Red Notice Page 5

  The woman slowed her pace as the two officers approached them. Her daughter gave her an uncertain look.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lilya.’ The man squeezed her hand. ‘Policemen here are not like the ones at home. Give them a nice smile. Now, let’s keep moving. We don’t want to miss that ice-cream, do we?’

  The policemen’s instructions were to be on the alert for a solitary six-foot male of East European appearance, in his mid-thirties, of slim build with pale complexion and dark brown hair. A frail old man in a wheelchair, clutching his granddaughter’s hand, barely merited a second glance. He hardly looked strong enough to keep his thick, black-framed glasses perched on his aquiline nose.

  They gave the anxious-looking woman a polite nod and carried on up the street, their gaze raking the gardens to either side. Rotors chopped the air above them as a police helicopter swooped overhead and began to hover over the edge of the Heath, dominating the sky to prevent the media getting any closer to the incident.

  15

  JOCKEY’S CREW WERE on their way. Tom and the rest of the Blue team filed back into the holding area – the school gym that had been commandeered for resting, feeding and rehearsal.

  He pulled the respirator from his face, leaving an angry red weal where the sealing band had fitted tight against his skin. His hair and forehead were streaked with sweat.

  The general hum was that the man down had been stabilized and was in hospital. The world didn’t collapse because one of them got zapped. It was what sometimes happened; Davy, the man down, knew that as much as anyone. He’d been on a raid to capture insurgents just outside Baghdad when one of the team had taken a round that had carved a big chunk out of his stomach. The wound was big, wet and bloody, but Davy had thought he was looking too good as they flew back into the Green Zone. Tom had watched him give the boy a couple of kicks so the pain would show in the pictures he was taking for the squadron office. They now had pride of place dead centre of the photo board.

  Tom unloaded his ARWEN and the Sig 9mm pistol on his belt and slid them, with their unspent rounds, into his ready-bag, alongside the party gear that made up his assault kit.

  The others followed suit, changing into civvies for the drive back to Hereford. They compared notes on the operation and subjected each other to the usual merciless banter.

  Tom peeled off his jacket and shirt and tore open his body armour. The rip of Velcro straps sounded like a chorus of jungle frogs.

  ‘I dropped him.’ Keenan stretched out his arm and drew an imaginary sight picture on a tree beyond the holding area. ‘Sweet.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, tidy darts, mate.’ Bryce was checking that the MOE (method of entry) kit had all been loaded onto the white Transit. ‘But Tom gets tonight’s star prize – for giving one to the Barbie.’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Vatu, a huge Fijian with a flamboyant moustache, was inside the vehicle, stowing boxes. ‘If she’d detonated that belly-rig, Tom would have been asking God for the name of his tailor, and the rest of us would have been picking her pubes out of our teeth for weeks.’

  Jockey’s team had just entered the holding area. ‘A needle’s the only thing Tom gets to stick into girls.’ The trademark Glaswegian growl made even the most innocent remark sound like a threat. Especially when his red, sweat-covered face looked like it’d just spent a week in a sauna.

  Tom laughed. ‘You’d know all about needles, Jockey. Drugging them’s the only way you get any.’

  ‘Yes, and I won't give you the benefit of my expertise unless you sing it for me. Come on, you know you love it.’

  Right on cue, Tom’s mobile phone sparked up inside his ready-bag, its ringtone the chorus of ‘The Eton Boating Song’ that Jockey kept downloading onto it whenever he got the chance. Tom held it towards the Scotsman, conducting the ringtone choir expansively with his other hand. He checked the number and moved a little away from the others to take the call.

  ‘Delphine . . . We’re just wrapping up now. We’ve been on a job.’

  ‘I know. I ’ave just seen the news.’ Her French accent still blew him away. ‘They said there was a massive gas explosion on the Heath, but I saw the Range Rovers. Are you still there?’

  Eighteen months they’d been going out, and even hearing her on a mobile made him go weak at the knees. ‘You know I can’t answer that, don’t you?’

