by Leigh Barker
Harry thought about it for minute, while a waitress came over in response to Shaun’s signal, took his order for another round, and left.
“Only one reason I can think of,” Harry said. “Like me, you think something big is going down with these rifles, but you don’t want to report it to your people. Am I warm?”
“Let’s just keep it on a need to know,” Shaun said, “and they don’t need to know.”
Harry frowned. “Why?” He saw Shaun’s puzzled look. “Why wouldn’t you tell SOCA about…” He picked up the page he’d been reading. “Gennady Lyachin—”
Shaun laughed.
“Did I say something funny?”
“Gennady Lyachin was a hero of the Soviet Union. Tried to save the crew of his nuclear submarine when it sank. Called the Kursk, if I recall.”
“Wow, I’m impressed,” Harry said.
Shaun smiled again, and his tired face lightened. “I saw the documentary about the sub, and it just stuck.” He raised his eyebrows for an instant. “As things do.”
“Okay, so that means Lyachin is probably a false name,” Harry said, “which is a bit underhanded and sneaky.”
Some spies can be like that.
Harry closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “What an idiot?”
“Who, me?” Shaun asked with a smile.
“Me,” Harry said and tapped the papers. “Russian.”
Shaun waited patiently, which was a change.
“Valentin Tal is Lyachin.”
“And Valentin Tal is?”
“A Russian operative from the old days,” Harry said. “A piece-of-shit spy who has given a biological weapon to an Al Qaeda nut-job named Lupus.”
Shaun sat up. “What? Here?” He looked around quickly in case his raised voice had attracted attention, but nobody really cared. “Are you telling me there is a bioweapon on UK soil?”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, but we think so.”
“We think?” Shaun said, his voice suspicious.
Harry thought about it, but decided if this policeman couldn’t be trusted, then the whole world really was in the toilet. “MI6,” he said at last.
“MI6? Shit. That’s all we need, spooks bollixing everything up.”
Harry was surprised. “MI6 doesn’t operate on home soil, just like the CIA doesn’t operate in the US,” he said quietly, still thinking that the loud and vain might give a stuff about two guys at a table talking.
“Yeah, right, course they don’t,” Shaun said. “So, okay, the Russian has provided Al Qaeda with a bioweapon to use here.” He thought for a moment. “But that doesn’t explain the rifles.” He looked at Harry as he thought it through. “If this Valentin Tal is the end customer.”
“Too much coincidence otherwise,” Harry said.
“True. Still, if Tal is behind the bioattack—”
“What the hell does he want with the rifles?” Harry finished.
They were silent for several seconds while they waited for the waitress to deliver the drinks and place them on the table with the others. She gave them a puzzled look, but said nothing. People were odd.
“Maybe Tal is planning a diversion,” Harry said.
Shaun shook his head. “You don’t need a diversion to deploy a bioweapon, you just need an aerosol.” He picked up the glass and swirled the whiskey gently. “What else does MI6 know?”
“About Lupus?” Harry shrugged. “Nothing, not even what he looks like. About Tal? Plenty.”
“Well, yeah, they would if he was a Cold War spy,” Shaun said. “We knew all of theirs, and they knew all of ours.”
“Cosy,” Harry said.
“Intelligence services everywhere leaked like a sieve back then.”
“And things have changed?” Harry said, but his tone said otherwise.
“Yeah, maybe,” Shaun said, putting down the still-full glass and looking around for the elusive waitress. “Lupus and his bioweapon are the real threat here.” He signalled the waitress and pointed at the drinks lined up on the table. “But the Russian is the weak link. He’s known, and he’s old. Find him, and he’ll lead us to Lupus.”
Harry looked at the drinks forming a colourful grouping on the table, but let it go. “Finding Tal before he’s picked up is easier said than done,” he said. “MI6 will have brought all the other agencies into the loop by now. Somebody’ll grab him.”
“Maybe,” Shaun said and pointed at the sheaf of papers, “but nobody knows there is a link.”
