The Final Reckoning (27 page)

The journey west took more than two hours, with the crawl out of London accounting for most of that time. Once they were on the M3, the traffic moved along pretty briskly and Richard could relax.

Richard. It wasn't a bad name; he'd had worse. And it had done the trick, hadn't it? Rebecca Merton had not challenged him to say more; he hadn't given her the chance. He'd been more worried about this UN lawyer she was with. But neither of them had noticed the spray of GBL – gamma-butyrolactone, the industrial solvent which had found a niche as the date-rape drug of choice in the seedier corners of the London club scene – which he had administered before they'd barely exchanged a word. It had not been difficult: one quick spray and job done.

He had been given only the barest instructions and certainly no clue as to the purpose of the mission. That was standard practice but this job
was anything but standard. He was used to taking out men rather than women or couples; and they tended not to be middle class professionals but intense, bearded young men who'd spent too long watching beheadings on the al-Qaeda version of YouTube. So this had been an extra challenge. And the level of resources was unusual, too: he'd been told he could spend whatever he liked, just so long as he got the subjects out. No one had said anything explicit, but the way his controller had spoken suggested this was a job authorized from the top. Or close to it.

The driver's satnav announced they were less than a mile away. Soon they'd be arriving at the rendezvous point. He checked over his shoulder at the two sleeping beauties in the back. They were out cold.

The satnav spoke, a woman's voice, oddly soothing:
You have arrived at your destination.

They were at the Invincible Road industrial estate, just outside Farnborough in Hampshire – a bleak place of tarmac and corrugated steel. He read the signs, counting off the unit numbers.

‘There. Seven A.’

The gates opened as they approached. It meant their contact was here, watching them on CCTV. The driver let the Merc purr towards the steel-shuttered garage door. It too opened electronically and he inched the car inside. As the shutters came back down, overhead fluorescent lighting flickered on. In the adjacent bay
was an ambulance, its rear doors open. All was going to plan.

‘Welcome,’ said a voice. And welcome indeed it was. They had worked on several previous jobs together and had come to like each other. Neither knew the other's name.

‘You've got the clothes?’

‘Yes. All the stuff's inside.’

Between them, with help from the driver, they withdrew two stretchers from the ambulance, then placed them on two wheeled gurneys. Then they pulled Rebecca Merton and Tom Byrne from the car and laid them on the stretchers, face up, arms at their sides.

‘You two do him, I'll do her,’ Richard said.

‘Surprise, surprise. Keeping the best job for yourself.’

Richard started with the woman's boots, easing them off from the heel. Her feet were small, their shape clear in the thin socks she wore. He moved around so that he could get to the top of her jeans. He undid the first button easily, noting the taut flatness of her stomach. As he undid the next and the next, he fought the arousal that was stirring inside him. Even asleep like this, inert on the stretcher, she was a very attractive woman.

With the fly undone, he grabbed the denim at the hips and began to tug. It required some strength, and at one point he had to slide his hand under her bottom, to give himself the elevation
necessary for the jeans to slide down her legs, but eventually they were off.

Now she lay before him, naked from the waist down save for a pair of black briefs. He tried to keep his eye from the small triangle of material that covered her most private part, but it was a losing battle. He could see the contours of her through the material; found himself breathing heavily.

Next, he turned to her top half: a V-neck sweater over a white shirt. He had to lift each arm, dead with unconsciousness, and pull it through a sleeve, then lift the sweater over her head, cradling her skull from the back, his hand caught up in her thick, dark hair.

Finally, the shirt, a vintage style, slight thing with delicate buttons. He worked up from the bottom but as he got to her chest, his fingers began to tremble. Drugged like this, she was breathing slowly, her chest rising and falling. As he fumbled with the last button, by her neck, he had a clear view of her breasts. In a black bra that matched her underwear, they were full and, even in this position, firm. His hand hovered a few inches from them. The prospect of a touch was enticing.