  ‘Not even that? How could that possibly be a secret? This drives me mad.’ There was an echoing silence at the end of the line. ‘I love you, Tom. But I hate you.’

  ‘Fun, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not any more,’ she said wearily. ‘It was once, but not any more. Are you not even allowed to tell me if you’re OK? That’s why I called. Or is that a state secret too?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘And will you be back soon?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll drive to Hereford, sort the kit, quick debrief and shower. I should be ready by about eight.’ He dropped his voice and switched to French. ‘Delphine, you know I can’t wait to see you. And I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  His mates nudged each other and inched towards him, trying to overhear what he was saying.

  ‘We will see.’ She paused before switching back to English. He heard her voice soften. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘What? I wish . . .’

  ‘Not you.’ Her voice was still smooth and welcoming. ‘I was talking to a guest. I have to go now, but you will be here, won’t you? You promise? I need to talk to you. It is important.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I promise,’ Jockey said, mincing around with his hand on his hip.

  ‘Don’t believe him, love,’ Bryce shouted. ‘He’ll promise anything to get into your pants.’

  ‘I have to go,’ Delphine said. ‘But we need to talk. I’ll see you tonight.’ There was a click as she broke the connection.

  Tom glared at Jockey. ‘Didn’t your mummy tell you it was rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?’

  ‘No,’ Jockey said. ‘She was far too busy pouring supermarket vodka down her neck and ripping the heads off parking meters. But listening to you talking there showed me why I should’ve stayed in school.’ He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. ‘I really envy you, mate. I missed out big-time.’

  Tom furrowed his brow, not sure if this was genuine or just another wind-up. ‘No, you didn’t, you mad Scotsman. You can still wear that skirt and pretend to be Monarch of the Glen.’

  ‘I’m serious, mate. You’ve got the ability to punch well above your weight.’ Jockey’s face creased into a grin. ‘Shit, the moment you fucking start with that parlay-voo business I’d fucking shag you myself. If I wasn’t afraid of catching something.’

  Tom deleted the ringtone for the hundredth time. ‘Don’t worry, Jockey, you can’t catch intelligence.’ He shoved his mobile into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Cunt.’ Jockey threw his respirator at Tom’s head.

  Tom swerved out of the way, like a boxer riding a punch, as Gavin walked into the holding area to see what stage of the pack-up-and-fuck-off routine the team had reached.

  ‘Right, listen in!’ He had to shout to get everyone’s attention. ‘We’re not on island time so get a bloody move on. I want the Range Rovers out first, then the Transits, all at five-minute intervals. No speeding, no blue lights. Just get out of here ASAP before the ladies and gentlemen of the media find out who and where we are. They’re sniffing around out there already.’ He paused. ‘And Posh Lad here needs to stop and buy the woman of his sticky little dreams a bunch of flowers from motorway services. It’ll do her a power of good.’

  Tom gave him a pitying look. ‘And you wonder why your wife burned all your clothes?’

  Tom and Gavin jumped into one of the black Range Rovers at the rear of the holding area and moved off, followed at intervals by the rest of the convoy.

  As they cut through West Hampstead, heading towards the motorway, they drove past a dry-cleaner’s. A handwritten sign in the w
indow announced: ‘BACK IN 20 MINUTES. SORRY IF PROBLEM.’

  16

  THE WOMAN LEANED on the handles of the wheelchair to lift its front wheels clear of the step, then heaved and pushed it into the shop. She locked the door and knelt down behind the counter. ‘I have what you wanted.’

  She produced a bundle from a lower shelf, stripped away the polythene wrapping and held up a set of grimy, well-worn overalls.

  He nodded. ‘Exactly what I wanted. Thank you.’

  ‘If you want to try them on, you can use the room upstairs.’

  He looked over his shoulder, checked that the street outside was empty, then threw aside the blanket.

  He towered above the woman. She was in awe. The stories she had heard about him must be true.

  ‘Will you be needing the wheelchair again?’

  ‘I think it has served its purpose now. Thank you again for your help.’

  ‘It’s an honour to be of service to you, Mr Antonov.’ She blushed as she spoke. ‘May I call you Laszlo?’

