Then We Die Page 10

  ‘What will happen if – once the divorce goes through?’

  ‘He’ll have to find somewhere else to live,’ she said. ‘At the moment, he’s sleeping in your old room, but that is only temporary.’

  ‘Where? How will he be able to afford somewhere else in London?’

  ‘That’s his problem,’ she said calmly, turning her attention back to the remains of her scone.

  EIGHTEEN

  The clock on the dashboard said 2.37 a.m. Adam Hall yawned and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, wondering when he was going to get the chance to relieve himself. His bladder had been uncomfortably full for over an hour, and he cursed himself for not nipping round the corner earlier. There was absolutely no way he was going to try and piss into his empty Starbucks cup, not with his boss, Gillian Strauss, sitting in the passenger seat next to him.

  Gritting his teeth, Adam tried to grin and bear it. He knew that sod’s law meant that, the moment he went off for a piss, the subject would walk out of the door of number 17 Peel Street, twenty yards up on the other side of the road from where they were sitting. It stood in the middle of a row of expensive houses just south of Notting Hill Gate, a few blocks to the west of Hyde Park and Kensington Palace.

  He glanced over at Strauss and felt the discomfort in his crotch increase further. With her head in the confidential reports on Al-Amour that he had lovingly collated for her, Strauss studiously ignored him, so Adam allowed his gaze to linger on her. Mid-thirties, short blonde hair, ultra-fit, she was a Home Counties beauty who, even in jeans and a fleece, was more glamorous than anyone else in MI6 by a factor of at least 100. The monster rock on her wedding finger, courtesy of the stereotypically wretched merchant banker husband, did not make her any less of a young spook’s wet dream. Hall had been assigned to work with her in his first week on the job and he now lived in mortal terror of being moved on to another boss. When he realized that they would be spending the night together, even if it was only in the confines of a grubby Ford Focus, Adam had initially found some difficulty in breathing.

  Underneath the fleece, Strauss was wearing a white blouse with the top two buttons undone. As she shifted in her seat, Adam caught the merest glimpse of décolletage, and had to stifle a low groan in his throat.

  Strauss gave him a quizzical look over the top of her papers. ‘Are you okay?’

  Adam pushed open the door. ‘Sorry,’ he said, swinging his feet onto the tarmac, ‘I need a comfort break. Won’t be a sec.’

  Without waiting for a response, he stepped out of the car, closed the door, without letting it click shut, and began jogging down the street.

  Halfway down the road he found an alley. It was a ten-foot-wide gap between two houses, and ran into Campden Street to the south. The place was well-lit but there was no sign of any CCTV and anyway Adam was by now in a major hurry. Stepping into the alley, he unzipped his trousers just at the moment where his bladder was about to give out. Picking his spot on the wall in front of him, he let fly.

  ‘Aaahhh!!’

  A sense of immense satisfaction and well-being pervaded his whole body, followed by the thought that his bladder capacity must be greater than he had previously thought. The flow was just starting to weaken when Adam became conscious of movement at the far end of the alley. He looked up to see that a man had entered from Campden Street, and was walking towards him with a big smile on his face.

  Pushing hard, Adam tried to hurry things up, but his bladder decidedly wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘I bet that feels good!’ the man laughed. His English was good, but he clearly wasn’t a native. Adam couldn’t identify the accent.

  The young spook grunted in acknowledgement as the stream of piss finally subsided to a dribble and died. With a sigh of relief, Adam gave himself a final shake.

  * * *

  Ryan Goya waited for the young guy to put his pathetic-looking tool back in his trousers before he pulled the Barak from the back of his jeans. He watched him fiddle with his zip, head lowered.

  ‘Hey!’

  Adam Hall looked up, and barely had time to register the gun before the first .40 S&W round shattered his breastbone and sent him sprawling back on the pavement. He was dead by the time Goya stepped across and put a second cartridge between his eyes – just to be sure – before heading out of the alley to deal with the boy’s good looking colleague.

