Hunted: BookShots

  ‘So what are you typing then?’ asked Tremain pleasantly. He sat back and crossed his legs.

  ‘It’s procedure to log visitors.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I usually do mine when my visitor has departed.’

  Claridge continued to type, then pressed return.

  ‘All done?’ smiled Tremain.

  ‘All done,’ Claridge smiled back.

  ‘No point in trying to kill you now, then?’

  Claridge didn’t even blink. Didn’t give Tremain the satisfaction. ‘Is that your intention, is it? To kill me?’

  Tremain chuckled. ‘If it was, would I do it here in the office, do you think?’

  ‘Your organisation seems to favour hiding in plain sight.’

  ‘Does it? Really? Is that so?’

  The two men fell silent and Claridge was glad of a moment to gather his thoughts. He’d been exposed somehow. But how? And how much did they know? And what the bloody hell was Tremain doing in his office?

  ‘I won’t insult your intelligence by asking you how much you know about us,’ Tremain was saying. He slouched, but watched Claridge carefully. ‘You’d be a fool to tell me. The point is you know something, and that’s enough to worry my associates. As you’re well aware, we’re in the business of containing information, Simon. We nurture it, protect it. We take care it doesn’t go anywhere it shouldn’t. But when it does – well, then we need to do something about it.’

  ‘Are you talking as an MI5 man or in some other capacity?’ asked Claridge, probing gently.

  ‘Bit of both. The lines are blurred.’

  ‘So – what? You plan to buy my silence?’

  ‘Well, that depends. Can your silence be bought?’

  Claridge made a small scoffing sound. ‘What you’re involved with is inhuman. It’s despicable.’

  ‘That’s a no, is it?’

  ‘You bet your life it’s a no. You need to be stopped.’

  ‘I see. And you’re the man to do it, are you? Simon Claridge in the giddy heights of F Section is going to bring us down?’

  Claridge felt himself deflate a little.

  ‘No, I thought not,’ smiled the other man. ‘Problem is, you’ve been rumbled, and that makes you less than useless. There’s not a thing you can do now.’

  ‘I should be silenced then. What are you waiting for?’

  Tremain sighed. ‘Look, wet-work is by its definition messy. But even more than that, we don’t want to terminate you, Simon; we’d rather have you as an asset. We want to bring you into the fold. You accept our money, you become implicated – we’re all happy.’

  Claridge shook his head. ‘I can’t sit by and let you continue. I can’t. I couldn’t live with myself.’

  Tremain rolled his eyes, but the gesture was too theatrical to convince Claridge. He’s got something up his sleeve, he thought. Something to do with that laptop. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t make this difficult, for God’s sake. Take the money, tell me what I want to know, and we can tie off this whole sorry business and look forward to a future of giving each other little knowing winks in the lift.’

  ‘What do you mean? What do you want to know?’

  Tremain leaned forward. He put one hand on Claridge’s desk, close to the laptop.

  ‘I’ll be honest. I was telling a fib when I said I wasn’t going to ask you what you knew. In fact, I want to know exactly what you know.’

  ‘Very little, is the answer,’ replied Claridge cautiously.

  ‘Okay. Enough pretending. I know that’s not the case. I know because I checked. I checked your requisitions. CCTV of Chancery Lane, close to a lawyer’s office. That was interesting. But perhaps even more revealing than that was the CCTV of Commercial Street that you asked to review, close to a certain pub I frequent.’ Tremain paused to pin Claridge with a look. ‘You were looking for me, weren’t you?’

  A pause.

  ‘Yeah, I know you were. So of course I had to ask myself why you were looking for me. Why me? Why there? So I studied the same CCTV, and guess what I saw?’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘I saw Captain Steve Hodges paying a great deal of attention to what was going on inside the pub. Which led me to the conclusion that it was Captain Steve Hodges who tipped you off about me. I think it was, wasn’t it? I think you’ve got a man on the inside, and it’s him.’

  Claridge felt his palms sweat, but he tried to bluff it out. ‘I wish I did. This conversation might make sense. But I’m afraid your thinking isn’t as joined-up as you’d like to believe. I don’t know any Captain Steve Hodges.’

  ‘No, of course you don’t. Captain Hodges is dead. I’m surprised you didn’t ascertain that on your visits to Records. Obviously you didn’t log the real reason as your “purpose for visit”, but it’s not too difficult to pull the wool over old Sparkles’ eyes, is it? I’m guessing you were there to doctor Hodges’ records in order that your man on the inside could plausibly assume his identity. Am I right?’

  Claridge felt himself go cold. Dread rose inside him.

  ‘I need to know the real identity of your man. I need to know now.’

  ‘You can go fuck yourself,’ replied Claridge.

  ‘I thought you might say that. Which is why . . .’

  Tremain reached to open the laptop.

