Gray Salvation (23 page)

His DNA would be everywhere, he knew, including under the woman’s fingernails and in the fibres of the bed sheets. That wasn’t so much of a worry. He’d never been arrested in his life, so the only match they’d find on any database throughout the world would be that found near the bodies of his other victims. The police would have another name to add to the growing list of dead whores, but they’d be no closer to identifying him.

He checked that he had his wallet, then pulled on the overcoat and stood in front of the mirror. He found that if he pulled the collar up around his face, the scars were hidden, and on such a cold evening it wouldn’t attract any attention.

Zhabin opened the hotel door a crack and listened for other guests, then stepped out into the deserted hallway, placing the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle. He could see the fire exit at the end of the short corridor, and was grateful to see that it wasn’t alarmed. He pushed through and out into the chilly evening, then descended the metal staircase and walked calmly out of the alley, his collar high against his cheekbones.

With any luck, the body wouldn’t be discovered for a couple of days, long after he’d flown home. If it were found any earlier, the disguise should keep the police occupied long enough for him to complete his mission and make his way to the airport, another German businessman on his way to the next international meeting.

Chapter 28

28 January 2016

When Ellis rolled into the office just after six in the morning, she was pleased to see three members of the team already hard at work.

Howes, Solomon and Bailey had done a sterling job of stepping up during such a difficult time, especially with so many experienced operatives out of action. Hamad Farsi’s recovery was coming along nicely, but it would be a long time before he would grace the office with his presence.

‘Morning, everyone,’ Ellis said, heading over to Solomon’s desk. ‘Any leads on our shooter?’

‘It’s slow-going,’ Solomon admitted. ‘We’ve got over two hundred known snipers around the world, and we’re trying to establish their whereabouts. So far we’ve crossed seventeen off the list, either dead or incarcerated, but it looks like time is not on our side.’

‘If he’s working for Bessonov, figure Russian or Eastern European.’

‘That’s where our focus is at the moment,’ Solomon told her. ‘Speaking of which, what news on Bessonov?’

‘Still not talking,’ Ellis said. ‘Somehow his lawyer got wind of the arrest and went to the police station. He advised his client not to say a word.’

‘Surely the evidence against him is enough to charge him, though?’

Ellis had thought so, too, but until the lab came back with a definite match on the blood samples it was a stand-off. She’d hoped to bring in the farmer and his sons to find out what links they had to Bessonov, but the police had made a gruesome discovery in the barn. The youngest Fletcher had reported his brother and father missing the day before, but it was only when a team of officers had turned up to conduct a search that their bodies were discovered. Despite intense questioning, though, the young farmer hadn’t been able to offer them anything they didn’t already know.

The gangster was thorough when it came to covering his tracks.

‘Shame we can’t beat a confession out of him,’ Bailey said. ‘If we could get him to give up the name of the sniper, I could go back to bed.’

‘Welcome to the real world, kid.’ Ellis turned to Solomon. ‘Let me know the moment you find a likely match.’

‘Will do. When does Andrew get back?’

‘His flight arrives just after five this evening,’ Ellis said. ‘I’ll be meeting him at Heathrow and going to the hospital with him. I’d like this resolved before then.’

She walked to her small office and unlocked the door, then booted up her computer and went to fetch a drink while it went through the security protocols.

One thought niggled her as she added powdered milk to her coffee:
Why a sniper?

From the start, SO1 had ruled the method out as an option, much as her own team had.

Back at her desk, she brought up the file containing Milenko’s itinerary. The president would be staying at Ambassador Greminov’s residence during his stay, and apart from the actual signing in two days’ time his only other engagement was a business banquet later that evening.

Ellis brought up Google Maps and dumped the Street View character outside the venue, then panned around looking for likely vantage points. Goosebumps crept up her arms as it struck her that on the opposite bank of the Thames stood a dozen large buildings, any of which would provide a perfect perch for a sharpshooter.

She picked up her desk phone and dialled the number for the commander of SO1.

‘Oscar, Veronica Ellis. Sorry to catch you so early, but I was working the sniper angle again and think I may have spotted his opportunity.’

‘If you’re going to say the buildings opposite the hotel where Milenko’s appearing tonight, we’ve got it covered.’

‘Oh . . .’ On reflection she should have expected it. The special-operations team hadn’t lost a single dignitary over the years, so of course they would have checked out all possible threats. It still seemed strange that they could be confident the entire southern bank was a sniper-free zone. ‘How will you manage to control such a large area?’

‘I won’t go into specifics,’ the commander said, ‘but we’ve had people on the doors of every building for the last twenty-four hours. No-one gets in unless they live there, and all guests have to be pre-registered with our men until midnight tonight. It’s a pain-in-the-arse job, and I wasn’t happy when they named the venue, but the hotel is co-owned by a minister and I bet they’re being paid handsomely to host the dinner.’

Typical
, Ellis thought. ‘I’d be grateful if you could send me a list of those names.’ Any new faces would be worth checking out, even if her counterpart thought he had all bases covered.

‘Okay, I’ll have it sent over later this morning.’

Ellis thanked him and hung up. Cross-referencing the names with known players might reveal a name they’d discounted. With time running out, they needed all the help they could get.

Ellis often wished MI5 investigations were as portrayed in the movies, where a neat sequence of clues ultimately led them to the bad guys in the nick of time, but the reality was that it was slow, painstaking work. Hundreds of man-hours spent in front of a computer, running algorithms and mining vast amounts of data were the tricks that kept the nation safe, not a single operative with a flashy car and a licence to kill.

She could have done with one now, though. Almost half of her team were hospitalised, just when she needed them most.