‘Here are the scrubs.’ It was his contact, throwing him a cellophane-wrapped packet of hospital clothes. He stepped back, taking in a full view of the sleeping woman. If only he was alone … He tore off the cellophane and pulled out the green
cotton trousers. He scrunched them and hooked them over Rebecca Merton's feet, then tugged them up the length of her legs. He tied the drawstring into a bow just below her navel. He was almost glad he could no longer see anywhere below: he needed to collect himself.

Next he propped her up, using the palm of his hand in the small of her back to keep her sitting upright. He pushed her arms through the smock, tying the two strings at the back before lowering her flat once more. The final touch was to gather her hair, then scrape it back into a tight cap. There, it was done.

He looked over at the stretcher alongside his one. His colleagues had worked faster than he had. That was not so surprising. True, their subject was heavier but he had offered fewer … distractions. Lying there, oblivious, the anaesthetic holding strong, the two subjects looked ready for the operating theatre.

‘OK, let's get them in.’

The contact lowered the ambulance's electronic ramp, manoeuvred the gurneys inside and locked them into position.

‘Now, us,’ he said. He retrieved two garment bags from the vehicle, unzipping the first to reveal a green paramedic's uniform, equipped with assorted pieces of kit: visible was a whistle and walkie-talkie, and even a metal badge with what appeared to be a royal crest. Underneath was a name: ‘Executive Medical Assistance Inc.’ He had
another, apparently identical, which he passed to the driver.

‘And this is yours.’ The contact handed Richard a hard plastic photo-pass attached to a metal chain.

Richard looked at the picture of himself, one in which he was wearing a white coat and was identified as Dr Rick Brookes, Specialist, EMA. It was amazing what Photoshop could do.

‘You got their passports?’

The contact held up two, both in the maroon leather of Her Britannic Majesty. ‘Hers was in the apartment, no problem. We went to his hotel two hours ago. He hadn't even checked in, so we knew he had it with him. In his jacket pocket.’ He smiled, gesturing at the pile of clothes he had just removed from Tom Byrne's unconscious body.

The driver then scooped those up, along with Rebecca's, and stashed them in a kit bag which he shoved into the ambulance. The three of them did a quick check to make sure nothing had been left behind. Richard and his contact took their seats by the patients inside the vehicle and the driver turned the ignition on. A press of a button on a remote control unit and the steel shutters came back up, closing after them. Richard checked his watch. They were on time.

The drive to Farnborough took no more than quarter of an hour. They followed the instructions they had been given, sweeping past the
well-appointed business terminal, reserved exclusively for private jet users, and drove direct onto the tarmac. The Bombardier Challenger 604 was waiting for them, the jet engines looking massive on the plane's short, torpedo body. The retractable seven-step staircase was already down, suggesting the work of internal transformation had already been done. The usual configuration, favoured by CEOs and pampered rock stars, of half a dozen plump leather armchairs and tables, would have been stripped out and replaced by flatbed mattresses and a bank of flickering, beeping medical equipment: ECG monitors, pulse oximeter and, of course, a defibrillator. There would be IV stands carrying sacks of saline solution, intubation equipment, suction devices. Everything, indeed, that you'd expect from a mobile Intensive Care Unit.

Only now, in the dark, did Richard spot the two staff, one uniformed, at the foot of the staircase. They reminded him of those people you saw on the news, politicians nervously waiting for the arrival of a visiting head of state. Richard got out of the car, ID around his neck like a pendant, and strode confidently towards them.

The civilian, a woman, stretched her hand out. ‘Welcome to Farnborough, Dr Brookes. I'm Barbara Clark, head of corporate liaison.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I appreciate the hurry you're in, doctor. We're going to make this as quick as possible. I'll do the
security checks myself. Now I take it, you packed these bags yourself?’

She proceeded with the usual set of questions – ‘No one could have given you anything?’ – and then cursorily waved a wand over him and his colleagues. There was a beep for a cellphone and some keys and nothing else. In Richard's bag, she saw only syringes and various vials, which was no more than she expected.