  NINETEEN

  The MI6 woman didn’t even realize that Goya was standing there next to the car, before he sent a bullet into the side of her skull. Sticking the Barak through the shattered window, he fired a second one into her head as a matter of routine, although it was clear that she was already dead. Looking swiftly up and down the street, he confirmed that no one was watching, then jogged quickly across the road, heading for the house where the man travelling under the name of Lefter Sporel would be waiting.

  Using a key that had been stolen from the cleaning firm which looked after the house for its peripatetic owner, he opened the door and slipped inside. Keeping the semi-automatic out of sight behind him, he walked carefully down the hallway towards the kitchen, the only light source in the house.

  Seated at the kitchen table, Sporel looked up as Goya appeared in the doorway. He smiled nervously. ‘Are you with Sol?’ he asked, in heavily accented English.

  ‘Yes,’ Goya nodded.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He will be here very soon,’ Goya replied, glancing back down the hall. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘It is just me,’ the man shrugged, ‘but I can still do the necessary business with Sol.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We have had some problems . . . with the Israelis.’

  ‘Tsk,’ Goya hissed, ‘those bastards never let go.’ Lifting the Barak to chest level, he gave Sporel a moment to understand what was going on before he jerked the trigger, sending him on the way to his heaven . . . or his hell.

  Conscious that time was not on his side, Goya scurried round the house, looking for cash, documents or anything else that might be of use. Finding nothing, he was just about to leave when he heard a key in the lock. Not waiting to see who was coming through, he squeezed off a couple of rounds into the front door.

  There was a pause. Then the door swung slowly open, and the wall above Goya’s head exploded as someone returned fire. ‘Damn!’ he grunted, quickly dropping into a crouch and then backtracking down the hallway. In the kitchen, he skipped over the pool of congealing blood on the floor, wrenched open the back door and rushed outside.

  The garden looked about thirty feet long. At the bottom was a stone wall, maybe eight feet tall. Next to the wall was a small white plastic stool. Slipping the Barak into the back of his jeans, Goya jumped onto the stool and began hauling himself up. He was just about to swing a leg over the top of the wall when he felt a hand seize him by the collar and pull him backwards. Goya tried to grab for his gun but it was gone. Once, twice, his face was unceremoniously slammed into the brickwork. Dazed, with blood filling his mouth, he offered little resistance as he was flipped round and a massive fist smashed into his stomach. Collapsing, he tried to cover his head as a succession of well-controlled blows rained down on his body.

  ‘Up!’

  Struggling to breathe, Goya looked at the hulking figure in front of him. He was a brute of a man, maybe six foot three and weighing maybe 110 kilos. In the giant’s hand the Barak, now pointed at Goya’s nose, looked like a child’s toy.

  ‘Up!’

  ‘Who are you?’ Goya panted, reluctantly struggling to his feet.

  Saying nothing, the man simply flicked the barrel of the gun in the direction of the house. With his free hand, he hoisted Goya up by his shirt and began dragging him back inside.

  TWENTY

  Moving slowly along the South Bank, Carlyle felt a sharp wind blowing off the Thames. He knew that this was as close to fresh air as he would ever get in London, so he was determined to make the most of it. It was not quite 6.15 a.m. and he was
feeling pleased with himself for getting out of bed and going for a run. A combination of endorphins from the exercise and listening to The Clash, Stiff Little Fingers and a selection of other Punk tunes on his iPod further added to his good mood.

  Even at this early hour, there were plenty of other joggers about, eyes glazed, headphones on, enjoying having the city to themselves. Occasionally, Carlyle waved to those passing him while heading in the opposite direction. Invariably, they ignored him. As ‘Safe European Home’ gave way to ‘Nobody’s Hero’, he kicked on. Heading through the tunnel under Southwark Bridge, while taking a swig from the small bottle of water he carried in his hand, he trundled past the rows of dossers sleeping underneath their cardboard boxes. He was approaching Tate Modern, an old power station alongside the Thames which had been converted into an art gallery. Here he could take the Millennium Bridge back across the river, and then be home in twenty minutes or so. The alternative would be to keep heading east towards Tower Bridge. His head said ‘yes’, but his legs were not so sure.

