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

conspiratorially and said quietly, “Go after King before this is finished, and King will make you a target. Throw your resources and attention on getting Caroline back, and King will come in on his own.”

“You can approach King,” Ramsay commented. “You set up a meeting, I’ll make sure we have enough personnel on hand to bring him back.”

Rashid smiled. “And you’ll be front and centre to make that happen?”

Ramsay nodded. “I like King. He’ll see it for what it is. An intervention.”

“Rather you than me.”

“You and he are tight,” Ramsay said, his fingers crossed, emphasising the fact. “You must know how to contact him?”

“Not a clue.”

“So, how did you help him out in France?”

“He contacted me.”

“Well, maybe he will again.”

“Maybe.”

“So, he used a phone to contact you, you must have his number stored on your phone,” Ramsay ventured.

“Email.”

“I’ll need your device.”

“It’s a laptop in Hereford.”

“I can arrange that.”

Rashid shook his head. He took a pencil out of his pocket. It was small and had been sharpened using a knife, the edges around the nib were straight. He scribbled down his email address and handed it to Ramsay. “That’s my personal email,” he said. “You’ll get my server and IP address with that. No need to go giving my landlady a fright.”

“And that’s it?” Ramsay asked. “No other way to contact King?”

“No. That’s it.”

“And what of your involvement with him in France?”

“We met for a drink.”

“A drink.”

“Pernod, I think.”

Ramsay stared at him. “And you needed an assault rifle for that?”

“Boys will be boys,” he smiled. “We let off some steam in the woods.”

“Forensics will see if there is a bullet match to the Russian’s that the French police recently found in the forest near Biarritz.”

“Well, they would if they were investigating. But they’re not going to be. You have me down as an official agent. You’ve informed Hereford that I was working with MI5. I have the paperwork in my pocket.” Rashid stared, his dark eyes as black as jet and emotionless. He stood up. “It was a pleasure serving my country, as always. I’m sure the press will make quite a bit of clandestine wars fought in Europe. Brexit might make that even more tricky for you…”

“Okay, sit down,” Ramsay said.

“No more bullshit tactics?”

“No.”

Rashid sat back down, but his posture was defensive. He leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed. “Don’t try and fuck me over again,” he said. “I’ll help you for one reason, and one reason alone. King. That’s it, plain and simple. He’s in a tight spot. He has some demented bitch using him in her vendetta, and she’s holding all the aces. But what you and the suited and booted prats on the top floor don’t seem to get is; King was on your payroll. King was serving his country and got shafted. His fiancé was abducted because he shut the terrorists down. MI5 should be moving heaven and earth to get her back. But not for King. She isn’t his property. She is one of your agents and she got shafted, too. She was taken in the line of duty. Get that into your stupid heads. King is doing what he must, to keep her alive. The least you can do is get her back. Forget King. Your paths will cross again. Find Caroline.”

Ramsay considered this for a moment. He nodded. “Okay.”

“Just like that?” Rashid asked incredulously. “You’ll get that past the top floor?”

“I agree. And that’s enough. The top floor, as you call them, will get what reports I feed them.”

“Good,” said Rashid. “I just hope it’s not too late.”

28

 

King poured the water over his head and rubbed his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and thick, but the water had warmed in the inside of the car enough to take the worst of the butter out and leave it looking marginally cleaner.

He was sweating profusely, and he doused his armpits and chest, let the water run down his back. He had stripped off the black trousers and shirt and had crammed them into a bin sack, along with the shoes and the empty water bottle. He had drunk his fill of the tepid water when he reached the car, as thirsty as he had ever been. He knew he had been dehydrated, his vision and balance were off by the time he had reached the vehicle, but the water soon revived him.

He had driven away from the area, found a hunter’s track and parked up, his heart pounding and his pulse thudding in his ears. He was wearing khaki cargoes, and once the water dripped from him enough, he slung on a loose-fitting blue cotton shirt and slipped on a pair of trainers that bordered on boat shoes. He put the flick-knife into one of the pockets on his right leg and tucked the sheath knife into the door pocket of the car. He still had the two 9mm bullets and was about to toss them away, when he thought of his old instructor, Peter Stewart and the man’s insistence on utilising everything. It isn’t over until you check your bags at the airport, the man would say. The bullets still had a use outside of ammunition. Melted lead could set a broken knife blade back into the hilt, the powder could start a fire, purify dirty water enough to drink, cauterise a wound, lower a heart arrhythmia – the brass could be flattened to form a makeshift blade. He tucked the two bullets back into his pocket and checked his reflection in the window. He looked like every other tourist, and nothing like the man he had been up at the vineyard and mansion. He donned a pair of black wraparound Oakley sunglasses, tossed the bag into the