Going Dark Page 14

  ‘No problemo.’ Pet touched a finger to her brow in a mock salute. ‘Have you worked out what you’re going to do once you catch up with these guys?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘I have to find out who the bent cops are first. After that, we’ll see.’

  ‘Do what makes you happy, Tom. Are you sure that killing Branko will make you happy?’

  Tom didn’t answer. He just continued driving in silence, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

  *

  They pulled up at the side of the road a short while later and took up a position with a view of the dimly-lit playground and reasonable visibility to the benches. They had good cover between a parked van and a car about a hundred metres from the meeting point. Tom switched off the engine and extinguished the headlights.

  ‘What now?’ asked Pet.

  Tom looked at his watch: fifteen-minutes-to-midnight.

  ‘We wait until he shows, so I can make sure he’s alone.’

  ‘Classic tradecraft, Detective. Always arrive before the informant.’

  ‘What kind of a consultant are you?’

  ‘Just an IT geek, Detective. Just IT, but I’ve hung with enough spooks to know about agent tradecraft.’ She looked at her iPad. ‘He’s not moved. Still in the address.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘It’s still early, and he’s only five minutes away.’

  He scanned the area with practised efficiency, looking for signs of any watchers. It was unlikely that the call had been intercepted but he wasn’t taking any chances. He also wasn’t sure if he could trust Ivan, but he needed to speak to him; there was no telling what he knew and where it might lead.

  ‘So, is there a Mrs Novak?’

  Tom moved his gaze to meet hers, the question hanging in the air.

  ‘No. I don’t do so well in relationships. I’m not so easy to live with.’

  ‘Always put career first, yes?’

  ‘Something like that. Work complications I can handle; relationship ones, not so much. Still no movement?’ he added quickly.

  ‘Way to change the subject, Detective.’ She smiled. ‘No, no movement.’

  ‘It’s five-past, he should at least be moving by now.’

  ‘Maybe he fell asleep?’

  Tom grabbed the satellite phone and redialled the number for Ivan. The phone rang and rang with no reply.

  ‘I don’t like this. Something’s up.’

  ‘GPS puts him in a house in Melrose Avenue still. Maybe give him a minute?’

  ‘No. Something’s wrong. Can you isolate an exact house?’ he said, starting the car’s engine.

  ‘It’s about halfway down on the right-hand-side if we go from here.’

  Tom drove steadily along Anson Road adjacent to the park and turned right into Melrose Avenue.

  ‘Talk to me, Pet. Where’s the signal?’ he asked, his voice still calm.

  ‘On the right any time now.’

  Tom strained his eyes as the car crawled down the suburban street with its Victorian terraces, looking for anything to give him a clue as to where Ivan might be.

  ‘It has to be this house here.’ He pointed to a dilapidated terrace with an overgrown privet hedge and an overturned bin in the front garden, the bin’s contents strewn across the decaying concrete in front of the bay window. A light shone from within, obscured by grimy curtains. Two bell-push buttons to the right of the door indicated that, like most of the properties in the area, it had been divided into two dwellings: one upstairs and one down, with a shared front door leading to separate doors where the hallway had once been.

  Tom pulled the Passat over into a vacant space on the other side of the road, a short way from the address.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’m going to check it out. Get in the driver’s seat. If you hear shooting or any other significant commotion, drive off, dial 999 and get the police here. Understand?’

  ‘Okay. Maybe I should monitor you, so I can hear what’s going on. Hold on one second.’ Pet clicked at some icons on her iPad and the satellite phone buzzed. She accepted the call and passed the handset to Tom. ‘Keep the line open and I can monitor in real-time. If you get captured or something, I will know about it and can call help.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Tom said, putting the phone in his jacket pocket.

  ‘What are you going to do in there?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Depends what I find,’ he said, opening the car door and getting out.

  The issue was that Tom had no idea what the next few minutes would bring, but his gut told him that it wouldn’t be good.

