Ultimatum (11 page)

Most people, and not just those in the upper echelons of the force, thought Tina Boyd was bad news. And in many ways she was. She wasn’t a team player, and she did things her own way, often with very little respect for the law she was meant to be upholding, and that made her dangerous. Yet it felt good to have her on the team, even if it was only temporary. She’d squeezed a name out of Fox, which was something. Bolt had a vision of her grabbing him by the hair and battering his head on the interview room desk, demanding answers. It brought a smile to his face, even though he knew it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibilities. That was the thing with Tina. She always brought an energy to everything she did. She also brought something to Bolt’s own lonely life, a spark that had been missing a long time – although he preferred not to think about that right now.

He went down to the next floor and found one of his team, DC Nikki Donohoe, a fiery-looking woman in her late thirties with short, fashionably cut red hair and the first sign of a bump where her third child was, due six months down the line. Nikki was their IT expert, a woman with an uncanny ability to dig up any information, however obscure.

‘Hello, boss,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Any more on the attacks?’

Nikki was usually a livewire, but like everyone else in London that morning what had happened had shaken her. Her two kids went to school barely a mile from where the last two bombs had exploded.

‘We’ve got a lead.’ He told her about Jetmir Brozi. ‘Drop everything and find out anything you can about him, particularly his current location.’

‘You think he might have something to do with the attacks?’ She looked hopeful.

‘Tina Boyd got the name from Fox, so it’s worth prioritizing.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Nikki, turning back to her PC.

‘So the Black Widow actually got something, did she?’

Bolt looked up to see DC Omar Balachi come into the room. Balachi was a tall, lean black man of Somali origin, in his late twenties, with finely sculpted features, who looked like he should be modelling sharp suits on the catwalk rather than wandering round in jeans, trainers and a hoodie, as he was now. He’d been with the team for most of the past year, and he was a good worker, albeit one with an attitude. He’d already made it known to Bolt that morning that he was annoyed that he’d spent so much of his time on the team doing donkey work while Tina had simply breezed in and been asked to interview the one man they’d all been wanting to talk to.

‘That’s right,’ said Bolt, turning to face him. ‘And I told you already, the reason she went there is because Fox insisted on it. I don’t like it either, but that’s the way it is.’

‘But you’ve still seconded her to the team.’

‘Temporarily yes, but only while she’s dealing with Fox.’ Bolt didn’t like having to justify his actions to members of his team – it set a bad precedent – but he knew what a sensitive issue this was.

Omar nodded slowly, clearly still not liking the situation. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked. ‘With all this stuff going on, it seems a bit of a waste of time trawling through bank statements and phone records for the thousandth time.’ He was currently looking into the backgrounds of all the ex-soldiers who’d worked for the security company Fox had run for some years prior to the Stanhope siege. It had been a long and time-consuming task, and Bolt knew Omar was bored stiff by it.

Ordinarily he’d have told him to persevere with it. After all, it was what detective work was all about. But this wasn’t an ordinary day. ‘Help Nikki with Jetmir Brozi, can you? I need everything you can find on him, and I need it ASAP.’

He went back up to his office, grabbing his fourth coffee of the day en route. Like Omar, he felt frustrated. He wanted to be out there hunting down the terrorists, but their only suspect was dead, and no use to anyone. In the meantime, they just had to wait for the next attack. This was the weakness of living in a multicultural democracy like Britain, where people could come and go as they pleased. You were exposed and vulnerable. The Stanhope siege and the bomb blasts earlier this morning had shown that a handful of men could bring a city of ten million people to a standstill, and effectively hold it to ransom.

He took a sip from his coffee and looked out of the window. The sun was shining, and the clouds were beginning to thin and break up. It looked like it was going to turn into a fine winter’s day. Sirens still blared in the distance, their sound only just audible through the glass. Outside, innocent people were being killed, and there was nothing that he or his colleagues could do about it.

