sudden. It was getting like the bloody National Theatre. ‘Has he been to the newsroom yet?’

  ‘No, I got a message to meet him in his office at eight pm.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I sent a message back telling him to fuck off.’

  ‘Good for you, mate. Looks like I made the right choice in promoting you. What’s the good news?”

  ‘There are several items of good news.’

  ‘You’ve got a great splash for tomorrow?’

  ‘How’d you guess? Micky Sardar has come up with a great follow-up to the Muslim schools. He’s found out that a chunk of UK foreign aid cash has been funnelled to ISIS.’

  ‘Wow. Where?’

  �
��Where else? Via Pakistan.’

  ‘Are big sums involved?’

  ‘Big enough. Britain gave Pakistan more than three hundred and fifty million quid in aid last year. About five per cent of that was dedicated to a scheme to fund a de-radicalisation program in remote provinces … basically an education project touring mosques and madrasas in poor, uneducated regions of Pakistan. Turns out the guy appointed to run it over there has a bit of previous with ISIS. We reckon he’s hived off tens of millions to help the cause.’

  ‘Is it done and dusted?’

  ‘Just waiting for quotes from the head of the Department for International Development – whose name escapes me – and the usual bloke from the Taxpayers’ Alliance who’s being suitably ballistic. The subs are just giving Micky’s piece a bit of spit and polish as we speak.’

  ‘Incredible. That boy’s a keeper. Email me a copy when it’s done. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, boss, we were all wondering what Shiv is up to? We could use her expertise on this foreign aid story. She’s probably got the right contacts. But I know she’s doing something off the books for you.’

  I thought for a moment. Shiv and I were reaching a critical stage with the Marvell story. We needed to bring some other people into the loop to prepare for what was going to be a sensational scoop. That included Mike and Griffo. Even Harvey Finkelstein – the website would be a crucial part of our coverage. After his tip-off about the bug in my office I felt I could trust the Meerkat. And we needed Mike to start planning how we were going to present the story and Doug French working on the implications of the political crisis the government was about to face.

  ‘Mike, Shiv is on top of what I can only describe as the mother of all stonkers. We’ve both been working on it for a week or two. Highly sensitive. There will be nuclear fall-out from it. We’d hoped to have it ready for tomorrow but the timetable’s been thrown out by the attack on my family. But we should be ready to go soon.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing. When will you brief me on it?’

  ‘Mate, that’s Shiv now, trying to reach me. I have to go. Come in and see me tomorrow morning first thing, before you go into the office. I’ll give you the details on the whole thing. And mate …’

  ‘Yes boss?’

  ‘Bring me a decent coffee will you? A large flat white.’

  When I put Shiv on, she sounded both weird and wired. There was a lot of noise around her, including a police siren. ‘Shiv, what’s going on? I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘You won’t believe this, Jonno!’ she shouted. ‘Juggs just shot one of them!’

  ‘One of whom?’

  ‘The Kazakh killers. It was frigging incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. He was like Dirty Har –’

  ‘Shiv, slow down. You’re speaking too fast.’

  ‘Sorry, boss.’ She took a deep breath. Then she explained everything that had happened. ‘Honestly, boss, he was like Dirty fucking Harry! There was a shot and I fell to the ground with the guy’s dead weight on top of me. Literally. His blood and brains were everywhere. When I looked up there was Juggs standing with the gun in both hands. He was rocking on his feet as if he was going to fall over. Then he did.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Fall over. He’d been stabbed by the guy.’

  What the fuck? ‘Is he okay? Where is he now?’

  ‘An ambulance turned up with the cops after someone called to say shots had been fired. The paramedics told me Juggs would be fine once he’s been stitched up at the hospital. I’ll go and see him after I’m done with the cops.’

  ‘What about you? Were you hurt?’

  ‘Just a few cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious. I’ll need a few stitches myself when I’m done here.’

  ‘Thank God. What about the gunman?’

  ‘Dead. Juggs might not be great at self-defence any more but the old bastard can still shoot.’

  ‘He’s a bloody hero. Deserves a frigging medal. So do you by the sounds of it. Give Juggs my best wishes when you see him. Now listen, have you finished with the lawyers?’

  ‘Just about. They wanted to take more bits out but bugger them, we’ve tickled the story enough. I’ll get them to send you a final copy.’

  ‘Good. By the way, I want to bring Mike Kelly and the others in on this – for obvious reasons. We should all get together tomorrow morning and plan our next moves.’

  ‘Right, I’ll see you then. In the meantime, the cops want to grill me and Juggs.’

  ‘Tell him from me that he’s a star.’

  ‘Does that mean he can have a new camera?’

  72

  I WOKE up on Monday morning feeling a lot better. So much so that I decided to discharge myself despite massive objections from my doctors, various hospital administrators and one pissed-off wife. Events were moving too fast for me to stay confined to a sick bed. I had to get ahead of the game.

