Dance With the Enemy (20 page)

The driver’s door was unlocked. He climbed in and had a quick look in the ignition and behind the sun-visor. No keys. Hurriedly he began to expose the wires underneath the steering column. If he was quick, he’d only be a few hundred yards behind Selim’s van. He would catch them up. They were in a worn-out panel van, versus this virtually new car. He would catch them up.

He had to.

The tremors in his hands were so bad now that he struggled to even grip the wires, let alone stick them together. He knew, though, that the shaking was as much anticipation and excitement as anxiety.

After what seemed like an eternity, it finally worked. The engine came to life. He couldn’t help but smile. He reached out for the handle of the open door.

But then hesitated.

What about Grainger? Could he just leave her there alone?

He’d been so hell-bent on getting Selim, he hadn’t even thought about her.

But she would be fine, wouldn’t she? She was with two subdued men. One had been tortured and was tied to a chair. The other had taken a slug in the gut. He was pretty sure she could handle those two.

But what if there was someone else in there? What if they’d deliberately tried to draw Grainger and Logan outside so that they could go back and finish off Blakemore? Surely there were more than just four men in that house?

No, Grainger was a trained FBI agent – she could handle herself, Logan concluded. She would understand. He couldn’t let Selim get away. Nor Modena. That was what this was about, after all.

Three gunshots rang out, loud and clear. They made Logan jump.

They’d come from back inside the house.

And that was enough to make up his mind.

He knew what he had to do. He shut down the engine and rushed back toward the house.

As he entered the house, Logan was regretting having so hastily fired at Selim’s departing van. He had no more clips on him, so was going back into the house unarmed. Despite his Beretta being empty, though, he would at least have the opportunity to bluff should he come face to face with an attacker, so he kept his weapon drawn.

Logan had heard three shots in total: two in quick succession, followed by a third moments later. It was hard to tell but he had guessed that all three shots had been from handguns. But he didn’t know whether one or more guns had fired the shots. He could feel the pit of his stomach churning and realised it was out of concern for Grainger. He had no idea who had been shooting, or whether or not Grainger was in trouble.

Approaching the corner of the hallway, he paused, listening for any clues as to who or what might be around the corner. But other than the sound of the breeze coming through the open back door, there was complete silence.

He risked a peek. The man Grainger had shot minutes earlier was still sprawled on the floor, a pool of blood now stretching out underneath his lifeless body. Nothing unexpected there; a shot in the gut would result in a big loss of blood, enough to kill you itself even if the bullet hadn’t damaged any other organs. But what
was
strange was the neat, circular hole in his forehead, from which a line of blood was worming its way down the side of the man’s face. And the handgun that lay on the floor, just inches from his right hand.

Slowly Logan moved towards the man, picked up the blood-soaked handgun and trod around the blood pool to reach the office door. He wiped the gun clean with his jumper. It still had bullets in it, so unless it had somehow been flooded by the blood, it should still work. In any case, it was a better option than bluffing with a gun he knew for sure was empty.

Leaning against the wall, only inches from the doorway, he heard movement coming from inside the office. It could be Grainger, but it could just as easily be someone else. He waited for it to go quiet, then, without looking, tossed his empty Beretta into the room. He had aimed for the far corner, behind the desk that was in the centre of the room, hoping that the noise would cause a distraction. The gun clattered as it hit the ground, followed a split second later by more movement, a nervous exhale. With any luck, whoever was in there had just had the fright of their lives and was now looking away from the door.

Logan moved into the doorway, gun raised. Then stopped in his tracks when the cold steel of a gun barrel was pushed against his temple. His brain was still trying to work out what was happening when she spoke.

‘Logan?’

It was Grainger. She lowered her gun.

‘You’re lucky I didn’t just shoot you!’ she shouted.

‘Ditto,’ he said, lowering his acquired gun and turning to face her.

‘I would have done too, without even looking,’ she said. ‘But I guessed it might be you. You gave me quite a scare, though.’

‘I thought you were in trouble,’ he said, moving away from her, further into the room.

‘What kind of cheap trick is that anyway? Throwing your gun into the room? What, was I supposed to be distracted or something? They need to teach you guys some new tricks.’

Logan laughed, embarrassed more than anything. But as he turned back to face her, he saw that Grainger wasn’t smiling. She looked concerned.

‘What happened?’ he said.

‘He’s dead.’

She walked up to Blakemore, who was still strapped to the
chair. Logan only now noticed that he was covered in blood; he had a hole in his leg, shoulder and one in his chest. This wasn’t good. Not at all. Blakemore would have been a key asset. May have known exactly where Selim was going with Modena.

‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him!’ Logan snapped, well aware that he hadn’t actually told Grainger to do that, but unable to hide his frustration, as much with the situation as with her.

‘Nice to know you’re concerned for me.’ She indicated to the man out in the corridor. ‘He pulled a handgun from nowhere. He was probably shooting at me, not Blakemore,’ she said. ‘Luckily for me, the guy couldn’t shoot straight, him being half dead and all. Still, he managed to get two shots off before I put him down for good.’

‘What, you didn’t check that he was dead? And where’s his rifle gone?’

‘His rifle is right here,’ she snapped, pointing over to the weapon, which was propped up against the wall next to the door. ‘I didn’t want anyone else getting it. And no, I didn’t check that he was dead. Did you?’

‘No,
I
went to try to get Modena.’

‘No.
You
went out for Selim,’ she shouted, angrily pointing a finger at him. ‘You left me here on my own.’

Logan turned away from her and moved over to Blakemore’s dead body. He crouched down, inspecting the damage. There was a distressed, pleading stare etched onto the face of the corpse. Logan knew little about the man he had been, but he was sure he had suffered horribly before his death.

‘I thought you could handle yourself,’ Logan said.

‘What, haven’t you noticed? I can. Still here, aren’t I?’

He didn’t want to argue with her and knew that Blakemore being dead wasn’t really her fault. It was just a bitter pill to swallow. They’d been so close to Selim, to Modena, to Blakemore. And they’d wound up losing all three of them. It was hard to take.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, getting back to his feet and stepping up to her. She didn’t move from the spot, but turned her head away from him. ‘It’s just …’

‘No need to explain,’ she said. ‘I’m feeling the frustration just as much as you.’

Logan wasn’t sure that she was. That she could. For him, it was personal. For her, this was just her job. An assignment.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, reaching out and putting a conciliatory hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re all right. You did good.’

His genuine apology seemed to lift her, and she turned her head back to look at him, giving a meek smile.

For the first time, Logan noticed a third body in a heap in the far corner of the office. The blotchy trail of blood that led to it, and the body’s ungainly position, suggested the man had been killed by the door before his body had been dumped there. Logan moved over to him and turned him over. He recognised that it was the big man who had loaded Modena into the van earlier. Presumably one of Blakemore’s men: the victim of the first gunshots they had heard when they were still in the garden.

‘Come on,’ Logan said. ‘We need to check this place out, make sure it’s safe.’

‘Agreed.’

They set off one after the after, guns drawn, and spent the next ten minutes searching the house, going into each of the many rooms. They found the property’s vast wine cellar, a closed-off portion of which it appeared had been used to house Modena. And it was clear from the state of the bedrooms that Blakemore had been accommodating a whole host of people recently. But other than the three bodies downstairs, Logan and Grainger were now alone.

As they headed back toward the office, Logan looked closely at the man Grainger had shot, the one out in the hallway. He must have been one of Selim’s men. Logan saw for the first time just how young he was. He couldn’t have been far out of his teens.

In a strange way, Logan felt some sympathy towards him. Their lives may not have been that different at one time. Selim and the other terrorist recruiters worked off a simple and well-oiled model: they took young, disillusioned males, indoctrinated them, radicalised them; gave them a sense of importance and something worth living and dying for. Cradling a dying friend in his arms at seventeen, Logan had been just about as lost and disillusioned as anyone could be, until Mackie had given him a reason to live: trained him to give his all for the cause, to die for
his job and his country; taught him a sense of right and wrong, us versus them.

Was he really so different to this young man who had been recruited and trained by Selim?

Perhaps it was possible that Logan as a young, lost man could have been swayed by someone like Selim. But not anymore. He did at least believe in what the JIA stood for. What Selim stood for – advocating the murder of innocent people – Logan could never tolerate.

Logan walked back into the office. Grainger was standing by the desk, next to Blakemore’s body.

‘Did you get a chance to talk to him?’ he said to Grainger, his voice calmer, less critical now. ‘Did he say anything at all?’

‘No. He didn’t say a word. They’d tortured him pretty badly. Just look at him.’

She wasn’t wrong. Selim had gone to town on Blakemore. He was missing both of his thumbs, cut off right at the knuckle. Both of his feet were bare and looked like they’d been smashed to pieces, holding little shape or sense of structure. And it was evident he’d taken quite a beating; his face was a big, red, swollen mess.

