Defender (23 page)

"Really sorry, man. You OK?" The young man continued to attend to Cornell, steadying him and straightening his overcoat.

The aggrieved Cornell lashed out, pushing him away. "Bugger off!" "God, I'm so sorry."

The apology was ignored and Cornell scuttled off. He could hear the couple's laughter as they headed off in the direction of Trafalgar Square. He pushed his way through the rest of the tourists and locals on the footpaths of Westminster, continuing on his way.

Far behind him now, the young 'American' man took a phone from his pocket, dialled and speaking in a distinctly East-End accent said: "Yeah, Gov, I got it on him. You should be picking up sound soon. Dave's covering him on foot." A pause. Listening. "Yes, Gov. He's still got the other tail. Same two we spotted yesterday; two blokes." Listening. "No, not today, but we did get some shots of her late yesterday. She was sitting a few tables away from him at his local in Richmond ... that's right, at The Duke."

Cornell made a sudden change of direction, as he'd been taught to do, through Great College, Cowley and then Great Peter Street. He carried on along Marsham until he found a public phone. He fumbled with a pre paid card and tapped in the number he'd memorised. At the other end, the number began to ring.

"Yes?" came the dipped .nswer. "I need ... help."

"Who's speaking, please?"

"It's me ..." he began, then cursing and correcting himself, said very quickly, very quietly: "It's Pisces! Pisces! It's regarding our... mutual friends. Recent events. Need to see you," Cornell blurted.

"That's not possible, I'm afraid."

"I need to meet with somebody. They're onto me, I know it ... I can't ... I have to get out. Have to get away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Fast. Please..."

"Very well. Will be in touch soon." "Hello? Hello?"

The line was dead.

Cornell cursed as he slammed the phone back into its cradle twice. "Blast! Blast!" He stormed from the booth. Directionless, he started along Horseferry Road, and then stood for a moment on the approach to Lambeth Bridge. His faculties finally returned and he scampered north back to the Foreign Office.

* * *

Abraham Johnson slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and let out a long, controlled breath through pursed lips. Damn him!

"Are you quite alright, Sir?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." He shifted awkwardly at his window looking out onto Whitehall. "Please proceed. No, wait." He ran a hand across his unfashionably slicked hair. "Find Miss Halls and send her in, please. We'll finish this up again shortly."

'I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I'm afraid Miss Halls is away today. She's on leave."

"Well get her on the bloody phone then!"

* *
*

Minutes later Cornell was hurrying back along Whitehall. He had tried to be careful. He'd stopped himself from calling many times because he'd been told only to call the number in absolute emergencies. He didn't even know the man at the other end. He was the man, the anonymous man who called the shots. But Cornell was close to losing control, he'
cl
passed on the information he'
cl
been required to when he had received his last instructions. He'd given every detail he had access to concerning Namakobo's whistle-stop visit to London. They'd made their move and that was to be the end of it as far as Cornell's involvement was concerned.

It wasn't his fault that they hadn't killed Namakobo. He just wanted his money. Wanted to be done with it. Then reality returned, and the nervous, hounded appearance resumed.

Just 50 feet behind him, a solidly built man with slightly graying hair and a cheerful face sauntered casually along Whitehall, snapping pictures of various buildings and statues, George - Duke of Cambridge, Alanbrooke, Slim, Montgomery, and the Cenotaph amongst them. Keeping his distance from Cornell, Senior Constable Dave Ingham was one member of a team that had been following Cornell's movements that day. Over the past few weeks, the teams had changed on a daily basis. And although Cornell, gripped by paranoia, suspected he was being watched, he had not managed to identify any of his newly acquired companions.

The clatter and bustle of the busy kitchen carried harmlessly across the empty expanse of darkness that separated predator from prey.

Just a few short steps away, a couple of oblivious domestic staff prepared the evening meal, while a looming creature sat quietly in the shadows, watching their every move.

They had been in clear view for the hour or so he had sat there, scrutinising their behaviour to the last detail. The chef, a young man in chequered pants, fussed over the preparations, as he did every night, ensuring that the final details were perfect. Another man appeared, somewhat older than the chef and, judging by his standard of dress, responsible for the household. He entered and exited the scene, continuing a familiar pattern of domestic duties.

From a surveillance perspective, Turner's regimented routine was a gift.
If
an enemy had a desire to pinpoint him, day or night, the chances were better than even that he could.

Lundt felt as though he'd done this kind of thing a thousand times before, sitting in darkness, analysing the patterns of an enemy's activity. 'Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted'; advice that had been drummed into him all those years ago as a young soldier always found its way back to him.

Lundt sat evaluating the man he'd come for. The man he'd come to kill.

When the evening meal got underway, the chef pottered around the kitchen, ready to respond to last-minute requests. Then he went outside. He sat smoking and lazing around by the back door until the butler emerged from within the house, joining him for a smoke and announcing irreverently rhar His Lordship had released them for the evening.

Lundt was close enough to hear every word, and they didn't have a clue. He maintained his scrutiny of the two, as stamping out their cigarettes, they set about cleaning the kitchen. Choosing his moment, Lundr slipped swiftly past them and into the house undetected.

That had been at 1945 hours; it was now 2100.

Lundr waited patiently for the sounds of activity to die down, signalling the departure of the staff and the opportunity to confront Turner alone. He was already familiar with the layout of the house. Ir was all too easy.

Ar 2110, he eased himself from the refuge of an empty walk-in-robe located in one of the plush guest rooms on the second floor. With delicacy and practised handling, he turned the knob and smoothly aided the door open. He stepped swiftly into rhe bedroom and, with a sweeping gaze to take in his surrounds, was at the main doorway in a second. With the soft light of the hallway brushing his rigid features, he stepped out, walking hard up against the wall on the balls of his feet, senses on full alert, tingling and alive across every inch of his body.
In
the blackness, he froze for seconds between each movement, straining to listen for the slightest hint, or threat of discovery.

