Defender (25 page)

"That's tough talk for a man with a gun pointed at his bollocks." Lundt smiled across the barrel. "Maybe you haven't grasped the magnitude of the situation, Turner. I'm not here for your small change."

"So, what are you here for then?" asked Turner. "Is the gun necessary?" 'I'm concerned that you've been letting the side down."

"I've been letting the side down?"

"You see, it was too coincidental that I was tracked down by someone outside of my old firm."

"This is outrageous!" Turner's face was beetroot red. "Who tracked you down? All I remember is that you vanished when you launched the coup. I assumed that's the way you wanted it to be. I've not breathed a word to anybody. I've a lot at stake too, you know."

"I think you're bullshitting. Are you bullshitting me, Turner?" Lundt didn't wait for an answer. There was no emotion in the tone of his voice, or in his manner. "I think you're just the type - when things get a bit rough

- you'll sing like a canary if it'll save your own miserable skin."

"Why would I?" Turner protested, "I was sticking to the plan. I kept everything tight at the Head Office, even when those new people arrived from London - Morgan and that woman. I told you straight away they were the law."

"Yes, Morgan," emphasised Lundt. "He happened to walk straight in on me while I was concluding some business with our friends. How do you explain that? Or, maybe it's your friend, Cornell? Perhaps you two are in this together, trying to get insurance by hanging me out to dry. I mean, you've got to admit ... of all the places in the middle of all that hell, Morgan found me.
It
was like he'd had a premonition. Now me, I don't believe in any of that shit. I do believe, however, that there are people in this world who would willingly sell out their business partners just as soon as shake their hands, if it means saving their own necks."

Turner's blood, conjured by a racing heart, was rising up from his shoulders and chest like a creeping vine. His neck and round head looked ready to burst. "You can't be serious!" he said. "I wouldn't do that. There's no point. It would ruin everything."

"You're doing alright, Turner. I've got half the world after me and you're living down here in the lap of luxury. How much did you spend on this place?"

"It's not mine. I've leased it. Lying low 'til things cool down. That's what we agreed ..."

"Lying low! You call this lying low? You've got a brand new Bentley sitting down there in the courtyard. You've got servants waiting on you hand and foot. You've got whores on tap. You stupid git, you've got everything but the Goodyear blimp overhead flashing: TURNER IS HERE! You couldn't flash any more money around if you wanted to. Are you trying to advertise your ill-gotten gains? I've made you a very wealthy man, Turner. But whether you've deliberately sold me out or not, you're leaving a trail ten miles wide. Eventually, people like your friend Morgan, if he's still alive, are going to follow you all the way to me."

"Why would I sell you out? All this work, all the hell you've put me through. I didn't put up with that for nothing! It's Cornell. Of course! He must have broken, talked. Been caught by the Police. Has to be him." Turner could see that no matter what he said, it wasn't making a scintilla of difference. "God, come on!
If
I've been careless, I'll move. Another country. Anything. Just tell me what to do."

"It's too late for that, Turner," Lundt snapped. "My personal security has sprung a leak that'd sink a battleship, and you and a couple of others are going to patch it up for me."

"OK. Tell me." Ttlrner's face was creased with stress. His lips were pursed and his breathing laboured through tightly clenched teeth. "What do I need to do?"

"You've done enough. I made my decision before I arrived tonight. But don't worry. I don't expect you to shoulder all the blame." Lundt's eyes were cold, level. "Cornell's going to get a visit, too."

The discussion was over. Turner's heart raced. Jesus! Blood pumped from his foot as his hands opened, appealing to the man he now knew was about to kill him.

"How much, Lundt?" he spat. Visibly shaking, Turner leaned forward. "How much? Just tell me what it will take to make you walk away and I'll make it happen. Money? That's all you're interested in anyway. I can disappear. No one needs to know."