‘Why would they do that to him?’ Grainger said, clearly disgusted by the brutality in evidence in front of her.

Her tone suggested it was a rhetorical question and Logan didn’t bother to answer. He’d seen worse, but he’d no doubt that Selim had only just got started when he’d been interrupted. This would just be foreplay for Selim.

‘Do you think they were trying to get information out of him?’ Grainger asked.

‘Maybe. Or maybe Selim just wasn’t happy not being in full control,’ he said. ‘So he took it back. The question is, why now? Why not yesterday, two days ago or in two days’ time? There has to be a reason he did it now. They had Modena in the van, ready to move. Something happened here. Something we’re not seeing.’

‘There’s a lot we’re not seeing,’ Grainger conceded.

‘Selim must only have had minutes with Blakemore. The wounds are all fresh. We heard the gunshots that killed that guy over there and the one that’s in Blakemore’s leg. Selim wouldn’t have worked so quickly unless he was after something. Blakemore had something he wanted. And he wanted it in a hurry.’

‘Well, they already had Modena. He was safely in the van before we heard any shots.’

‘You’re right. So Blakemore had something else.’

‘Like what?’

‘Money,’ Logan said. The look on Grainger’s face suggested she didn’t agree.

‘Seems to fit if you ask me,’ Logan stated. ‘I think Selim crossed Blakemore. Not just because he wanted Modena for himself, but because he wanted to make sure he got Blakemore’s cut as well.’

‘It sounds good, but that’s all dependent on Blakemore being behind Modena’s kidnapping in the first place. How do you know it wasn’t Selim leading it from the get go?’

Which brought Logan right back to where he’d started. The kidnapping. Because if Selim had wanted to snatch someone, he would have done it his way with his own men. He didn’t need Blakemore or that big man, or Johnny or Lorik. Something else was at play. And Logan knew that one thing that could bring all such men together was money.

So who was paying? And for what?

‘We have to call this in,’ Grainger said, taking out her phone. ‘Get Forensics combing over this place. There must be some clues in here somewhere.’

Logan knew she was right; the house could be a goldmine of information. This was Blakemore’s home and his place of business; it would all be here.

‘Just give me a few minutes,’ Logan said, putting his weapon away for the first time, and moving over towards Grainger and the desk. ‘See if we can find anything in here. Diaries, address books – there might be something that can help us.’

‘You’ll get your prints everywhere,’ Grainger said, frowning. ‘How would I explain that?’

‘Are you worried that I’ll contaminate the scene or that you’ll have to explain who the mystery man is?’

‘The latter.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not like there’s a public record of who I am. And I’ve already left my prints in plenty of other places here. I’ll just go down as an unknown.’

‘The same unknown who visited Djourou? Who was in the car park yesterday? Who was here tonight? I think that’ll raise a few eyebrows, to say the least.’

‘I don’t see why. They’ll mark it up as another one of Blakemore’s men. Or Selim’s. And anyway, it’ll get sorted out in the end. My employers wouldn’t let my prints stay on that file.’

‘Why do I not doubt that?’

Logan moved over to the desk and started opening drawers and leafing through papers. He noticed that the tremors were still in his hands. They’d lasted longer this time than before. Seeing Selim had made them worse. They weren’t just in his hands; he could feel them running through his whole body. There was also a feeling of failure, of dejection.

He found a notebook and flipped through it. Grainger had gone over to the cabinet and was pulling open doors and drawers. But it was too much to expect that there would be a smoking gun right there in front of them. Logan was tempted to take away some of the documents and spend some more time going over the information. But he knew that could actually hamper the investigation. The key was having every last detail to work with. Some pieces of information, on their own, made no sense, were worthless. It was when they were combined with other information that they became key. Evidence analysis wasn’t Logan’s role, but he knew that taking away something now could harm that whole process. He would have to just hope the police put the required time and effort into it.

Actually, no. What he hoped for was that he found Selim way before that.

Just give me one more chance
, he thought.

‘Okay, we’re wasting time here,’ Logan said. ‘Let’s make a move. Are you calling it in?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What are you going to tell them?’

‘I assume that means you don’t want me to tell them the truth? About you, I mean?’

‘Can you do that for me?’

‘I can try.’

‘Thanks.’

He looked at his watch. It was not even three a.m. The sun wouldn’t be up for a few hours. He was reluctant to leave, knowing that the key to the whole kidnapping, to Selim’s whereabouts, could be right in front of him. But it was the only option.

‘Why don’t you make your call? I’ll go back for the car and pick you up out front.’