The Hostage (46 page)

‘Bit of a problem, I’m afraid. A4 has two major ops going on. Everyone’s either up north or in bloody Cornwall. They’ve been called off and are on their way back but that could take a few hours. Meanwhile we’re trying to find anyone off duty to help you until the teams get here.’

Stratton went silent for a moment as he considered the options. Lawton could be home with the virus, or not, and then the possibilities were dark and endless.

‘I can have a police special weapons unit with you in five minutes,’ Sumners said, aware Stratton was holding it all together by himself.

Stratton considered the offer for a second or two. ‘No.’

‘I can’t keep the lid on this any longer, Stratton. It’s becoming too risky. I’m aware of the dangers of turning this over to the police too soon but they’re starting to be outweighed by the dangers we risk if we fail to corner these people right away.’

‘I understand. Let me find out if Lawton’s home and if he has it.’

‘How long do you think that will take?’

‘Give me twenty minutes.’

‘Twenty minutes then,’ Sumners said.

‘One more thing. How can I destroy it?’

‘What?’ Sumners said.

‘If I have to. Can it be flushed down the toilet for instance?’

‘I’m not an expert on that. I’ll have to find out.’ Stratton ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. Aggy wondered what on earth that conversation was all about - if Lawton had what? Flush what down the toilet?

Stratton reached over to the back seat and pulled his bag on to his lap. He took out the three black hexagonal blocks and initiator Lieutenant Stewart had given him and put them on the dashboard while he searched for something else.Aggy, ever curious of technological things, picked up the initiator to examine it.

‘Easy with that,’ Stratton said as he searched. ‘Or those,’ indicating the black blocks, ‘will make a very nasty mess of this car, not to mention you and me.’

She put it back as Stratton found a small leather case with a zipper around three sides, put it in one of his pockets and the black blocks and initiator in another.

He opened his door and got out. She climbed out of her door and they both instinctively closed them quietly by pushing them shut one click. He went to the boot, opened it, and put his bag inside. Before closing it he took a look at her.

‘Does he know that jacket?’ he asked.

She thought a moment. ‘I can’t remember. I’ve worn it over the water. Maybe.’

Stratton dug into his bag and pulled out a tightly rolled piece of green and brown clothing. ‘Put that on,’ he said.

She unravelled it. ‘It’s a camouflage jacket,’ she said.

‘No one will see you then, will they?’ he said.

She regretted it as soon as she said it. A lot of civilians wore camouflage clothes. She pulled it on and they walked along the pavement together. He put his hands in his jacket pockets and stuck an elbow out towards her. She looped her arm through his and they fell into step.

‘Can I ask something?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘What were you talking about? How to destroy something and flush it down the toilet?’

‘Just keep your mind on the business in hand.’

She had been scolded, but she couldn’t tell if it was Stratton’s usual hard-arse attitude or peevishness at her relationship with Bill. They turned the corner. Up ahead, on the right side of the street, were the two apartment blocks. ‘The second one,’ Aggy said.

Her eyes drifted up the building as they approached it, looking for Bill’s only window on the front side. ‘Top floor, far end flat. Lights are on.’

Stratton looked up and saw a shadow pass the window. ‘Looks like he’s home,’ she said.

Stratton scanned the street, nearby cars, doorways, expecting the place to be watched if the grand prize was inside. There was no sign of anyone.

‘Keep an eye open for caretakers,’ he said. Aggy wondered why but she wasn’t about to ask him any more questions.

They continued to the next junction and turned the corner. Stratton looked ahead for a place to duck into, found somewhere and crossed the road. He led her up a path that divided a row of terraced houses and they stopped midway in the darkness.

‘I need you to go up to his flat,’ he said as he peeled the camouflage jacket off her shoulders. ‘You have to get him out of the apartment. I need at least fifteen minutes inside. Okay?’

She looked distracted as she took off the jacket and handed it to him.

Stratton wondered where she’d gone. ‘Aggy?’

