The Babylon rite

26

Barbican, City of London

‘Everything is in position? Everyone?’

Ibsen was sitting nervously in the front seat of his Met car, listening to his police radio, hanging from a hook on the dash.

A radioed voice came over, loud and distinct: DS Larkham sitting in another car two hundred metres down Whitecross Street.

‘Yes, sir. We have his flat on surveillance. Kilo 1 and Kilo 2 are right outside.’

‘Armed response at the ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the door, you’re sure it’s the only one?’

‘Yes, sir. Checked a dozen times. If he comes out we will see him.’

Ibsen sat back, half-satisfied, and watched some noisy London schoolkids swinging satchels at each other, ambling in that loud, sweary, litter-chucking, end-of-school way that was so typical and so persistently annoying to anyone over eighteen. The air was freezing outside, bitterly icy, and the sky was that pure, expectant whiteness that precedes a heavy snowfall.

He regarded these lanky, lairy teenagers, thinking about his own children: ten and eleven years old. Would they soon end up like this, surly teenagers, scattering swear words and empty crisp packets?

The radio crackled.

‘Sir!’

‘Yes?’

‘He’s coming now, he’s coming out right now.’

‘On his own?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, so, you know what we discussed. Send me shots and a video, immediately. Follow him, but don’t do anything else, until I’ve given the go-ahead.’

Ibsen estimated his own pulse rate had reached the 115 mark. Extremely alert, but nothing dangerous. Not the 175 where you make a terrible decision. With an armed response team.

He listened to nothing, saw a single flake of snow settle on the windscreen. Just one, then two. And then his computer pinged and he found the communication.

It was the video, shot by surveillance officer Kilo 1 two minutes ago. The quality was excellent, the zoom precise, the face clearly pictured — the same face as in all the photos Ibsen had seen over the last few urgent hours. This was their man: Tony Ritter.

‘Team K,’ he said firmly and clearly, into his radio. ‘You are good to go. Surveil and pursue. Follow but do not apprehend.’

The DCI motioned to his driver: go that way, very slowly.

Their car was a good three hundred yards behind the surveillance officers, who were on foot. Their duet of reports buzzed over Ibsen’s radio.

‘Suspect X walking quickly up Goswell Road.’

‘Turning right, into Clerkenwell.’

‘Walking fast, very fast.’

‘I can see him stopping, looking at something in his hand-’

Ibsen intervened. ‘What? What’s in his hand?’

A defiant pause. What was going on? Ibsen cursed the lack of time to get a proper surveillance team, to call in more officers, to put a GPS on Ritter’s person, somehow; this was fly-by-your-seat police work, with a potentially very dangerous suspect, involved in some brutal ‘suicides’ that might not turn out to be suicides at all.

‘Samsung Zaf.’

‘What?’

‘He’s looking into a mobile, sir. Think he’s reading a map. He’s just standing by a bus stop on Clerkenwell Road.’

The pause returned. A third and fourth flake of snow settled on the windscreen; then more. Ibsen churned, mentally, what little else they knew of Antonio Ritter. He was a serious Californian villain, father Texan, mother Puerto Rican. He was linked to organized crime in Europe and elsewhere, people trafficking in particular. He had several convictions for violence. And he’d gone to ground recently after a stint in an LA jail.

What about those prison terms? Ritter had done some hard time in some nasty Californian clinks. Is this where he had got the tattoos? Did this suicide sex cult originate in some gruesome Californian jail? Full of Latinos and Yardies and Koreans, each with their lethal gang? And their own special tattoo?

The snow was whirling, thickening, settling.

Ibsen mused. The tatts could be gang colours of some kind.

‘He’s moving again — fast. Walking briskly. Like he suddenly remembered where he’s going.’

‘North up Clerkenwell.’

‘He’s almost running, sir.’

‘Yes, he’s running’

‘Jesus, the snow!’

It was now coming thick and hard, almost horizontal, turning into a blizzard. A man could barely see more than five yards. A man could easily get lost.

Urgently, Ibsen pressed the speak button on his radio. ‘Team K. Can you see him? Kilo 1, do you have visual contact?

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Kilo 2?

Silence.

‘Kilo 2?

‘I think so sir… Yes, I can see him now. I think he’s doubling back, he’s changed his mind-’

‘Maybe he’s going for his motor, because of the weather. Larkham, get ready to follow in your car.’

Kilo 2 interrupted. ‘No. He’s heading down Goswell Road, not turning left-’ The signal crackled into lifelessness for a moment then, ‘Sir, I reckon he’s taking the Tube. Barbican Underground.’

‘Get on it! Christ. Kilo 1 and 2! Don’t let him get on that Tube without you!’

Ibsen slapped the dashboard in anger, his frustration intense. But for now, Ibsen just had to sit it out. They were down in the Tube, so he had radio silence, and no information. What was going on down there? Had they arrested him, lost him; had he spotted them on the Tube train; had he turned on the officers, shooting a gun, spraying a carriage, killing a kid with a ricocheted bullet? The silence was like waiting for a returning space mission to go through the atmosphere. Would anyone be alive at the end?

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Eighteen.

They had an armed response team ready, down the Pentonville Road. But that was a bit late if the guy was already culling infants on the Northern Line.

An efficient little crackle, like a throat clearing, brought the radio to life. ‘He’s up. We’re out. On the surface.’ It was Kilo 1. ‘We’re at the Angel, sir. Angel Tube.’

Just four stops away. Ibsen signalled to his driver. ‘OK, Kilo 1, Kilo 2, keep following him. We’re here for the whole ride.’

‘Sir. Walking up Upper Street.’

Kilo 2 kicked in, ‘He’s stopped, sir. By that weird low building

…’

‘Antique arcade.’ A more authoritative voice, crackled through. I’m just parked across Upper Street, sir. He’s stepping inside-’

Ibsen shot back, ‘Larkham? You’re there? How did you know?’

‘Took a guess, sir, followed the Northern Line overground north.’

‘Good man! But I know that place.’

‘Yes?’

‘If he goes in there we can lose him, a warren of old gaffs, all those lanes outside!’

‘He’s gone in.’

Ibsen barked, ‘Kilo 1 follow.’

‘I’m inside, can’t see him — wait…’ His pulse rate was now 125,