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Box 88 : A Novel (2020)

Page 44

by Cumming, Charles


  Inhaling deeply, as if suppressing the last of his doubts, Torabi appeared to calculate that his chances of survival were strong.

  ‘We have a deal,’ he replied, powerless to resist Kite’s inducement. He looked at his bloodstained clothes. ‘You will need to change your shirt,’ he said. ‘I have one inside. Then you’ll take me to him. If we reach my father’s house unharmed, I will call off Hossein.’

  59

  The chopper carrying Jason, Cara and two of the Special Forces soldiers had taken off from a field a quarter of a mile from the cottage. Rita had insisted on taking Isobel to hospital, telling Cara to do as she was instructed by Jason and not to get in his way. It was the first time that Cara had flown in a helicopter, weightless in the air with an electrifying, God’s-eye view of London. The chopper was over Greenwich within half an hour and they landed at City Airport soon after. Three cars were waiting for them on the tarmac. Less than fifteen minutes after touching down, Cara was in Canary Wharf.

  It had been agreed that they would split into four. KAISER, now in civilian clothes and carrying only a small firearm, was to be dropped off at Millwall Outer Dock, the body of water closest to Spindrift Avenue. There were five vessels moored on the dock, three of which were believed to be possible locations for Kite. Jason, also out of battle rig, was to take West India Docks, closer to the centre of Canary Wharf, where seven boats had been identified. One of them was a multimillion-dollar superyacht belonging to a Lebanese industrialist which was available for private hire; Cara had suggested it might have been chartered by the Iranians. Jason instructed STONES to sweep West India Quay, the area immediately to the west of Billingsgate Market where other possible vessels had been identified.

  ‘What about me?’ Cara asked.

  ‘We can use your eyes,’ Jason replied, equipping her with an earpiece that linked her on comms to the rest of the team. ‘Take Heron Quays, make your way east towards me. You see anything, you holler.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Ever fired one of these?’

  He held up a pistol. Cara almost laughed.

  ‘Fuck no,’ she said. ‘Only on a staff bonding weekend.’

  ‘But you know how they work, right? Safety catch, trigger, a bullet flies out one end and hits the other person?’

  Cara wondered if he was flirting with her.

  ‘You Americans and your guns,’ she joked, slipping the weapon into her coat. ‘Fine. How many shots do I have?’

  ‘Enough to take out a couple of hedge-fund managers if you have any left over,’ Jason replied. ‘Just don’t shoot anywhere close to Lockie.’

  They dropped her at a roundabout at the western edge of Heron Quays. From there, Cara made her way east, following the route of the Docklands Light Railway. She saw only three boats, none of which struck her as plausible locations for Kite. The first two were houseboats with hipsters on deck eating organic crisps and necking craft lager; the third was a ‘party boat’ hosting a corporate shindig. Music was booming out into the night and there were disco lights flashing in the windows.

  She passed a Hilton hotel, heading for a small area beside South Quay station where satellite imaging had identified three possible vessels docked on either side of a narrow harbour. Jason was in her ear telling STONES and KAISER that the Lebanese superyacht was ‘a dead end’. KAISER said he was going to take a look at a large ship moored opposite a branch of Burger & Lobster in West India Quay.

  Cara had reached the entrance to the station and crossed the road when her phone rang. She looked down and saw that Vosse was trying to reach her. She picked up, mentally preparing herself for a blast of invective.

  ‘Sir?’ she said tentatively.

  That was when she saw Lachlan Kite.

  60

  Torabi had led Kite to the entrance of the ship. He pulled a warped wooden door towards him, struggling as it jammed. Feeble street light filtered in from outside as the door finally opened. A sudden burst of fresh air kindled a fire inside Kite; once he was away from the ship, his options would multiply. Torabi climbed a short flight of steps, ducked down and unzipped a canopy; it was as if they were inside a tent. There was a strong smell of paint thinners and diesel. Torabi told Kite to wait behind him on a section of deck which felt sticky and uneven underfoot. When the Iranian was certain that the coast was clear, he waved Kite forward saying: ‘It’s fine. Let’s go.’

