The Last Big Job

Chapter Three

The next day started in a haze of confusion for Henry Christie. He woke groggily to the sound of not one, but both his mobile phones ringing. He rolled across the expansive double bed and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Then, a little more focused, he blinked down at his phones which seemed to be in competition with each other as to which one could produce the more ludicrous ringing tone. Which was which? Henry had to stop and think for a moment. God, he wasn’t used to this crap. He was out of practice and that could become a problem. A fatal problem if he wasn’t careful.

Which was business? Which was private?

He plumped for one of the phones — it didn’t help that they were exactly the same make and model, either — and stuffed the other one underneath a pillow to drown out its chirping. Then he pressed one of the buttons to receive the call.

‘ Frank Jagger,’ he said. Already his heartbeat was on the increase.

The Russian had been on the road for two hours. He had driven north from Portsmouth, picked up the A34 and skirted around Oxford before joining the M40 northbound towards Birmingham.

Before setting off on his journey, he had quickly but expertly checked the car, firstly for any explosive devices and secondly for any tracking or surveillance equipment. He found neither. Then as he drove, he had remained cautious, always keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, noting and remembering vehicles behind and in front (he had a prodigious memory for car numbers, makes and colours), carefully watching those overtaking, those allowing him to overtake and those parked in lay-bys. By the time he was driving down the motorway slip road north of Oxford, he was almost sure — he never allowed himself to be a hundred per cent certain — that no one was following him. The Russian had been at this game for a long time and was proud of his professionalism. This is what had kept him — alive and put others underground.

In the world of counter- and anti-surveillance, the Russian was classed as a trained agent — which he was. Surveillance subjects fall into three categories: the type who are totally unaware; those who are crude but aware — and this refers to people who are expecting to be followed and who indulge in anti-surveillance methods to try to detect whether they are under observation. And lastly, as mentioned, the trained agent who is subtle and sophisticated and could easily be taken by watchers as someone who is totally unaware.

The Russian hardly ever indulged in obvious anti-surveillance tactics. He usually discovered if he was being followed using the one, two, three method; one sighting of a person or vehicle is acceptable; two sightings is coincidence… three means someone definitely has him under surveillance. Only then would he take some form of action, probably evasion — unless he wanted to kill his followers.

As he drove on to the motorway, he was feeling content. Six miles down the motorway, having travelled at a respectable speed, even slowly overtaking a cruising police Range Rover at one stage, he was even more sure — not a hundred per cent, of course — that no one was with him.

At the second motorway service area he came to — Warwick — he exited. He needed food. He had left Portsmouth without eating breakfast. He also needed to use the toilet.

The service area was nicely set away from the noise of the motorway.

The Russian parked, got out of the car and leaned against it whilst he smoked a cigarette. He watched arrivals and departures and listened to the sky. Not for a helicopter, but a plane. More difficult to spot — impossible when driving — and he knew the British security services often used light planes to tail suspects on the move… but there was no sign or sound of anything.

Satisfied, he inhaled the last of his cigarette and went for breakfast.

Henry Christie pressed the ball of his right foot on to the accelerator pedal. The big Jaguar XJS surged away from the lights, leaving everything else standing. It was the only perk of the job, he was thinking. Being able to pose around in this motor — just like the flash crim he was. He could think of nothing else that was as good as he hung a left and found himself driving alongside the Manchester Ship Canal towards the apartment block where he had left Jacky Lee the previous night. He pulled into the visitors’ parking bay and left the Jag there. Locked up and alarmed, of course. The Firm wouldn’t be very pleased with him if thirty-odd grand’s worth of car got lifted by a Mancunian car thief.

He swaggered cockily to the front entrance, fixing the unnecessary Ray-Bans on to the bridge of his nose, and was buzzed through into the reception area. A security guard observed him suspiciously as he walked to the desk. Henry cast the man a quick, supercilious look of contempt, achieved by a slight raising of the nose. He thrust his hands into the black leather reefer jacket and leaned against the reception counter.

‘ Mr Lee’s expecting me. I’m Frank Jagger.’

The pretty woman looked up and Henry acknowledged her by lifting up his sunglasses and giving her a quick wink and a smile. She pressed a button. The lift doors to her right hissed open. ‘Top floor,’ she said sweetly, returning the smile.

