Deception (19 page)

Then they were sprinting across the open yard to the door where the gunmen had made their entry. It was a close call; as they ducked inside, bullets tore into the door-jamb, ripping off great slivers of wood. Harry turned and saw a CCTV monitor showing two men running diagonally across the open space, one of them pausing to slap a hand against a motion-detector panel to open the automatic gates. Seconds later, they were out into the street and gone.

THIRTY-FOUR

‘
H
ow did they get weapons? It's not as if they could pick them up at the nearest branch of bloody Tesco!' Ballatyne was raging at the ease with which the attackers had entered the country, equipped themselves and stormed the secure structure of a police station, taking it apart as if it were no more than a training exercise.

Harry said nothing; Ballatyne knew as well as he did that determined men with connections had access to weapons and the people to supply them. They wouldn't have risked bringing guns and stun grenades in on the boat, but with a source in London or the south-east, one phone call was all it would have taken to have someone waiting to meet them with a full kit as soon as they landed.

Ballatyne turned as a sergeant walked towards them down the corridor. His shirt was bloody and he looked grey with shock. In the background, armed officers from the firearms support unit were controlling the entrances and turning away members of the public and press, while paramedics hurried about their business and senior officers stood around looking grave. None of these, Harry noted, came anywhere near Ballatyne, but they were clearly aware of his presence and constantly throwing nervous looks his way. Ballatyne's minder stood waiting, not bothering to hide the sidearm he was wearing and somehow aloof from all the activity. ‘What's the damage?' Ballatyne asked.

The sergeant stopped. ‘Two of my men dead, five wounded, one PCSO critical. It's a bloody nightmare.' He shook his head. ‘I'm ex-army and I've never seen anything like it. It was textbook stuff: in, assault, pull back and out again, all inside four minutes. They must have been ex-military  . . . Special Forces or commandos. We didn't get so much as a bloody touch.'

The timing had seemed a lot longer to Harry, but he knew the man was right. ‘How's the guard on the rear door?' When he, McCreath and the other constable had run out of the fire door and approached the rear entrance, they'd found the door open and the security guard on the floor in a pool of blood.

‘He'll live. He was lucky, though.' His face twisted in disbelief. ‘He says two men on foot came to the back gate and showed what looked like an MOD badge on the security camera. They said they were here to assist with the interview of Staff Sergeant McCreath. There was no reason to question it, so he let them in to check further. As soon as they got inside, they kicked off. The guard took a bullet in the shoulder before opening the inner doors.'

‘Can't he tell a foreign accent when he hears one?' Ballatyne grated.

The sergeant gazed back at him, undaunted by Ballatyne's position or the credentials he'd shown on arrival. ‘You spooks bother to spend a little time around here and you'll hear every accent under the sun – and I'm not talking about outsiders. We get all sorts; foreign cops on liaison, police delegations from wherever, security representatives from every country you can name.' He sighed and added quietly, ‘What we don't get is a pair of fucking headcases treating the place like a kill zone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got people who need my help.' He turned and marched away without waiting for a reply.

Ballatyne let him go, his anger subsiding, and looked at Harry with a wry expression. ‘Me and my big mouth. He's right, of course. What's your take on all this?' He had come south of the river in response to the full city-wide alert to a station under attack, knowing that it could only be for one reason: to silence McCreath.

‘Very simple. He met with Deakin, but backed out before going through with it, so Deakin and his buddies sent the Bosnians after him to teach him a lesson. It's what they do.'

Ballatyne nodded. ‘And I bet the guns have already been dumped – or passed on.'

‘What I'd like to know,' said Harry, ‘is how they located McCreath so quickly inside the building. They knew exactly where to go.'

‘I'm hoping we'll have the answer to that shortly.' As Ballatyne spoke, a thin, grey-haired man in plain clothes arrived and nodded to him.

‘This is a bad business,' said the newcomer.

Ballatyne made introductions. ‘Chris Paynter, Harry Tate. Chris works with SO15, advising on surveillance techniques. I asked him to pop down and tell us what he thinks.'