Richard Notley picked up the phone and dialled his office for the last time.

‘I won’t be in today,’ he said to the manager once they’d been connected. ‘I’ve got the flu.’

‘You don’t sound sick,’ the voice replied.

It was exactly the kind of reply Notley had expected. He’d hated Doug Massey from the moment they’d met. Massey had been transferred in from another branch in the accounting firm and was considered a go-getter among the higher management. Among the staff, he was considered a kiss-ass and control freak, and not a day went by without Massey berating someone for slovenly work, invented or actual.

‘Yeah well, I
feel
sick.’

‘You do realise we’ve got deadlines to meet, don’t you?’ Massey asked.

Notley couldn’t give a rat’s ass about deadlines. Today was to be his last on this miserable planet, his last day away from Marian. It made him glad that Massey was being his usual self.

‘Tell you what to do, Doug. Ask Helen to photocopy every one of my client sheets, then roll them up tightly and shove them up your arse.’

Notley put the phone down, the hint of a smile on his face. The perfect goodbye. Now he could concentrate on his preparations. The first order of the day was to take a shower, and he dwelled under the hot water for half an hour, letting the intense spray wash over him. He thought about Marian, as he did every day, and for the first time in weeks, a sense of calm overwhelmed him.

He would soon be with her again.

After dressing, he had a light breakfast, and then drove to the high street, where he purchased a bouquet of lilies from the florist. From there, it was a twenty-minute drive to the cemetery.

Marian’s grave was situated near a fence, and to the right of it was an empty plot. He’d purchased them both after her death, so that he could be buried next to her when his time came.

That time was drawing near.

‘I got you these,’ Notley said, laying the flowers next to her headstone. ‘Your favourites.’

He spent the next half an hour telling her about how he’d spent his time since his last visit, culminating in his phone call to the office.

‘So this is it, sweet. Today’s the day. Just a few more hours and that bastard will be dead and we’ll be together again.’

The bastard in question was Oliver King, who held the position of health secretary in Her Majesty’s Government.

Notley didn’t blame the surgeon who’d operated on Marian, or the nurses who’d provided her aftercare. He didn’t even blame the hospital administrators. No, Oliver King was the man solely responsible for Marian’s death, thanks to his push to privatise the National Health Service. Over the last few years, the changes the government had put in place were designed to ensure the public service failed, paving the way for full privatisation and an insurance-funded healthcare system similar to that in the US.

The contract for musculoskeletal surgery had been awarded to a private company, who had then controversially subcontracted it back to the hospital, but only after ensuring a sizeable chunk of the £230 million contract was kept back as profit. That had resulted in staffing levels being cut to the bone, and when Marian had suffered internal bleeding during the night, the warning signs were not spotted.

What should have been a routine hip replacement resulted in her death, and the coroner had highlighted a catalogue of errors. The hospital trust had been held ultimately responsible, but Notley knew where the actual blame lay.

Tonight, he would have his chance to make the health secretary pay for his actions.

It hadn’t taken long to discover a public engagement that King would be attending. Notley had spent a couple of hours visiting government websites and reading online health journals before discovering the business dinner with the Tagrilistani president. King had announced it as an opportunity for Britain’s specialist healthcare providers to share their expertise with their new trade partners, and he would be one of three ministers attending the event.

Notley didn’t care about the other two. He was just thankful that the prime minister wouldn’t be in attendance, as security would have been much tighter.

He said his farewells to his wife, promising to see her soon, then drove back to his house and prepared an early lunch. At two in the afternoon, he took a bus into the heart of the city and walked down to the river. A biting wind fought him all the way, and he was exhausted by the time he reached his destination.

What he saw there made his heart slump.

More than twenty people were already gathered near the steps leading up to the hotel, and a few were holding placards adorned with Cyrillic lettering. Most of them were chatting, sharing a hot brew from a Thermos flask, while a couple chanted in Russian, their target being the four policemen standing a few yards away.

It was clearly a pro-Russian protest, and Notley could only assume these were the advance party. Many more would turn up before the dinner guests started to arrive, putting a huge dent in his ideas. Security would undoubtedly be stepped up, making it almost impossible to get close enough to his target.

The protesters were contained behind a set of crowd-control interlocking barriers, and another set had been erected on the opposite side of the entrance. Notley guessed the entire building would be cordoned off by the time the dignitaries arrived. He hadn’t factored any of this into his plan, but he was a quick thinker and it wasn’t long before he realised his only chance would be to get in among the protesters.

He took out his phone and surreptitiously photographed the scene, making sure to get a good shot of the placards. He then walked farther along the street before checking his camera work. He was able to clearly make out the writing, so replicating the banner shouldn’t be a problem.

Notley flagged down a taxi and had it take him home, where he immediately went to his garden shed and gathered everything he would need to complete his mission.

Ellis watched the minute hand of the wall clock tick towards twelve; she was acutely aware that time was running out. The guests for the business dinner would be arriving in four hours and her team were no closer to revealing the sniper’s identity than they had been yesterday.

Out on the main floor her people were still hard at work, but she felt they were fighting a losing battle as time wore inexorably on.

Elaine Solomon caught her eye as she put down her phone and pushed her chair backwards. She strode towards Ellis’s office, carrying a couple of sheets of paper.

‘What have you got?’ Ellis asked.

‘A woman was found dead at a London hotel this morning,’ Solomon said, handing over one of the reports.

Ellis rubbed her temple. ‘Tell me why this has been passed to us, now of all times.’

‘She was killed with a garrotte,’ Solomon told her. ‘The Met ran the MO against the national database and came up empty, so they sent a request to Interpol. That’s what came back.’