by A P Bateman
“Jesus,” Flymo said. “We’ve incinerated hundreds of thousands of euros!”
King could see that the currencies had been bundled in piles of euros, pound sterling, US dollars and Albanian lek. The outer notes of each pile had been scorched. He looked up at Flymo and said, “But it looks like there’s several million left.” King stood up and looked at Alaina, who was staring at the money in the ground. He was aware of the comforting feeling of the Makarov in his pocket, all the while trying to read their eyes. Money tended to do things to people. “Here, you and Flymo start getting it out. Make a pile for the ruined notes and another for the ones that are okay. I’m going to make a call.”
King stepped out into the light, ditched the goggles and mask, and took out his phone, entered the man’s number from memory and typed out a short text highlighting what he would require. He received the reply within a few seconds. Incredulity and surprise. King then asked for two. He would require shipping and the man would have to use his contacts and the full stretch of his bonded warehouse and storage remit. This would require the man’s backdoor work with MI6 and the Ministry of Defence and several of the twenty-eight agencies it represented. Then came the question about payment. Normally cash on collection, sometimes King had used the allocated bank account details, or a credit card dedicated for a mission. But this would be different. This would require a courier to accompany the purchase, and to take the money back.
The text came back. Two million euros. King thought about what he had just seen inside the ruined safe. He could cover that. He typed his reply but added something else and told the man he would pay a further hundred thousand, then added his timeframe and waited for his response.
Deal. Shipping details to follow.
21
Thames House,
London
“It’s too soon,” said Simon Mereweather.
“Undoubtedly,” Director Amherst agreed. “But there’s no playbook for this sort of thing.”
“He should be grieving.”
“He will be.”
“But at home. With his children.”
Amherst nodded. “Let’s see what he has to say.”
“He can’t possibly be heading the investigation.”
“No, that had fallen to a dedicated murder investigation team and because of the crossover, there’s a CTIU and CTU presence. As well as the team you’ve put on it as liaison.”
Mereweather nodded. “And the Home Secretary?”
“Grieving. The Prime Minister is making a speech in the commons today, expect cross party platitudes. We all know she wasn’t a popular choice, and has made many enemies within the opposition parties, but they all have families and this will be a reminder of the fragility of their own safety, the vulnerability and reality that comes with their chosen profession.”
“It was so blatant,” Mereweather said quietly. “To target their spouses like that. When they could have assassinated two leading public and political figures. I’ve seen the CCTV and the footage from the police updates, but the van the terrorists escaped in and the subsequent vehicles they were dropped at all had fake number plates and took devious routes. This was well planned. The police have most of those vehicles now, but the assailants have completely disappeared and are unidentifiable.”
“Except for one man.”
“Correct.”
“Any news of his whereabouts?”
“He checked out of his hotel and took a direct flight to Moscow early this morning. He’s already arrived and will no doubt be off the grid.” Mereweather paused. “The Russian Embassy have been elusive. They have no records of an official visit by Major Diminov. But they have pointed out that the man is a registered diplomat, with the diplomatic immunity all that entails.”
“So, no further action and no further assistance with our enquiries.” Amherst got up from his desk and paced to the window. The Thames was its usual muddy self, made dark and moody by the grey skies and heavy rainclouds which hovered stationary above, ready to burst. Ominous and inevitable. “And we’re meant to buy that he just happened to be at the same restaurant, and just happened to leave a few minutes before both parties, and just happened to take a flight back to Russia early the next day?”
“It’s a message. Nothing more, nothing less. Like Tweedledum and Tweedledee in Salisbury. Two agents, a spot of sight-seeing and some selfies at the cathedral and then some Novichok nerve agent left on a defector’s door handle. The Russians don’t do subtle, and they don’t do sorry. They just do what they bloody-well please.”
The intercom on Amherst’s desk sounded and his secretary said, “Commander Robinson is here, Sir.”
Amherst turned his back on the window and walked back to his desk. He sat back down at his chair, straightened his tie with its immaculate Windsor knot, then pressed the button. “Show him in, please.” The door opened, but Amherst decided he was appearing too formal and unwelcoming, so stood, and stepped around the desk.
Mereweather followed his boss’ lead and stood up, adjusting his cufflink. A nervous gesture he often did but was unaware of. He nodded to the police chief but allowed the director to make the first contact.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said, gesturing him to take a seat. “Can I get you a coffee or tea?”
“No.”
Amherst nodded, skirted back around to his desk, and sat down. “You really should be at home…”
Commander Robinson shook his head. His eye sockets were puffy and dark, and his eyes were red and sore-looking. The man had cried himself out. He now looked a hollow shell compared to the man who had been seated in the same chair at the beginning of the summer. “There is no home.” He paused. “Thanks to you and your games.”
“What do you mean?” Mereweather asked testily. “We came up with a solution to your inability to get on top of Russian and Balkan organised crime,” he said defensively.
