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

exacerbated by the heat and fumes of the heavy traffic. Simon Mereweather had left the COBRA meeting and was on his way back to Thames House. It was only a short drive, but as expected, the traffic was gridlocked. MI5 were using motorcades less frequently in recent months, preferring to blend in with the rest of the London traffic. Mereweather travelled in the rear passenger seat of a pool car, the anonymous Ford Mondeo crawling with the flow of commuters, sight-seers and taxis. Upfront, his regular driver was accompanied by Mereweather’s bodyguard.

His phone was hot, messages, texts and calls coming in from MI6, GCHQ, the MOD and various departments within MI5. The impending visit from the Russian president was first and foremost on the security and intelligence community’s agenda, given the dire lack of relations between the two countries after the Russian’s had been accused of biological attacks on former KGB double-agents on British soil. Russia’s relationship with many countries who had supported Britain, expelling Russian diplomats, was at an all-time low. Now, with a new Russian president and a new British Prime Minister in place, the visit was viewed as critically important on the world stage. However, with Russia’s involvement in supporting the Syrian regime, and an accusation of covert biological attacks in predominantly Muslim Chechnya, many Islamic extremist suspects had been heard on what GCHQ called network chatter. Their Echelon listening system had picked up talk of assassinating the Russian president.

Mereweather looked at his phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. He was about to ignore it for a moment, collecting his thoughts for the imminent COBRA debriefing he would have with Director Amherst back at Thames House. There was barely a number he didn’t have stored, but the number was an international one, and he felt compelled to take it. He answered and was greeted by a woman’s voice, heavy in accent with a little background white noise.

“Operator services, I have a reverse-charge call from Georgia, will you accept the charge?”

“Yes.” A series of clicks followed, more white noise, then Mereweather said, “Hello?”

“Simon! It’s Caroline…”

“Caroline! Oh my god! Are you alright?”

“I am,” she hesitated. “But I’m not safe.”

“Are you free?”

“I am.”

“Where? Tell me and I’ll get an asset to you.”

“Seems to be becoming a habit…”

“Where are you?”

“Batumi,” she said. “On the Georgian Black Sea coast.”

“Where?”

“Hard to say. I have a vehicle, but no money and no phone. The British embassy is in Tbilisi, but it wasn’t practical to head that way. I don’t have enough fuel to reach Tbilisi.”

“Neil Ramsay is in Georgia. He traced Helena’s IP address to a deserted farmhouse on the outskirts of Skhimili.”

“That’s where I was being held!” she gushed, the relief and knowledge that they had been looking for her was almost too much, the emotion heavy in her voice.

“He’s up there now. The police are all over it. But it’s deserted.”

“They haven’t found anything?”

“They are taking swabs and prints as we speak.”

“People. What about people? Women?”

“Women? No. The place was empty.”

“Simon, it was hell. It was a staging post for sex trafficking, baby farms… There were many women there…”

“Well, they’ve cleared out now,” Mereweather paused. “I’ll call Neil right back, get him to come and get you. Where can you meet?”

Caroline hesitated, then said, “There is a lighthouse and Ferris wheel on the seafront. I’ll meet him there.”

“Hang tight,” Mereweather said. “He’ll come straight over.”

“Simon,” Caroline said quietly. “Is Alex okay?”

“Why do you ask?” he paused. “Apart from the obvious?”

“Helena said she had him working for her. To keep me from harm. Is that true?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Is he okay?” she asked again.

“We don’t know,” Mereweather paused. “He’s taken down half the Russian mafia and an Italian mafia syndicate for good measure. In short, we don’t know where he is.”

“Helena needs to be caught.”

“Well, we’re working on it. Look, stay put, I have to go so I can get you picked up,” he paused. “It’s brilliant to hear your voice again. Stay safe…” Mereweather ended the call, scrolled and dialled Neil Ramsay’s number.

57

 

The Georgian police seemed to have a unique approach to securing a crime scene. Once every officer had trod their way through with muddy boots, they gathered and smoked a cigarette each. Talked in low voices and agreed it would be a good idea to walk the mud through again, this time picking up everything within reach without gloves, regroup and smoke again, each man flicking their cigarette stubs in different directions. Some long and low conversations later, and relatives of the police were now on scene to assist, smoke, traipse mud of their own through the crime scene, then confer over more cigarettes. Somebody had found a bottle of alcohol and a few of the lower-ranked officers gathered behind one of the barns to share it. After a few more smokes, a vehicle arrived and then a man got out wearing a suit and carrying a medical case. He conferred with the group of officers, accepted a cigarette and smoked it on his way in.

Ramsay looked up, glanced at Marnie, then looked back at the man in the suit.

“I am officer Danko, I am the forensic scientist.”

“I’m with the British Home Office,” Ramsay said without offering his name or department. “There looks to be evidence of people being held here. One of our people may have been held prisoner here,” he paused. “We are sending over a DNA sample, fingerprints, blood type and photograph to your headquarters.” He looked dejectedly at the mud on the floor, the officers walking through. “In the event of a miracle and you actually finding any forensic evidence that hasn’t been corrupted by your colleagues, the British Government would appreciate you correlating this data and sharing it immediately.”

The