  Carlyle was still undecided about his route as he reached the Tate, and just then his mobile started vibrating in the back pocket of his shorts. Pulling it out, he slowed to a walk.

  Number withheld.

  Carlyle thought about it for a moment before deciding he’d rather take the call than persevere with his run.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Inspector Carlyle?’

  A man’s voice he didn’t recognize. Sirens in the background. Carlyle knew the signs: something had happened.

  Something bad.

  ‘Yes, speaking,’ he admitted with some reluctance. He started up the ramp of the footbridge, stopping in the shelter of a wall so as to complete this call out of the wind.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector David Ronan from SO15.’

  Roche’s boyfriend. Carlyle wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘Alison told me about your dealings with Adam Hall.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘pillow-talk.’

  There was a short pause on the line. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Carlyle said quickly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m on Peel Street, just off Kensington Church Street,’ Ronan continued, in a matter-of-fact manner.

  Carlyle quickly scanned the A–Z in his head. ‘I know it.’ It was vaguely true.

  ‘Someone executed Hall here a few hours ago.’

  RIP, young Adam, Carlyle thought ruefully, his heart still beating rapidly in his chest. James Bond you were not.

  ‘And he wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘Is this related to the killing of my sergeant?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up. How long are you going to be at the scene?’

  Ronan sighed. ‘There are multiple scenes. It is quite a mess, so it looks like I will be here for a considerable while.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be there within the hour.’ Ending the call, Carlyle moved up onto the bridge and began slowly jogging towards home. Feeling the wind full in his face, he let all thoughts of spies and murder fall from his mind as he upped his pace and ran on towards St Paul’s Cathedral.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Studiously ignoring the television cameras hovering just outside the police tape, the crews now taking a break from providing live reports to the early breakfast news bulletins, Carlyle ducked into Peel Street. It was a fresh, bright day and the morning rush hour had not yet started. After the carnage of the night before, comparative peace reigned in the vicinity.

  Peel Street, with its expensively renovated four-storey Georgian townhouses, was the kind of exclusive London street that only bankers, arms traders and drug dealers could afford to live in. For now, it was empty, apart from a couple of uniforms mooching about and a gaggle of techies buzzing around a vehicle parked halfway along on the south side of the street. The car itself had been screened off to stop any journalists, residents or gawpers taking any pictures. Carlyle guessed that the one guy not in a white body suit was DCI Ronan.

  Although dressed like a rich teenager – in blue Adidas Forest Hills Originals, carefully distressed jeans and an expensive-looking black leather biker jacket – David Ronan looked rather old and careworn. Worse, it looked like his raven-black hair had been dyed. Certainly, Carlyle thought with a stab of jealousy, the man looked a bit past it to be going out with the rather fragrant Alison Roche. Even allowing for the fact that he had the haggard look of someone who had been up all night, Ronan had to be at least ten years her senior, therefore almost as old as Carlyle himself.

  ‘Here.’ Carlyle had taken the precaution of bringing along a couple of lattes from the Caffè Nero round the corner. Extra hot, and with two extra shots each.

  ‘Excellent,’ Ronan said gratefully, taking one of the twelve-ounce cups. ‘You must be Carlyle?’ He extended his free hand and they shook. ‘Got any sugar?’

  Carlyle dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of small white sachets. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ronan peeled the plastic lid off his latte, tore open each of the sachets in turn with his teeth, and dumped the sugar into the froth. Putting the lid back on, he gave the cup a gentle shake before taking a mouthful.

  Stepping towards a narrow gap in the screens, Carlyle peered through. Still in the front passenger seat of a red Ford Focus was the body of a woman. It looked like she had been shot multiple times.

  Squeamish at the best of times, Carlyle moved away quickly. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he waited for that familiar feeling of his breakfast coming back up his throat. Then he remembered that he hadn’t actually had any breakfast, and for that gave silent thanks. Turning back to face Ronan, he exhaled deeply and lifted his gaze to the heavens.