“I told Sir Richard that Lupus had mentioned his name.”
Shaun raised his eyebrows. “You’ve met Lupus?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah, we had a little chat last time I was in Afghanistan.”
“And you didn’t kill him?”
“No,” Harry said, “seemed a bit rude at the time.”
Shaun nodded. “Bit outnumbered?”
“A bit,” Harry said. “Couple of hundred to… well, me.”
“That’ll do it,” Shaun said. “Okay, but they don’t know about the rifles.” He considered that. “Unless the CIA told them, and I doubt that.”
“I don’t think they know. I only found out from the stuff in the trannies’ safe.”
Shaun started to ask the question, but let it go. One safe or two? What’s the difference? “Okay,” he said. “Let’s keep it between us.”
Now it was Harry’s turn to be surprised. “I still don’t get it,” he said slowly. “Why not tell everybody what we know? Surely the more agencies looking for Tal, the better?”
Shaun shook his head. “You tell MI6 about Tal and the rifles, and it will automatically come down to SOCA.”
“And that’s good, right?”
“Usually, yeah,” Shaun said, “but something stinks. Too many big fish have slipped off the hook, or not taken the bait at all.” He dipped a finger into one of the glasses of whiskey and tasted it. “Some of them do slip the net, but I land pretty well all the ones I go after,” he added, squeezing the last drop out of the fishing metaphor.
“And now?”
Shaun shrugged, as if that said it all.
“You have a mole in your department?”
Shaun watched him steadily, his silence saying it all.
“But why would anybody tip off Tal when there’s a bioweapon knocking around London? It would be insane.”
“Patriotically, that would be true,” Shaun said, “but the bastard who’s leaking information doesn’t give a shit about patriotism or decency. Some of the scum he’s tipped off are people traffickers and drug importers on an industrial scale. This bastard is doing it for money, simple as that. And I’ve got a knot in my gut telling me who that bastard might be. It’s a racing certainty that Tal would pay big bucks to learn what we know about this operation.”
“Makes sense,” Harry said, “but MI6 will probably release what they know about Tal and a possible link to Lupus.”
“I think they’re sitting on that info,” Shaun said, “or I would have heard.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Dunno, these spooks don’t think like the rest of us,” Shaun said. “So this is how we work it. You stick with MI6 and give them a hundred percent on Lupus. Sir Richard is playing politics, and that’s good for us. Don’t tell anyone about the rifles for the moment. I’ll dig into Tal on the QT and put out some BS story about a snitch mentioning a drug hit with a sniper rifle. That should cover my snooping. When either of us learns something, we share. This is my card.” He took a business card from his top pocket and gave it to Harry. “Only use my cell, never give your name, and never mention any details. You got that?”
“Yes, no probs. You want my number?” Harry said.
“You’re kidding, right? I’ll know your shoe size and what you had for breakfast before you get home.” Shaun smiled and got up to leave, but then leaned closer to Harry’s ear. “Don’t underestimate what you’ve got hold of here, son,” he said slowly. “If you slip, it will kill you.”
Ha
rry shrugged. “Been tried before,” he said and then saw Shaun’s smile vanish. “Okay, I understand how dangerous this is. And I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Son,” Shaun said sternly, “you make sure I am the only person in the loop. Or we are both dead.”
“Roger that,” Harry said, and his leg began hurting again, as a subconscious reminder of what being dead is like. “Hey,” he added as Shaun turned to leave. “What’s with the drinks?”
Shaun glanced at the full glasses for a moment. “I made a promise.” He turned and pushed his way through the crowd to the doors.
He stood outside and looked up the street to where the cop circus was in full swing, with blue ‘keep the hell out’ tape strung everywhere like bunting, and cops standing around looking important. Baxter came out of the arched doorway and looked up at the building, as if he expected to see King Kong swinging about up there.
