A Deadly Trade: A gripping espionage thriller

CHAPTER NINE

Riveted, I followed her into the underground and stood well back as she waited to board a tube train on the Piccadilly line. Her profile was neat and symmetrical. I liked the way her black roll-top sweater contrasted with and maximised the copper in her hair. I liked the way she stood: relaxed, confident, striking. I admired everything about her.

Two minutes later, the thunderous noise of a train’s approach. People surged forward, including McCallen. I stayed rooted, immobile, like a relic frozen in time.

Gasp of hot air, blinding lights, driver’s eyes, heat running through my veins, hammering in my chest, giddy sensation. Get close but not too close. Anxious I might be sucked off the platform onto the live rails and crushed and chewed into oblivion. Then the man next to me toppling, falling, plunging…

I blinked. McCallen had boarded. My abrupt lapse in concentration cost me and I took a hurried step forward. The doors squeezed closed, shutting me out, then suddenly snapped apart, ejecting McCallen. For the second time I thought she’d catch me in her visual crosshairs. Maybe she did, but she didn’t react.

I retreated into a crowd of students, recent shambling additions to the platform. My eyes followed as McCallen walked a short distance away, waited for and stepped onto the next tube. This time she stayed on board. I knew because I was in the next-door compartment. Together we rode as far as Oxford Circus where she changed onto the Northern line and got off at Embankment.

Outside the Thames looked choppy, white spume cresting khaki, the sky overhead milk-white as though it might snow. There were too many people. Hot-dog vendors and roast chestnut sellers plied their wares. Jugglers tossed flaming batons. A black guy break-danced to an admiring crowd of onlookers and a steel band thumped out reggae. The carnival atmosphere was intoxicating but I was too shaken by Saj’s violent reaction to whatever McCallen had said to get high.

She mooched towards an underpass where a number of skateboarders showcased their skills. One guy, older than the rest, gathered speed and careered off the edge of a ramp, taking a death-defying leap, soaring through the air and coming down with a tremendous clatter. Others zoomed in and out of pillars, pirouetting and contorting, agile and speedy. McCallen stopped, ostensibly to watch. I could tell it was a blind from the way she inclined her head. She wasn’t there to take in the show. She was there because she was waiting for someone. I slipped behind a pillar and waited with her.

Fifteen minutes elapsed.

A woman approached. She had shoulder-length raven hair, eyes the colour of double espresso. Her black wool coat fell from her shoulders in two vertical lines, the dress beneath a vivid blue, the neckline plunging. Not to put too fine a point on it, she was stacked. It was easy to imagine her naked. To my surprise, she walked straight over to McCallen and greeted her. Then my heart sank. I know enough Russian to translate privyet, which means hi. After that I was lost although, frankly, fascinated by McCallen’s obvious linguistic talent. I glibly wondered why she worked for MI5 when her skills would find a more appropriate home with the Secret Intelligence Service.

The rapid-fire discussion between the two women lasted roughly ten minutes. This time, my lip-reading skills wasted, I could only rely on body language.

McCallen started by flaring the fingers of one hand, as if about to reach out, reinforcing her desire to project her ideas and thinking. In return, the Russian sliced the icy air with the flat of her hand, eager to cut to the chase, the gesture eventually reciprocated by McCallen cupping her palms, begging for agreement. At one point the Russian tapped her nose in a classic conspiratorial gesture. McCallen nodded grimly and, finally, clenched her fist, a symbol of her determination. The display gave the impression that they were nothing other than two people on opposite sides of a fence, exchanging and pooling information, each having something that would benefit the other. There was no overt animosity. No power play. To the casual observer, they seemed like equals. Seemed.

Practiced in the art of deception, they could not quite contain their facial expressions. The way the Russian inclined her head, pressed her lips together into a smile, touched her mouth lightly to conceal a lie, revealed she was less than an honest broker in the negotiations. By contrast, McCallen, outwardly calm, touched the tip of her nose and subtly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, almost rocking. Yeah, she was definitely anxious. Was it possible that Yakovlevich’s mystery contact was the subject of the discussion?

They parted without a backward glance. I watched, waited, and moved away. There were people I needed to talk to and I had a ride to catch.

CHAPTER TEN

I headed back to the lock-up, exchanged my scruffy jacket and jeans for a navy Italian single-breasted suit and camel-coloured overcoat and, to hide my battered features, wrapped a fine Morino woollen scarf around my neck and chin, and topped it off with a trilby. I resembled a character from a romantic wartime novel, fine for the environment I was about to inhabit. Next, I selected a worn leather briefcase, one of my favourites, containing another set of I.D. plus a change of underwear and enough euros to bribe the most reluctant customs officer. I wanted to take the Colt accessory and spoil of war. Out of the question. Yakovlevich would never sanction it. I’d have to travel clean and pick up a weapon, as usual, at the other end.

