Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2) Read online

  “I am not sure,” the man said, his eyes on the screen. “Look, someone is leaving now!”

  Mohammed pressed through the window and squinted, finding it difficult to adjust seeing with only one eye. He watched the man walk down the steps and make his was to a blue car. A saloon. The man opened the driver’s door and deposited a bag inside. He bent down and disappeared from view. About twenty seconds later he stood back up and slammed the door shut. He no longer held the bag, but he was holding something else. A book? A map? It was difficult to see.

  “Go to zoom!” Mohammed snapped.

  The young man in the passenger seat tapped onto the control unit and the image changed. The man was clearly visible now. He was tall and fit-looking. Broad shouldered. He looked like a light-heavyweight boxer. He walked with a casual grace, his movements minimal. His hair was cut short and dark in colour, and the zoom was so effective they could see the day or two worth of stubble on his face. The jaw was strong and he had a pugilist’s brow.

  “Who is that?” Mohammed asked rhetorically. “I don’t like the look of him. He’s not another suited policeman. He looks tougher. I have seen men like him before. SAS?”

  The Russian stared at the man as he disappeared from view. Unprompted, the young man beside him adjusted the lens to wide-angle and they could make him out climbing back up the steps to the house. “He looks the type,” the Russian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll do it hard anyway. He won’t know what hit him. They fight hard, but they all die the same.”

  “I’ll get our vehicle closer,” Mohammed said. “Position yourselves at the end of the adjacent street to the north. We’ll take the adjacent street to the south. There’s no armed support units with them now, they must think they’re perfectly safe. Keep the drone where it is and get ready to use it. We can watch their position from a great distance and that means we have the advantage.”

  33

  The autumn afternoon was drawing in. The day had become increasingly cloudy, and although it had not yet started to rain as forecast, the light was poor and Zukovsky drove with the Jaguar’s headlights on. Rashid sat in the backseat. Marvin, a Bulgarian Zukovsky had used before on covert missions with the Russian Federation sat in the passenger seat, his window open, chain-smoking foul-smelling Turkish cigarettes. Zukovsky allowed him to continue, he knew the man worked better if he smoked. Otherwise he was an agitated soul indeed.

  They had left the M25 circular route and headed towards Epping Forest. Zukovsky felt the familiarity as he drove. Much had changed since he was last here. That had been in the late eighties. Times had been different then. Another world. A world that should have been very different indeed. It had not been as it should have, the world he knew changed so quickly. The wall had come tumbling down. The coup toppled the president and the country he had once loved weakened and became a whoring, decadent nation of worthless morals with the rich and poor separated by such a gulf of wealth that the money left the country and never came back. The poor provided little, and the rich took their money to Monaco, to America and to the far East. And to Britain.

  Although the route had changed, Zukovsky still recognised the area and he used the Jaguar’s satnav to home in on the coordinates.

  Finding it would be difficult. Many trees would have grown; the landscape would look different. The satnav directed them off the main road and after ten minutes they were deep inside the six-thousand-acre forest. There were occasional tracks cutting through the dense forest. Many of these were gravelled and used as service routes for the forestry commission and nature agencies. After half and mile, the satnav indicated they should turn right and their destination was two hundred metres ahead. There was no service road here. Zukovsky remembered there being a path all those years ago, but he knew the landscape would change. He pulled the Jaguar to the edge of the road and switched off the engine. There was no other traffic. He glanced at Rashid in the rear-view mirror, then at Marvin next to him.

  “Out,” he said. “And get the shovel and pick out of the boot.”

  Rashid opened the boot, then recoiled when he saw Khalil’s body inside. He looked at Marvin. “What has…”

  “Shut up!” Marvin snapped. “Grab his shoulders, I’ll get his legs.”

  Between them they heaved out the dead-weight and dropped the corpse on the ground.