‘ Cheers,’ said Henry, repositioning the sunglasses with his forefinger.

He entered the lift and pressed the required button. The doors slid to quietly. Even though he was alone, Henry did nothing other than to lounge against the side of the lift, — fold the sunglasses into his jacket pocket, yawn and rub the stubble on his chin. Frank Jagger yawned a lot and tended not to shave. Two of his character traits.

Henry was also aware there was a CCTV camera installed in the top corner of the lift and that — most probably — his progress through the building was being monitored by Lee or his men. Henry could not afford to let anything slip at any time, or under any circumstances. It all had to be perfect. He was dying to scratch the small of his back where the wire was strapped on with sticky tape.

The Russian made good progress after leaving Warwick. He skirted around Birmingham to join the M6 with surprisingly little delay and kept travelling north, up into Lancashire, remaining constantly vigilant.

His next stop was at Lancaster motorway services, northbound, at Forton. Here he employed the same checking procedure as at Warwick, and once again saw no one, heard nothing to rouse his suspicion. He used the toilets, had a quick cup of tea and a sandwich and returned to his car. Deciding it was about time he inspected his hardware, he opened the boot and pulled back the spare wheel cover. Inside the hub of the wheel was a plastic package bound by elastic bands. The Russian removed the package, re-covered the spare and slammed the boot shut.

Without opening the package, he slid it underneath the front passenger seat. A few minutes later, after refuelling — cash only — he was back on the motorway, coming off at the next junction 33 — where he joined the A6, back-tracked a couple of miles south towards Garstang and found a quiet lay-by.

Here he unwrapped the package and peered inside. He was reassured to see he had been provided with what he had requested. Firstly, the American Arms Spectre auto loading pistol, 9mm, thirty-shot magazine capacity with one extra in the chamber; six-inch barrel, 72 oz in weight, adjustable sights with a blue finish. Secondly a Browning BDM pistol, 9mm, capacity of fifteen plus one, with a 4.73-inch barrel, adjustable sights and, again, a blue finish. Spare magazines were also included. He folded the package and replaced it under the seat.

Jacky Lee’s apartment was bright and beige, spotless and huge, typical of the kind of place inhabited by wealthy criminals without any specific taste in furniture, fittings, or art. Its immense size struck Henry as soon as he stepped out of the lift. It was his first time up here and he was impressed. In the dim, distant past, Henry had been to Lee’s family home, a farmhouse in the Northumbrian countryside which Jacky shared with his wife and kids.

At this moment, though, Lee was obviously not thinking too deeply about his wife. He was sitting at a smoked-glass-topped dining table dressed in a very short towelling robe which rode up to the top of his thighs. Henry hoped he was wearing underpants. Lee was stuffing a croissant into his mouth. Directly opposite him sat a stunning-looking woman with a wide, oval face, attired in an equally revealing robe sagging open at her chest, showing a deep cleavage. Henry thought she would have looked wonderful in just about anything.

‘ Hey, Frank, you cunt!’ Lee shouted through his mouthful. ‘Get in here.’ He flapped his fingers at a spare chair at the table.

Henry slid off his jacket and tossed it over a coffee-table. He walked across the apartment, noting the view of the canal basin was tremendous now that it had been developed. He plonked himself confidently down on the chair and picked up a cup which he reckoned to wipe clean with his fingers. He reached for the coffee in a jug on a hot plate.

Lee wiped his mouth with a napkin.

‘ Mornin’ Jacky,’ Henry said. It was actually a minute after noon. He nodded at the woman and was caught briefly — stunningly — by the flash of her wonderful wide brown eyes. ‘Hi,’ he said. He was already searingly jealous of Jacky Lee.

‘ This is Natasha,’ Lee said. He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘And if you even think of laying a finger on her, you’ll have to answer to me.’ He laughed coldly.

‘ The thought would never even enter my head,’ Henry reassured him, feeling uncomfortable talking about her as if she wasn’t there. However, as Frank Jagger, he didn’t give a shit. Women were merely appendages in Jagger’s world. Something to be used and discarded. Something to have hanging from your arm. The prettier and dumber the better — but he guessed that Natasha was far from dumb.