  They emerged into the night. Kite looked up and was astonished to find that they were on the Isle of Dogs. Sixteen years earlier, the headquarters of BOX 88 had been moved from west London to an anonymous high-rise in Canary Wharf. The new Cathedral was almost within sight of the barge where Kite had been held prisoner. Across an expanse of blackened water was a glittering skyline of towering apartment blocks and corporate towers. Judging by the full illumination of the buildings and the density of passing traffic, Kite guessed that it was no later than nine o’clock in the evening. He had been on the barge for about thirty-six hours. That MI5 had failed to find him in that time was both a tribute to Torabi’s professionalism and proof that even the most sophisticated state-of-the-art technology would buckle in the presence of old-fashioned tradecraft.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, feigning ignorance. The barge was moored opposite three other vessels in a narrow rectangular inlet. A vast tarpaulin had been hauled across it, heavy enough when combined with the noise in the local area to have smothered the sound of the gunshots. ‘Is that Canary Wharf?’

  ‘South Quay,’ Torabi replied, securing the door. ‘The station is just over there.’

  He indicated a Docklands Light Railway line running overhead a hundred metres to the south. Kite assumed that Torabi wouldn’t risk the CCTV on a train and instead had a car waiting for him on the road. To get to it, he was going to have to move from the relative seclusion of the inlet onto a pedestrianised walkway, risking exposure and possible attack in the open.

  ‘How many of you are left?’ Kite asked.

  ‘Enough,’ Torabi replied.

  ‘Are you all registered with the Iranian embassy?’

  Torabi looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘You know why. I can arrange immunity. You release Isobel, you see your father, you can all be on a plane to Tehran in twelve hours.’

  ‘We no longer work for the Iranian government.’

  Kite had not expected such a candid reply, but it matched his assumption that Kamran, Hossein and the other goons in Torabi’s employ were hired mercenaries, not operational MOIS.

  ‘So it’s just you and me out here?’ he asked.

  The fact that Torabi ignored the question made Kite certain that he was working alone. Nobody was waiting for him on the outside, nobody else had emerged from the ship. All the Iranian seemed to care about was seeing his father. In that respect, he was going to be bitterly disappointed. They were standing beside a chain-link fence separating the barge from the walkway. Torabi had put the gun in the waistband of his trousers and was calling someone on a mobile.

  ‘Is that Hossein?’ Kite asked.

  Torabi ignored him. It looked as though he was waiting for somebody to answer the call. After thirty seconds he gave up. He wore a look of concentrated frustration.

  ‘Was that Hossein?’ Kite asked again. ‘Was that the cottage?’

  ‘Not your business who it was.’

  ‘They’re not answering, are they? You can’t get through.’ Was that good news or bad? ‘We don’t go to see your father until Hossein knows we have a deal.’

  ‘We are going to Marble Arch,’ Torabi told him. ‘We are going to see my father.’

  Then confirmation at last that MI5 had closed the net. As Torabi indicated that they should walk towards the station, Kite caught sight of ‘Emma’, the woman who had approached him at the funeral. She was standing seventy-five metres away on the road, holding a mobile phone. It wasn’t immediately clear that she had seen him. When she did, Kite hoped to God that she w
ould know what to do.

  61

  ‘This is Jannaway. I have positive ID on Kite. I say again, positive ID on Kite.’

  Cara had immediately hung up on Vosse and activated the commslink in her jacket. Her breathing had quickened. Kite was on the western side of the narrow harbour, clear as day, standing next to the Middle Eastern man from the funeral.

  ‘Seven zero metres from South Quay station, western side of the dock near a barge, possible enemy alongside.’

  ‘Copy that,’ said Jason.

  ‘Moving to you,’ said STONES.

  Cara heard a crackle of feedback in her earpiece – then the link went down.

  ‘Jason? KAISER? You there?’

  No response. She tried again.

  ‘He’s with the Middle Eastern guy from the funeral. The one in the car.’

  Nothing. The connection was down. Pulling the earpiece free, Cara looked to her phone, turning back to face the station in case the Iranian had spotted her. Vosse was trying her again. She rejected the call and pulled up Fred’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  ‘It’s Cara. My comms are down. I’m on the road beside South Quay station. Kite is below me on the dock with the guy from the funeral. Looks like it’s just the two of them.’