“Simon…” Amherst held up a hand. “Please, allow the Commander to speak.”
Simon Mereweather picked up his coffee and sipped, more for a distraction than because he felt need of it. It was tepid and foul. He cradled the cup, nonetheless.
“It was a message,” said Robinson. “A message to get our snouts out of Russian affairs. A Russian SVR officer organised the murder of my wife and the Home Secretary’s husband. He calmly ate at the neighbouring table and left just ahead of us.”
“But it just can’t be,” replied Amherst. “It’s just too obvious for the man to have been there.”
Robinson grimaced. He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving the events of the previous night. When he reopened his eyes, they were moist, and the soreness seemed amplified. “Before the man killed my wife,” he said. “Before he killed the mother to my two children, he said something to me…”
“What?” asked Mereweather.
“Znay svoyego vraga.”
“Good god!” Mereweather said quietly.
“What does that mean?” Amherst asked irritably.
“It means, know your enemy,” Mereweather replied.
“Oh, dear god…” said Amherst.
“Exactly,” Robinson replied. “The damned Russians are all at it. Government or organised crime, they’re all in it together. You put your team of mercenaries on Romanovitch and his Balkan running dogs, and he’s used his influence to have a Russian SVR hit team murder my wife.” He shivered at the thought, his eyes welling with tears. “And as blatant as you like.”
“But there’s no paperwork, no connection to you,” Amherst protested vehemently. “This is a black bag operation with no comebacks.”
“But there bloody well was a comeback!” Robinson got to his feet and slammed his fists down on the large mahogany desk, forcing Amherst to flinch. Mereweather stood, but seemed unsure what to do next. “I must have been under surveillance, or the SVR had this place under surveillance. That seems the most likely scenario. But either way, word got back to Moscow that the terrorism police chief was meeting
with MI5 mandarins and news filtered down to that weasel Romanovitch. He guessed the sudden and escalating attacks on his business interests was something we had cobbled together and hedged his bets!”
“But the Home Secretary isn’t involved in our agenda.” Amherst paused, regaining some composure. “She knows nothing about what we have set out to achieve.”
Robinson frowned, shaking his head. “No, but she’s coming down hard on undeclared Russian funds and property. Two birds, one stone.” He paused. “She got the same message, apparently. Harold was collateral damage, because of us!”
“There’s a COBRA meeting at mid-day. We may need to re-evaluate our agenda.” Amherst said.
“Re-evaluate?”
“This can’t come out,” said Mereweather.
“No,” agreed Amherst.
Robinson stared at the two men, cocked his head and said, “Really? That is all you two are worried about? I’ve got to look my children in the eyes and tell them that I have no idea why their mother is dead. I’ve got to keep this quiet from the cabinet, or I’ll go to prison, and my children will be put in a foster home!” He shook his head. “Jesus Christ! I can’t believe I went along with this, I can’t believe that I involved the likes of you slippery bastards in police work.” He paced to the door and stared at the two men in turn. “Well, that’s it. I’m handing in my resignation. I have my children to think about and those Russian words will be swimming around my head for the rest of my days.” He opened the door and sneered. “But I suggest you think on this… Those Russian bastards will know that whoever I spoke to here will be senior in rank, and they won’t hesitate to do the same to you and your families if it means they get what they want.”
22
Greece-Albanian Border
The food and water came in quantities barely enough to keep them alive. A piece of stale bread and a small plastic bottle of water once a day. The men had resorted to drinking their own urine the previous day, and with their unrivalled experience in survival training, they knew the desperation in this act. It would give them a few more days of survival, but little more. There were now dangerous amounts of waste in the form of nitrogen, potassium, and calcium in their urine and it was the colour of Guinness, and without fresh water the practice would soon have a detrimental effect.
Each man was handcuffed by their right wrist to a purpose made link set in the stone wall. Rashid could not vouch for the other men, but he had attempted to get the link loosened from the concrete from the moment he had been shackled. All he had achieved was to bloody his wrist until he could see the whiteness of the bone underneath the torn skin. It hurt so much, but a little less each day, and he realised that he was nearing the point of not caring whether he lived or died. He tried to snap out of his narcosis-like state, even prayed for the first time in years. He was a Muslim by birth and nurture and had worshipped at his local mosque throughout his childhood, but by the time he had reached his teens and discovered girls, his practice had dwindled. By the time he had established his military career and later passed selection into the SAS, he no longer practised Islam or any other faith. He couldn’t explain why to his parents, and he didn’t apologise either. His career had taken him to many places, and he had seen many terrible things. Some situations borne through oil and government agenda, but many by religion and colour and creed. His faith had been eroded. But in the cold confines of the cellar, with hope all but lost he found himself muttering a quiet prayer.
“Say one for me while you’re at it…” said Mac. “I don’t think my God believes in me anymore…”
Rashid smiled and said, “I’m not sure mine ever did…”
“Well, hedge your bets lad.”
