“Not possible, or not easy?” I said.
“Not possible,” he said. “I keyed in your details as you told me them, and the system says you’re on secondment. Which means I can’t send a car for you. You’re not supposed to be active.”
I took out a switchblade, and slipped it into the other pocket.
“I am active,” I said. “Ignore the computer. I need that car. You’ve now got nine minutes.”
“I can’t do it, sir,” he said. “I can’t book a car out to you when you’re supposed to be on a different agency’s headcount. The system won’t release an asset under those circumstances.”
I took a suppressor for my Beretta, and tucked that into my jacket pocket.
“Book it out to Michael Martin, Major, Royal Marines,” I said. “That’s what we always do in these situations. And please, hurry up.”
“But you identified yourself as Commander Trevellyan, sir,” he said. “You can’t use someone else’s name, now.”
I replaced the concealed cover.
“How old are you, son?” I said. “Don’t you know who Major Martin was?”
“No, sir,” he said.
I threw the stationary back in.
“Key his name in,” I said. “The system’ll accept it. Trust me.”
I heard computer keys rattling in the background.
“Oh,” he said. “It worked. Bear with me, please.”
The keys rattled again, more frantically this time.
“OK,” he said, after a moment. “The car’s on its way. ETA, it looks like, twelve minutes. Is that all right?”
“It’ll do,” I said. “And before you go home tonight, go to the library. Find a book about the invasion of Sicily, in World War Two. Read about the role Major Martin played. If you’ve got any future in this business, you’ll enjoy it.”
“Can’t you just tell me who he was?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t. Because he didn’t exist.”
The car that pulled up outside Cromwell Tower eleven minutes later looked just like a standard, silver, 5-series BMW. There was nothing on the outside to suggest it was anything out of the ordinary. But as soon as I touched the accelerator, it was clear that the Navy mechanics had weaved their usual magic under the skin. It had taken the MI5 driver, Pearson, thirty-three minutes to pitch and roll his way from London to Luton in his big Range Rover. I shaved a full six minutes off that time. And I didn’t need a moment to regain my land legs when I arrived, either.
It stood to reason that Leckie wouldn’t want any random passers-by to wander onto the site and see what he was up to. He was bound to have the place guarded, or at least kept under observation, so I only allowed myself a single drive by. No one was visible at the main gate, but I saw two men standing just inside the perimeter by the hole in the wall that Pearson had driven through to park. They were wearing security guard uniforms, and they matched the company Leckie used at St Joseph’s. That was smart. It told me I was on the right track, and everyone else to keep out.
I kept going for another quarter of a mile, then pulled the BMW over to the side of the road and added it to a line of parked cars. Then I called Jones. He didn’t answer straight away, so while his phone was ringing I screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of my Beretta and made sure the switchblade was easily accessible in my pocket.
“I’m nearly there,” Jones said when he finally picked up. “Traffic was worse than I thought. How are you doing?”
“Good,” I said. “How long till you’ll arrive?”
“Twenty minutes? Twenty-five, at the outside.”
“OK. See you there.”
I knew the textbook option was to wait for Jones. And if he’d said he was five minutes down the road I probably would have done. But almost half an hour? While there was still the slightest chance Melissa was innocent and in danger, I figured Jones could catch up in his own good time. And if she was neither, there was no point in anyone else getting caught in her web.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The walk back to the hole in the wall would normally have taken around five minutes, but that day it took me ten. Not because I dawdled. But because I didn’t stay on the pavement. I only followed it as far as the rear corner of the wall. Then I checked for cameras. Or sensors. Or anyone watching. The coast seemed to be clear, so I took a moment to find suitable hand and foot holds in the weathered stone surface and pulled myself up high enough to peer over to the other side.
There was no one in sight, so I slid over the top of the wall and dropped down behind a rough stack of rustic, reclaimed bricks. They’d have been worth something in a buoyant economy, but as things stood, it looked like no one could even be bothered to steal them.
The patch of scrubby ground between where I’d landed and the heap of rubble I’d seen last time was clear, so I drew my Beretta and crossed the open space. I got to the far side, unnoticed. I knew that if I skirted round to the right of the mound, I had a chance of moving deeper into the workhouse’s grounds without encountering anyone. If I’d just been there for covert surveillance, that’s what I’d have done. But standing back and watching wasn’t on the agenda, this time. I was there to get Melissa out, and whether that meant rescuing her or arresting her, I couldn’t afford anyone blocking my exit route. Or raising an alarm. Or calling in reinforcements. In fact, in the circumstances, an early look at the opposition could be beneficial. It could tell me what kind of organisation I was facing. And if I could find someone who was prepared to spill a few beans, a lot more besides.
I moved round to the left of the mound and, as expected, I saw the two security guards. They didn’t see me, though. They were looking in completely the wrong direction. I guess they were expecting me to approach them from the street, because I closed to within ten feet before either one of them reacted. And by then, it was far too late.
Sometimes the best way to loosen a person’s tongue is to draw things out for as long as possible. Put them off balance. Disorient them. Twist their perception of the situation so much they end up thinking that talking’s their own idea.
Other times I just rely on brute force and ignorance.
I raised the Beretta and shot the first guy right between the eyes. Blood and bone fragments showered the side of his friend’s head as he turned to see what was happening. Then I stepped closer to the first guy’s crumpled body and fired another shot into his skull.
“Is Leckie here?” I said.
The guy who was still alive turned to face me. The scarlet spatter stood out vividly against his suddenly pale skin, and even such a gentle movement sent it dribbling down towards his chin.
“What?” he said.
“Stan Leckie,” I said. “Is he here?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“The guy from the hospital. St Joseph’s.”
“Oh. Yes. He is. He hired us. He brought us here.”
“Is there a girl with him?”
He gave another nod, and I noticed his pupils were growing wider by the second.
“Where are they?” I said.
The guy stuck out his arm and pointed to the area at the back of the main building. That’s what I’d feared, but my heart sank nonetheless.