‘I’m thinking,’ she said.

‘What about?’

‘How to get him out of his apartment.’

‘Do it while you’re walking there,’ he said, folding the jacket up neatly.

She frowned. He was such a bastard if people didn’t do what he said right when he said it. She wondered why on earth she had looked forward to being with him. If her romantic side had not sidetracked her she might have remembered what a demanding sod he was to work with. On the other hand, a RIRA arms shipment and a Brit mole uncovered constituted a fairly big deal as operations went. If her senses were anything to go by there was even more to it than Stratton was letting on. Calm as he was, there was something about the way he had acted when she told him Lawton had met Chief Munro’s wife, and the way he had talked on the phone to whomever. He also looked more tired than she’d ever seen him, and it was not a tiredness from lack of sleep. Something deeper.

‘Get going,’ he said. She was about to step off when he took her arm lightly and looked into her eyes. ‘Aggy. Be careful . . . Be as natural as you can. Okay?’

There was an intense sincerity in his words. She was touched, but at the same time it unnerved her. He would not have warned her like that if it weren’t dangerous. She nodded.

‘I shouldn’t tell you this,’ he added, ‘because I don’t want it to distract you, but I have to. Things have changed for Lawton.Yesterday he was a mole, just a spy.Today he’s something far more sinister. Whatever he was like before, he isn’t the same person. He can’t be. I’m saying he could be dangerous . . . Be careful.’

She nodded again and walked away, out of the alley and back along the street towards the apartment block.

Stratton watched her go. He could see her slender prettiness even in the near darkness and his heart ached a little, fearful for her.

Hank strapped the SMG under the yellow coat and took a few seconds to practise grabbing it and bringing it up on aim. Neither of the Irishmen had a pistol, or even a spare magazine for the SMG. The young man sat limply on the floor, propped against the pole, his head hooded and hands and feet tied up as Hank’s had been. The other man was stuffed in a corner hidden under a tarpaulin and some ropes. He was still breathing faintly when Hank covered him, but if the guy ever did come out of it he would probably have brain damage. The image of himself beating the men kept flitting into Hank’s head, the brutality of it. He had never done anything remotely like that before in his life although he had imagined pounding a man to death on more than one occasion, such as the time Kathryn came home upset because a bunch of hooligans had harassed her outside a mall while she was loading her shopping into the car. Helen and Janet had been with her and Kathryn thought the thugs were going to rob her, or worse. For hours after Hank’s mind fed on the images of him finding the guys and beating them to a pulp. This day on the boat he had lived out what could have been just another of his daydreams: a persecuted individual, outnumbered, unarmed, his life threatened. But he had beaten one guy to death and the other as good as. Hank wondered if perhaps the daydreams had actually been a preparation for this day. He found a chocolate bar in a pocket of the coat, unwrapped it and bit into it greedily.

He readied his weapon and opened the door carefully as he munched. The corridor was clear of life in both directions. One end was a metal watertight door that looked like an entrance to the engine room.The other end of the corridor appeared more promising: a flight of stairs went up into light.

Hank remained in the room and closed the door again to take a moment to think it through once more as he stuffed the rest of the chocolate into his mouth. He was growing confident and having second thoughts about his options. It might just be the adrenalin, but he was feeling a lot better physically than he had been earlier. His plans of action were becoming grander. Freedom was obviously the primary aim, but he wondered if there was more to be gained from this escape attempt. There didn’t appear to be many people on board. Judging by the size of the boat he figured there was no more than a dozen crewmembers. Hell, a super tanker, ten times the size, had just over two dozen men. And since the boat was alongside it was more than likely some had gone ashore. No one had been along the corridor for ages. It was an opportunity he should at least explore. It might just be possible to take over the boat by himself. He could always go back to the original plan at any time and leap overboard.

That made up his mind. The first thing he needed to do was a recce. He would take a look around and assess the ship’s manpower and location. Based on what he found he’d decide whether or not to have a go at securing the boat or to slip over the side.

