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

had taken the bag, much to his consternation. He had protested as much as was practical, but he had to concede it was going nowhere. He wasn’t about to try and overpower her, some battles were better left not started. He shrugged it off like it didn’t matter, but Caroline sensed it did. She imagined some backroom mandarin rubbing his hands together at the prospect of having a hold over MI5. It was part of the reason both she and Alex were behind the concept of a joint intelligence service.

Beard had asked what she had planned to do, and she couldn’t decide whether he was coming on to her or fishing to find out what MI5 were up to in Cape Town. She hoped it was the latter, but was flattered at the notion of the former. She wouldn’t tell him her plans, but he opened the glovebox and nodded at the 9mm Sig. “Take it,” he had said, but she had already noted he didn’t touch it. “It’s loaded but not chambered. I wiped it clean. It’s brand new and unfired since leaving the factory. Completely untraceable. Keep it, then dump it wisely.”

She had hesitated, but finally accepted. The incident had left her feeling shaken. She had walked back into reception, the weapon tucked into the front of her jogging pants and her top pulled down over to conceal it. Her contact from the State Security Agency had been waiting, was surprised to see her still in her jogging wear.

“Ms Darby,” he said, his accent thick and guttural and not dissimilar to the man who had called himself Kruger. The man whose body was destined for the townships. “I am Peter Kruger, with the SSA.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re an hour late for our meeting. Is everything alright?”

Caroline nodded. She couldn’t tell the man what had happened, but it was obvious that the State Security Agency had a leak. “I went for a run and got lost, sorry,” she said.

“Is that blood on you?” Kruger asked. He stepped forwards, but she backed away.

“I tripped and fell,” she said. “I need to shower and change, I’ll be down in ten minutes. And I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Caroline turned and walked swiftly through the foyer and to the lifts.

As she waited for the lift, she saw a waitress walk through a door and heard the clatter of plates and cutlery. She followed her in, and saw the source of the noise. The kitchen was immediately to her right, but the waitress walked ahead of her down a corridor, where Caroline could see daylight ahead. She followed and walked past a still-room with coffee and tea making facilities and kitchen porters scraping plates. The waitress veered off to a staff room, but Caroline walked on past and out into a shaded courtyard. She saw the bins and dumpsters. It wasn’t ideal, but she glanced around, then strode over confidently and lifted the lid of one of the bins marked: general waste. She dropped the bag inside, closed the lid and returned the way she had come.

Once inside her room, Caroline closed the door and slipped the chain on the latch. She looked at her phone. There had been no calls or messages. She knew King was busy, he would message her when he could. She had expected contact from Mereweather, but Britain had a few security problems at present and her situation wasn’t going to pose a direct threat to civilian life. She suspected the whole affair would leave some sort of stain on her record. She dropped the phone onto the bed and took out the Sig, checked the action, like Beard had said, it hadn’t been made ready. She pulled back the slide, chambered the first round and dropped the de-cocking lever before applying the safety. She slipped it under the pillow while she stripped off and went for a shower. She let the spray play over her shoulders and neck. She ached and felt exhausted. The subsiding of adrenalin had left her feeling weak. She had missed breakfast, probably didn’t have time for any even if she could speak to reception. After she had showered, she put the kettle on to boil and made a cup of coffee between dressing and brushing her hair. There were some biscuits with the tea and coffee sachets and she ate them as she dressed. She brushed her hair, pulled it back into a damp ponytail and applied the merest of makeup as she drank the coffee. She felt a little better, and as she slipped the pistol into her handbag, she felt secure and in control once more.

She took the stairs to give herself time to think. Her arrival and her reason for travelling to Cape Town had struck a chord with someone. The Home Office had tasked MI5 with the investigation into Anarchy to Recreate Society. They had carried out their threats and murdered the four wealthiest people on the planet. There was one more person on the list. He had his own security, but had blatantly, and very publicly refused twenty-four-hour police bodyguards.

The terrorists, for that was what they were now classified as, were an organisation so new, nobody even used an acronym to refer to them. Did they have influence? They certainly had support from around half the population. People so disenfranchised from society and politics and income constraints and austerity that they even accepted the deaths of the few for the gains of the many. Was there a leak in the Home Office or MI5? Or was security merely weak in South Africa? Enough for someone connected in the SSA to have been bribed to organise a hit to hamper MI5’s investigation?

She had little choice but to go with this man Kruger, if only to keep what had transpired earlier under wraps. She wished that the incident could have all been made