  ‘A right old mess,’ Ronan observed quietly, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Gillian Strauss. MI6. Adam Hall’s boss.’

  The female spook and her little apprentice. Carlyle let out another long sigh. ‘And where is Hall?’

  Ronan finished his coffee and looked around, wondering what to do with the cup. ‘We found him in the alley over there,’ he said, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘Looks like he was shot first, and then her. Then they shot the third guy.’

  The third guy? Carlyle wondered. This just gets better and fucking better.

  The SO15 man saw the sickly look on his face and said, ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  * * *

  Ronan nodded to the uniform standing outside number 17 Peel Street and jogged up the three steps leading to the open front door. Carlyle followed him inside and down a hallway that ran the entire length of the west side of the house, to reach a large kitchen at the back. In the middle of the room stood a rectangular wooden table, with two chairs on either side. One of the chairs had been pulled out, as if someone had recently been sitting on it. The whole scene was unremarkable, apart from the large pool of congealed blood covering most of the table-top. At the far end, blood had dripped onto the floor, forming a pool leading towards the back door that opened onto the garden.

  One of the technicians, wearing a white body suit, appeared in the doorway and said to Ronan, ‘We’re done here.’ He began stripping off a pair of protective gloves. ‘For now, at least.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ronan replied. ‘Let’s touch base back at the station.’

  ‘Will do,’ said the man, turning to head out of the house.

  Ronan explained to Carlyle, ‘The body’s gone to the morgue.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Middle-aged guy. He was carrying a German passport under the name of Lefter Sporel.’ Ronan looked at Carlyle. ‘Not a very German name, is it?’

  Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Germany has a large Turkish population,’ he reflected.

  ‘Probably a fake ID anyway,’ Ronan said. ‘If Mossad were after him, it’s very unlikely that he was Turkish.’

  ‘Unless he’s some random Muja
hideen nutter,’ Carlyle ventured, keen to show his impressive grasp of international affairs. ‘They can come from anywhere.’

  ‘I would be very surprised, though. Maybe if he came from Blackburn, or Birmingham, but not from Berlin. We’ll just have to see if we can work out his real identity.’ Ronan pulled a packet of Marlboro out of his jacket pocket and stuck a cigarette in his mouth without lighting it. ‘What I assume happened is that this guy here was the target, and the MI6 bods outside just got in the way.’

  ‘Presumably MI6 may be able to tell us who he really was?’ Carlyle said.

  Ronan made a face. ‘You would hope so.’

  ‘You don’t sound too convinced.’

  ‘They’re not known for sharing information at the best of times, and right now they will be busy trying to work out how to spin the fact that two of their agents got whacked in the middle of London.’

  ‘The body count is piling up a bit.’

  Ronan grinned. ‘Alison told me you were a master of understatement.’

  Me? Carlyle thought.

  The DI’s grin grew wider. ‘Or rather, if I recall rightly, her exact words were “sarcastic old bastard”. Anyway, six murders, including a police officer and two spooks, is a genuine, bona-fide shit storm.’

  ‘Good job MI6 are handling it, then,’ Carlyle said.

  ‘Not any more.’ Ronan gave him a stern look. ‘SO15 are not going to just sit by while all this crap is dumped on their doorstep.’

  Great, Carlyle thought. A bit of inter-agency politics is just what we need right now.

  ‘MI6 have blown it big-time,’ Ronan continued. ‘Now it’s up to the Met to get a grip on things.’

  Carlyle shrugged.

  ‘This has come right from the top. The Commissioner has given CTC the green light to deal with the problem.’

  Carlyle wondered whether that also chimed with the Secret Intelligence Service’s understanding of this situation. He very much doubted whether the Metropolitan Police Commissioner could ever win a pissing contest with the head of MI6. On the other hand, he really couldn’t give a toss about who did what, as long as Joe’s interests were properly looked after.