She checked the holdall by hand and assured him that ground staff had already thoroughly examined the aircraft using sniffer dogs.

‘I need to have a quick look at the patients, I'm afraid. But I'll keep it very quick.’

Richard turned back to the ambulance and gave a nod. The two ‘paramedics’ wheeled the gurneys to the foot of the plane, both holding saline drips aloft in their right hands.

Clark looked down at the sleeping patients and slowly moved her wand over each one. There was a loud beep when she came half way down the man's body. Richard shot a look at his contact. Was there something they had forgotten? Had some telltale object been dropped there?

‘Would you mind?’ Clark said, pulling the sheet back. Richard held his breath.

‘Of course.’ It was the buckle of the belt, strapping Byrne into place. The sound was repeated when she checked the woman.

‘Well, all seems to be in order, Dr Brookes. I just need to ask you a little about their condition. Is
there any more you can tell me about this trip beyond—’ she glanced down at some paperwork, ‘—“medical need”?’

‘I'm afraid, I really can't, Ms Clark. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.’ He smiled apologetically, but in such a way that conveyed there was no room for negotiation.

‘Of course. A quick word with my colleague here from immigration and you'll be free to fly.’

Richard presented the passport of Dr Rick Brookes. He then showed the ones belonging to Byrne and Merton. The official checked the photos against the people lying, like resting saints, in front of him and then gave a nod. Richard gestured to his colleagues, who released the stretchers from their chassis and carried them, the man first, up the narrow staircase and into the aeroplane.

‘Strange isn't it,’ Clark said, as she watched the paramedics come back for the second patient. ‘They look almost peaceful. Is it terribly serious, then, doctor?’

‘Well, it's not great, put it that way. But they're in good hands now, have no fear.’

‘Nothing our own NHS could do, then?’

‘Well, you know how the very wealthy are, Ms Clark. They want the most personal treatment. Personal – and discreet.’

The woman blushed a little, Richard thought, though it was hard to see in the evening gloom.
A light drizzle was falling, picked out by the yellow glow of the terminal building.

‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘Sorry.’

Richard could see the contact talking with the pilot, who tucked a clipboard under his arm, suggesting any final checks had been made. ‘My thanks again, Ms Clark, to you and your team here. We'll be on our way.’

Richard nodded farewell to his driver, who headed back to the ambulance. He then climbed inside the plane, followed by his contact. They watched as the staircase retracted in a stately, electronic movement.

He strapped himself in, giving a last check of his two unconscious charges. Clark was right: they did look peaceful. They might need a top-up during the flight, but they were out.

He settled back into his chair, the leather soft and easy against his flesh. His colleague was already flicking the pages of
Forbes
magazine, doubtless left on board by the last high-paying customer to have chartered this jet. He deserved to relax, Richard thought; he had done a good job. They both had.

As they took off, angling into the sky, the engines screaming, he looked down at the ground below. Somehow the flying experience was always more intense on one of these small planes. The necklace of lights down below, the villages and roads of Hampshire, somehow felt within reach, even as they soared away from them.

A voice crackled onto the PA system. ‘Good evening, gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.’ The voice seemed amused by the absurdity of the situation. ‘Welcome aboard this Challenger 604. Flying conditions are smooth tonight. We should be at our destination in approximately seven hours.’

Jay Sherrill placed a protective hand on the laptop, covering up the Apple symbol; he knew what the NYPD numb-skulls would make of that. It would be one more confirmation that he was a college boy, a white-wine sipping Volvo driver – some homo who should have been a graphic designer rather than a cop.

Though there were some fellow Volvo types around here. This was the Commissioner's office, after all. Bound to be some policy advisers and media specialists in the operation. They wouldn't all be hard-boiled gumshoe cops moulded in the 1950s.

He wanted to open up the machine again, just to be sure the item was still there. What if there wasn't enough power? What if the programme crashed?

‘The Commissioner will see you now.’

