by Leigh Barker
Harry stood in the marble reception room and glared at the closed door. He couldn’t understand what had just happened. Sir Richard was one of the good guys, so why had he waffled his way out of any action?
The snooty receptionist was watching him closely, maybe waiting for him to nick the oil paintings, the ones the public had paid for. He ignored her. Something else was going on here, something Sir Richard was keeping close to his vest. Okay, Sherlock, what?
He crossed the reception, with the snooty receptionist still watching him suspiciously, and sat in one of the oversized armchairs. Okay, two things: One, as soon as he’d told Sir Richard about the assassins, his whole demeanour had changed, which meant what? It meant, bonehead, that he thought you were nuts. And who wouldn’t? First, there’s this madman who’d sat on a rooftop and passed the time of day with him like old buddies, and suddenly there are two assassins in town, led by a Russian from the Cold War. Okay, kinda see his point of view on that. Probably thinks it’s that post trauma shit. Yeah, probably, which is unlikely, because it all seemed so reasonable.
Harry stood up stiffly. There was a number two, but he couldn’t remember what it was right then. One thing, though, Sir Richard had asked him to provide positions and a count of the assassins. Well, okay, that was a mission he would shove down his throat. He would deliver their bodies and dump them on the nice shiny marble floor. Screw him.
Harry kicked the lift door and heard the snooty receptionist gasp. And screw her too. He glanced over his shoulder. Nah, not even after a pitcher of beer and whiskey chasers.
51
Ethan sat at the small table in the hotel’s executive conference suite and poured water from the free bottles they’d paid for with the room. Sam and Leroy sat across from him, Leroy spinning one of the glasses absently.
“So what we have,” Ethan said, leaning over and taking the glass from Leroy, “is the drone’s probable flight path.”
“That’s about it, boss,” Sam said, pushing the bottles of water from the middle of the table and laying out a map of London with Richmond Par k circled, and the Silver Fox’s flight path marked in red. “The drone flew southeast for two klicks, then circled north for one and a half klicks, before returning to its take-off point.” He followed the lines with his finger as he described the route.
“That’s not exactly pushing its range,” Ethan said, turning the map a little.
“In London?” Sam said. “That would cover a hell of a lot of very sensitive real estate.” He waited a moment. “And river.”
“Okay,” Ethan said, “let’s assume he’s going to hit the barge when the whole world is watching.”
“Safe bet,” Sam agreed.
Ethan stood up and leaned over the map. “He’s going to want to fly it in from south of the river, away from the skyscrapers so he can keep it low. He turned the map slightly, put his finger on Tower Bridge, and traced the flight path back round and up to the river. ‘That would put the launch site somewhere around… here.” He put his finger on the Tate Modern Gallery.
“Be doing the world a favour if he does it the other way round,” Sam said.
“You don’t like art?” Ethan asked, a little surprised.
“Nah, I could never see the point of it. You want a picture of a flower, then take a photo, don’t paint something that don’t look anything like a daisy.”
“You’re a philistine, Sam, you know that?
“Yeah,” Sam said with a smile, “it’s been said.”
“Well, you’re going to get a chance to get educated,” Ethan said, packing up the map. “We’re going to check out the Tate and its area for a possible launch site.”
“No problem,” Sam said, “as long as we don’t have to go in and look at stuff.”
Lupus was also admiring London’s sights, standing in a small crowd in front of the gates of Buckingham Palace. He smiled to himself as the guards marched out in all their finery and military precision. He turned and headed for Hyde Park, with it sports fields and other open areas, ideal for Frisbee, ball games, or launching of model aircraft, for example. He was still smiling as he sat in the restaurant by the lake and ordered a cappuccino from the polite waiter. What a friendly country.
“Yeah, that’s where I’d launch,” Sam said, looking down the open river bank running under Millennium Bridge.
Ethan stepped down off the path, and his boots sank a little into the muddy bank, but it was open and firm enough for a catapult launcher. Problem was, there was miles of the stuff, and it was still a bit of a stretch to extrapolate the drone satellite tracking route to exactly this spot.