My thoughts centred on blackmail, close country cousin to bribery and extortion, and blood relatives within the great family of organised crime. How and who had blackmailed Wilding? These were questions I wanted to pose to Wes, preferably with my hands around his neck. Flakier by the hour, Wes was starting to look less like a loosely involved link man and more like an integral player. Time I found out what Wes was really up to.

There’s a gentlemen’s club in Pall Mall populated by arms dealers, spooks, criminals and oddballs. Eclectic best describes it, and exceptionally discreet. It opened its doors at lunchtime and, in spite of my wanted status, I paid it a visit.

I was hoping an American called Ron Tilelli would be at the club. Tilelli had taken British citizenship a decade or more before. A driver for various watering holes, ironically one with a drink and gambling habit, he was a happy combination for me because it made him highly corruptible. Word on the wire said that several intelligence agencies had him in their pockets – another reason for having a chat. I wasn’t sure how true this was. Filled with enough sour-mash whisky, Tilelli could make some fairly extraordinary claims. I’d learnt over the years, however, that even the most unlikely stories contain grains of truth.

The club was decked out like an old country hotel with wood-panelled walls, tartan-patterned upholstery, and distressed-looking leather sofas the colour of old cognac. An overweight golden Labrador snoozed by the fake, but no less convincing, gas log fire. An assiduous Polish waiter took my coat and drink order.

Tilelli had a regular spot in one corner, the equivalent of the foreigner erecting his windbreak on a particular stretch of sand and marking out his territory. A bear of a man, with a mop of sandy-coloured hair, his face a mesh of thread veins in which small light-brown eyes sat like pebbles. He had a raucous laugh and Tilelli laughed a lot. It was one of the things I liked about him. The opposite of me, he was a glass half full merchant.

Tilelli held court with his usual flair, this time and to my relief he imbibed coffee. Around him, a coterie of hangers-on, or liggers as I sometimes described them. It included one man with whom I’d regularly done business. I called him Guy. Small, dapper, shiny-shoed, he looked more financial advisor than small arms dealer. He met my eye, winked and moved away. The others, whom I didn’t recognise, took one look at me and fled as though they had the Grim Reaper stalking towards them. In a sense, I suppose that’s exactly what I was. Tilelli stayed put, met my gaze with a smile. We got on as well as I get on well with anyone.

‘Hex,’ he said, clapping me on the back. People called me Hex because it had connotations of witchcraft. Considered first-rate at what I did, I was clearly no magician. ‘Good to see you,’ Tilelli enthused. ‘Say, what happened to you?’

‘A minor collision with a door.’

Tilelli was shrewd enough to accept my poor excuse. ‘Drink?’

‘Got one, thanks.’ I tipped my head in the direction of the approaching waiter who put a tray on the highly polished table in front of me. Bombay gin, plenty of ice, tonic, and a slice of lime. Tilelli leant forward, swooped up the bill in his big, fleshy fingers, handed it to the waiter.

‘Put it on my tab,’ he said.

‘Certainly, sir. Are you eating with us, gentlemen?’

‘Not me, thanks,’ Tilelli said, patting his stomach, the buttons under considerable strain.

‘No,’ I told the waiter who disappeared with the speed of a greyhound. Perhaps he, too, was scared of me.

I thanked Tilelli for his generosity. ‘My pleasure,’ he said graciously. Nothing in his bearing suggested he associated me with the man wanted by MI5. I wasn’t surprised. It was a rubbish picture. ‘How’s tricks?’ he said.

I smiled, ‘Average.’ Tilelli didn’t expect a rundown of my latest business ventures no more than I expected him to tell me whose payroll he was on. I had, however, revealed in one single word that all was not quite as it should be. Tilelli picked up on it.

‘There’s a lot of frightened folk out there and when folk get frightened they make mistakes and then those mistakes need taking care of.’

I nodded sagely. ‘Any folk in particular I should know about?’

‘Just making a general observation.’

He was right. Tough times usually meant an increase in my line of work.

I said, ‘Seen Wes lately?’

Tilelli frowned. ‘Not for a while.’ He didn’t ask me why I asked. Wouldn’t have been sensible or clever. Why? Was not a question to which I responded with warmth. ‘I heard he was banging some older broad,’ he added.

‘Wes would bang his own sister if he had one,’ I said, to which Tilelli hooted with laughter. ‘Any idea which outfit he’s operating for right now?’