He gathered up his things and went straight through, aware that his shirt was creased and that
there was a small stain on the right leg of his chinos. He had known that when he put the trousers on this morning. But he had no choice. They were the only semi-clean clothes in the entire apartment. The truth was, he had barely slept or eaten or washed since this whole nightmare of a case had landed in his lap on Monday morning. He was ragged.

‘Good to see you, Mr Sherrill.’

‘My pleasure, sir.’ My pleasure? ‘I mean, thank—’

‘Relax, Mr Sherrill, take a seat. My office said you needed to see me urgently. That sounds like good news.’

‘I hope so, sir.’
Calm. Breathe.

‘Why'd you bring that thing in here? You got something to show me?’

‘Yes, I have.’ He flipped open the lid of his computer, clicked open the iMovie programme and selected the most recent project. Only then did he get up and move round to Riley's side of the desk. ‘May I, sir?’

‘What's this gonna be,
Debbie Does Dallas?’

‘Not quite, sir, no. But still pretty interesting.’

A window opened up, a small video screen. Sherrill, hovering at the Commissioner's side, leaned down to expand it. And then he pressed play.

Instantly an image appeared of a silhouetted man. He was seated against a window. The visual grammar was obvious: it was the style of an undercover
interview designed to preserve the subject's anonymity. There was a voice on the film, though it was off-mike. It was Sherrill's own.

Please identify yourself.

Then a reply:
I am an agent of the New York Police Department, Intelligence Division.

That was enough to have Chuck Riley spin round in his chair and look up at the man over his shoulder. The excitement visible in his expression was what Sherrill had been hoping for. Now, at long last, he began to relax. He heard his own voice on the computer again.

Can you verify that, without revealing your name?

Yes. I can reveal operational details that would only be known to an officer in Intel. I will do that to the Commissioner or any investigating authority.

I appreciate that, but perhaps you could say something now, that might establish your credentials?

The silhouetted figure paused, moving slightly in his chair. The change in profile revealed an unexpected hair style: long, Riley thought, like a woman's.

I could tell you about our operation during the Republican convention when it was in the city, monitoring protesters.

That would be excellent.

The voice proceeded to give details of how he and his fellow agents had travelled beyond New York, to New Mexico and Illinois, to Montreal and even to Europe, snooping on political activists who were planning on demonstrating outside the
convention. He spoke about how he had worked undercover, going to left-wing and anti-war meetings, making friends, eventually getting himself on electronic mailing lists – all the while filing reports back to headquarters.

The thing is, everyone thinks we were just watching foreign terrorists. But I gotta tell ya: we were spying on people who had no intention of doing violence to anybody. I even infiltrated some street theatre company, for Christ's sake. Church groups too. And here's the thing: these people were US citizens.

The Commissioner was listening closely, turning his face from the screen so that his ear could be nearer to the computer's speaker. Occasionally, he closed his eyes, as if he wanted to avoid all distraction. He then signalled for Sherrill to stop the machine. ‘You sure he couldn't have got all that from the papers? From the internet or somewhere?’

Sherrill smiled and released the play key.

We all had different code names. My one was Tenzing. Another was called Simpson. And there was Hillary. All famous climbers, apparently. They say the boss is some mountain freak.

At this, Riley sat back and exhaled. That much was true: Stephen Lake was a fanatic, challenging himself by climbing ever more improbable peaks. But Lake was hardly known outside the CIA or, more recently, the Intelligence Division of the NYPD. His penchant for mountains was certainly not public knowledge. The silhouette couldn't have
just picked that up. Besides, the Commissioner knew at least one of those codenames was accurate. When
The New York Times
had started digging into the Republican convention story, he had made some inquiries of his own. He had heard about the unit called Hillary. He'd never have made the link to mountains though; he'd just thought the units had girl's names. Like hurricanes.

‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘I believe him.’

‘I'm glad, sir. Because I think what this man goes on to say explains how Gerald Merton came to be shot dead on the steps of the UN.’

‘And—’

‘And, more importantly, sir, who was responsible for that happening.’

‘That's very good, Sherrill. That's very good indeed.’