  ‘OK.’ Fred sounded very calm, very controlled. ‘I can see your position. I’ll let the others know. Stay on the line.’

  Cara heard a quick exchange between Fred and Jason on comms. Kite and the Iranian were moving towards her.

  ‘It’s just the two of them,’ she said. ‘They’re heading this way. There’s a kind of switchback ramp beside me leading down to the quay. They’ll be on the ramp in twenty seconds.’

  ‘Weapon?’ Fred asked. ‘Jason in one minute. He sees you.’

  ‘Not clear on weapon,’ Cara replied. ‘I’m going to bump him.’

  ‘You’re going to what?’

  She had no sense where the idea came from, no thought that she might be taking an unnecessary risk or endangering Kite by approaching him. Cara intuited that Isobel was the key to the Iranian’s influence over Kite. He needed to know that she was safe.

  ‘Cara, there could be a weapon. Enemy could panic. Do not engage. I say again, do not engage.’

  Kite and the Iranian were now less than ten metres away at the bottom of the ramp. Cara began to walk towards them. She moved along the first section of the ramp, turned at a concrete wall and continued until Kite was passing her on the opposite side of a thin dividing rail. She was still connected to Fred on the phone.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said, flashing Kite a startled smile. ‘I’ve just run into a friend.’

  62

  ‘Emma’ was standing at the top of a switchback ramp fifty metres ahead of Kite. As the only member of the Security Service who could positively identify Ramin Torabi, she had evidently been sent to look for him. She appeared to be looking down at the line of barges moored on the eastern side of the inlet.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Kite asked.

  Emma was speaking to someone on the phone. She turned her back and faced the station. Kite was certain that she had spotted him.

  ‘To the street,’ Torabi replied.

  There were two ways to reach the road: by walking up a flight of steps fifty feet to the west or via a ramp directly ahead. Torabi was heading for the ramp. As they reached it, Emma turned and began to walk towards them, still talking animatedly on the phone. Kite looked around for surveillance personnel but could not tell who else was on him. There were at least forty pedestrians on the walkway, more on the road above. Emma was chatting away, as if to a friend or colleague, but it was surely just cover behaviour. When they were no more than a metre apart, on parallel sections of the ramp, she suddenly stopped and flashed Kite a stunned, fancy-seeing-you-here smile. He heard her say: ‘Hang on a minute, I’ve just run into a friend.’ Then she lowered the phone.

  ‘Lachlan?’

  Kite stopped beside her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Cara. From the funeral yesterday. Do you remember?’

  She was very good – surprised, lively, making apologetic eye contact with Torabi – but the Iranian would surely know that the meeting was not a coincidence. He looked at both of them quickly.

  ‘Oh yes! Cara.’ Smart of her to have dispensed with the Emma alias. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ she replied. Kite could see that she was trying to work out if Torabi was carrying a weapon. ‘Do you live around here?’

  Kite shook his head and put a hand on Torabi’s shoulder, as if to reassure him that there was no need to panic. ‘This is my friend, Ramin. Ramin, this is Cara.’ Kite tried to indicate with his eyes that Torabi held all the cards, loading his next remark with what he hoped would be an obvious code. ‘We’re actually in a bit of a hurry, shooting off somewhere.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It worked. Cara understood what he was trying to do. As they were passing one another she found a way to bring everything to an end.

  ‘Well it was nice to bump into you again,’ she said. ‘Weirdly I’ve just come from seeing your wife. We had a meeting in Canary Wharf. She was in a really good mood. Are you on your way to see her?’

  It was all Kite needed. No sooner was the question out of Cara’s mouth than he slammed his elbow into Torabi’s chest, striking him with such force that the Iranian doubled over, gasping for air. Two young runners were coming up the ramp behind him, iPads strapped to their biceps. When they saw what Kite had done, they immediately turned around and jogged off in the opposite direction. Kite reached behind Ramin and seized the gun from the waistband of his trousers, pocketing it with the speed and dexterity of a close-up magician. He then grabbed the panting Iranian around the chest, whispering: ‘It’s all right, you’re OK, Ramin. Take a deep breath’ while pushing a thumb into the pressure point at the base of his neck. Cara moved closer as Kite shuffled Torabi towards the wall. The Iranian was still trying to catch his breath. It sounded as though he was choking.