Rashid looked at him, figured he looked the same. Bruised black and blue, cut to pieces, and scuffed and grazed. He’d had a tooth chipped and another loosened. He thought it was firming up, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He knew they had been on a deniable operation, but all he could hope for was to hold on.
Philosopher was unconscious, but thankfully he had been left face down. They had shouted at him for what seemed like an hour to move onto his side, but the man was out cold. He hoped he was still with them, but it wasn’t looking good. The worst of it was Rashid had not been asked any questions on the last occasion he had been dragged away. Simply been given twenty-minutes of solid beating. The senior echelons of the Albanian brotherhood had not even been present, and it would appear the men were now the guards’ playthings. Beatings for amusement. Rashid was trying to work out the scope for a counterattack. He was weak and running on empty, but he only needed the element of surprise. However, the guards seemed aware that they were dealing with tough, resourceful men and were wary of their apparent military service. When they took each of them from the cell, they were mindful to handcuff their free hand, shackle the chained hand before releasing the wall-mounted cuff. At no time during the process of taking them to or from the room where they were interrogated had the men ever had their hands free, or uncuffed from behind their backs.
The door unbolted and all three men tensed. They knew what would be coming next, a one in three chance that they would endure another beating. Another humiliating defeat at the hands of lesser men. But those lesser men had got the drop on them. They had been ready for them and the numbers had been overwhelming. Rashid supposed it was obvious, really. They had struck at so much within the brotherhood, that the key buildings and operations would be left waiting. He recognised his over-confidence, his feeling of invincibility. The property had been a stalking horse. Apparently empty. Apparently unsecured. But hiding an army within, that the men carrying out surveillance and not heavily armed, had been unable to overcome. And now they were paying the price for their over confidence, their blatant opportunism and guile.
Rashid looked up at the man holding the gun. He was a toothless ogre and the four men had given him the name Shrek. To be fair, that wasn’t entirely fair on the cartoon character, the Albanian version was simply hideous. The next man into the room was The Runt. Five foot three, single digits in stones and grey hair. He had a cruel mouth and even crueller eyes. He enjoyed his work, and the only redeeming factor was that he couldn’t punch and hit as hard as he would have hoped. Rashid couldn’t vouch for the other men, but he had grunted more than he needed to, begged more than he would have liked and feigned unconsciousness to buy him a few minutes respite from the beatings. Not that it was an easy task, there were still another two men who beat them regularly, as well as Shrek himself, but at least it was the saving grace when he saw the cruel face of The Runt. For a moment, he wondered whether to say something to them, perhaps curse them, and at least he would get a beating by The Runt. But he also remembered the first lesson a career corporal had told him during his training – don’t volunteer for anything and make sure you are always the grey man. There will always be enough opportunities for trouble to find you, so you were best off avoiding it at all costs. Besides, he was leader of this team and the sense of duty within him told him he shouldn’t opt for a lesser beating than the others.
“You…” The Runt pointed at Mac.
“There’s no point doing this unless you ask us some questions,” Rashid said measuredly. “Where’s your boss?” Shrek stepped forwards and aimed the pistol at Rashid’s face. He smiled, his wretched face both red and covered in perspiration. He looked the type of man to break into a sweat tying his own shoes. The pistol shook unsteadily in his hands, his sausage fingers making the Beretta model 92 look smaller than Rashid knew it to be. He cocked the hammer and stepped a little closer, before pulling the trigger. Rashid’s legs shot out and he flinched as the hammer clicked. Both Albanians roared with laughter, and Shrek worked the slide-action, chambering a 9mm bullet. He aimed again, and Rashid settled, relaxed, and staring back defiantly. “Go fuck your mother, you fat piece of shit,” he said. He could have cursed his reaction to the man’s torment, but he was damned if he was going to go out begging and snivelling. The gun
was loaded now, so if he was at the end of the road, then so be it.
“Rashid!” Mac exclaimed. “Don’t give the fucker the satisfaction, mate!”
Shrek turned the pistol on the Scotsman, the same sadistic grin on his face.
“This guy must save a fortune on greetings cards,” Goldie quipped. “What with his sister being his own mother and his dad being his own uncle.” He looked at Shrek and grinned. “Family gatherings must be a bit confusing, but a small affair…”
Shrek stepped away from Mac and turned the pistol on the Londoner, his pasty white fingers gripping the pistol - and the trigger - more firmly than he should have. All three men knew the risks of a ND, or negligent discharge, and the risks of it happening right now was high. Rashid needed to defuse the situation.
“Let’s talk to your boss again,” he said calmly. “Come on, we’re all men here. You know we had to hold out for a while. Maybe it’s time for us to start talking?”
“The plan has changed,” said The Runt in stilted English. “We have another use for you, now.”
“Then whatever it is, we’ll be more use to you if we’re still alive. We need more water,” he said calmly. “And food.”