The sound of one of the three mobile phones he carried stirred Bolt from his thoughts. At first he didn’t recognize the ringtone – a loud pealing of church bells – then he remembered the contact he’d assigned it to, and he frowned as he picked up the phone.

‘We need to meet,’ said Jones. ‘Urgently.’

Seventeen

11.50

HEATHROW’S TERMINAL 5
offered the kind of welcome to the UK that gave tourist chiefs sleepless nights. The queue started almost as soon as you were in the building – thousands of people shuffling along in a thick unruly line, as if the arrival here of the planes that had been carrying them had been completely and utterly unexpected. Young Asian staff with funky haircuts and big badges on their shirts claiming they were ‘Here to Help’ barked orders like prison guards as they shepherded the passengers down the escalators, before wedging them like cattle on to the shuttle trains, which then deposited them a few minutes later at the back of an even bigger and more chaotic queue in the cavernous Arrivals Hall.

Luckily for Voorhess, he wasn’t in a hurry. The man next to him, a bald-headed Australian in a tailored suit, was. He kept repeating what a disgrace it was being treated like this, and that this was the last time he would travel through Heathrow. A couple of other passengers murmured in agreement, others talked in hushed tones about the bombs in London that morning, but Voorhess just looked ahead, an amiable expression on his face. He was being paid for his time here. There was no point getting distressed.

It took close to an hour from leaving the plane to finally reach Passport Control. It amused him to see that of the dozen or so officials manning the desks, all but one of them was Asian. It was, he thought, more like arriving in New Delhi than London.

The only white passport officer, a severe-looking lady with a turned-down mouth and beady eyes, inspected Voorhess’s Irish passport. The document was a fake, but a near perfect one – one of a batch from within the Irish Passport Office itself – and there was no way either she or the computer would spot it. Voorhess gazed at her with the same amiable, slightly vacant expression he often wore in public as she inspected both it and him. He was a big man, both in height and broadness, and he had an imposing presence that was only partly diluted by the thick head of curly black hair, the boyish swirl of freckles, and the twinkling green eyes – Irish eyes – that he got from his mother. The powerful build came from his father, an Afrikaner farmer who’d somehow managed to tempt his mother to live on his bleak homestead at the arse-end of the Eastern Cape.

The woman gave him back his passport with a reluctant thank you, her tone making it clear she wasn’t actually thanking him at all, and Voorhess headed straight for the Nothing to Declare channel at customs, joining the many others swarming through. There were only a handful of customs officers on duty, although he knew more of them would be watching through the tinted screens above the exit door.

The last line of defence against the bad guys. When you were through that door you were in the country and able to disappear at will, yet they seemed to be letting everyone in, including Voorhess himself, which would turn out to be a very serious mistake on their part. Today he was one of the bad guys, here to commit a crime that, for a short space of time at least, would capture the world’s attention and spread fear like a contagion.

The thought didn’t bother him. Voorhess was a professional. He did what he was paid to do, and those who hired his services knew that he could be relied on to carry out his orders, as long as the money was right and the risk manageable. He’d always been good at killing because he was able to disassociate himself from the fact that those he killed were human beings. He just killed them. It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

He remembered the first time, all the way back in 1982, when he’d been a young conscript in the South African Defence Force, fighting the SWAPO Marxists in Angola. The captain of his platoon, a man named De Koch, had considered Voorhess soft. It was his boyish face, and those twinkling eyes. They always made people think he was soft.

They’d been on patrol one morning down a narrow back road through forest and had run straight into a patrol of SWAPO coming the other way. Both sides had been completely surprised at running into the other, and for a moment everyone just stopped and stared. Voorhess had felt no fear. Just a single burst of adrenalin. He hadn’t seen people. He’d seen targets. And crucially he was the first to react. He’d cut down three of them before De Koch and the others had even raised their weapons. Two rounds to the chest in each one, killing them stone dead. It was something he’d been doing periodically ever since – first for the military, and finally for himself.