“So what’s the plan, boss?” Sam asked, having stayed out of the mud.
Ethan climbed back onto the path and stamped his boots. “I’ll give the security boys a call, and they can stake this stretch of the river out. I don’t want to be caught watching the ducks if we’re wrong and he turns up someplace else.”
“Amen to that.”
52
Harry heard the doorbell ringing, but couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed, he was still sulking over Sir Richard’s strange behaviour the previous day. What was that expression? From hero to total shit, or something like that. So why should he give a shit if the government’s top man didn’t? No reason, that’s what. Somebody was going to get shot today, and he was going to stay in bed and let them because if nobody else gave a shit… he’d been there already so reached over and took his wristwatch off the bedside cabinet. Five thirty. Who the bloody hell comes calling at five thirty? He threw the bedclothes off and stood up, slowly eased his stiff leg into operation, and limped off to tell the caller where to go.
He pulled open the door just as the bell rang again, opened his mouth to tell the caller to go screw himself, but closed it again and stared in surprise at the two military policemen standing in the hallway. Military policemen usually mean bad news, or a night in the cells, or… or he could just ask.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he said, as calmly as he could manage.
“You Harry Thorne?” the sergeant said.
Harry thought about denying it and pointing at Frank’s room, but that seemed a bit harsh on the old man, so he nodded.
The sergeant handed him an electronic signature getter, and he signed it as a reflex. The corporal stepped forward and handed him a large flat case, which Harry recognised instantly, it being part of his kit for the past eight years. He looked up at the sergeant and began to ask the obvious question.
“Don’t ask,” the sergeant said, turning to leave. “Nobody tells me nothing. Somebody says jump,” he grumbled as he strode back to the open lift, “I jump, somebody says shit, I—” The lift door slid shut, but the comment kinda finished itself.
Harry looked down at the rifle case, and then both ways down the corridor, as if expecting the same police Harvey had looked for when Frank turned up. He closed the door behind him, took the rifle case to the table, and opened it. Who would send him a L115 sniper rifle? It wasn’t like it was Christmas or anything. There was a brown envelope, and he took it out and emptied the contents onto the table. A single A4 page and a key. A moment later, the mystery was solved.
Sir Richard had arranged for the delivery, and the key was for the top floor of the north tower of Tower Bridge. He touched the rifle slowly, as if it was a religious artefact, and then re-read the note. He would be met at the tower at eight thirty, four hours before the signing ceremony, what he did with those four hours was entirely up to him. He smiled. So the old blow-hard was playing to the gallery with the big ‘leave me out of it’ speech.
He knew exactly what he would do with the four hours. He snapped the case shut and walked back to his bedroom, his leg no longer stiff and complaining. So, somebody gave a shit after all. He smiled. Okay then, so would he.
Shaun was even less impressed at being woken at six thirty than Harry had been, but the annoyance vanished the moment he heard Harry’s voice.
“Fancy doing a bit of spotting for me?�
�� Harry asked.
Shaun frowned for a moment and then got it. “Yeah, no probs,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed. “Where? When?”
Harry chuckled. “Tower of London,” he said, giving Shaun time to get the dig. “Okay, they haven’t caught you yet. Tower Bridge, eight thirty. Bring hot coffee; it’s going to be a cold morning.”
“I’ll be there,” Shaun said, now totally awake. He was about to ring off when he had an idea. “Harry?” He waited for a response. “Are we all there is?”
Harry was silent for several seconds before answering quietly, and Shaun put down the phone. He thought for several minutes, weighing up the risk versus the possible reward, before picking up the phone again and calling Ethan.
“No can do,” Ethan said in answer to Shaun’s question. “My mission is to nail the son of a bitch Lupus before he launches a bioattack on the president.”
“Problem is,” Shaun said, “Tal and his death squad are planning to shoot your president’s head off at high noon.”
That should do the trick.
