Execution

FIFTY-EIGHT

From the scrum of journalists and onlookers jostling about on the pavement, it was clear where the suspected terrorist was seeking sanctuary. The street was just behind the world- famous facade of Harrods in Knightsbridge, and the kerbs were lined with luxury model cars of every make, many with chauffeurs in attendance.

Harry and Rik walked past the red-brick house where they had been told the two Russians were staying, and joined the crowd eyeing the embassy building, where an official was reading a statement for the press. It was clearly not the first such statement of defiance in a running war of words, and even the press personnel looked slightly bored with the rhetoric and fist-waving. But it gave Harry and Rik an opportunity to take a look at the target building without being too obvious.

The proximity of the press and onlookers, quite apart from the flow of pedestrians, gave Harry cause for concern. If things went badly wrong and the two Russians took the offensive, there could be carnage. And that was to be avoided at all costs.

‘Come on, we’re going to have to do this ourselves.’ He walked further along the street and turned down the first intersection. He had already scanned the area for Ballatyne’s watcher, but whoever he was was keeping well out of sight. No doubt he was holed up somewhere comfortable, waiting for instructions.

They circled the block holding the target building, and eventually ended up in a narrow street at the rear. The structures were extensive, and broken up into a rabbit warren of offices and residential spaces. Harry had already seen that some had access through from front to back, but these were mostly by secured passageways and doors. Unfortunately, not all the rear passageways were identified, and there was no way of telling which ones had access to the front.

‘No option,’ Harry said. ‘Front way in.’

They returned to the front entrance and stopped by a flight of stone steps leading to a basement flat, carefully avoiding looking up at the first-floor apartment windows. A chauffeur was polishing the already gleaming bodywork of a large blue BMW nearby, but paid them no attention.

‘I used to live in a place like this in Earl’s Court,’ said Rik. ‘Full of backpackers and layabouts. It was connected to the rest of the building by narrow back stairs, from when they had servants’ quarters. We might strike lucky.’

Harry nodded. They hadn’t got any alternative. They descended the steps and knocked on the door. A woman opened up and peered out at them, large dark eyes in a coffee-coloured face above an overall and an apron.

‘Yes?’

‘Police,’ said Harry, flashing his MI5 card. ‘I wonder if you could help us?’

‘Police?’ The woman looked frightened. ‘What I do? Why you come here?’

‘It’s OK.’ Rik leaned past Harry and smiled broadly at the woman. ‘It’s not you we’re after, love.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the press pack across the street. ‘We need to get a view of that crowd, to make sure there’s no trouble.’

She frowned, mollified but puzzled. ‘But from here? Is too low.’

‘You’re dead right. But if we could get further up. . say, on the second or third floor, we’d have a great view. Are there stairs going up?’

She shook her head. ‘Yes, but they are locked. Only manager has keys.’

‘Great.’ Rik gave another winning smile. ‘And where is the manager?’

‘Belize.’

‘That’s a bit far. Do you live here?’

‘No, I cleaner and make sure everything is working.’

‘Brilliant.’ Rik delved in his pocket and took out some notes. He held them up. ‘I’m a magician with locks. You take this and go put the kettle on, and we’ll be through and gone before the water’s boiled. And I’ll lock the door behind us so you don’t get into trouble.’

The woman stared at the money for a long time, eyes flicking to both men and back. ‘Is this what British policemen do?’

‘In very extreme circumstances, yes.’

‘OK.’ She reached out and took the notes, and stood back to let them in, closing the door and leading them through a set of offices to a narrow door in one corner at the rear of the building. ‘This go up to ground floor,’ she explained in a hushed voice. ‘Turn right and stairs go up to other floors.’

She turned and disappeared, evidently not keen on staying to watch her part in their moment of larceny.

‘I didn’t know you were a magician with locks,’ said Harry.

‘There’s quite a lot you don’t know about me.’ Rik grinned and produced a short length of plastic. Inserting it between the door and jamb, he wiggled it about, at the same time leaning hard against the door, which gave a little under the pressure. The plastic moved and sank into the gap, and suddenly there was a click and the door was open.

Harry checked the cleaning lady wasn’t looking, then drew his gun and followed Rik through, closing the door behind him.

They were at the bottom of a flight of stairs piled with cardboard boxes and stacks of floor tiles. At the top was another door with the Yale lock and handle on this side.

The door opened onto a polished tiled hallway. To their right another flight of stairs led upwards, and beyond that, the hallway ran down to the front of the building.

The stairs to the upper floors were wide, carpeted down the centre, with a wood and metal bannister polished with years of use.

‘Straight up?’ whispered Rik. He drew his gun and slipped off the safety.

‘Might as well. Knock and wait.’ In Harry’s experience, pretending to be a water official or a delivery man only worked if you had sight of the people you were calling on and their suspicions were low to zero. Anyone armed and in hiding on the other side of the door would take any such pretence to be just that, and were likely to start shooting instead.

Rik reached the door first and knocked a light rat-tat, then stood to one side and waited, with Harry on the other side.

No answer. He knocked again. A door slammed down the hallway, to the rear of the building, followed by the sound of footsteps. Another door banged.

Harry stepped out from the wall and looked down the hallway.

‘It’s them — they had a back way out.’ He began running, while Rik took a step back and kicked the door open and disappeared inside.

Harry reached a door at the end of the hall, down a short flight of steps. It was part of an extension to the main building, with a side window giving a narrow view to the rear, and he guessed it gave out onto the street he and Rik had seen at the back. He tried the door. Solid and unmoving, opening towards him. It would take an axe to get through it.

He ran back to the apartment and found Rik standing in a living room littered with discarded pizza boxes and beer cans. A huge plasma television was on with the sound muted, showing a children’s programme.

‘If it was them,’ said Rik, ‘they travelled light.’

Harry bent to one side of an armchair. He picked up a small can of Birchwood Casey gun oil lying on its side, dripping its contents onto the parquet flooring. Near it, just under the edge of the chair, something shiny caught his eye.

It was a single round of 9mm ammunition.