Harry shook the newcomer's hand. He'd worked with SO15, the Met Police surveillance unit, many times, and could guess why this man was here. For all his raging at people, Ballatyne had been cool-headed enough to call for expert help when he needed it.

‘I've had a look at the camera footage,' said Paynter. ‘Those cowboys weren't too fussed about being seen, were they? Come see.' He beckoned and walked away towards the rear of the building, and into a small room with blinds at the windows and a number of video monitors. A support officer in a white shirt was standing at a printer, tapping instructions on to a keypad. He pointed at a monitor showing a still shot of an internal corridor.

Paynter ran his fingers across the monitor's keyboard, and the picture changed to show a section of corridor with a flare of daylight at one end. A man in a white shirt was lying on the floor, legs jerking in obvious distress. He had a dark patch on one shoulder. Another man with close-cut hair was bending over him, and holding a semi-automatic pistol pressed into the wounded man's chin.

‘The security guard working the rear gate,' Paynter explained. ‘He's just been shot by one of the attackers. We can't get a sound feed, but my guess is the attacker's asking where the prisoner is being held.'

The gunman stood up and pointed his weapon down at the guard's head. But before he could open fire, another man appeared and tapped him on the shoulder. This man was shorter and stockier, Harry noted, with dark hair. The gunman lowered his weapon, then stepped over the guard and walked away along the corridor with his colleague, passing beneath the camera.

Neither of them looked up, and Harry wondered if they were unaware of being filmed or simply didn't care. He stared hard at each of them, impressing their images on his memory. Both men looked hard and fit, heavy across the shoulders, and moved easily, with the purposeful manner of trained soldiers.

‘They've done this before,' he said softly.

‘Watch this.' Paynter tapped another key and this time the scene jumped to show a junction of two corridors. The two attackers were approaching the camera, walking quickly past a series of doors on each side, seemingly undeterred by any possible resistance. They paused at the junction and the taller of the two pulled an object from his pocket and peered round the corner, where three figures were clustered around a doorway, looking each way. ‘M84 stun grenade,' Paynter commented softly. Without hesitating, the taller attacker pulled the pin and tossed the grenade around the corner, where it rolled and bounced towards the three police officers. The attacker stepped back and waited. The picture dissolved momentarily as a bright flare of light illuminated the corridor where the officers were standing. When the image cleared, it showed two men on their knees, holding their heads, and a woman officer slumped against one wall. As the shorter attacker stepped into view, one of the officers, recovering faster than his colleagues, looked up and reached out for the equipment belt at his waist.

‘God, you fool,' whispered Ballatyne, just as the gunman braced himself and shot the officer, who was flung over backwards by the force of the bullet.

The shooter stepped forward, shaking his head, while his companion paused only to lash out at the other officer with his pistol, knocking him unconscious. He then hurled another grenade along the corridor before stepping smartly with his colleague inside an open doorway to wait for the blast.

‘This is unreal,' said Ballatyne. ‘Didn't they see the cameras?'

‘Far from it.' Paynter tapped the keys again, and the scene showed the two men passing beneath another camera. This time the shorter of the two looked up and grinned, then winked before calmly shooting out the lens. ‘They knew they were being filmed all right. They just didn't care.'

Ballatyne walked over to the door and back, puffing his cheeks in frustration. ‘I know why, too: because they'll be gone and out of the country before we can get a lead on them. Can we have prints of these two?'

Paynter nodded. ‘Already done.' He turned to the support officer, who handed him a stack of still photos. ‘These are already going out to all units and ports.'

‘Too bloody late!' Ballatyne muttered with unaccustomed venom. ‘Harry?'

‘Like McCreath said, it's Ganic and Zubac,' he replied. ‘He reckoned they'd come for him. He wasn't wrong.'

THIRTY-FIVE

‘
R
ight. Next question: how did they find him?' Ballatyne was suddenly calm again, working logically through the situation and assessing what had happened  . . . and how.

Paynter was already ahead of him. ‘Is the prisoner still here?'

‘McCreath? Yes, downstairs. Why?'

‘If they located him inside a building like this, they either had someone on the inside or he's carrying a tracking device.'