He checked the weapon once again, made sure the safety-catch was off, firmed his grip and pulled it out so that the strap was taut. He opened the door, checked up and down, and stepped out into the corridor, pulling the weapon in close to his body and keeping it central so he could swiftly turn and engage targets front or rear. He reminded himself, on engaging the enemy, to keep his bursts to three shot maximum if possible. Distract, destroy was the principal - first round in the chest to distract, then in the head to destroy.

He moved his feet easily along the corridor careful not to cross them over as he was taught and maintain his balance, like a boxer, ready for anything. He came to the bottom of the stairs and looked up to the first landing, where a corridor crossed port and starboard and then continued up to another deck. The corridor was brightly lit, electric lights, not natural, and there was still no sign of life. Hank could feel a cool breeze coming down the steps, a strong indication the deck led to the outside. It was fresh with a chill to it and felt good.

Hank placed a foot on the first rung. He was committed. The feeling that whatever was about to happen would change the course of his life for ever suddenly washed over him. He took another step, aimed the barrel at the doorway above, and moved carefully up.

 

Bill Lawton zipped up his holdall, which looked as if very little more could have been squeezed into it, lifted it off the bed, and placed it near the front door. He selected a jacket from several hanging on coat hooks, his favourite black leather one, and pulled it on. He went to his sideboard, opened a drawer, took out his passport and buried it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He checked the contents of his wallet - almost a hundred pounds and two credit cards - and put it in his pocket alongside his passport. He looked around the apartment to see if there was anything else he needed. He was suddenly gloomy at the thought he was seeing it for the last time. It had been his London home for more than four years and held a lot of memories, some of them exceptional. A few very beautiful women had graced it . . .

This was the end of London for him. If he survived, perhaps he could come back one day, twenty or thirty years from now. Who was he kidding? he asked himself. He could never return if he wanted to be sure of staying free. RIRA might give up after a while, but if the Brits decided to go after him there would never be a time, if he lived to be a hundred and fifty, when he could relax and think it was over.

He suddenly thought of Henri, in a cell somewhere no doubt, never to sit in a café again and sip a glass of wine, or walk along the banks of the Seine on a perfect evening. Bill’s chances of getting away were fair as long as he had an early drop on both the IRA and the Brits. He would leave the flat just as it was. Once out of the country he would call the police and tell them where to find the virus. The flat would soon be filled with people from every imaginable department of military intelligence. Dozens upon dozens of them would troop through this room before it was over. Every single item would be inspected and taken apart, every minutia of his life pored over. Everyone he ever knew or met that there was a record of would be scrutinised. Every number he ever called from his home or mobile phone would be run through a computer, every recorded purchase logged.

On a table was a picture of his mother and father, his natural parents, a gift from Father Kinsella a few weeks after that first meeting in the cemetery all those years ago. At the time he was overcome with appreciation at the gesture as Kinsella knew he would be. Kinsella never told him how he came by it. Only in recent years, when things began to look jaded to Bill, did he start to doubt the authenticity of the picture. He wondered if MI5 knew about that part of his life, his true beginnings. It was probably in a file somewhere. The picture would be a clue otherwise. Bill picked it up and looked at it, as he had a hundred times. There was something in the woman’s eyes. Perhaps they were Bill’s. He wanted then to be. He took the picture out of the frame and put it in his pocket.

His eyes then fell with finality on the vial of liquid on the coffee table. It stood alone, simple and unadorned, innocent and attractive, yet capable of wiping out all of humanity if allowed. He wondered what kind of mind could think of creating something like that.

The knock on the door was like a cannon going off in Bill’s head. He stared at it in disbelief. Perhaps Kinsella had come back to escort him on this, his greatest triumph. Or perhaps it was his own people, MI5. Bringing a bottle of deadly virus into the country was perhaps too ambitious for RIRA and it had been traced to Bill. His heart pounded in his chest.