  Zukovsky stepped out of the big car and smelled the dampness of the forest. The ground was spongy with moss and bracken. There were trees with falling leaves, evergreens reaching high into the collective canopy and spindly bare branches of trees, their leaves long-since fallen. Zukovsky watched the two men carry a tool each, hefted over their shoulders and struggle with the body, each holding a handful of clothing, suspending it just inches above the ground.

  “Khalil was too badly wounded to continue,” Zukovsky said. “He would have compromised the operation and he was in too much pain and discomfort to leave that way.”

  Marvin nodded, said nothing. Rashid took Marvin’s lead.

  Zukovsky led the way into the forest. The ground was littered with fallen pine cones and dead branches and it made progress slow, but as Zukovsky turned and saw the two men waiting for him to proceed further he was forced to concede it was he who made slow progress, and he felt a pang of inadequacy and the realisation that he was indeed old. He shuddered to think what these two men thought of him. One in middle-age, the other not yet thirty and between them hauling tools and a corpse. It was of no consequence, however. He had plans for them, and their lives would not be the same. Nor as long as they imagined, or indeed hoped.

  The clearing was smaller, darker. The fringe of the forest had moved inwards on the clearing; the height had most probably doubled over the years. Some trees would have fallen; others would have grown up in their place. The forest was well managed and in places piles of prepared branches had been stacked for logs or charcoal making.

  “Try the pick over here,” Zukovsky said to Rashid. The young man swung the pick and it sunk into the soft earth. “Try again!” he snapped. “Move the pick around in circles.”

  Rashid swung less powerfully, but moved the pick around as he had been instructed. After a few attempts, the pick hit something hard around eight inches deep in the earth. He jabbed a few more times, each time the pick hit the same depth, striking something metallic.

  Zukovsky shouted, “Loosen the earth! Marvin, get the shovel in there and take the earth away!”

  The two men alternated picking and digging. Marvin moved the earth away and started to cut a circle around the hard obstruction. After ten minutes, a circular area had been cleared sufficiently to reveal a cover the size of a drain hole cover. Rashid bent down to prise it open with the pick.

  “Stop!” Zukovsky walked up to them and pointed a few feet away. “Get back over there. I will deal with it now.” He bent down and took a sturdy-looking lock knife out of his pocket. He thumbed the blade open and worked it gently under the lip of the cover. After a few minutes he rested back on his heels and waved the two men over. “Lift the lid, but by no more than twelve inches. He looked at the Bulgarian. Thirty centimetres, no more.”

  Both men nodded and Zukovsky slid forwards onto his stomach and looked at the bottom of the cover as it rose out of the earth. He took a pen torch out of his jacket pocket and played the beam around the hatch.

  “Stop! No higher!” he warned. He reached out and unhooked the first of two wires. When it was clear, he unhooked the second and checked that there were no more wires attached. “All right, place the cover away from the hole.”

  The wires dangled down into the hole. Each one was attached to the pin of a grenade that had been wired to the rim of the hatch.

  Rashid looked at the opening. He was breathing heavily. Adrenalin building within. He breathed a deep breath and looked at Zukovsky. “What is this?”

  Zukovsky smiled. “This? This is history.” He eased his feet into the hole and shuffled his legs deeper until his feet found the metal ladder. “Sta
y here. Marvin, I will pass you some items, place them carefully on the ground. Do not drop them.”