Henry took a drink of coffee, his eyes playing over the rim of the big breakfast cup at Lee and his lady friend, wondering how he had allowed himself to be dragged into this game again.

He had only himself to blame. Two and a half months earlier he had been operating as a Divisionally based Detective Inspector in charge of reactive CID operations at Blackpool. He was a busy man. Sorting out the messy suicide of fellow DI Jack Sands as well as the aftermath of the murder of a paedophile, together with the escape from custody of a dangerous child murderer called Louis Vernon Trent who had consistently outmanoeuvred the police in their efforts to recapture him. And lots of other things. It was all fairly easy, undemanding work for a detective of his calibre, well within his capabilities.

Then, out of the blue, he got a call to attend Headquarters to see the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. It had actually been Fanshaw-Bayley, known in short as FB, who had summoned him personally by phone. Cagey and obtuse as ever, he had refused to tell Henry what he wanted to see him for. Just: ‘Get your arse across here now.’ FB was fondly regarded for his way with words.

Annoyed, frustrated — and not a little worried — Henry had done as bid. Summonses to parade on at HQ come few and far between. Usually they are for promotion or bollocking. Henry knew he was not going to be promoted… and as he drove the twenty or so miles from Blackpool to Headquarters, just to the south of Preston, his heart was beating faster than it should have done. His mind kept asking, ‘What have you done this time, Henry?’

He was spirited quickly through FB’s secretary’s office into FB’s own palatial one, recently redecorated, overlooking the rugby pitch. FB was sitting behind his desk, wallowing in his new leather swivel chair. This was the man who, over the years, had caused Henry some grief and heartache. Henry did not like him at all, but suspected FB quite liked him in a perverted sort of way, although he did not often show it and usually treated Henry like shite.

On the other side of the desk was another man. Henry did not recognise him immediately.

‘ Henry, what the fuck took you so long?’ FB said jovially and bounced up to his feet. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Davison from Greater Manchester Police.’

Henry shook the man’s hand, eyeing him uncertainly. Somewhere in the depths of his mind there was a vague tinge of familiarity.

‘ Used to be one of us until he deserted ship,’ FB said.

‘ Ahh.’ Henry released Davison’s hand. ‘I thought I recognised the face,’ he lied whitely. Actually he still had not placed him.

‘ Our paths have crossed,’ Davison said worryingly.

‘ Tea? Coffee?’ FB asked Henry.

‘ Tea, please.’

FB pointed towards a spare chair. ‘Pull it up, sit down.’ He intercommed his secretary and ordered the beverages, sat down and leaned back, interlocking his fingers across his chest. He beamed at Henry. ‘Isn’t this nice?’

‘ Er…’ Henry raised his eyebrows, then furrowed them and shrugged his shoulders. Not promotion, didn’t look like a bollocking.. so what the hell was it? ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘ Hang on, let’s get that brew first.’ On cue the office door opened and FB’s secretary bumbled in bearing a tray.

‘ OK,’ said FB after his first sip of tea, ‘over to you, Rupert.’

He nodded at Davison.

‘ Do the names Jacky Lee and Frank Jagger mean anything to you?’ Davison asked Henry.

Henry’s guts churned loudly at the mention, making him wish he’d had a bigger breakfast. His head dipped. ‘Jacky Lee is, or was, a good-class villain from the North-East. Dealt in anything going, mainly drugs and stolen booze and fags. He got put away in 1992 as a result of a chain of events kicked off by Frank Jagger.’ He paused. ‘I assume you know who Frank Jagger is?’ Henry’s suspicious eyes flickered to FB and back again to Davison, who was nodding.

‘ I’ll come straight to the point, Henry,’ Davison said with a wide gesture indicating honesty. ‘Jacky Lee came out of prison in 1996 after serving four years of his eight-year sentence. He’s back on the streets, back in business and as ruthless as ever. On his release from prison he went back to Newcastle and wound down his businesses there, then moved his whole operation across the Pennines to Manchester, where he’s been up and running about eighteen months now. He left his wife and kids there, by the way.

