Reaper

by A P Bateman

  He glanced behind him, then said, “I have to go. I will think about what you have said.”

  “I mean it, Michael. I can help you have a better life.”

  He looked ashen, closed the door without saying anything else.

  She cursed herself for rushing in. She tore off her dress and pulled on the jeans. They were a bit on the loose side, as was the sweater, but both made her feel less vulnerable than the white linen dress. She tore both straps off the dress, tied the ends in a reef-knot, then threaded it through the beltloops and pulled the jeans tighter around her waist. She sat down on the bed. She felt like crying, had to control herself. She knew the time to act was looming. She knew what it was to fight for her life. But she also knew the fear would subside quickly, as adrenalin and survival instincts took over. The first move was always the hardest. She breathed deeply, took her mind off it by checking inside the bag. There were two cans of full-sugar Coca Cola. She opened one, appreciated the caffeine and sugar hit as she drank half the can in one go. She placed the can on the floor and turned her attention to the crisps, biscuits and chocolate inside. They were all unfamiliar brands and it reminded her of holidays in Europe, or occasional visits to budget supermarkets. Apart from the cola, she did not recognise any of the brands. With all the fat and sugar content, it wasn’t the healthiest meal, but it was the best she had eaten in a month.

  39

  Sodertalje, Sweden

  Time had taken on another dimension. One that King felt it almost impossible to assimilate. He had barely paused for breath since Simon Mereweather had handed him the letter in Scotland. He could not tell, without concentrating hard, whether it had been weeks or days. But he had given his all, pushed through fatigue and his own fears to buy Caroline the time she needed. She was tough and resourceful, possibly one of the most intelligent people he had met, and he knew deep down, that the likelihood of a gallant rescue was slim. Caroline would have to use her military and intelligence training to get out of her situation. All he could hope for was to keep up what he had started. Keep Helena from seeing Caroline as a loose end of no future value, and now, unbalance the woman as he bought himself some precious time. He would have to act fast. It would be a fine line emotionally for Helena. She would undoubtedly be trying to find out what had happened to King, and while she was doing that she would be exposed. She would have to make enquiries, pay-off people in a position to extract information, and that would always create a trail.

  King knew his time was limited. Stay under the radar too long and Helena may well abandon her plans and cut her losses, including her ties to Caroline. He would have to resurface soon.

  He had already revisited the post office and been mildly rebuked at first, threatened with a call to the police when he had persisted. Data protection was a key right to living in Sweden, and the Swedish protected their freedom so fervently. King could tell that no amount of cajoling would work. He was unofficial, and a flash of his MI5 ID was about as useless as the mild flirting he had tried at first. He was ruggedly handsome, but certainly the wrong side of forty to have the desired effect on a twenty-year-old woman with looks worthy of Vogue’s front cover. He had been told that all recordings were digital and held both on cloud and hard-drive, and only a court order would retrieve them. King had known that he had been close to the wire, knew he had to appear to give up and walk away. But appearances are deceptive, and King always played more than one card.

  He watched the teenagers practice on the goals. There were a few girls, but mainly boys and the skill-level was high. It was called soccer in Sweden, but King would always call it football. Each player would dribble the ball a few metres, then power a kick towards the goal. It was quite an onslaught for the goalkeeper, but he was coping well, saving far more than he was conceding. After ten-minutes all the players were taking long passes and strikes towards the goal from just shy of the centre line. The goalkeeper coped admirably and saved all but a few. There was no element of surprise, and unsurprisingly he had more time to meet the ball. The coach seemed to recognise this quickly and he brought half the players in close, the other half split between the two corners. He shouted and made some gestures, and the players kicked in sequence to avoid a blast of multiple balls, and the goalkeeper let more than a few goals into the net. After five-minutes, the players ceased fire, gathered the balls and started to perform some warm-down exercises and stretches. The coach tossed a few spiky foam rollers into the mix and the players alternated working it along their hamstrings and quads. They all took on fluids, some drinking from bottles of water, others squeezing sachets into their water bottles. King guessed they were syrupy fruit cordials packed with electrolytes. It made him smile when he thought about playing football as a boy using jumpers as goal posts and downing a fizzy pop afterwards, or later training with the SAS on nothing more than tea, Mars Bars and bacon rolls. Perhaps a can of Guinness and paper-wrapped fish and chips smothered in salt and vinegar, his muscles aching and cramping after fifteen-mile runs with a fifty-pound Bergen on his back. But always up for a beer and some chips off base in the evening.