  He strode across the road towards the property, walking past and giving it the merest of glances, noting that the door was part-glazed and appeared shut. He walked to the access alley four doors down and turned left down an alleyway cluttered with rubbish and a discarded mattress. Gentrification had not quite hit Willesden Green yet, and most of the houses looked tired and shabby.

  Now in the shadows, stealth took over. His trainers made no sound on the path as he made his way down behind the gardens. None of the back gates were numbered and, by counting back, he was able to identify the rear of the flat, which had a completely demolished fence. Picking his way silently through the debris, he made for the rear of the property. Dropping to his knees, he crawled the final few feet to the rear window. Very slowly, he inched his head up to look through the window and into a small, shabby bedroom with no lights on, the flicker of a computer monitor giving the room an eerie glow.

  The door was open and gave a partial view into the front room. He couldn’t see fully inside but could observe the rear of an ancient leather recliner chair parked in front of a TV that was switched on to a sports channel. A single leg was visible, stretched out from the chair as its occupant apparently lounged in it watching the programme. There was a scuffed Nike trainer that Tom couldn’t recall Ivan wearing but, in reality, he hadn’t taken any notice of his chosen footwear.

  Tom dug out his burner phone and pressed the last number dialled function for Ivan’s phone. He immediately heard it faintly ringing from within the house. Peering into the bedroom, he saw the light of the smartphone screen illuminated on the bed but there was no trace of movement from the chair in the living room. With a cold feeling of dread, Tom realised he was going to have to affect an entrance.

  He had no lock picks with him, but the Sig dug comfortably into the small of his back. He edged his way over to the rear part-glazed door that, he guessed, went into the kitchen. He reached up and tried the round doorknob, withdrawing the silenced Sig with his other hand and holding it by his side. His senses were alive to all the sights and sounds around him. The faint murmur of the TV from within competed with a distant barking somewhere outside.

  The doorknob turned and the door began to give slightly. Keeping his body to the side of the door, he slowly inched it open, peering through the crack as it widened. A messy kitchen emerged in the half-light from the living room, the TV getting louder with excitable commentary. Tom tuned out the noise, his ears and senses searching for any other presence within the flat.

  Once the door was sufficiently ajar, Tom inched his way into the kitchen, his feet silent on the linoleum floor, the Sig pressed tight to his thigh.

  A metallic smell assaulted his nose, a copper-like stench familiar to every police officer. Emboldened, Tom strode through the kitchen, the Sig in both hands in a close-quarter battle-grip, still treading lightly but quickly as the dread began to course through his body. He moved to the threshold leading to the living room and entered at speed, the Sig stretched out in front of him. As always, time slowed as he took in the scene before him. First priority: clearing the rest of the room for any other occupants. There were none. He then turned his attention to the chair.

  Ivan was sprawled in the cracked and ancient armchair, his arms either side of the armrests, his feet splayed out in front of him. Blood covered the front of his white-and-blue Bosnia and Herzego
vina football shirt like a gory bib. His eyes were half-open but no light shone from behind them. A long, ragged incision stretched across his neck, almost from ear to ear, the faint white glint of his windpipe visible in amongst the gore. The nature of the wound was not clean but had clearly been hacked at until he had choked to death or bled out. Once the carotid artery had been severed, as the enormous puddle of blood indicated it had, death would have been only moments away.

  Tucking the Sig back in his waistband, Tom approached Ivan and touched his forehead: it was still warm. There was no pulse point to feel in his neck: it had been destroyed by the inexpert hacking of the killer.

  He felt nothing other than a familiar cold, hard rage. The smell of the blood assailed his nostrils, added to by the loss of bowel control that Ivan had clearly experienced in his final moments. Tom swallowed bitterly, fighting to stop the bile rising in his throat.

  He felt rather than heard the creak behind him: almost a disturbance in the quality of the air that alerted him to the fact that he was not alone.

  ‘Mr Novak, how nice to see you,’ spoke the voice in glottal Serb.

  Tom turned to find Filip Stevanovic pointing a large-barrelled revolver at his chest, a slight smile on his face. Tom saw that the hand gripping the gun was bright red with Ivan’s blood, and a large stain covered the other sleeve.

