The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

The bodyguard was still at the table, apparently uninterested in a roaming patrol or even a change of position. He was stale, and King hoped he could exploit this soon.

The next guard seemed more alert. He was cradling an assault rifle in both arms, and the way he paced, turned and watched reminded King of somebody with infantry experience. King kept right up against the fence, he was coming from the east with the sun above him. It was borderline for a stealthy approach, but it was still in his favour. The guard was sixty-metres away, and King knew it was now or never to take a shot. The man was more alert than his dead colleague had been and King imagined he would track a look towards him at any moment. But King wasn’t worried, because the man had the right hardware and things were going to get noisy now.

23

 

The top floor of Thames House had recently undergone a complete refit. The glass was quadruple-glazed ballistic composite, impenetrable by 20mm anti-aircraft rounds. The thickness also made the windows soundproof and would deflect parabolic microphones. To keep up with the added security measures, lead and titanium sleeves now lined the walls between the grade II listed stone walls and the plasterboard within.

It had been a deniable act of terrorism by Russian extremists that had necessitated the refit and reconstruction of MI5 headquarters. The strike at the heart of the British intelligence establishment had called for more changes, and now each floor was guarded by heavily armed security officers from MI5’s security group, the only non-police or military guards armed in the UK.

Rashid glanced at the guard, who was protected by a flack-jacket and body armour and armed with a Sig P226 pistol and a 7.62mm SAR rifle. He noted the heavy calibre. MI5 were not taking any chances. At the end of the corridor, another similarly attired and armed guard stood outside the director’s office.

“A bit heavy,” he said. “The PM hasn’t got a show of force like this.”

Mereweather nodded. “It’s exactly that; a show of force. Foreign intelligence officers and dignitaries have been doing the rounds. We wanted them to go home with tales of the service’s strength. The guards would normally be suited and booted, conceal-carry. The paramilitary boys are usually outside or on the exits and entrances.”

“Where do they train?”

“With the metropolitan police.”

“SCO19?”

“Yes.”

Rashid said nothing.

“Anything wrong in that?” Mereweather asked.

Rashid shrugged. “A bit gung-ho.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“We trained a few groups in Hereford, that’s all.”

“And?”

“They like Ray-Bans. Like, when it’s dark,” he paused. “And afterwards, in the bar, they keep their pistols on. Pose for photos, that sort of shit.”

“Anything else?”

“When they find out you went to war, they always ask you if you’ve killed someone,” Rashid said quietly.

Mereweather nodded. Rashid had a feeling the MI5 man would take it under consideration. He opened the door, ignoring the guard and ushered Rashid inside. There was an outer office and the secretary barely acknowledged them, as she tapped on her keyboard, and studied her handwritten notes. Mereweather opened the second oak door and the two men stepped into the inner sanctum of MI5.

Director Amherst was seated behind his large mahogany desk. As usual, the chairs for his guests had been arranged in a semi-circle in front of his desk, with two low glass tables between. There were three chairs. One was occupied, the other two were empty. The man in the chair stood up, nodded at the men as they walked in. Amherst remained seated.

“Neil Ramsay,” the man said, holding out his hand.

Rashid shook it but said nothing. Things were moving fast. He looked at the seated man, then back at Mereweather. He shrugged. “All looks official,” he said.

“Do sit,” Amherst said. He had been in the role for less than a year, but he was confident. He had paired some of MI5’s more dubious expenses and increased the closeness of their working relationship with both GCHQ and MI6.

“Long and the short of it is; you are in the shit, so we’ll get you off any charges if you work with us to locate our missing agent, Caroline Darby, and along the way, get Alex King back on the reservation,” Amherst steepled his fingers, his elbows on the desk. “Can you help us?”

“Why me?” Rashid asked incredulously. “You have agents for this sort of thing.”

Mereweather nodded. “But you know King. And he trusts you…”

“I’ll not set him up.”

“We’re not asking you to,” Ramsay said. “But the time will come when King will need to be approached, and we think he’ll trust you, more than us.”

Rashid looked at all three men in turn. “Have you given him a reason not to trust you?”

“Certainly not,” Amherst replied, seemingly for all three of them. “King is not thinking straight. He’s blinded by love, and I fear, revenge. He has jumped and danced to Helena Snell’s, or should I say, Milankovitch’s tune. We know he took out a Russian mafia brotherhood down in France, and we can assume he is planning another hit for Helena as we speak.”

Rashid shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Technically he had taken out the Russians, or at least most of them. He’d even dealt Sergeyev a wound that would have killed him, had King not delivered a coup de grâce. “You can’t blame the man,” he replied. “He’s buying time. He’s not blindly haring across Europe killing people. He’s finding out as much about the bitch as he can.”

“And what has he found out?”

Rashid shrugged. “I want anything against me dropped. And I want something in writing. I want the terrorist sniper on the rooftop covered in that paperwork too. Queen and country, that sort of shit.”

“So that was you,” Amherst stated flatly.

“You know it was. I