“I see you, you bastard,” Shaun said, stepping a little further back into the shadows next to the steps and glaring at Baxter. He pointed his finger like a gun and snapped his thumb down. Pow. He lowered his hand. “You’ll get yours,” he said quietly and walked slowly towards the apartment entrance.
The uniformed officer at the door eyed him suspiciously and examined his ID carefully before stepping aside and letting him in, but he still watched him all the way into the lift.
Shaun ignored the officer standing in the corridor leading to Patrick’s apartment, and he ignored him right back. They’d met before, but even a blind man would have seen that.
He could hear Baxter mouthing off as usual as Shaun pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment. As entrances go, it was pretty impressive. The bustling room was suddenly silent, and the eyes of the five men in the room were fixed on him, except Baxter, who had his back to the door. He turned slowly, saw Shaun, and strode over, his cheeks taking on a touch of crimson that clashed with the blood on the furniture.
“O’Conner, what the hell are you doing at my crime scene?”
Not very welcoming for a member of the team.
“Thought this was DCI Facker’s crime scene,” Shaun said, stepping past Baxter and looking out of the window. “Yeah, nice view.”
Baxter’s cheeks reddened further, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. “What part of stay away from O’Conner didn’t you understand?’ For a moment it looked like he might actually grab Shaun, and the rest of the cops watched with interest. Baxter felt the looks and pulled himself together, but only with a huge effort. “O’Conner, I asked you what you think you’re playing at here?”
Shaun turned back from the window overlooking the sloping roof and the broken downpipe. ‘I figured you could do with some help.” He looked at the officers frozen in time. “Because, God knows, you look like you need it.”
Baxter was shaking with contained fury. “Did your partner’s shooting do something to your brain?” He squinted and leaned forward. “I know how close you two are.”
It was supposed to be the ultimate insult. Shaun smiled.
“I can’t believe you turn up at my crime scene after I explicitly ordered you to stay away from Patrick O’Conner.”
Shaun stepped past him and crossed to where O’Brian was sprawled on the carpet. “Patrick’s not here, right?” He looked around the apartment at the bodies and shook his head. “Pity.”
Baxter put his hand on Shaun’s shoulder, but snatched it back like it was burnt when Shaun looked back at him with ice-blue eyes.
“Get out! Do you hear me? Get out!” He was almost hysterical, and that was just too cool.
“Cold night,” Shaun said with a little smile. “Nice and warm here.”
“Taylor, Carter, escort O’Conner out of my crime scene!” Two of the men suddenly became unfrozen and crossed to stand next to Shaun. “And if he resists, even a little,” Baxter said, leaning closer. “Shoot him.”
That should have scared Shaun shitless, or at least that was the plan.
“You’ve been eating garlic,” Shaun observed, then strolled out of the apartment.
The two detectives followed him from the room, and Carter took his arm to steer him to the lift.
Shaun stopped and turned to Taylor. “Saint Thomas’ Hospital.”
“What?” Taylor said. “What are you talking about, O’Conner?”
“He’s been on the booze again,” Carter said. “I can smell it.”
“That’s where they’ll be taking your partner,” Shaun said.
The two officers exchanged puzzled looks, and Shaun pointed casually at Carter’s hand on his shoulder. Carter’s lip turned up in a sneer, but he moved his hand.
“Get lost, O’Conner,” Carter said, braver now he had stepped away. “Or I’ll shoot you anyway and say you resisted.”
Shaun smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant. “Carter, you and I will talk some more on this.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Carter said, stepping up next to Taylor and putting his arm in front of the lift call button. “Take the stairs.”
Shaun casually reached over and gripped Carter’s radial nerve at the side of his forearm. It looked like he was just moving his arm away from the call button, but the effect was startling. Carter let out a girlie yelp and slumped forward in an unconscious attempt to ease the searing pain that crashed into his head.
“Thanks,” Shaun said, pressing the call button, “but I’ll take the lift.” The lift doors slid shut as Carter clutched his arm and backed off. “Oh, that’s Aikido.” He smiled and pressed the lobby button. He made a quiet decision to go back to training now he had quit drinking. Apparently, it wasn’t always appropriate just to shoot someone.