  The coach was dismissing the players and packing the balls away in nets. He was forty-something, wore his thinning fair hair in a crew-cut. He had put on some weight in the years since King had seen him last. Par for the course. Not everyone lived such an active life as King did.

  The coach dragged the nets of balls off the pitch, King guessed the Volvo estate backed up with its tailgate open belonged to him. It seemed the obvious choice, given that most of the parents waiting for their children had parked facing the pitch, most driving expensive SUVs and either talking on their phones, texting or surfing the internet on various devices. King got out of the Volkswagen hire car and made his way towards the coach. He walked unhurriedly, hands in his pockets. Just another parent waiting for their child to get changed.

  The coach was pushing the nets in place, moving equipment to make room. He spoke before King could, didn’t turn around.

  “Time caught up with me?”

  “It catches up with everyone.”

  The man wedged a cooler of bottled water between the nets of footballs, then turned around. He looked older than when King had last seen him. Of course he would, it had been over seventeen years, but even so, the crow’s feet, wrinkles and extra weight in his face aged him considerably. “I thought the day would come,” he said. “What can I do to change your mind?”

  King looked him up and down. He was about to allay the man’s fears, but saw the way he looked at him, noted the sense of foreboding in the man’s voice. He needed some stick and carrot.

  King simply shrugged. “I don’t know, Simon…”

  “Why so long?” he asked. “I mean, it’s been, what? Seventeen… no, eighteen years?”

  “Can’t beat the Reaper,” King said.

  Simon Grant sat back down on the edge of the boot space. He sagged. He’d been with King on an operation, seen what the man could do. He wasn’t a fighter, never had been. He knew if the man was there to kill him, then he was as good as dead. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing more than delay the inevitable. “Can you give me some time?”

  King had heard this before. In Switzerland, many years ago. A man who knew he had been beaten before the fight had begun. King had earned his moniker from that operation. The Reaper. The man had been a traitor and he had taken a softer ending with drink, a warm bath and a sharp knife.

  “How’s Lisa?” asked King.

  Grant’s expression hardened. “Fine,” he said. “Please, leave her out of it.”

  “And David? He’s what? Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-six,” Grant said. King noticed his eyes brighten, could see the man’s pride in his son. King felt a pang of indifference, jealousy even. Nobody had ever felt that way about him. “He’s a teacher now. In Gothenburg. Married too. A little one on the way.”

  “About the same age I was when we met,” King mused.

  “Good times,” Gr
ant said sarcastically. “Seriously, why now?”

  “I want you to do something for me,” said King. “I want you to do one last job. Afterwards, you’ll never see me again.”

  “What?” Grant asked incredulously.

  “It’s in Sodertalje, a quiet commuter town.”

  Grant nodded. “I know the place,” he said.

  “The target is a secure building. A post office. Time delays, motion sensors and a strong room,” said King. “Inside the strong room is a computer server. I need to access it tonight.”

  “You can’t seriously…” Grant shook his head. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said.

  “You do tonight. I trust you. And I need your help.”

  “I coach football to rich kids after school. I drive a taxi at weekends. I haven’t broken into anything since France, all those years ago.”

  “Simon, you were one of the best,” said King. “And skills can go rusty, but not to someone like you. My hand is still in, and it’s a two-man job. I need you.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “I’m gone.”