Without warning, Turner was cut short. Lundt stood, took one deliberate pace forward, closed the gap between them in a split second and swung his right hand in a violent backhanded swoop. Still carrying the Glock, Lundt's right hand was a block of iron and, catching Turner directly under his right cheek, the blow forced him over the armrest of the chair.

Turner rocked sideways in his seat. His face pounded from the force of sudden impact and his vision became a tunnel of stars. He clawed at his throbbing cheek, searching for Lundt through a kaleidoscope of fireflies when another crushing blow, this time from a booted foot, hit him squarely over the heart. The force toppled his chair, sending him into a heap on the floor.

Lundt was upon him in a flash, slamming his foot down hard on Turner's neck, pmning him naked to the floor. Lundt held his gun arm straight, the line of the barrel and silencer tracing a direct line, straight for Turner's exposed right temple.

"Any last requests?" Lundt sneered.

"No!" Turner tried to cry out, his voice garbled as Lundt's foot pushed his face harder into the floor.

"Fair enough." Lundt squeezed the trigger. The round punched through Turner's temple.

Arena Halls sat anxiously across from Johnson.

His manner had been decidedly cold ever since she'd arrived outside his office at 8a.m. sharp. He'd left her sitting in the waiting area near his secretary's station for 40 minutes. A cheap tactic, she thought, designed to intimidate. As his secretary came in and out of his office without any hint that Johnson was ready to see her, Arena remained outwardly impassive, yet kicking her heels.

Now opposite him, she conjured all the revulsion that she harboured for the man, and felt herself strangely empowered by it. She watched his head bent over a file, his ridiculously dyed purple-black hair thinning at the crown, his disreg:ird palpable.

What was it that Mr. Evans had said yesterday when she had taken the day off to visit him, and raise her concerns about Johnson? Oh yes, Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.
It
was true. Johnson was a dangerous man and she knew he would bite the hand that fed him without compunction. Of course, she could never admit to visiting her ailing Chief at his home on her day off. That would make things even worse, if that were possible. Johnson was obviously rattled by the avuncular nature of Evans's relationship with her.

"So, Miss Halls," he began finally. He raised his eyes from the file and fixed his empty stare upon her. "The recent task I set you after your return from Africa, to keep a discreet eye on that deplorable creature from our International Security and Institutions branch, did you mention it to anybody?"

"Well no," she replied indignantly. "Of course not.
I..."

"When I brought you into my confidence and bestowed upon you the great opportunity to do some field time and build some much-needed credibility, I made it clear that you were not to mention it to another soul. To do so would put the entire INTERPOL operation and potentially thousands of lives at risk. You do recall that conversation?"

Halls was bristling with rage. How dare this pompous Iago accuse her of mouthing off like some giggly schoolgirl desperate to broadcast her first secret.

"Mr. Johnson," she started, "at no time have I betrayed your confidence.

I admit that I was initially puzzled by your direction that I follow one of our own people, despite the apparent benefits to my experience." Arena was fighting
to
control her temper, but she had to tread very carefully around Abraham Johnson. "I have not discussed those duties or any of the issues associated with my duties in Malfajiri with any person outside this office." Arena had chosen her words carefully, for she still considered William Evans to be very much 'this office'.

Johnson glowered. How much did she know? Did she come across anything in Malfajiri about his association with Lundt or Cornell, or even Turner?

The assassination attempt on Namakobo had been an unmitigated disaster. The man had lived and was now a hero in exile. There was even talk of an intervention force being raised by neighbouring African nations to throw out Baptiste, followed by a full complement of UN troops and administrators to maintain the peace. Peace!

The plan was in tatters and time was of the essence. Johnson's masters, his real masters, were not happy. He could feel a noose about his neck growing tighter and tighter with every second. They were expecting action, and Johnson was expected to deliver. To make matters worse, the first breath of a scandal had already whispered its way from the Palace of Westminster.
It
was clear that the 'what' was already widely known, the 'who' was yet to be established, but the 'when' was inevitable. The path that led to him was becoming far too well-travelled.