  ‘Is he all right?’ An old woman had passed them on the ramp.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Cara replied, beaming her widest smile. ‘Too much to drink.’

  Kite made a face at the old woman, as if to confirm this. She looked at Torabi. His frightened eyes were so dizzied, so shocked, that it might almost have been the truth. She walked off.

  ‘We all OK here?’

  Jason Franks was beside them. Kite wondered how the hell Jason and Cara had got together.

  ‘We’re fine, Jase,’ he replied. ‘We need to move.’

  ‘Vehicle on the road,’ the American replied, pulling Torabi’s hands behind his back and cuffing his wrists. ‘Let’s go.’

  On the road above them, somebody leaned on a horn. Kite encouraged Torabi to come with him and they walked back up the ramp.

  ‘My father,’ he groaned, breathing more easily. ‘You promised me.’

  Jason was on one side of him, Kite on the other. A pedestrian passed them on a Boris bike, weaving from the pavement onto the road to avoid hitting them. Kite recognised a BOX 88 driver – Pete Thompson – at the wheel of a Jaguar parked illegally in front of the station. There was a Mercedes immediately behind it with STONES at the wheel, KAISER standing alongside. Cara opened the back door of the Jag and they bundled Torabi into the back seat. Thompson had activated LED lights in the front and rear so that it looked as though two plain-clothes police officers were putting a suspect in the back of an unmarked car. Kite glanced up towards the station and saw someone filming what was happening on a mobile.

  ‘Phone across the street,’ he said to KAISER. ‘Two o’clock. Get it.’

  KAISER immediately crossed the road, flashed a badge ID and took the phone from the startled pedestrian. Cara sat in the front seat.

  ‘Where’s Isobel?’ Kite asked, closing the back door.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Cara replied. ‘Rita is with her. Everything’s cool.’

  Kite looked at Jason as if to say: How the hell does sh
e know Rita? Thompson was already on the move, the Mercedes tucking in behind them.

  ‘The baby?’ Kite asked.

  Torabi tried to free his hands, swearing in Farsi. Jason put him in a headlock.

  ‘Also fine,’ said Cara. ‘We can call them.’

  ‘Who do we have here?’ Jason asked, squeezing Torabi’s neck as the Jaguar made a fast turn in the road. ‘His friends made a mess of your house.’

  ‘His name is Ramin Torabi,’ Kite replied. He indicated to Cara that he wanted to speak to Isobel. She passed him the phone, redialling the number she had used to speak to Fred.

  ‘This will connect you.’

  Kite sat back in the seat, listening to the number ringing out. He turned to see if the Jaguar was being followed. Thompson reassured him they were clean.

  ‘And where are we taking him?’ Jason asked, releasing Torabi so that he bounced back into the centre of the seat like a crash test dummy.

  ‘Cathedral,’ said Kite.

  63

  Ramin Torabi was put into a secure, soundproofed room at The Cathedral and left alone. He was given food and water. The Iranian was still under the impression that his father was alive and well and living in Marble Arch and was therefore not considered a suicide risk.

  Rita drove Isobel to London from the hospital in Sussex where she had received a clean bill of health. Kite was reunited with her shortly after midnight at a BOX 88 apartment in Canary Wharf. Rather than talk long into the night, they both fell into a deep sleep, Kite slipping away at dawn so that he could return to The Cathedral and begin to address the myriad problems which had arisen as a consequence of their respective ordeals.

  He left his wife a note, trusting that she would understand why he could not spend the day with her.

  Thank God you are safe (and Rambo). You mustn’t worry about the future. I promise you’ll both be safe. What happened will never happen again. I’ll make sure of it.

  I’ve gone to the office. Back this evening. Let’s have dinner at Gaucho and talk. Call me if you need anything. There’s a woman in the flat next door, Catherine, who works for us. Dial 12 on the phone. Food, clothes, books, newspapers – whatever you need, she’ll get it. You just have to ask.

 

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