  “Sure…”

  “No, really. I don’t ever intend to return to Sweden.”

  “And leave me dead? Or take me back with you.”

  “No.”

  “The money’s gone.”

  “Life must be expensive in Sweden.”

  “I was on the run a while, still am I suppose,” he said. “It costs money.”

  “I gather that.”

  “And Forsyth?”

  King shook his head. “Dirty. And very dead.”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “For your help.”

  “And not to arrest me?”

  “No.”

  “So, you want me to break the law? Nothing more?”

  King stared coldly at him. “I want you to help me. If you do, I’m gone. Nobody has to know where you are.”

  “Doesn’t sound like anybody cares. Maybe I’ll say no.” Grant stood up, closed the boot lid. “I bet all those people in charge back then are retired by now. What are you, forty? Time you got out of this game.”

  “I watched you play with your son,” King said quietly.

  “What?”

  “All those years ago. Lisa, your son and you. In the park. It started to snow. You kicked the ball with your son, left together. I walked away. I said I couldn’t find you, told them the lead we had was a dead end. I was eventually reassigned. The case was closed.”

  “I…”

  “I gave you those years,” said King. “All of those birthdays and Christmases. All those school plays, sports days. Holidays the three of you took. You and Lisa had another child a few years later. I kept the odd tab on you, kept my ear to the ground to see if anybody fancied their chances tracing the money. All these years you had since Holman, O’Shea and Neeson had their claws into you. Everything you have done since is on me.” King put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m not going to bully you, nor threaten what you have here. I need your help. Somebody has abducted my fiancé and is holding her. I think a lead may be in that post office. In fact, I’m certain of it. I love my fiancé. I need to get her back safely, and I need you to help me.”

  40

  Cape Town, South Africa

  “You’re out on a limb here,” Rashid said.

  “I know.”

  “Is this official? MI6 are onto this person?” Ramsay asked.

  “No.”

  “Then what gives?” Rashid asked dubiously. “You’ve dug into the South African Secret Service’s affairs, come up with this guy?”

  “No.”

  Rashid shook his head. “What then?”

  “I liked Caroline.”

  “She’s spoken for,” said Ramsay.

  “Not like that. Well, alright, but not for that reason.”

  Rashid glanced at Ramsay, then looked back and frowned. “Then what reason?”

  Ryan Beard was tall and blonde, smartly dressed in a white linen suit. He looked like a model on assignment, the glistening sea behind him, Table Mountain to his right. He leaned against the white SUV and shrugged. “Various. Firstly, Caroline was a piece of work. She took out two would be rapists and assassins. She then carried on with her assignment, got ambushed by two guys. Between her and the South African Secret Service agent who died, she got out alive. The agent was sacrificed by a traitor in the SASS. We work closely with local intelligence. There’s no room for traitors.”

  “And?” Ramsay asked incredulously.

  “And, what?”

  “You said, various reasons. Why else are you doing this?”

  “I don’t follow.” Beard glanced back at the Mercedes hire car. Marnie was seated in the passenger seat and working on her laptop, apparently not having noticed the impressive sight of Table Mountain rising out of the rock before her, or the glistening ocean to her right.

  “You don’t want to catch this guy who was happy to have your agent killed?” Rashid studied him closely, looked the man directly in the eye. He wasn’t trained in such techniques, but he knew a liar when he saw them. He would soon tell. “Were you expecting somebody else?”

  Ryan Beard shrugged. “The Reaper, I suppose.”

  “Reaper?” Ramsay frowned.

  “King.”

  “You know him?”

  “Our paths crossed when I first took the job.”

  “And what job is that?”

  “Embassy man. I help our workers with anything they may need.”

  “So, you get the kit, help with transport, that sort of thing?” Rashid clarified. He’d met a few in his time. One such man had helped him in Turkey getting through to Syria.

