Search and Destroy (21 page)

The bedrock provided natural protection from the elements and potential home invasion. The half-inch reinforced steel door, hidden from view by the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, could only be opened from the inside once occupied. A small video monitor linked to multiple mini cameras in each of the rooms. The panic room was twelve feet square, with wire racks holding bottled water and food supplies, enough for two weeks.

Wincing, Tansen pulled a medical kit from a rack and fixed a large self-adhesive gauze pad across his right shoulder and pectoral. One round was a through and through, just above the collarbone. The other… he could feel the blood spreading even as the gauze did its best to absorb the steady flow.

Tansen had watched the video monitor as the men searched for him, moving like actors in a silent film. Their faces were grim as they removed their dead companion. Several minutes later, one of them returned, dragging two gas canisters. He had no time to act, to think, before the picture on the viewing screen turned to snow. Even through the thickness of the door, the noise of the explosion made him clap his hands to his ears. He closed his eyes, his emotions a swirling mix of sadness, shock and anger.

They had blown up his house. He had nothing left. His antique books, his Americana. The pictures of his beautiful Raj. His friend, Jimmy. All gone.

He sat down heavily. A debilitating weariness spread through his body. He inspected his blood-soaked clothes. He tried to stand again, reaching for the lock of the panic-room door. But his legs would not obey him.

As darkness clouded his senses, Tansen Tibrikot wondered how long it would be before his body was discovered in his little hole in the ground. His eyes closed and he felt himself slide slowly sideways.

Stewart Strathclyde watched his assistant leave his plush office, her hips swaying just enough to be provocative, his eyes drawn to the curves of her body for just a second longer than he cared for. He knew he had to be careful when dipping into the hired help. He didn’t intend ever to fall foul of the “Clinton syndrome”. No, better to give that little blonde Miss a miss.

But he was not completely immune. He knew that Sonia Birkett-Brown had tried the modelling game while at university. He’d found the pictures. She was nice to look at but probably more trouble than she was worth. She might be the kind to kiss and tell to get her face in the papers. And while he could live with being labelled a womaniser, he certainly did not want any reporters digging into his carefully screened love affairs. He’d barely escaped some murky facts being exposed during the phone-hacking debacle that had done for some of his colleagues but he’d been saved by his then low position in the political pecking order. No one cared about an unknown MP when there were real celebrities to write about.

He leant back in his five-thousand-pound leather chair. Not that he would ever have been so careless as to discuss his extra-
extra
-curricular activities over the telephone. He had learned the hard way not to record any more of his “acts” on film. It was only due to his close relationship with an agent within the ranks of the CHSS that the situation was being dealt with. The press was right. Those with connections really did run the country. He had met Charles Banks at university, and the two men had discovered certain shared proclivities. Now they had a friendship based on mutual assured destruction. Strathclyde was not surprised that Banks had chosen a career that allowed him to indulge his inclinations.

That someone had stumbled across one of only three videos he had ever recorded was an unfortunate event. He’d thought all the copies had been destroyed years ago. His cameraman had some tough questions to answer. But he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. The desire to show off one’s handiwork—even if that was only capturing someone else’s artistry on film—was too much temptation for some. At least he had always worn his homemade mask. Not one frame of film existed where his face was identifiable. He’d always been vigilant about that; almost as vigilant as in the selection of his victims. But yes, he’d have to talk to his cameraman.

Runaways were best. The homeless in London were everywhere yet virtually invisible to the general public. No one of worth missed them when they disappeared. Even if a bleeding-heart liberal at one of those rat-infested hostels reported them missing, the police did not have the time, resources, or inclination to do anything about it.

But the fact that the watcher had not only somehow identified Strathclyde but also had the audacity to try blackmail had ironically worked in his favour. The blackmailer had shown his hand, given Strathclyde a lead. The man was a known sex offender. Banks and two other officers from the newly formed Coalition and Homeland Security Service had intercepted him on the southern perimeter of Hyde Park. A quick jab with a Taser and his inert body was bundled into the back of a waiting van. Just one more unmarked white vehicle among thousands.