‘ About two months ago we found a body floating in the ship canal at Irlam, brains blown out. I am the Senior Investigating Officer on the enquiry. Turns out the body was a Geordie called Pasha, an Asian guy. We believe that Jacky Lee either killed, or contracted somebody to kill him because Lee thought — wrongly as it happens — that Pasha had grassed on him back in ‘92. We believe Lee lured him down from Newcastle on some pretext of doing business and murdered him. The word is now out on the streets that that is what happens when you inform on Jacky Lee.

‘ Our problem, Henry, is that we can’t get close enough to Lee,’ Davison said. Now Henry could see what was coming. ‘There’s not even reasonable suspicion to arrest him for murder, and as far as I’m concerned, all conventional methods have been tried and failed and I’ve reached the point where I feel that the only way forwards is to re-introduce our undercover officer.’ Once again, Davison made an open gesture. This time it said, ‘Henry, you’re our man for this dirty business.’

Rather like wanting to be a Firearms Officer earlier in his career, the idea of becoming an undercover cop seemed like a good one to Henry at the time. The reality, however, did not match the macho dream, but by then it was too late. He was hobnobbing with criminals and he was good at it.

Henry had been a detective on the Regional Crime Squad (as it was then called) for about two years when he was asked if he had ever considered undercover work as an option. The idea grew on him. He’d already played the role of ‘test purchaser’ several times. That involved him simply buying goods that were being offered for sale by criminals, whether they be drugs or stolen property. He had found the experience exhilarating and the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself undercover work was right up his street.

After a rigorous selection procedure involving much psychometric and psychological testing, as well as practical exercises, he was chosen as the only one from thirty applicants to go forward into the actual role.

Following a further two-week course with much input, the first thing that happened to him was that he became two other people as comprehensive deep-cover identities were thrashed out, both going as far back as schooldays. In the trade, these are known as legends.

The first of these legends was Frank Jagger. Henry had been allowed to choose the name, something he had to feel comfortable with. He picked Frank because that was his late father’s name and Jagger because he was a sad die-hard Rolling Stones fan, sometimes much to his embarrassment.

Next, together with a couple of detectives who were experts in the field, he devised the background of the character, going all the way back to his schooldays in Blackburn. With knowledge and cooperation at the highest levels, bank accounts were opened, a National Insurance number issued, a passport too; jobs which Jagger had been in were manufactured; tax was paid — occasionally — photographs were professionally touched up, and eventually, when all these things, and more, were in place, all checkable and traceable histories, Frank Jagger stepped out into a hostile world as a wheeler-dealer travelling fence, operating right outside the law… and one of his debut jobs was to put the first nail into Jacky Lee’s coffin lid.

Lee was very high on the North-East Crime Squad’s target list for nefarious activities, including drug dealing, extortion, handling stolen property and pimping. All these activities were facilitated by means of a chain of pubs and clubs around that area of the country, and a few in Manchester. Every police operation against Lee had failed and it was only then, after every option had been tried, that Henry was brought in to bat. ‘U/Cs’, as they were referred to, are always the last resort because of the simple fact that every single day they are operating, their lives are at risk.

Getting to know Lee was a slow process. It involved being introduced to him by an informant who then took a step back. This was the most dangerous stage of any undercover operation. Lee was wary of all new faces, as most good-class crims are. But a slow process it had to be. Rather like eating an elephant: one mouthful at a time.

The occasional conversation led to an hour’s chat, from there to a night out. Henry could feel himself being tested all the time. The night out led to an evening meal at a Lee-owned restaurant where the subject of business was eventually broached. That was three months down the line. A period of time in which Henry had seen little of his wife and daughters.

The first thing Henry did for Lee was to obtain a truckload of stolen whisky for him. He sold it to Lee at?3 a bottle and Lee subsequently sold it on through his outlets, making massive profits. At least, Lee believed it was stolen. It was, in fact, legally purchased from a distillery in Scotland at a knock — down price, a transaction sanctioned with the full knowledge of the high management of the distillery. This kept everything legal from Henry’s point of view — a crucial consideration in the undercover game, because the officer must never be compromised in the eyes of the law.

That was Lee’s initial and very profitable nibble into what Frank Jagger had to offer. There then followed a series of transactions which Lee believed were dodgy, but were in fact as straight as a die.