  Tom said nothing, just fixed Filip with his even stare, feeling the familiar calmness sweep over him.

  ‘Where is the memory card?’ asked Filip, not moving the revolver from Tom’s chest.

  ‘Why did you kill Ivan?’

  ‘He was a traitor. Now where’s the fucking card?’

  ‘You look nervous, Filip. You’re sweating, your pupils are dilated. You’re breathing heavily as well.’ Tom’s voice was eerily calm.

  The Serb shifted on his feet and firmed his grip on the pistol, his eyes widening at the sound of his name.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  A smile spread across Tom’s face. ‘Why are you so nervous, Filip? Is it because you think I’m dangerous? You can’t just shoot me because you need the card and I don’t have it with me. If you shoot me without the card, then Branko will want to know why. Who knows what I’ve done with it? I could have left it anywhere for people to find.’

  ‘How do you know my fucking name?’

  ‘Come on, Filip, you can’t be that nervous. You’ve got a great big 44 Magnum, or whatever that is. You were in the army, for God’s sake. I bet you weren’t this nervous when you broke out of that Swiss jail, were you?’ Tom continued to fix Filip with his dark brown eyes. ‘I’m not nervous, Filip, not at all. You want to know why?’ Tom advanced a step.

  ‘Shut up and don’t move or I’ll shoot you, fucking pig!’

  ‘I bet you won’t. You see, I’ve had guns pointed at me loads of times but most of those guns were automatics, not a revolver. The benefit of an automatic is that I can’t see if it’s loaded or not.’

  The smile on Tom’s face widened a little before he continued. ‘But with a revolver I can see whether you’re loaded. Now you’re mostly loaded but I don’t think you used a speed loader. I can see that on your next shot the chamber is empty. I reckon you only have five rounds in there. Your first pull of the trigger won’t work, which means you have to pull twice to kill me. How fast do you reckon I can move?’ Tom smiled again, projecting utter confidence.

  Uncertainty spread across Filip’s face and his eyes flicked down to the revolver.

  Tom lunged forwards, thrusting a hard, right-footed kick into Filip’s arm, jerking it violently upwards. The pistol roared and bucked with the heavy-grain .44 round smacking into the ceiling. Tom closed the space between them and delivered a devastating elbow-strike which connected with Filip’s temple.

  The big Serb crumpled to the floor like a broken chair.

  Tom quickly searched the man’s pockets, finding only a single car key and a set of zip-ties. He quickly secured the man’s wrists to his ankles, saying as he did, ‘Pet, I’m coming out. Can you watch out for anyone on the street?’ He stood and lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Pet, you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, but we need to get out of here quickly. I’ve taken one of them out but there may be others. Am I clear to come out?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all quiet out here at the moment.’

  Tom quickly left the house via the front door, jogged across the road, and climbed into the Passat passenger seat.

  ‘Let’s get out of here quick, Pet. I really don’t have the time to speak with the local constabulary.’ Tom smiled at her as he slipped his seat belt on.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked staring directly at him.

  ‘Eh?’ Tom didn’t seem to understand what she was asking.

  ‘Tom, I heard everything you said. I heard that Ivan’s dead. I’m asking if you’re okay?’

  ‘Of course, it’s a bit annoying, but it’s not me that’s dead. Listen, Pet, much as I’d like to give you a full debrief right now, we probably have police on the way right now. So we really ought to get weaving.’

  ‘I’m just a bit surprised, Tom. You’ve just seen a man dead and been held at gunpoint, and you’re acting like you’ve just come back from a stroll in the park.’

  ‘Pet, I’m fine, seriously. Please can we go. Like, now?’

  Pet put the car in gear and drove away, but something seemed to be bothering her. She was agitated and looked scared, her eyes wide with alarm. Tom felt a definite atmosphere in the car which had not been present before he entered the flat.

  ‘What’s up?’ Tom said.

  ‘You, Tom. What the hell are you? I was listening and I’ve never known anything like it.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, Pet,’ Tom said, looking confused.