Tilelli shook his head disappointed he couldn’t help. ‘Like I said, I haven’t seen him in a while.’

‘Nothing about him on the wire?’

Another shake of his head followed by another gulp of booze.

I followed his lead, took a pull. Terrific. The coniferous tang of gin drowned my nausea. Nothing, however, obliterated a sudden vision of mass casualties, the morbid results of a vicious dirty bomb.

‘You all right, Hex? You look a little haunted, if you don’t mind my saying.’

I flashed an easy smile. ‘I’m good. Tired, that’s all.’

‘Doing nothing sure is tiring,’ he snorted, taking out a silver hip flask. He unscrewed the top and poured a slug of booze, presumably brandy, into his coffee cup. ‘Damn cold out there,’ he said as if by explanation.

I leant forward, dropped my voice several notches, baritone to bass. ‘I’m looking for a guy. He carried out a hit two nights ago.’ As soon as the words left my mouth I wondered why the man in the alley hadn’t presented himself to me as a potential candidate. Just because he’d questioned me about the hard drive didn’t exclude him. Maybe he’d killed Wilding but some other party had stolen the information. Then I contrasted the crass, brutish attempt of my attacker to the neatly conceived and slick execution carried out by the assassin: no comparison.

‘This guy,’ Tilelli eyeballed me, ‘Is he pissing on your patch?’

My answering smile was without mirth. I flicked an imaginary mark from my trousers, deliberately suggesting that I wanted to flick the guy who’d rained on my parade out of existence.

‘Got anything else on him?’ Tilelli’s eyes were alight with interest.

‘His working method tells me that he has a high level of skill and nerve.’ Whether or not he bore the scars of his trade with relish, I’d no idea. I didn’t need to spell out to Tilelli that the nature of the work meant that we were loners, anonymous, secretive and deadly.

Tilelli clicked his tongue. ‘Not that many on the circuit with your particular skills, especially for the more exotic gigs.’

I knew. I’d come across a few, foreigners mostly. I guessed Wilding definitely fell under the heading of exotic gig.

‘With regard to the legitimate market,’ Tilelli continued, ‘Governments all over the world, including democracies, employ security services who employ specialists to carry out wet operations.’

I knew this too. The Israelis had kidon. Grey Ghosts carried out assassinations on behalf of the Pentagon, or so Reuben, feeding my boyish imagination, once told me.

‘Reckon there’s a lot of hypocrisy on the subject,’ Tilelli chuckled, clearly on his own pet subject and loving every second of it. ‘There’s not a dime’s worth of difference between their dirty work and your dirty work.’

‘I just happen to work in the private sector,’ I flicked a cool smile, making Tilelli laugh out loud. The politically motivated murder once again took precedence over the criminally motivated, to my mind. Tilelli was still rattling on.

‘Any clue to this guy’s mojo?’

I shook my head. Most were driven by money, some by cruelty. There were a few who, once they had the taste of blood in their mouths, were unstoppable. Neither money nor cruelty made me tick.

Tilelli lifted the coffee cup to his lips. ‘And the victim?’

‘A scientist.’

The cup loitered mid-air. Actually, it shook a little. Tilelli’s eyes widened. Deep furrows appeared on his brow. ‘The scientist, Mary Wilding?’

‘Uh-huh.’

The rim of the cup pressed hard to his lips, Tilelli drained the contents, and returned it with a clatter to the saucer. He paled. For a man in the know it seemed inconceivable that Wilding’s death was suddenly headline news to him. I’d pressed some kind of button, but I didn’t know what.

‘You okay?’ I said.

‘Sure,’ Tilelli forced a smile. He didn’t look it.

‘The man who killed her has something that doesn’t belong to him,’ I said.

Tilelli took a big gulp of air as though about to dive into the deep.

‘You know anything about it?’

Tilelli shook his head, jowls wobbling. ‘What was taken?’

‘Information. It’s been confirmed she was the victim of blackmail. Might be connected, might not. There’s all kinds of people with their snouts in the trough.’

Tilelli grimaced. ‘What kinds of people?’

‘Your kind,’ I said elliptically. ‘Think you can help?’

‘Sure would like to but I’m kinda busy right now.’

‘Thought things were a little slow.’ My voice cut like a razor.

Tilelli glanced at his feet for a moment then looked up. I narrowed my gaze to one of cold steel. Sweat broke out on Tilelli’s brow. The tip of his tongue grazed the corner of his mouth. His eyes shot wide. ‘I’ll triple your fee,’ I promised.