  Zukovsky noted, as he eased his frame down the hole, that he was both slower and thicker in width as he negotiated the descent. At the bottom he stood, with a metre of clearance above his head. He used the torch, but the light was swallowed in the chasm. Torches lined the walls but he knew the batteries would be dead, long since degraded. A row of AK47 rifles were stacked in a rack, along with magazines. He doubted the springs would be strong enough. Decades of being compressed by the ammunition would have damaged them. He would bet all he had that the weapons would work though. However, he was not interested in these. He shone the beam over the shelves and racks. NBC warfare suits hung, along with the breathing equipment needed in the event of nuclear, biological or chemical warfare. Hundreds of ration packs were packed in boxes along with thousands of litres of bottled water and purification equipment. Maps and files filled a shelf above him, and radio equipment lay unused, and most likely unusable. Code cards, spare batteries and several generators, along with boxes of spare radio parts were stacked floor to ceiling. The idea had been that a team of Spetsnaz commandos would survive a year spreading chaos and sabotage, with a hit-list of British VIPs to assassinate. Or, they would be inserted into position to strike at the heart of western Europe and the civilised world. To deliver a nuclear attack, undetectable by radar. An attack by the covert planting of a bomb. Zukovsky had overseen the building of this prefabricated bunker, but to his knowledge, no thermonuclear delivery system had been secreted into the country. The construction of the bunker had been no mean feat, covertly assembling it over a year. There were twelve in all, tactically placed over the whole of Britain, and to his knowledge none had been detected. Nor, he reflected as he looked at the lead flasks stacked in a cage at the end of the bunker, were the fifty ten kilo caches of enriched weapon grade uranium that had been stored inside them.

  34

  The BMW was fully loaded. Unusual for pool cars, with the exception of a few high-end Jaguars and Range Rovers used for driving VIPs and diplomats. The leather seats were soft and the ride was cosseting. The power was delivered seamlessly from its straight six-cylinder petrol engine, yet it cruised silently and effortlessly through the traffic. King thought the ride was set up too firmly though and the car jarred over the speed bumps they encountered on the route. He noted a handling button near the gear lever, but did not bother to adjust it. He had set the satnav to display as a map. They had no specific destination, both he and Caroline used the journey to attempt to spot a tail.

  Hoist sat in the backseat. King had told him to position himself in the middle and fasten his seat belt. If they were rammed he wanted Hoist to exit either side quickly, but he also wanted the man secured in place and not flailing forwards and injuring them both if they were hit from the front.

  King had taken the Walther P99 out from his holster and tucked it under his thigh. He observed Caroline do the same. He was confident she had experience and she seemed as switched on as anybody he’d ever worked with. He liked her a great deal, even though he had only known her a day, and felt a comfortable banter between them. He was wary of working with women in this environment, his previous experience was that they over compensated in a what was predominantly a man’s world. They were wary or tired of being judged. Caroline Darby seemed to exude a ‘take it or leave it’ aura that emanated confidence in her abilities. And why not? She had fended off two attackers, killing one of them at Hoist’s apartment and she had sent four attackers to retreat at the safe-house.

  King looked at her as she surveyed the wing mirror on her side. She was concentrating, counting and memorising the vehicles behind them. She had strong features, was attractive, but had kept herself plain-looking. Her blonde hair would drape past her shoulders if she wore it long, but she wore it tied back tightly in a ponytail securing it with a thin black band. She had applied a little make-up, but nothing most men would notice, and her lips were naturally glossy. King had noticed her eyes though. Forester had mentioned she had lost her fiancé in a terror attack. He could see she wore a sadness. Her eyes had glimpsed tragedy. Once they had, they lost some sparkle. He had experienced tragedy too, lost personally but he doubted his eyes showed it. They had lost their shine many years before. They were cold and heartless eyes. Glacier blue and piercing. They had seen many people die. Some deserving; some less so.

  They had driven for forty-five minutes. King had taken quiet streets, headed for large carparks and even driven through a large industrial estate with many side roads leading to various businesses. There was nobody following them, no vehicle that became obvious. They parked on a petrol station forecourt for ten minutes, both alert, both watching for any sign.

  “Let’s head back,” King said. He glanced down at the SCAR rifle. Technically it was referred to as a weapon system. Its stock was retracted and the short barrel nestled against the foot rest. King’s leg kept it secured against the console and being an automatic transmission, he didn’t need to keep moving his left leg to work a clutch. He looked at Caroline and said, “Debussing from a vehicle is the number one time for a hit.”

  “Good job we’re ready then,” she replied confidently.