‘He claims he chose the place on impulse,' said Ballatyne. ‘They wouldn't have had time to set up an insider.'

‘Then it's a device. I already checked his personal effects in the property box, and they're clean. We'll have to do a body search.'

‘Bloody Nora,' Ballatyne murmured. ‘You can wear the rubber gloves, then. Come on.' He signalled to the support officer to lead them downstairs to where McCreath was being held. In spite of his close shave with death, the staff sergeant looked remarkably calm, as if the sudden burst of action had regenerated him and settled his nerves.

Paynter asked him to stand up, then examined his clothing, checking the collar and cuffs of his shirt and moving down to his shoes, which he'd been allowed to keep but without the laces.

‘If he's carrying any kind of tracker,' Paynter explained as he worked, ‘it will be located in the shoes, the belt or the thicker parts of his clothing. There's no belt, which is the easiest place to put it, so that narrows it down. Can you remove your shoes and trousers, please?'

McCreath did so. Paynter checked the shoes first, placing them to one side. Then he studied the trousers, working through the front, pockets and waistline. When he reached the turn-ups, he grunted and took out a slim knife. Slitting open the turn-up on the right leg, he removed a lightweight brown resin biscuit, no bigger than a mobile phone SIM card.

‘Neat,' he commented. ‘GSM tracker. Not one of ours, but nice.' He held it up for the others to see, turning it over to reveal a small silver disc embedded in one side. ‘Battery. Probably lasts a hundred hours, with a range of fifty metres or so.' He handed it to Ballatyne. ‘If they knew which building he was in, all they'd have to do was get close to an outside wall with the monitor and wait for a signal. Once inside, though, they'd still need directions to find out which floor he was on.' He took a small device from his pocket. It had an array of buttons and a tiny aerial. He switched it on and one of the lights lit up.

‘If it's so simple,' Ballatyne growled, ‘why didn't you use your little toy in the first place?'

Paynter gave him a patient look and said, ‘I like to keep my hand in. Like reading a map book instead of a satnav, technology doesn't always provide the answers.'

‘Smart arse.' Ballatyne looked at McCreath, who was pulling his trousers back on. ‘Did you know about this?'

McCreath gave him a look of contempt. ‘What, you think I'm suicidal? I wanted to get away from the bastards, not have them jumping all over me. They must have got at my clothes and planted that thing when I was asleep in the hotel.'

Harry caught Ballatyne's eye. ‘We need to find out more. Do you have time?'

‘Why not?' He nodded to Paynter, who waved a hand and left, while Harry signalled for McCreath to take a seat and pulled up a chair opposite.

‘Tell me who you met, give me descriptions, names – even nicknames – and anything else you can think of.'

McCreath nodded. ‘I'll try, but there's not much to tell. Tom Deakin was first. He must be mid-forties, hard-looking, not easy to talk to. But he's the boss; seems to make all the decisions. I found him pushy, to be honest. Impatient and edgy, as if he was living on his nerves.'

‘Who else?'

‘A Yank. I didn't get his name, although I heard Deakin call him “Turp”. Forty-ish, skinny but looks as hard as nails. Calm, though, unlike Deakin. Ex-US airborne.'

‘He told you that?'

‘No. He's got a One-oh-One Airborne tat on his wrist; an eagle's head and banner. I saw it once when he scratched his arm. I've seen them before. From the way he talked, I got the impression he's the admin guy.'

Harry made a note. ‘How's that?'

‘He talked about the money  . . . how they'd get it to me, the transfer through bank accounts offshore, how I'd need to choose passwords and where I'd want the deposits made. I mean, I handle my own financial stuff, like insurance and bank accounts, but he was using a whole different language, like an expert. He was “Turp” and Deakin was “Deak”. They seemed pretty tight.'

‘Anyone else?'

‘Apart from the nut-jobs who stormed this place, you mean? I met them at the hotel Deakin kept me in near Brussels – a four-star block near the ring road. They never said much, and they weren't there all the time. They'd turn up without warning, then disappear again. But it was like they were letting me know they were watching me all the same. They said there was another guy around when they weren't going to be there, but I never saw him.'