It took a matter of seconds for the power of my words to penetrate Tilelli’s booze-sozzled brain. When it did his large frame relaxed. The muscles in his face went slack. I recognised that expression, one of sheer, unadulterated greed tempered by fear. I stayed absolutely still and observed him making the mental deductions. He was working out how many crates of Bourbon he could buy with that kind of loot, how many games of roulette he could fund. Finally, he grinned broadly, slapped one hand against his thigh and ejected a nervous laugh. He stuck out a hand. ‘Always a pleasure doing business with you.’

I took and shook out of courtesy. I had no need to remind him that the consequences of breathing one word of our conversation would result in instant and final retribution.

‘How will I get in touch?’ Tilelli’s eyes gleamed like two shiny pebbles at the bottom of a stagnant pond.

‘I’ll find you.’ I stood up and left.

The sun had given up trying to punch a hole in the sky and had sensibly retired. There was a whisper of sleet in the air. I had the strong sensation of events out of control and swirling around. I hoped McCallen was having better luck because then the hard drive would be in safekeeping and maybe McCallen would realise that she’d got me wrong. Somehow that was important to me.

I caught a tube to Richmond, walked into a supermarket, head down, basket in hand, checking for tails, then, ditching the basket, walked out and caught a bus to Kingston where I picked up take-away coffee, and changed to the 459 to Woking Station.

Every step risked exposure and I spent the journey coldly checking faces, watching those with mobile phones and I-pods, trying to distinguish who was who, whether any posed a threat. The constant and universal blare of music in shops, cafes, garages, and on the street had mostly worked to my advantage in the past. Now I was the hunted it spooked me.

From the station I hailed a cab that took me to Chobham, a charming historic village that had fallen prey to the tourist trade according to Billy ‘Squeeze’, the man I was going to visit. Billy’s real name was William Franke, but nobody I knew called him that.

To the outside world, Billy was another wealthy landowner who’d made his millions in the City when times were hot. Only a select few knew the truth. I doubted his family had a clue that the upstanding, generous husband and father who dominated their lives possessed a hidden dark side, a side where men were dispatched with the same ease with which Billy shot and bagged a pheasant. They didn’t know about his legendary cruelty, that he had once squeezed a man’s brains from his head, or that their world was built on the proceeds of drugs and the spilt blood of others.

‘You a friend of Mr Franke?’ the cabbie said.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘A real gentleman, grand fella. We do a lot of business with him. Generous as they come.’

I couldn’t disagree. Spotting what he called ‘raw talent’, Billy had given me my first early jobs in the trade and provided me with an influential contact in the States. For this I remained indebted. His impressive list of contacts was what drew me here now. Whether or not, he’d play ball was a different matter. Billy always drove a hard bargain. He thought he was being fly. I thought he was a mean old bastard. Unlike others with whom I’d had dealings, Billy had no airs and graces. I was as likely to find him with his sleeves rolled up fixing the crankshaft of one of his vintage motors as sitting in his study working out the logistics for his next shipment of cocaine. I smiled, catching the driver’s eye, and as quickly wiped the humour from my face. The way in which he watched me in the rear-view mirror made me uneasy. My description, although poor, was out there, in circulation. Concerned that I looked familiar to him in a way that he couldn’t yet fathom, I arranged my features into one of stark uncompromising hostility. It worked. Unnerved by my stony expression, he wittered on about Billy’s wife and kids. I grunted another reply and, not keen to engage, turned my head aside. I didn’t need an association with the great man to protect me. I could do that on my own. Thankfully for the cab driver the distance to Billy’s place was less than five miles. Wouldn’t have been good for him to push my buttons.

Eventually we swung into the grounds via a set of large electronic wrought-iron gates and drove uphill along a sinuous gravelled drive with fields on either side. Symbols of Billy’s success stood like monuments at every twist and turn: the man-made lake on which sat a rowing boat anchored to a post and chain; an old Victorian dovecote beautifully preserved; a folly glimpsed from within the manicured gardens. With a shudder, I realised then that the trappings of great wealth counted for nothing against a weapon of grotesque proportions.

At last we drew close to the entrance of a substantial black and white timbered farmhouse. I paid the fare and, as I handed it over, it occurred to me that I was no different from Billy. My rewards had also been earned from the deaths of others. The driver took my blood money and, pretending affability, nervously asked me to pass on his best wishes.

Brief conversation with a housekeeper informed me that Billy was last seen in the stable block. She suggested that I head that way. Other men would employ more stringent security measures. I could have been anyone. It was a measure of the man’s ruthlessness that Billy saw no need for extra protection. I knew that if he wanted to kill me he could, and probably smile in a moment of sober reflection afterwards.

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