The previous night he’d received an email from the client telling him that a rental car was parked ready for him on the third floor of the long-stay car park, and when he got there he was pleased to find it was a Mitsubishi Shogun, similar to the one he drove back home. The keys were on top of the front passenger side tyre, as instructed, and when he got inside there was a blank envelope on the passenger seat containing an address and two front door keys.

This was how Voorhess liked to do business. Anonymously. With the exception of some of his victims, no one ever saw his face, and that included the people who hired his services. That way it protected both them and him.

He switched on the engine and shoved the heating on to full blast to banish the damp English cold, before reversing out of the space. His stay here was going to be brief. He was already booked on a flight out of Heathrow to Bangkok first thing the following morning.

And, if all went according to plan, he’d be leaving mayhem in his wake.

Eighteen

12.14

THERE ARE NO
noble causes. Even those with the purest motives taint themselves in their pursuit of justice.

I was thinking that as I watched Mike Bolt walk towards me through the park. He’d approached me a year earlier, after I’d been charged with GBH over the incident with Alfonse Webber, and had offered me a straightforward deal. Work for him and get a short sentence – no more than a year – or take my chances with the courts and risk going down for three or four. Maybe even more. Webber had sustained serious injuries. A campaign – Justice for Alfonse – had been set up in his name, fronted by a high-powered human-rights lawyer who clearly cared a lot more about Webber’s rights than those of the girl who’d been tied naked to a bed in his flat. There was serious media interest amid claims of police brutality and racism. The point was, I was on my own.

At the time, I didn’t think the police were able to make deals like that. I’d always been led to believe that it was up to judges to set prison sentences. Since then, I’ve learned a lot of things I didn’t know about.

Bolt was heading up a team trying to find out who else had been involved in setting up the Stanhope attacks, and it seemed he had a lot of clout. He was also convinced that one of the terrorists involved – William Garrett, aka Fox – could provide the answers. The idea was that I’d be placed on remand alongside him, my brief being to build up a rapport and try to glean what information I could from him, and then pass it back to Bolt and his team. As an ex-soldier, just like Fox, who’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan, and who’d also committed a serious crime, I was the perfect candidate.

There was another reason too. I’d lost someone in the Stanhope siege. I wouldn’t say I’d ever been that close to my cousin Martin, but we’d seen a lot of each other as kids, and we’d met up at family events now and again, and we’d always got on well. He’d died inside the hotel trying to disarm one of the terrorists, and I remember how angry that had made me. He was one of the good guys, and he’d died a hero, murdered trying to protect other people, just because he’d ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like those people in the café this morning.

You see, that’s the thing with terrorists. They don’t care who dies in the pursuit of their cause.

Well, I did. Which was why I’d agreed to help Bolt.

I spent six months in the cell next to Fox. I talked to him a lot in that time. I’d even say we got on quite well, given our shared background. But he was no fool, and he steadfastly refused to talk about his part in the siege, so I was never able to give Bolt anything of use. No names. No evidence. Nothing.

When I came out, having served eight months for my crime – much to the anger of Alfonse Webber and his extremely vocal supporters – Bolt wanted me to continue working for him, and the man he wanted me to go after was none other than Cecil Boorman, one of my old army colleagues. Cecil was suspected of being an associate of some of those involved in the Stanhope siege, and being part of a larger network of extreme right-wing terrorists. I found that part difficult to believe. Cecil was a hard man and a stone-cold killer, but the evidence against him seemed pretty scant.

I could have said no. Should have done really. I was under no obligation to continue helping Bolt. I’d been given my sentence and served it, so there was no way of putting me back inside. But in the end, what else was I going to do? I was an ex-con; I’d been fired from the Met; my criminal record prevented me from going back into the army; my wife had left me. I was facing the scrapheap. At least doing this gave me a chance for some excitement.

My brief had been simple: find out what Cecil is up to and who he’s working for.