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

The tracker, identical to the one he had found in the satnav, nestled in the palm of his hand. He turned it over, then slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t bother checking his watch, just stuffed the clothes back into the bag, zipped it up and walked out of the lavatories and onto the platform.

The train pulled in, brakes squeaking and the doors opening the moment it stopped. King stepped on without looking for the man. He found a seat towards the front of the carriage, his back against the bulkhead. He stowed the bag on the seat beside him. The train was virtually empty. Heading into London at this time was nothing like the commute in the morning. The people were heading back out and the trains on the other side of the track would be full.

King spotted the man. Despite his interest in the vending machine, he neither ate nor drank anything as he sat down. King wondered whether he was a bluff, whether there was another watcher on him, or a team of them. Or perhaps the tracking device was the key. Lose the guy and relax. Oblivious of the tracker in his luggage. Maybe that was their plan all along?

His bag had been left with reception at the St. Michael’s Hotel in Falmouth. He couldn’t see how someone could have tampered with it. He doubted that these people could have been so obvious as to bribe a member of staff. The tracking device was a sealed unit, activated by a pull-tab. Like a child’s battery-powered toy. Pull the tab and you’ve got forty-eight hours of battery life. The power would soon be used up, emitting a signal every couple of seconds at a high frequency. So conceivably, the device could have been planted before he had even set out for Cornwall. But that would not have worked with the satnav which came with the hire car. And the two units were identical, which indicated a connection.

The train had moved on and was nearing Basingstoke. The fields of lush-green grass and yellow rapeseed had given way to houses and business parks and soon the train threaded through a heavily populated residential area. The station had few people on this side of the platform. Across the tracks, the opposite platform was full, people having disembarked the London train and heading for the exits.

King eyed the man. He was over six-feet tall, wiry and fit-looking. His hair was dark and swept back, a ponytail wrapped up in a man-bun. He had a neatly trimmed beard too. His forearms were tattooed. King noted several gold rings. They were chunky, would double as knuckle dusters. The man looked back at King, held his stare for a moment, then looked away. King didn’t push it. He could see the man looking back at him, but King was already using his peripheral vision as he apparently watched the countryside return, leaving Basingstoke far behind them.

King took out his mobile phone. He dialled a number from memory, pressed nine and started to type out a concise message and sent it. He watched the phone indicate that the message had left. His phone was still connected through the first call and this made the message secure. The first number was a scrambling function through GCHQ’s ECHELON system. A piggyback line through which a conversation could be had, or a text sent with zero chance of interception through scanners or hard-wire technology. If the people King found himself up against had the resources, then his phone could easily be tapped. In fact, he’d bet everything he owned that it already had been. But no matter who they were, they wouldn’t be able to bypass the systems at GCHQ. He put the phone back in his pocket. The man was still watching him. A woman across the aisle from him got up and stepped out of the carriage, opening the door to the lavatory.

King got up and walked down the aisle towards the man. He watched the man’s expression, enjoyed his discomfort even, as he drew near, but walked on past and stood at the door to the lavatory. He glanced back down the aisle. There were less than ten people back there, all engrossed on their phones. A few read magazines or books, but nobody so much as looked up. The lavatory was occupied, but King already knew it was. And so would the man.

The toilet flushed, water ran for a moment and the door-lock clicked backwards. King would have his answer in a moment. It didn’t get better than this for a would-be assassin. A target with their back turned, a train barely occupied and a vacant lavatory. Christmas was coming in the shape of Woking Station. A nice, convenient exit. If the man was working surveillance, then he would stay put. If he had darker motives, than he would make his move now, or when King disembarked.

The door opened, and King stepped aside for the woman, who nodded a thank you and walked back into the carriage. King raised his left arm, let the crystal of his Rolex’s face catch the light, and saw the man approaching behind him as he made out to check the time. Quality crystal and a shiny black watch face. King had used his watch as a mirror many times before. The man moved in, King spun around clockwise and the man’s outstretched arm, the black tactical knife held firmly in his hand, lunged forwards into thin air. King caught the man’s wrist with his right hand and punched him in the back of the neck with his left. He used the man’s momentum to bundle him into the lavatory, wrenched his arm backwards until he dropped the knife, then punched him twice more. He turned and fumbled for the door closed. The man was dazed, but he suddenly seemed to snap-to and as the door slid closed, he