Siege

Sixteen

MICHAEL STARED AT her in utter disbelief. His phone fell to the floor. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked.

Cat stared back coldly, her gun arm steady. ‘Don’t ask questions. Just do as I say.’

‘But I’ve just told you, there’s a major terrorist incident going on and—’

‘And I told you, I know. There’s been a bomb at the Westfield Shopping Centre, and two more at Paddington.’

Michael’s eyes widened. ‘God, how the hell—’

‘Because I’m involved. Now sit down in the chair by the bed, and no more talking.’

She cocked the pistol, still keeping it trained between his eyes, and deliberately tightened her finger on the trigger.

‘Now look here, Cat, I’m sure we can sort this out,’ he said, a patronizing expression on his face, as if he was confident that she could be reasoned with, which was typical of him. Michael Prior was a man used to getting his own way.

‘There’s nothing to sort out. I’m a soldier of the Pan-Arab Army of God and you are my prisoner.’

Michael sat down heavily in the tub chair next to the window, his face pale with shock.

‘If you put the gun down, we can sort this out, I promise. It’s not too late.’

Cat could hear the strain in his voice. ‘And if you keep talking, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap, and I won’t miss. I’ve had extensive training with the Glock 17, and the suppressor does a very good job of keeping the noise down, so if I do pull the trigger no one’s going to hear. My orders are to keep you alive, but no one’s going to care if you can’t walk.’ She kept her voice totally calm, as she’d been trained to do, and it seemed to do the trick. Michael was visibly nervous now and beginning to sweat.

Keeping the gun on him, she reached into a Harrods bag she’d brought with her, pulled out two pairs of ankle restraints, and lobbed them over to him. ‘Put these on – one hoop round each ankle, the other round each of the front chair legs. Make sure they’re locked, then throw the keys on the bed.’

He caught them easily, but rather than put them on he made one last effort to salvage the situation. ‘Come on, Cat,’ he said, looking at her imploringly. ‘We have something together, don’t we? Something special. Let’s not destroy it. I’m in love with you, darling. Remember that. I’m in love with you. You mean everything to me.’

Cat shook her head. What fools men could be sometimes, especially when they wanted sex. ‘You make my skin crawl, Michael. I was given orders to draw you into a relationship, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. Now put those restraints on before I lose patience.’

She watched the realization that he’d been utterly suckered finally sink in. He looked truly upset, which pleased her. She’d done her job well.

‘You’re making a big mistake, you know,’ he blustered. ‘If you go through with this, you won’t see the outside of a prison for years.’

Once again her finger tightened on the trigger, and Michael must have seen the contempt in her face, because he finally did as he’d been told.

When he’d finished she came up behind him and made him put his hands behind his back and lean forward, towards the floor. ‘The Glock’s trained on your right shoulder blade, so don’t try anything,’ she said, putting a pair of old-fashioned handcuffs on his wrists and locking them with her free hand.

Michael was now completely helpless.

‘But I’ve seen your background details,’ he said, the confusion in his voice obvious as he watched her remove the ball gag from the Harrods bag. ‘How could this have happened?’

She bent down close to his face, smiling coldly. ‘The woman you employed does not exist. Catherine Manolis died in Nice in October 1985, aged twenty-three months. Her identity was stolen and used to apply for false identity documents. We tailored her to suit the job application, and no one spotted it.’

Michael sighed. ‘So, everything you told me about your upbringing was rubbish. You’re not a widow at all.’

‘Oh yes,’ she told him, her voice hardening, ‘I’m definitely a widow. My husband was murdered last year defending his country against men like you. Except while he was fighting on the frontline you were sitting far away behind a desk giving orders.’

‘But Cat, you must understand, I had nothing to do with that. I was—’

Before he could finish the sentence, she stuffed the ball gag into his mouth. Again he tried to protest, but she pushed the gun against his cheek and ordered him to bite down hard on the gag, and he did as he was told.

When she’d finished gagging him, she pulled out his mobile phone and switched it off. It would be switched on again later and moved to different places in the hotel to confuse any rescuers trying to locate him.

She then pulled out her own phone and speed-dialled a number. ‘I have the prize,’ she said, ‘and it’s ready to be opened.’

And Michael Prior truly was a prize. But then, a director of MI6 was always going to be.