It was important to keep Lee believing that Frank Jagger was totally and utterly reliable. So when the next undercover cop came on the scene, expertly and sneakily introduced by Henry, Lee’ had fallen into the beginning of a complex and brilliantly executed trap.

Nine months later when he was arrested on a multitude of conspiracy charges, he did not have a clue that the person to blame for it all — other than the original informant who had been well protected by the police operation — was none other than Frank Jagger. Four years in the slammer, brooding about which bastard had set him up, led him down a complete blind alley with the tragic result that he wiped out an innocent guy.

But no one stays an undercover cop if they don’t like it.

Not liking it makes them a liability to themselves and others.

Henry was not enamoured of the role.

Long spells away made his home life very difficult. His wife, Kate, having to manage two young daughters on her own, was struggling and becoming depressed. She was brave about it, denying there was a problem. Yet Henry could sense it, almost touch it, and when he was away he desperately missed them all.

Having had a very successful run at U/C work, he pulled out without loss of face.

Through his legends, though, he continued to exist as other people.

‘ You want me to go back undercover?’ Henry croaked dryly.

The two higher-ranking officers nodded in unison.

‘ Exactly,’ said Davison. ‘I know from my enquiries that you did a superb job last time, had Lee eating out of your hand. I’d like you to get back into his confidence, get him to admit the murder to you — and this time, you nail him.’

‘ You’re the only one for the job,’ FB supported Davison. ‘The only one capable of pulling this off. Lee trusts you.’

Henry’s lips pouted sardonically. ‘You realise it’s very dangerous going back in, don’t you? It would have to be handled very carefully. I couldn’t just turn up on his doorstep and say, “Hiya Jacky, I’m back.” He’d be so suspicious. And the other thing is that working in Manchester could be really iffy for me. I’ve done a lot of straight-up detective work there when I was on the squad and the Manchester crims know me well. I could easily be compromised.’

‘ I understand that,’ Davison said. ‘If you ever felt you were in danger, you could just pull out. Wouldn’t be a problem. I want a quick result anyway. Here, I’ve prepared these.’ He reached across to FB’s desk and slid a sheet of paper over to Henry.

Henry made no move to take the paper. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘ A list of questions I’d like you to ask Lee.’

Aghast, Henry held up both hands and said, ‘No!’ sharply. ‘I don’t want to see them.’ He wasn’t all that surprised that the higher-ranking officer had suggested such a stupid thing; most had limited dealings with undercover cops and had unreasonable expectations of them and knew little about how they actually operated.

‘ I don’t want to see them,’ he reiterated, ‘nor do I want to hear anything further about the police operation against Lee. You must understand that if I say I’ll go back in, you’ll have to leave everything to me. There cannot be a timescale and there can’t be any set questions and I can’t know anything about the investigation.’

‘ Why not?’ Davison asked crossly.

‘ Because there has to be a natural course of events. Just supposing I let slip something that can only have come from a police source. Jacky Lee’d have me strung up before I finished talking. Undercover work is an art, a craft, and it can’t be rushed. If you want to push things along, then I can’t do it for you.’

‘ So you will do it?’ Davison now became eager.

‘ I don’t know yet… let me have a think.’ Henry excused himself and drifted down to the Headquarters canteen for a lone cup of tea.

There was no doubt about it — he didn’t really want to go back undercover. Yet the thought of it excited him. It was a challenge, a dangerous one. And there was something else playing in the background which actually made the offer irresistible: it would give him an excuse to get away from home, give him time to think, mull over things that were happening to him and get his head together one way or the other. See if what he thought he was feeling was really true, or was it just a passing fad which would go away. Distance from the problem would enable him, he hoped, to put things into perspective.

Wrongly — and Henry knew it was outrageously wrong — it was his personal circumstances which swung it for him.

He went back to FB’s office and announced, ‘I’ll do it.’

Both officers looked relieved.

‘ Have you got a pocket book for me?’ Henry asked Davison, who looked blankly at him.

‘ Why? Won’t your normal one do?’

‘ Undercover officers have a unique one, issued at the beginning of any operation,’ Henry said slowly, trying not to show his impatience. ‘The first page of it has some instructions which you need to read aloud to me, make sure I understand them and sign them as Frank Jagger.’