It had taken less than an hour to extract every morsel of information that the man had to give. In fact he’d begun blabbering and pleading even before Banks had inserted the first needle. Strathclyde had been rather disappointed. He had jumped at the chance to sit in on the interview. The rest of the time had been spent vigorously asking the same questions over and over again to ascertain that the answers given were consistent. During the last hour of his life, the man, Gerald Clocker, begged and cried. Pathetic.

It had become clear that Clocker had worked alone. He had acquired the original VHS from a fellow deviant in an underground swap several years previously, but it had not been to his taste. Re-watching it, he had identified Strathclyde from his scar. That damn scar. Strathclyde rubbed at his lower back, feeling the puckered skin through his shirt. He had fallen onto a fire grate as a child, damn near impaled himself.

Clocker had not been a natural blackmailer. His only backup plan was to send a digital copy of the video on a flash drive to a reporter. Just one. Clocker’s body was found in Hyde Park the next day. As he was a known sex offender, the investigating officers didn’t exactly break their backs to find his killers. Nor did they pay much attention to a report by one of Clocker’s neighbours that three men had entered the murdered man’s property only hours after his death, leaving an hour later with several bulging trash bags.
Bags full of every scrap of technology the CHSS men could find, from VHS to iPad, just in case.
Strathclyde smiled. He’d enjoyed watching those bags burn.

The reporter, Seeber, had proved a little more problematic. The man was clean, not a low-life like Clocker. The background checks by CHSS had uncovered very little: a couple of parking tickets and a caution while at university for the possession of cannabis. The Seebers’ interrogation had called for a more subtle approach.

Strathclyde had not been present at the event. It was a pity. He would have enjoyed watching another take the lead for a change. Especially with the man’s wife. But it would have been too risky. He had had to satisfy himself with the verbal report from Banks. There had been no need for much actual violence, just the threat of torture against Seeber’s wife. Seeber had kept Clocker’s original USB—the CHSS men had located it in the man’s home office and delivered it to Strathclyde that night for a date with the microwave—and had made one copy. He had sent the copy to a fellow journalist at her hotel in Nevada. A journalist called Andrea Chambers.

Andrea Chambers.
Strathclyde sat up in his chair, pulled his computer keyboard close, and performed the same Internet search he had done at least a dozen times since first hearing that name. The woman was a nobody, a two-bit hack. He couldn’t imagine why Seeber had placed so much faith in her. He checked her Twitter feed. No activity for days. Was that a good sign? He scrolled through past Tweets. Irrelevant drivel about UFOs, for God’s sake.

Perhaps he would have a chance to meet Andrea Chambers face to face. Unlike the Seebers. Strathclyde let Banks’s report run through his mind. So little colour. But he could imagine… The three-man team moving the couple to the bedroom. First the wife, the makeshift noose cutting off any muffled attempts to scream for help. The nylon stockings strong enough to support her weight as they were fastened to the stout rail in the walk-in wardrobe. Seeber being carried in, seeing the lifeless body of his wife, beginning to kick and fight with a desperate fury, until his cries were cut short by the slashing edge of a stiffened hand across his throat. Strathclyde could almost see the man’s eyes bulging as he fought for one last breath, the noose fashioned from the belt of his own dressing gown tightening around his neck.

His chosen PMC unit, Trident Solutions International, had been recently used to remove an outspoken political activist in South Africa, although according to their official brief, they had only been providing personal security. Banks had been quick to clarify that the British government had not ordered that particular hit. But they had utilised TSI on
other
occasions, and the operatives could be trusted to terminate as required. While the agents of CHSS operated only on British soil, TSI had no such restriction. Their boundaries were dictated only by their fee. And Strathclyde knew even more about TSI than Banks had suspected. His own brother, Jensen, was a specialist operator for TSI, under a carefully assumed identity, of course. Stewart could not allow it to get out that he, bright-eyed boy of the Establishment, had a sibling in such a controversial outfit. Stewart envied Jensen the freedom to indulge the family proclivities in his official capacity.