The line was silent for a moment. “That’s your problem for now,” Ethan said at last. “If we get Lupus before it goes down at your end, then the cavalry will come a boiling over the hill.”
“Okay,” Shaun said, “I can understand where you’re coming from.” One last throw. “Put my mobile… my cell number on speed dial.”
“Now that I can do,” Ethan said. “And good luck… to us both.”
“Yeah, we’re going to need it.”
“What the hell,” Ethan said, with a wry chuckle, “it’s not like they’re shooting at us.”
“Maybe not, but tell that to the bioweapon,” Shaun said. “Unless you’ve suddenly become Arab.”
“There’ll be no bioattack. Not on my watch,” Ethan said, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he felt.
“Okay then, and here I was worrying,” Shaun said. “I’ll put my sun chair on the roof and catch some rays.”
Ethan was chuckling as he rang off.
53
Harry looked Shaun up and down and whistled. “Man, you look a hell of a lot smarter than the last time I saw you.” He was going to say he’d looked like a hobo, but decided it might hurt his feelings.
Shaun brushed off his new three-piece mid grey suit. “Yeah, I made a promise.” If there was more, it would have to wait.
Harry started up the spiral staircase, and Shaun looked up into the heavens and then back at the MI5 operative who would be guarding the entrance. “He’s kidding, right?”
The spook looked at him steadily, but didn’t speak — it’s a spook thing.
Harry stopped and looked back. “Exercise will get the blood pumping.”
“Yeah, pumping,” Shaun said, starting up the stairs at a trot, which quickly slowed to a brisk walk, and finally to the pace he could actually manage.
Despite his stiff leg, Harry was already setting up the sniper rifle when Shaun made it over the top step, wheezed his way up to the battered old table, and leaned on it while he had his heart attack.
“Jesus!” he gasped eventually. “Is it me or is the air thinner at this altitude?”
Harry glanced up, smiled, and returned to assembling the rifle. He handed a spotter scope to Shaun, who looked at it like it was an alien device. “You look through it,” Harry suggested.
Shaun looked through the scope.
“That way,” Harry said, pointing at the window facing east.
Shaun changed direction from the blank wall and focused the single-eyepiece scope. “Whoa! I can see a pigeon taking a dump in Essex.”
Harry chuckled again. “That’s the plan,” he said, sliding the rifle scope into place and tightening the clamp screws anchoring it to the rail.
“What am I looking for?” Shaun said and waved his hand to silence the response. “And don’t say a bad man with a rifle because I can see one of those right here.”
“Something that doesn’t look right,” Harry said.
Shaun lowered the scope and stared at him. “Something that doesn’t look right? Here, in London? You’ve been in the hot sun too long, mate.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Harry said, walking over to the leaded windows and pointing east. “Check out the high rises.”
Shaun joined him and looked out at the apartment blocks scattered across the East End. “Is that where you think they’ll perch?”
“Yeah, it’s where I would,” Harry said, returning to the rifle and leaving Shaun to check each window of the apartment blocks. But there were dozens of high rises and hundreds of windows, and the reflected daylight made them impossible to see through.
“Man, this is hopeless,” Shaun said lowering the scope. “I could be looking at him right now, and I wouldn’t know it.”
“No, they won’t be there yet,” Harry said, glancing at his watch. “Too early, too much of a risk they’ll be seen. Give it till, say… eleven.” He nodded to himself. “Yeah, an hour’s set up, calm down, get comfortable. That’ll do it.”
“Then what the hell are we doing here at dawn?”
Harry looked out at the winter sun on the Thames and smiled. “Same thing. We get set up, scout everything in sight, and eliminate as much as possible. Then we get comfortable and calm down too. That way, the anticipation won’t cloud our judgement or cause us to miss something subtle. It’s standard operating procedure.”
“Right, SOP,” Shaun said with a sigh. “Yeah, and I could have had breakfast.” And he’d forgotten the coffee. He turned the scope back onto the buildings and looked at blank windows. It was going to be a long morning.