‘ Oh,’ said Davison, stumped, betraying a further lack of knowledge of undercover policing which Henry found slightly disconcerting. He was not terribly impressed with Davison who, it seemed, had risen through the ranks very quickly indeed. ‘I’ll get you one,’ he said hurriedly.

Later, when Henry told Kate that he had taken on this new U/C job, there was a storming row between them. She did not want him to go back to such work, did not trust him being away from home for such lengthy periods. Their marriage, she pointed out, had enough sticking plasters over the cracks and was ready to bleed again.

But Henry went anyway because he knew that in so doing he would either repair the marriage or break it for good. He needed to know in his own mind which way to go.

Now, ten weeks later, sitting at the breakfast table with Jacky Lee, Henry realised that he hadn’t phoned home for three days, not even when he’d had the opportunity. It was getting harder and harder to talk to Kate… Shit, he cursed, shaking domestic thoughts from his mind, and placed his coffee cup down.

‘ What can I do for you, Jacky?’

‘ I want to know what you can offer me, Frank.’

Henry made a show of rolling his neck as if it was aching, letting his gaze drift slyly towards Natasha. She was looking away from him. ‘What do you want?’

Frank Jagger was a person who could get most things, but he specialised in booze.

‘ Cheap spirits for a start.’ Jacky Lee stood up. ‘Come and have a look at this view,’ he said, taking a mug of coffee across to the picture window. Henry watched him. He was a squat, powerfully-built individual who moved with the confidence that comes from toughness. Henry joined him, admiring the development around the canal basin. The penthouse was in a very desirable position.

‘ Nice,’ Henry murmured.

‘ People seem to float to the surface in it,’ Lee ruminated. His face was contorted in frustration. ‘Pity, that.’

‘ What do you mean?’ Henry probed, thinking: Come on, you bastard, admit what you’ve done.

‘ Nah, nothing.’ Lee shook his head. Henry hid his disappointment and did not push the matter. ‘Cheap booze is what I want and fags, maybe.’

‘ I can do both,’ Henry said. It was no boast.

‘ OK then, let’s chat.’

Despite the sunshine, a cold wind was cutting in from the Irish Sea like razor blades. The Russian shivered and wrapped his winter coat tightly around himself. The chill reminded him of the old days, being frozen to the bone in the severe Russian climate. Not pleasant.

Nowadays he spent much of his spare time mooching around the Mediterranean, only returning to Russia when his masters demanded it.

Arrangements had been made to meet his contact here in Fleetwood, on the Lancashire coast. After a stroll around the small town, he wandered back into the North Euston Hotel and went to the bar where he ordered a coffee. Then he took his cup to a table from which he could easily see the revolving door at the main entrance, but where he could not easily be spotted by someone entering the hotel. He sat down to wait, checking his watch. It was almost 4 p.m.

Two men came into the hotel, walked past the desk and made purposefully for the tiny lift at the end of the foyer. One was carrying a briefcase.

From his position, the Russian watched them. He had never seen either man before, yet he knew they were the ones. His nostrils flared and a little flush of adrenaline gushed into his bloodstream.

The men stepped into the lift. The doors closed and the lift rose to the first floor.

The Russian was seething with anger. He had been told there would only be one contact. It was very unprofessional to send two.

He stood up and walked swiftly to the stairs.

The cases of Spencer Grayson and Cheryl Jones were the last to be heard that day at Blackpool Magistrates’ Court.

Spencer, sober, bad-tempered and reeking to high heaven, slouched defiantly in the dock.

Cheryl stood next to him, head bowed, terrified: not of the judicial consequences Gail would have been a godsend) but of the other, more sinister form of retribution she might have to face.

Their cases — bail hearings only — were dealt with swiftly. Both were remanded on bail to reappear before the court in three weeks’ time. Because of the additional charges levelled against Cheryl, extra conditions were imposed on her: her passport was confiscated and she was ordered to report twice daily to Blackpool police station and ‘sign on’.

The pair shuffled out of the court in silence and mooched moodily towards the town centre on their release. Neither noticed the man who was following them.

The two men were huddled by the room door, concentrating hard, paying no attention to what was going on around them. The corridor was dimly lit, shadows everywhere, enabling the Russian to tread with silence, unseen, towards them. His martial arts skills seemed to make him invisible.