With the woman out of the country and out of the reach of the CHSS, Banks had provided a name at TSI—Topcat—and a code: 004751. Private termination contract, unofficially government-sanctioned, using Banks’s name. A call to an unlisted number and the name and location of the target was given, and a terrorist dossier created. Strathclyde was rather proud of that. And the code had meant he had not had to give his name. After all, why would a junior environment minister be dealing with terrorism?

Unconsciously, Strathclyde palmed his mobile phone as if willing an update from Banks to materialise. One more loose end to be tied off. Thoughts of opening up Andrea Chambers with a blade made him tingle momentarily. He checked his watch. Time enough to indulge such daydreams later. He rose, ran a hand through his thick hair—perfectly trimmed for £100 every six weeks—and straightened his tie.

Bianca Sage met him at the door to his outer office, drawing an envious appraisal from Sonia. And no wonder; his fiancée was stunning. Their journey in an unmarked government saloon car was a short one, and they were soon outside one of the most famous addresses in the country.

The flash of the reporters’ cameras didn’t faze him one bit. Although a relatively new face in politics, he was an old hand at masking his true emotions. Strathclyde never let his public face falter.
Never reveal the beast.
Hours of self-examination in the mirror had allowed him to cultivate a genial look in his eyes; this lent him a boy-next-door appeal that was beginning to pay dividends. People
liked
Stewart Strathclyde. He was charming and witty and had a talent for building instant rapport. The perfect politician.

Holding the car door open for her, Strathclyde admired how Bianca was able to work it perfectly for the cameras. As they walked from the car to the door of No. 10 Downing Street, she looked back over her shoulder as if responding to the cries of the photographers. She gave a mix of sexy, smart and respectable all in one look. The tabloids loved the new couple. It was Cool Britannia all over again. He made sure to look intent, a man with purpose, his leather portmanteau clutched in his hand as if it contained the nuclear launch codes for the free world. In reality it contained nothing more controversial than projected agricultural yields. But image was everything. If you projected gravitas the public—and eventually your employers—would believe the spin.

He gave a final nod and a smile to the small gathering of paparazzi and a peck on the cheek to Bianca. He turned to watch as she took her time returning to the car. She exposed just enough leg as she slid into the back seat to be tantalising then spoke a single word to the driver. Strathclyde couldn’t hear the word but he knew what it would be. “Harrods.”

Inside No. 10, Strathclyde was led into one of the smaller rooms at the rear of the building. There were to be no tea and scones with the Prime Minister this evening, only a monthly handover to the assistants to the Deputy PM. Yet Stewart was well aware that the PM liked him. The very fact that he was allowed into the Downing Street spotlight testified to that. Stewart was young, handsome and carried himself with the grace and confidence of an athlete. The PM was desperate to make his party look as trendy and relevant as possible to today’s voters, and Strathclyde knew he was a valuable asset.

One of the house secretaries appeared in the doorway. “We’re running about twenty minutes behind schedule but the Deputy PM asked if you would wait. He’ll be seeing you in person.”

“That’s absolutely fine,” replied Strathclyde. He smoothed out the small crease in the left leg of his trousers.

“Can I bring you a tea or coffee while you wait?”

He glanced at the woman’s cleavage, which was perfectly displayed by the deep cut of her Donna Karan dress. “That would be very kind of you Celia. Tea, please.” He made a point of knowing the names of all the service staff he regularly encountered. A little thing like remembering and using someone’s name could garner a favour when required further on down the road.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back ASAP.” She emphasised the final consonant of the abbreviation with a playful widening of her eyes.

Strathclyde smiled. As he sat alone, he again found himself holding his mobile phone. He wondered silently if the woman was dead yet.

Lincoln spat. The trail had gone cold. The time wasted at the Gurkha’s ranch house had cost them dearly. A good man dead and no workable information to show for it. The transponder in the last team’s sat-phone had brought them to a fleabag motel but their quarry was long gone. Their room—the number of which had been extracted from the desk clerk with a single whispered threat—was empty, with only stale smells and discarded food wrappers as evidence it had been occupied.