  Beard nodded. “But not with The Reaper, no. I just greeted him. He did everything else.”

  “So, when was this?” Ramsay asked.

  “Ten years ago, a couple of times since.”

  Ramsay frowned. “But King wasn’t with MI6, he worked as an unofficial with MI5. He was our late Deputy Director, Charles Forester’s man.”

  Ryan Beard looked adamant. “No, he was definitely an MI6 agent.”

  Ramsay considered this for a moment. Beard was silent. Rashid said nothing. He knew enough about King’s nature not to have probed. The man was an enigma, and it was King’s completion of the SAS selection course, not once but multiple times, that had cemented their friendship. Rashid had seen King once at Hereford. MI6 had a poor sense of humour, used the toughest selection process in the world to keep their agents both fit and on their toes.

  “Okay,” said Ramsay quietly. “So, what? Merely out of solidarity to the Firm?”

  Beard shrugged. “Caroline and King are together. I figured he would show up sooner or later, I wanted to call the shots, offer the information before he chose to seek it for himself.”

  “And the Reaper tag?”

  “Folklore,” replied Beard. “Caroline rebuked some of it, but it was said that King was seated near an MI6 traitor in Switzerland. He was drinking coffee. When the guy looked over and spotted King, he went back to his hotel and killed himself,” he paused. “Shit, it sounded better when I told it to Caroline…”

  “Can’t beat The Reaper…” Rashid mused quietly.

  Ramsay nodded. “Okay, Mister Beard. Thank you for your cooperation. Where is this SASS traitor?”

  “He has a place in vineyard country. Just outside Franschhoek.”

  “Is he under surveillance?” asked Rashid.

  “Not yet. A contact inside the secret service has granted me forty-eight hours before he calls it.”

  “Meaning?” Ramsay prompted.

  Beard shrugged. “Hey, I thought King would come.”

  “They want him dead?” Ramsay baulked. He glanced at Rashid, then looked back at the MI6 officer. “Really?”

  “Look, this is bandit country,” Beard paused. “They have the guy banged to rights. He has an account with a lot more money in it than he would ever be able to explain. He has taken payments, m
ade the contacts and there is a trail to all four dead men left here in your agent’s wake. My contact has granted me carte blanch. They want the information we glean from him, then they want him out of the picture. That’s the price for a free lunch.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly free, is it…” Ramsay said sardonically. He looked at Rashid. “Are you okay with that?”

  “Am I fuck?”

  “But…”

  “I think I’m due a raise.”

  “You’ve worked for MI5 for two days.”

  “A big raise. I think I remember you mentioning it earlier.”

  Beard smiled. “Look, sort it out amongst yourselves. This is my little gift for you. MI6 will know nothing about it. MI5 get a link to that sniper and his paymasters who took out all the rich people last month.”

  “And in return?” Ramsay asked. It was quid-pro-quo. Nothing came for free.

  “I have helped. King doesn’t come around here cutting all the loose ends.”

  “Crikey,” Ramsay paused while he considered it. “That man certainly does have a reputation.” He looked at Rashid. “We can sort this out, yeah?”

  Rashid shrugged. “I suppose.”

  Ramsay turned to Ryan Beard. “Okay. Lead the way. Rashid will travel with you, I’ll follow in the Mercedes. Pull up a few miles short and we’ll work out the order of things.”

  41

  Caroline heard the footsteps, heavy and deliberate. She could tell they were not Michael’s. They belonged to somebody heavier, and altogether more confident. She slid off the bed, waited near the dresser, close to her makeshift club with the big bolt protruding from the end.

  The padlock clicked and grated, and the bolt slid cleanly through. Caroline watched the handle turn and the door open steadily. She could not see anyone until it was nudged wider, then she shivered when she stared into the face of the man who had touched her, felt her when she had been so vulnerable.

  The Beast.

  She was scared, and she knew the man could see it in her eyes. She shivered involuntarily.