He was on the men before they knew he was there. He chopped the neck of the first one, landing the hand-edge blow underneath the ear. The man crumbled like a bad wall.

The second man uttered something incomprehensible, but all he saw was the blur of something coming towards him in the half-light, felt a blinding crash of excruciating pain in his forehead and then the blackness of unconsciousness.

They awoke within seconds of each other, lying side by side on the double bed in the Russian’s hotel room. Their wrists were secured behind their backs and the position in which they found themselves was extremely painful and uncomfortable with little room to even wriggle.

The Russian had drawn the dressing-table chair up to the bed. He was sitting on it, legs crossed, leaning forwards with an elbow on his knee. Dangling loosely in his right hand was the Browning automatic; the weapon, combined with the stocking mask pulled tight over his face, distorting his features, made for a truly terrifying sight.

‘ So, you wake up?’ he observed, purposely adopting a thick, stereotypical Russian accent, reminiscent of James Bond films.

The first man, named Gary Thompson, the one who should have come alone, focused his eyes. ‘What d’you think you’re playing at, you bastard?’ he demanded, struggling to free himself, but instead rolling precariously towards the edge of the bed. The Russian pushed him back using the bottom of his foot.

‘ I don’t play at anything,’ the Russian replied evenly, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘I follow instructions and expect others to do likewise.’

‘ Meaning what?’

‘ You came with a colleague. Our meeting was supposed to be one to one.’

Thompson’s mouth twisted with guilt. ‘So fucking what?’

‘ I was naturally upset by the change of plan and wished to negotiate from a position of control, shall we say?’

‘ You can say what you fucking well like. Now let me go or-’

‘ What?’ the Russian asked sharply. ‘My friends in Russia will be very disappointed by this lack of professionalism on your part. You should have realised at an early stage in our relationship that we always stick to our word and demand that others do the same. It is not much to ask. So, why the two of you?’

Thompson glanced at the other man who had remained silent. He was a bruiser of a guy, shaven head, earring, fairly low intelligence. A goon. His name was Gunk Elphick. ‘He came to watch my back.’

The Russian withheld a guffaw. ‘You do not trust us?’

No reply.

The Russian sniffed, considered matters with a slow, thoughtful nodding of the head. He came to a decision. ‘I, as an act of goodwill, will show you that we still have faith in you. The job will be done, but I wish you to know that if you had done this in Moscow — turned up with more people than expected or arranged — you would both be dead now.’ He blinked underneath the stocking. ‘That is no boast. That is the reality of the Russian way of life. I would have killed you both without question. But as we are in England, a more civilised and forgiving society, I shall let it pass… this time.’ The last two words were spoken with a stone-cold certainty. ‘Now tell me about the target.’

Thompson nodded towards the briefcase on the dressing table. ‘There’s a couple of photos in there. Recent ones.’

The Russian pulled them out. ‘He looks a tough man.’

‘ He is, so be careful. Do you think you can handle it?’

‘ I’ve handled you two without too much difficulty, haven’t I?’ he responded coolly. ‘Right — I need you to keep me informed of his whereabouts over the next few days, his plans, his intended movements. Are you able to do that simple thing, follow that simple instruction?’

‘ We live in his pocket, so it’s not a problem. We’ll contact you here.’

The Russian shook his head and pointed to a piece of paper on the bedside cabinet. ‘There is a mobile phone number on that. I will not be remaining here.’ He stood up. ‘It’s probably better you don’t know where I am… if only for your own safety.’

‘ OK. Now, you going to let us go, or what?’ Thompson asked.

‘ You are responsible for your predicament.’ He reached for the door handle.

‘ You chickenshit bastard!’ Gunk screamed.

The Russian’s hand hovered over the door handle. He crossed back into the room and stood by the bed. He raised his Browning and pointed it at Gunk’s head. The skinhead’s face contorted horribly at the prospect of a bullet. Thompson cowered away too.

Suddenly the Russian slid the gun into his jacket pocket and as he pulled his hand out, he slashed across the air to Gunk’s face. The stiletto shot down into his palm and he sliced it across Gunk’s earlobe, almost cutting it off with the deadly sharp blade.

‘ Next time,’ the Russian said, turning to go, ‘I’ll cut your heart out.’