  He smiled, as if he was giving a polite child the OK to take a sweet from the tin.

  ‘My friends will be so jealous when I tell them . . .’

  The smile faded.

  ‘I’m sorry, Laszlo.’ Fear was the overriding emotion now. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Obviously I won’t breathe a word to anyone . . . until I know that you are safely out of this country and back in our beloved homeland once more.’

  ‘Of course,’ Laszlo said. ‘I understand. Don’t alarm yourself.’ The smile was back, but there was a coldness in his eyes.

  She found herself reaching out a hand to her daughter and pulling her close.

  Laszlo walked to the front window of the shop and looked up and down the deserted street. When he finally turned back to face them, he raised his arms invitingly. ‘Lilya, are you ready for that ice-cream?’ He smacked his lips. ‘And what is your favourite flavour?’

  ‘Chocolate!’ She hesitated. ‘But I thought you said you had a little job to do first . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes, that little job. You’re right, I should attend to that, shouldn’t I? I’ll do it now.’ But he made no move, still staring at the two of them.

  There was an unnatural stillness in the room, the only sound or movement a fly buzzing at a window pane.

  Realization began to dawn in the woman’s eyes. ‘Darling,’ she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. ‘Run upstairs and play with your Game Boy for a while. The gentleman needs to talk to me about something . . . something private. Quickly now.’

  The child faltered, puzzled by her mother’s sudden look of desperation. ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ her mother said. ‘Just go.’

  There was a note in her voice that her daughter hadn’t heard before. She looked from her to Laszlo, then turned, Game Boy clutched in her hand, and began to make her way towards the stairs.

  There was a strange noise from behind her, almost like a closing door, followed by a dull thud. She turned back and her eyes widened. Her mother lay sprawled on the floor, her head surrounded by a spreading crimson corona. A neat hole had been punched above her eyebrow, but the exit wound at the rear of her skull was the size of a teacup.

  The child swung to face Laszlo and saw through her tears that the snub nose of his silenced revolver was now pointing at her. The barrel kicked twice. The Game Boy flew from her hand as she fell beside her mother. She didn’t hear it land.

  His movements still slow and unhurried, Laszlo turned to the window and again checked the street. He made certain the shop door was locked then tore down the back-in-twenty note and turned the permanent sign to Closed. Taking hold of the woman by the ankles, he pulled her body along the floor to the back room, her hair smearing the floor with blood, like a mop. He dragged her daughter through as well, then ripped a freshly cleaned woollen coat from its hanger and used it to wipe away any blood that was visible from the pavement.

  Laszlo climbed the stairs to the tiny room above the shop. He boiled the kettle and made himself some black tea. Rejecting the Mr Men yoghurts, he ate some bread and cheese from the fridge, then turned on the television and tuned it to a news channel. He settled on the cheap vinyl sofa, brushing aside the kapok stuffing that spilled from one of its seams.

  The lead item on the bulletin focused on the mysterious explosions that had rocked a Victorian mansion at the edge of Hampstead Heath. A police spokesman, reading from his notes in the Robocop-speak that police media-training courses had apparently been unable to eliminate, said that there had been no terrorist incident: a gas leak was thought to have been the cause of the blasts. As a precaution, the neighbouring houses had been evacuated. But the media weren’t buying it. Their aerial cameras showed the police cordon that had taken just minutes to get into position, and they broadcast eye witness reports of men dressed, as one middle-aged woman put it, ‘like those SAS chaps’.

  A slow smile spread across Laszlo’s face.

  A succession of would-be customers tried the shop door and went away again. One particularly persistent one kept banging on the glass. The letterbox gave a metallic rattle. ‘I know you’re in there,’ an irate male voice yelled. ‘I can see the TV through the upstairs window. I’ve got an important event tonight and I need my dinner jacket.’

  At first Laszlo ignored him. As the banging grew louder, he moved quietly to the head of the stairs and waited. There was more furious shouting and banging on the door but then he heard retreating footsteps, the slam of a car door and a squeal of tyres.