  I called Mike and Shiv and told them to meet me at the office at eleven instead of the hospital. Mrs H was surprised to learn that I was heading in. I told her to arrange for Doug French and Harvey Finkelstein to attend the meeting. ‘And while you’re at it, ask Nev if he can come and get me.’

  The vapour from the shiny German car’s exhaust scattered in the cold morning air as an orderly wheeled me outside. There was a hint of sunlight and I raised my face to the sky, letting the breeze caress my cheek. It was good to be alive. Neville’s face looked a little wan but he managed a thin smile when he saw me.

  ‘Guv’nor, ’ow you doin’? Good to see you back on your plates of meat.’

  ‘Nice to see you too, Nev.’ He helped me into the back seat. It was awkward and I felt a sharp jab of pain in my chest that took my breath away. I briefly wondered if I had made the right decision in leaving the safety of my hospital cocoon.

  ‘Nev, I’ve been meaning to call you,’ I wheezed. ‘To thank you for … what you did. It was totally brave. Probably saved my life. In my book you’re a bloody hero.’

  ‘I ain’t no ’ero. If I ’adn’t ’it that geezer with the brolly, that Posh might still be alive,’ he said, his face twisted with grief.

  ‘Look, mate, we’ll never know. As far as I’m concerned, what happened to Posh was totally down to the men with the guns. And I will do everything I can to make sure they, and anyone else involved in that attack, are found and dealt with.’

  ‘Thanks guv. Good to ’ear. But I don’t mind telling you I’ve ’ad a bit of trouble sleeping since it all ’appened. I get my ’ead down on the pillow and I just see that poor girl lying on my motor.’

  ‘Nev, have you read the paper this morning?’

  ‘Not yet, guv. I’ve come straight from my gaff to pick you up. Why?”

  ‘Because you would have seen that one of the gunman has been shot dead. By Juggs Jagger.’ I told him the whole story and his eyes glittered in the rearview mirror.

  ‘I ’ope the Old Bill let me get my ’ands on the other bleedin’ ponce if they find him. I’ll stick that bloody umbrella up his Gary Glitter – excuse my French.’

  ‘No worries, mate.’

  The traffic was bad and it was nearly eleven when I hobbled into the elevator in Canary Wharf. Nev had phoned ahead and Mrs H was standing waiting in reception as the lift doors opened thirty-seven floors north. I must have looked like I was in pain because she offered me her arm and we made our way to my office.

  ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea,’ she said as I sank carefully but gratefully into my padded seat.

  ‘Tell the others I’m here!’ I shouted after her.

  ‘Already done!’ she shouted back.

  I looked out my window, not really seeing the panoramic view across the capital. One of my least endearing traits is that I bear grudges and on my mind was a list of scores that I intended to settle over the next forty-eight hours. These included a corrupt Prime Minister, the psychotic Black Mac and, above all, the evil mastermind Borya Bolshakov.

  My vengeful reverie was interr
upted when my fellow conspirators all arrived together.

  Shiv looked surprised to see Finkelstein and the Meerkat looked surprised to be there. Once they all sat down, I gave a short preamble on why they were here before handing over to Shiv to explain in more detail. As she talked, I noticed a small corner of a dressing peeking out from above her roll-neck sweater. I also knew the cut on her arm was a nasty one but she gave no sign of discomfort. Finkelstein’s look of surprise turned to shock as the story unfolded. Despite his prior knowledge of the story, Doug French’s facial expressions ranged from horror at the wickedness of the plot to delight at the magnitude of the scoop and then to concern as he realised the part he still had to play in putting the thing to bed.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Jonno,’ the political editor gasped. ‘The whole thing is utterly incredible. In all my days in the Lobby, I’ve never come across anything so Machiavellian, so monstrous, so – so positively malignant.’ He finally ran out of alliteration. ‘This is huge. I’ve known Jim Marvell for twenty years. To think he’d sell out his country … I can hardly credit such a thing. It’s like a Shakespearean tragedy.’

  Mike Kelly said: ‘“Fair is foul, and foul is fair. False face must hide what the false heart doth know.”’

  ‘Macbeth?’ I asked.

  He smirked. ‘Sixth form at Manchester Grammar School.’

  ‘Okay everyone, let’s work out what still needs to be done and who is going to do it. And remember: “Screw your courage to the sticking place and we’ll not fail.”’

  ‘More Macbeth?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Grade 10 at St Jude’s College, Sans Souci,’ I said.

  * * *

  It was after lunch when I finally ventured back into the newsroom for the first time since the shooting. To my shock and horror, I was greeted with a standing ovation from the troops. Everyone stood up and cheered and clapped as I made my way gingerly to the News Hub. The atmosphere was supercharged.

  It felt like the night my Hollywood writing partner Estevo ‘Chilli’ Gomez and I won the Oscar for our Hard News screenplay. Christ, I thought, was that really just three years ago? With everything that had happened since, it felt more like a decade. The difference was that there were no chisel-jawed men or botoxed beauties here, only hard-bitten, hard-working journos dedicated to exposing lies and deceit. I knew in my heart which of the two accolades I’d cherish more.