Superintendent Baxter had intended to inform Sergeant O’Conner that he was suspended pending an inquiry that would finish his shitty career, but he was now looking at an empty desk in the squad room. He clamped his jaw and swore, furious that the revenge he’d been planning all through a sleepless night was thwarted. He turned and stamped out and almost knocked Carter over as he returned from the canteen with an extra-thick bacon and egg sandwich.
“Shit!” Carter said, juggling the sandwich back onto the paper plate. “Sorry, sir,” he said quickly, seeing his commander’s furious expression.
“O’Conner?” Baxter growled.
It took Carter a second to translate that into a question. “He’s on a job,” he said at last.
“Job? What job? I haven’t authorised any case for that… that…”
“Cowboy?” Carter suggested, unconsciously rubbing his aching arm.
“Where is the soon-to-be-civilian slunk off to?”
Carter shrugged and did a rerun of saving his sandwich.
“Are you looking for O’Conner?” Taylor asked, having arrived with his coffee and croissant.
“Where is he?” Baxter asked, now getting even redder.
“I heard he’s doing a job for the spooks,” Taylor said with a shrug.
“What? Who the hell authorised that?”
“I think it came from…” Taylor pointed upwards.
“We’ll see about that,” Baxter said and stamped off down the corridor to do exactly that.
“O’Conner’s in the shit,” Carter said with a smile. “So, what’s he doing for these spooks?”
Taylor followed him into the squad room. “He’s down at Tower Bridge with some marine sniper.” He put his coffee down and positioned his croissant for a bite. “There’s a whisper that some dickhead is out to shoot the president. Good luck to him, I say.”
“Yeah,” Carter said, “I hear that.”
54
Oscar’s Pussy Club was closed, but it would be, there’s not a lot of demand for a gay bar at ten o’clock in the morning. Jimmy Detroit leaned against the ancient brick wall in the grubby little alley at the rear of the club, lit a cigarette, and watched the drayman rolling steel barrels of beer in through the roller door.
One more day in this dump and he’d be heading for Hawaii. Last time, so help me God. He looked blankly at the woman who glare
d at him and then pointedly at his cigarette. Some people are weird, y’know that? He turned his attention back to the delivery and waited until the guy had finished carrying crates of drinks into the storeroom, closed up his truck, and disappeared inside with a clipboard. He tossed the cigarette into the street, looked both ways, and strolled over to the roller door. One last look around and he slipped into the club and screwed up his nose at the stench of stale booze and piss. Sweet Jesus, there isn’t enough money in the world to do this shit any more.
There was a pile of boxes of snacks on a palette, and he stepped behind them when he heard the drayman coming back. The roller door came down, its motor grinding for want of oil, and he waited until it clanged into the rusty base plate before he walked up the worn stone steps and into the club.
Curly Sue was behind the bar checking and replacing empty spirit bottles, and Big Betty was collecting the empties and dropping them noisily into plastic crates. There was some God-awful music playing, and Detroit flinched at the row. Neither Curly nor Betty saw him step in from the storeroom until he coughed.
Curly turned on the heel of his sensible shoes and glared at him. “How the hell did you get in here?” He stepped forward, the hem of his gingham dress catching on a crate.
Detroit brought the suppressed MAC-10 from under his overcoat. Not as good as his MP-5, but that was still lying on top of the elevator in Patrick’s building, a testament to the thoroughness of Baxter’s chosen men. But it would do, and he put three rounds into Big Betty before he could even register what was going on. Curly Sue screamed, but shut up instantly when Detroit swung the gun in his direction.
“Shut up!” he growled. “And turn that shit off.”
Curly Sue was frozen to the spot. Detroit walked round to the front of the bar and put the gun down amongst the dirty glasses, leaned forward, and punched Curly Sue in the face, slamming him back against the shelves, smashing the spirit bottles and neat stacks of glasses. Curly put his hand to his broken nose and tried to stem the bleeding with his fingers.