He had to distance himself from all of it, to establish an out clause shielding him from suspicion, but still he had to ensure that the plan to install an appropriately aligned President in Malfajiri got back on course before the UN stepped in. Time was of the essence. Baptiste would have to go. A new face was required. Johnson could not afford to fail.

But now there was the more immediate problem of this meddling little bitch whom, he realised, he had seriously underestimated.
If
there was to be any hope of keeping things on track in Malfajiri, there were things that needed to be done to contain the fallout from the coup and the assassination attempt against Namakobo. And those were things that Mr. Lundt would have to do. Since the coup, it had been agreed that Lundt would remain invisible to enable him the freedom to move, as and when required. Turner had already been dispatched, and arrangements had been made to squirrel the hapless Cornell out of the country. His fate awaited him in Australia. Perhaps Lundt could kill two birds with one stone.

"You are certain?" Johnson asked absently, not ready to believe her, but now not caring either way.

"Absolutely certain, Sir." Cur, she thought.

"Very well." The idea cemented in his mind. Johnson stood and sauntered over to his window. "Mr. Cornell has left on an unauthorised absence," he lied. "He boarded a flight for Australia this morning. Do what you need to do, but get after him. I want to know about every move he makes and every person he speaks to. We will communicate in the usual way. Your detailed instructions will be available by the time you arrive. I want you Sydney-bound tonight."

"But..."

"Not a word, Miss Halls. Not a word to another soul.
If
you mess this up, you can consider yourself finished. Permanently."

Arena stiffened. She stood in silence and straightened her jacket.

As she stood, her eyes raced across the assortment of things strewn across Johnson's desk. There was something familiar, yet out of place. Something she had seen before, nestled amongst the scattered papers and files. What was it?

That's it! There was just enough showing for her to make out the letterhead with its distinctive logo tucked away beneath some official documents. Something she wasn't supposed to see. But she had. Now it was all starting to make sense.

Arena Halls walked out without another word.

"With all this business associated with the attempt on President Namakobo, the coup and so on ..."

"Well, you didn't expect me to sit on my bloody hands did you?"

"I gave you a direct lead to assist you in your investigations in Africa, Nobby. Not in England!"

Davenport was on his feet, pacing. Violet Ashcroft-James stood defiantly across from him, arms crossed, anger and regret blazing in her eyes.

"In the absence of formal identification, I was forced to initiate my own inquiries." Davenport noticed Ashcroft-James stiffen, and he held up a conciliatory hand. "In fairness, my dear, I could hardly afford to be idle, waiting for you to offer a name. Now, I'm aware of Mr. Cornell. Sadly, however, it's all too late. You see, as a result of his identity remaining undisclosed, Cornell - by virtue of his role within the Foreign Office - received a personal security briefing from MI5 and the Special Branch regarding the exact details of President Namakobo's arrival and movements while in this country."

"You think I don't know that?"

"And, with respect to recent events," Davenport continued. "Cornell has emerged as the person most likely to have leaked the information which resulted in the assassination attempt against the President. So, perhaps now you'll be good enough to tell me exactly how much you do know about him?"

A long silence followed.

"He was an SIS aspirant," Violet began with a sigh, her head resting in long, slender, immaculately manicured fingers. "Deluded, of course. Never had a hope. Now he's one of those civil service lifers who's hung on long enough at the Foreign Office, and sadly, despite a complete lack of talent or redeeming features of any kind, has finally weaseled his way up into a responsible position. Destined to happen with his kind. They know
if
they hang around long enough they'll eventually float to the surface. You know the type. The civil service is littered with them, even my own service. And Cornell has the all-too-familiar victim mentality. Continues to be overlooked on the honours list. The world owes him. Perfect material for anyone with a mind to stroke his ego and make him feel that he's important. I couldn't disclose his identity for fear of compromising another investigation. Clearly, that was a mistake."