  Laszlo walked back into the room and switched off the TV. He selected a SIM card from several he had in his jacket pocket, put it into his mobile phone and made a call. He spoke in Russian to his little brother. There was affection in his voice, something no one but Sambor had heard since the deaths of their mother and father. They exchanged pleasantries before getting down to business.

  ‘I have been compromised.’ Laszlo brushed aside Sambor’s concern. ‘It is not a problem, brother. I am OK. We have to move the plan forward. We start tomorrow morning.’

  Laszlo listened as his brother confirmed that everyone was now in place, and fully prepared. Sambor thanked him for keeping his promise.

  After breaking the connection Laszlo took out the SIM card, cut it into four pieces with the kitchen scissors and flushed it down the toilet. Then he swung his legs up on the sofa, closed his eyes and settled down to wait.

  17

  DELPHINE HAD PUT her hair in a loose ponytail and worn a tunic dress in jade green silk for her first date with Tom.

  ‘You look absolutely stunning,’ Moira had said, as she stood in front of the mirror, checking her own hair. ‘But might you not be a little . . . over-dressed? You don’t know where he’s taking you, do you?’ They both heard the throaty sound of a motorbike engine outside. ‘Or how you’re going to get there . . .’

  Delphine went to answer the door, and found Tom wearing his usual jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ he said, then sheepishly held out a motorcycle helmet to her. ‘Er, did I forget to mention I’d be picking you up on my bike?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I get motion sickness in cars.’

  Tom wasn’t sure if she was just trying to be nice. He drank up every detail of her happy, smiling face.

  ‘And I used to ride a moped all the time in Nice.’

  ‘Um . . . I’m afraid Hereford isn’t the South of France.’

  She flashed him a dazzling smile. ‘That’s true in so many more ways than you can imagine.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ he said. ‘But right now I’m just worried about the temperature.’

  ‘Shall I change?’

  He shook his head. ‘Wear my jacket over your dress. I’ll be fine in my T-shirt – it’s a warm night, by Hereford standards anyway.’

  She slid onto the pillion seat of Tom’s new BMW GS1200, leaned into his back and put her arms around him as he twisted the throttle, gu
nned the engine and pulled out of the car park. As he accelerated, weaving the bike through the sparse evening traffic, she clung tightly to him, feeling the hard muscle of his body against her arms and chest.

  He took her to a gastro-pub in Fownhope, a village a few minutes outside town. The knowing look the waiter gave him as he showed them to a corner table suggested to Delphine that she wasn’t the first girl he’d taken there.

  She’d expected him to dominate the conversation, spinning yarns of countries he’d seen and battles he’d fought. After all, wasn’t that what soldiers did? But she was wrong. As they talked over dinner, she was surprised to find that he was attentive and interested in her, asking her a string of questions about herself and her life before she’d come to Hereford.

  After a while she began to wonder if it reflected genuine interest in her or was more a tactic to stop her asking him too much about his own life.

  ‘You’re not very forthcoming about yourself, are you, Tom?’

  ‘I guess it’s the way all of us are,’ he said. ‘Everything we do at work is on a need-to-know basis – if you don’t need to know, then you don’t get told.’

  Delphine smiled. ‘I wasn’t planning to torture you and I don’t want to know any state secrets. I’m just interested in you. But if you don’t want to tell me, or you’re too shy . . . though I’d find that hard to believe . . .’

  Tom’s discomfort was already showing. Delphine momentarily glimpsed the little boy hiding inside the man. ‘I thought resistance to interrogation was something you had to learn for work, not for when you’re out with a friend.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Just a friend?’

  ‘For the moment, yes. Later on, well . . . who knows? But what’s that English phrase? Let’s not run before we can walk?’

  She’d been determined not to sleep with him that first time. Not because of any old-fashioned morality – she wasn’t saving herself for her wedding night – she just didn’t want to be another notch on a regimental bedpost. But at the end of the evening it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to go back to his house with him. It wasn’t even discussed: they both knew that was the way it was going to be.