The Malfajiri operation had fallen apart. Lundt was exposed. Tying up loose ends, loose lips, was essential to his survival.

Walking out into the cold, grey morning, his breath forming frosted swirls about his face, Alex Morgan realised how much he'd missed his early morning run through town - up the hill past Farnham Castle and out along the back road to Odiham and Fleet. Much had happened over the past weeks, including attending a very private funeral service for Sean Collins. Morgan was consumed by an irrepressible frustration that he hadn't hunted down Lundt for selling out Collins, and for what he had been responsible for in Malfajiri and London. But the hunt wasn't possible. The trail had gone stone cold.

Locking the door of his house, he took a moment and savoured the icy morning air stinging his nose and ears. It had been over two months - before Malfajiri - since he'd last been able to strap on the trainers and pound some miles. Whenever he was at his modest semi-rural sanctuary, he enjoyed the comfortable familiarity of a morning run. But these past weeks, as he recuperated under the watchful eye of doctors and physiotherapists, there'd been no running. Of course, he'd swallowed down the pain when he had been with Ari. He'd had no choice. Neither of them knew how much time they would have together.

Distracted, Morgan reversed his metallic black Jaguar XFR out of the driveway of his home at number 10 Truro Road, on the outskirts of Farnham. The Jag was the great-grandson of his beloved 1958 British Racing Green XK 150, which was kept safely garaged back at his other home
in
Sydney. He considered the XFR generally as a reward, figuring he'd earned it along the way.

Morgan eased the Jag out of Truro Road and headed for the A31, bound for INTREPID Headquarters in London, forcing his mind away from private matters and back to work. Today would be his first day back on full duty and he was scheduled for firearms training on the range. Finally, things were getting back to normal. Morgan's ribs still ached, although they were as good as healed and his doctor was pretty happy with his progress. In fact, he'd been lucky that a combination of factors had served to minimise most of the damage. Dull pain pervaded much of his movement, but Morgan was starting to feel like his old self again following the rehabilitation merry-go-round he had endured to get his bruised and battered body back into operational shape. He had to get back in the game and find Lundt, the sooner the better. Above all, he had to remain focused. He spent a few seconds thumbing through his iPod, searching for something to match his mood. His blood was up and he was starting to feel like his energy and thirst for action were returning to him. Ah, perfect,
he thought, selecting 'State of Emergency' by
The Living End
.

As the opening bars of 'Til the end' kicked in, his final moments
in
Cullentown came back to him: the explosion and building collapse; Lundt's escape; the fire-fight; blood, debris and then darkness. Out of nowhere had come Fredericks and Garrett. They'd returned for him and, with the help of the Malfajirian lieutenant and his soldiers, got Morgan safely to the US warship.

Consumed by his deliberations and mulling over every word from his encounter with Lundt, Morgan fell into autopilot, letting the car and music carry him north.
It
was not quite seven o'clock. With luck, and if the weather wasn't playing havoc with the city traffic, he'd be parking underneath the office just after eight.

His thoughts mercilessly returned him to Ari and their five unforgettable days in Spain. Everything about her resounded in his memory. Damn it! He was growing frustrated with the fact that he couldn't bury the memory of her. Couldn't or wouldn't? 'I feel as though I've known you forever.' Right.

But in the six weeks that had passed, he'
cl
received nothing from her. The whole thing had been surreal, almost as if it had never happened, and he had struggled ever since.

Who was she? What was it she was hiding from him?

The third and top floor was where all of the real living happened.

The private rooms were situated on that level, including a bedroom, office and living room with a small bar. Contemporary artworks adorned the walls, including works by Matisse, Courbet and Lanceley, all sharing hanging space with a catalogue of the owner's world travels.

Standing naked by a window, sipping an exquisite brandy, Turner fingered a gap between heavy curtains and gazed out upon the gardens that enclosed the villa in a cocoon of absolute privacy. Stars filled the sky, and a light breeze rustled through the Pride of de Kaap and Canary Creeper that flourished amongst the other shrubs and trees of the lush fortress. It was a perfect night; one to forget the hell of the past few months; one to celebrate the fact that he would soon be rid of this God-awful continent; one to celebrate a new life.

Above all, it was a night for recreation.

He turned back into the room and rubbed a hand lazily across the course brown hair on his fat white stomach. The meal was good. Excellent in fact, and he felt satisfied, relaxed, smug. The hand dropped. He fondled himself unashamedly, still cradling the brandy in the other hand, urging on his stimulation. Anticipation building. He was trembling slightly, excited, greedy in the knowledge that he could afford to indulge his fantasies. His guests, giggling eagerly, had run off together to change into the things he'd chosen for them to wear. He wandered amongst the remnants of the clothes they had discarded before they ran naked to his bedroom, their toned and tanned bodies in stark contrast to the glaring white of the austere decor. Turner walked to a switch on the wall and dimmed the lights, then bent down, clenched a podgy fist around a handful of underwear and held it up to his face, breathing in deeply. His eyes closed. He drew the air in through his nostrils, savouring the raw scent of the lithe young bodies.

Moments later, the two escorts emerged. Slinking provocatively back into the dimly lit room, they moved towards him slowly, groping and kissing each other along the way.

Despite a slightly restricted jaw movement, a satisfied grin broke across his round, piscine features.

"Now remember, Sir," Tom Rodgers began, in his quintessential Australian drawl, "accuracy takes precedence over speed during these drills. Speed comes with constant practice. Keep your firing stroke smooth. Don't punch the pistol out. Use the pushing motion I've shown you to reduce bounce. When all else fails, align the sights and squeeze the trigger. Works every time."