  35

  The lead flasks were stacked in rows on the forest floor. Zukovsky had been adamant that they should be laid in rows and unable to knock into each other if one should fall over. Rashid had climbed down into the bunker and lifted them up the ladder where Marvin took them from him and carried them over to where he had started to carefully arrange them. It was hard work, each flask weight over ten kilos and the opening of the bunker was narrow.

  Zukovsky had supervised. He surveyed the progress. The light had ebbed sooner than he had expected. Transporting them back to the car would be difficult. But he would soon have extra hands.

  Rashid handed over the last flask to Marvin and climbed out of the opening. He was flushed and panting hard. Climbing the rungs of the ladder with the heavy flasks had been difficult. He sat on the soft forest floor and rested. Marvin carefully laid down the last flask and looked back at Zukovsky. He seemed resigned to more work. He looked at the flasks and back at the direction they had come. There was movement in the treeline. He looked at Zukovsky, taking the small Makarov pistol out of his jacket pocket.

  “Wait!” Zukovsky scowled. “Put that away!”

  Marvin re-engaged the safety and put the pistol back in his pocket as the two men pushed through the treeline. They were both big, fit-looking and dark skinned. The next man was shorter, slimmer but equally as dark. All three were bearded. The smaller man wore a kufi knitted skull-cap. He was wearing a quilted jacket over a traditional dishdasha. The other two wore western clothing. Last into the clearing was Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf. He was wearing a mixture of traditional Arab and western clothing. He wore a beanie hat that was pulled low over his brow and down around his ears.

  Rashid looked at the group, then over to Zukovsky. He started to get up, but the two large men ran forward and caught hold of him. Rashid kicked one in the groin and the man lost his grip. It was all Rashid needed and he was on the bigger man with such a wild and sustained attack of fists, elbows, knees and kicks that the man was overwhelmed and fell down onto his back, his hands held up to protect his face. Marvin looked at Zukovsky for guidance. He had no idea what was going on. Rashid turned back to the other large man and kicked him in the face as he struggled to recover.

  “Get him!” Zukovsky shouted at Marvin, but he obviously misinterpreted the instruction and set about beating the other large man with a hugely powerful descending hammer fist on the back of the man’s neck. The man sprawled forwards. “Not him!” Zukovsky screamed. “Rashid! Get Rashid!”

  Rashid turned to the Bulgarian and shuffled forwards, his fists up and his guard tight. They parried and squared up to each other, but when Rashid punched, Marvin charged forwards and grappled him, tackling him to the ground. He got most of his body over him, then with
his arms bear hugging the man’s arms, pinning them to his body, he head-butted him on the bridge of the nose. One of the large men was on his feet now and he rushed over and kicked Rashid in the face with a penalty kick. Rashid went still.

  Marvin rolled off him and got up. He had Rashid’s blood on his face and his forehead was already bruising, such was the ferocity of the blow. He looked at Zukovsky. “What the hell is going on?”

  Zukovsky held up a hand to silence him and turned to Mullah Al-Shaqqaf. “You recommended this man, put him forward for me to use in this operation. He could have ruined everything, jeopardised all that has been worked for!”

  Al-Shaqqaf walked forwards to Rashid. The two large men, bloodied and bruised, had him held and subdued. His arms behind his back. The Iman looked down at him and spat in his face. “You pig!” He kicked him in the face.

  Rashid recoiled. His head lolled forwards and he spat blood and mucous on the ground. He struggled to speak. “What do you want?” his voice was weak.

  “You are on the MI5 database. I am under surveillance, I had to drive all around the city and swap cars twice to lose them!” Al-Shaqqaf paused, shook a balled a fist at him. “Zukovsky has found your file you kafir bastard! You, infidel! You, son of a whore!” Rashid’s shoulders sagged. Al-Shaqqaf reached forwards and pulled him by the hair, pulling his face up to him as he spat. “You will die like the unbelieving pig you are!”

  “I am more of a believer than you!” Rashid shouted. “I am a true Muslim! My faith is not in dispute, especially by someone like you!”