He was still smiling as the lift reached the lobby. Now why had he done that? Why had he gone out of his way to antagonise Baxter? He smiled. Because he could, that’s why. One thing about quitting drinking, life had more fun moments.
Harry took a taxi back to Harvey’s apartment, since Bob had taken the rust-bucket cab and almost sped away as soon as Shaun mentioned arresting them. Odd that. He leaned back in the hard seat and nursed his arching leg, while his mind went over the conversation in the pub. It was nuts, how the hell was he supposed to track down Tal when every agency in the UK was already looking? The rifles. Harry, you’re a recon marine and a sniper, remember? This should be a walk in the park. Yeah, a walk in the park — Central Park, after midnight.
The concierge was clearly warming to him and pressed the front door release without making him wait for the privilege.
Frank was watching football on the over-the-top widescreen TV and waved hello without taking his eyes off the screen. “Good night out?” he said over his shoulder.
“Had better,” Harry said distractedly. “Had worse.”
Okay then, that described the night out, and the bodies.
Harry was planning to call it a day and turn in, but the TV decided that was the moment to break for the news, and Frank came back to life.
“Get you a drink?” Frank said, turning on the sofa and speaking over his shoulder. “Or some grub? I can get Serge to bring you a steak. He’s a good lad.”
“No, thanks, Gramps, I’m going to—” He stopped in mid stride and mid-sentence to stare at the image on the screen. The newsreader was telling the viewers about the Tripartite Accord signing and the river trip using the same barge as the Queen’s Jubilee. Royalty by association — except putting shit next to roses doesn’t make it smell any sweeter.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Frank said.
Harry listened to the newsreader telling everyone that the signatories to the historic accord would travel by barge from Putney Bridge to Tower Bridge, also like the Queen, to celebrate the new détente. Security would be coordinated by the UK security services in close cooperation with its US and German counterparts. With Al Qaeda wanting another Nine Eleven and every nutcase in the world looking for immortality, no one would be allowed within a mile of the barge.
Harry sat down at the table and
thought it through. That had to be it. The Russian was going to assassinate the signatories on the Thames, that’s why he needed the extreme-long-range rifles. With all the variables of distance and movement, use anything less and at least one shot would probably miss.
Frank watched him and then looked back at the news and the pictures of the river Thames route the barge would take. He was old, but he wasn’t stupid. He turned back to Harry. “You think somebody’s going to take a shot at the barge with those fancy rifles?”
Harry frowned and let the newsreader get all excited without him. “What fancy rifles?” he said innocently.
Frank pointed at the table, and Harry looked down to see the pictures he’d left lying out in the open. “Oh, those.”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Those.”
Harry came clean, sometimes it helps the thinking process to explain the problem. “Yes, I think somebody’s going to take a shot at them,” he said at last. “It’s perfect. I couldn’t have chosen a better place than the River Thames. Open, clean line of sight for miles.” He thought about it for a moment. “Short of putting them behind bullet-proof glass, the security people won’t have a snowball’s hope in hell of preventing it.” He looked down at the pictures of the CheyTac. “And even if they do put up some kind of Pope-mobile armoured glass, it won’t stop a forty-cal round from one of those.”
Frank turned off the TV as the football started again, showing how seriously he was taking this. “You’ve got to tell somebody,” he said, standing up and joining Harry at the table.
Harry shook his head emphatically. “No, there’s a leak. If I tell the authorities what I suspect, the snipers are going to know about it before I put the phone down.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
Harry smiled. “We?”
“Yes, I’m not dead yet,” Frank said. “If you’re going to put yourself in harm’s way, then I’m going to help.”
That didn’t come out quite as he intended, but Harry got the idea.
“That’s great, Gramps, I’m going to take you up on that,” he lied.
“Damn right!” Frank was flushed with excitement, and maybe a shot or two of single malt. “What’s the plan?”