  ‘You just saw a man killed in cold blood. You just killed a man and you seem like you’ve just been playing dominoes, or something.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do? Cry? Flap and panic? Not my style, Pet. Also, I didn’t kill anyone. Ivan was dead already and I just knocked Filip out. He’ll be fine, more’s the pity.’ Tom didn’t know where Pet was going with this.

  Pet suddenly wrenched the steering wheel violently, turning left onto a side street and pulling the car over at the side of the road.

  She looked directly at Tom, her eyes alight with alarm. ‘Tom I’ve been doing this work for a while. I’ve worked with CIA wet-work specialists, Special Forces soldiers and rogue agents. I’ve never met anyone as cold as you. Just who or what the fuck are you?

  ‘Pet, we don’t have time for this. A big bullet has just gone through a floor and there is a dead man and an unconscious man in a flat I’ve just come out of. We need to get the hell out of here. Now can you stop pissing about and drive?’

  The momentary silence was fractured by the distant wail of sirens that seemed to be getting stronger.

  ‘Pet, seriously. We can talk about this later if you like, but not now. We need to get the fuck out of here.’ Tom spoke urgently as strobing blue lights flashed along the road behind them in the direction of Ivan’s flat.

  Pet wordlessly turned away, engaged the gears and drove off.

  *

  They travelled back to the hotel in Ruislip in near-silence, a palpable atmosphere of mistrust between them.

  Back in the room, Pet sat on the bed and asked, ‘What happened in there?’

  Tom sat next to her, pretending not to notice as she edged slightly away. ‘I went in the back door, which was open, and found Ivan there in an armchair, his throat cut. I heard a creak behind me, and Filip walked in. We had a fight. He came off worse.’ His voice was flat and empty, as if describing a poor-quality snooker match.

  ‘I heard you speaking in that room. You have ice in your veins, Tom. I heard no panic, not even a little fear. What are you?’ she said looking directly at him.

  ‘I’m just a cop, nothing else.’

  ‘Did he only have five bullets
in that revolver?’

  ‘Nope. I lied.’

  She breathed out heavily. ‘You are a weapon, Tom. A deadly, emotionless weapon.’

  ‘I’m just a cop, that’s all, Pet.’

  She stared right into his eyes, clearly evaluating him.

  ‘You scare me, Tom. I don’t frighten easily but you frighten the fucking life out of me.’

  ‘Pet, I don’t understand. I encountered a situation and did what I had to do. What do you want from me?’

  ‘I need to understand if I’m safe. If I’m to help you I don’t want to be frightened, but you’re the coldest, most emotionless man I have ever encountered. How? Why?’ Tom was surprised to see genuine concern on Pet’s face. He was genuinely perplexed as to what could have caused such a reaction.

  ‘I really don’t want to talk about it,’ Tom said, coldly.

  ‘Well I am getting the fuck out of here unless you level with me. We can do this job together. I can and want to help you, but I need some honesty. Why are you so emotionless?’

  Tom sighed and massaged his temples with his fingers.

  ‘Look. I don’t like talking about it because it scares the shit out of me.’ The words came slowly, as though he needed to drag each and every one out. ‘I don’t like what I am, but I’ve learned to deal with it. I deal with it by always thinking what my foster father would want me to do. That way I always do the right thing.’ He spoke quietly and evenly, avoiding eye contact. He wasn’t usually given to many emotions, but a feeling of anxiety was beginning to bubble in his stomach. He hated confronting who he was.

  ‘Because of what happened to me in Bosnia I have no feelings, Pet. Nothing. In Afghanistan I killed twenty-eight people and I didn’t feel a fucking thing. Nothing. Not once. No elation, no remorse, no fear. Nothing. I don’t like talking about who I am because I have no. Fucking. Idea… Who I am.’

  Strangely and unusually, Tom almost felt a sense of relief at blurting out his deepest demons, even to a near-stranger.

  Pet’s face softened visibly. ‘Jesus, that explains it. You can’t blame yourself for this, Tom. You are a good man and your foster father is obviously a good man.’