  CHAPTER 21

  THERE WAS A handful of staff still working in the open-plan area outside Claridge’s office, but none could see what was on the laptop screen. The two images that greeted Claridge were for his eyes only.

  Tremain had sized two windows so that both views were visible. The image on the left showed the outside of Claridge’s house. His front-room curtains were open and his wife and younger daughter were playing Scrabble inside. Everything about the scene was normal and serene – apart from the fact that he was viewing it through a telescopic sight, complete with a duplex cross hair.

  The image on the right was fuzzier, but more colourful. This one was taken from a phone placed on the table in a bar. It showed Claridge his eldest daughter and her friend. They’d gone out together to celebrate the friend gaining a place at university, but they’d been joined by two older men who were trying to chat them up. Or at least that’s what they were pretending to do. The phone transmitting the footage belonged to one of the men.

  The two girls were laughing politely at the attempts of the two men to impress them, but Claridge knew his daughter. He saw the signs. He knew full well that later on she’d be telling him about the sleazy guys who spoiled their evening.

  If there was a later.

  ‘One phone call and the guy on the left pulls the trigger,’ said Tremain flatly. ‘A second call and the two guys on the right show your daughter what they’ve learned from watching porn. And do you know how long it took me to set that up, my friend? Less than five minutes. That is how easy it is to crush you.’

  ‘I’ll kill you for this,’ said Claridge, without much conviction.

  ‘No, you won’t. Remember what I said. You’re in the open now, no cards to play. You should be grateful you’re not being followed home by a man with a syringe. You should be grateful you even have the choice. Do as you’re told and you could come out of this rich, and with peace of mind that your family is safe. Now, tell me the name of your operative. And bear in mind, I’m not leaving here until I’ve verified his identity. Say it – say his name.’

  ‘I’d be signing his death warrant.’

  ‘Either way, you’re signing someone’s death warrant.’ Tremain looked almost regretful. ‘Look, we’re not playing here, Simon.’

  Claridge shook his head with disgust. ‘What happened to you? What happened to make you like this?’

  ‘I’ve asked myself the same question,’ replied Tremain. ‘I asked myself: did I really get involved with MI5 to help the rich and powerful kill the downtrodden? And I decided that the answer is that I had no choice. It will happen regardless. I might as well make hay while the sun shines. Now give me the name, before I make some call
s.’

  Claridge’s eyes dropped and he spoke Shelley’s name into his lap.

  In a moment Tremain had a home address and men were dispatched.

  Together they waited for further updates, their eyes on Tremain’s laptop screen.

  CHAPTER 22

  LUCY WASN’T NORMALLY so diligent when it came to checking her emails, but with Shelley away, she’d been spending more time online. Facebook, eBay, Etsy, you name it.

  It was for this reason that she saw Claridge’s message as soon as it was sent: We’re blown. Expect enemy action ASAP.

  She ran upstairs and retrieved a Glock 17 sidearm from the cupboard. At the same time she grabbed a framed photograph from a chest of drawers, and then on her return downstairs snatched a second picture from the wall. She rearranged the remaining pictures to hide the gap.

  Now, in the front room, she tried to view their house as visitors might see it, looking for anything incriminating. Satisfied, she stashed the Glock and the two pictures on a shelf inside the chimney, away from all but the most thorough search.

  Right, she thought. She was as ready as she could be, in the time allowed. She warmed up as she waited.

  Shortly afterwards a people carrier drew up outside. Four men alighted and two moved off. Probably going to the back of the house.

  She drew away from the window as the other two approached her front door and knocked. Frankie padded through from the kitchen as she went to answer.

  In Claridge’s office at Thames House, Tremain was on the phone. ‘Visual ID. You think it’s him? Okay. That’s the wife. Name of Lucy. Find something that belongs to him, run a fingerprint check and get back to me.’

  He ended the call and looked across to where Claridge sat with rounded shoulders. ‘It checks out so far. Captain David Shelley of the SAS. Exemplary record. My compliments, Claridge, you’ve certainly given us cause for concern.’

  His phone rang again.

  ‘Hello. It checks out? Good. Get out of there. You know what to do.’

  He listened.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Use a silencer.’

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘YOU’LL NEED TO sleep in your overalls tonight,’ Claire had told him.

  He’d looked sharply at her. ‘It’s happening tomorrow, then? Saturday?’

  ‘Your weekend starts here,’ she’d said brightly.

  Sure enough, Shelley awoke with a knee in his chest and arms pinning his legs. Before he could move, his wrists were cuffed with a strange-looking pair of handcuffs.

  He stood and Claire led him out of the bedroom and into the living area. Two of the security men busied themselves putting on his boots.

  ‘What are these?’ he asked Claire, raising his hands.

  ‘Cool, aren’t they? Electronic handcuffs. You might say they have an interesting unlocking mechanism.’

  Surreptitiously he moved his hands inside the bracelets. Thank God they weren’t done up too tight. These he could negotiate.

  ‘Why do you need them?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said cheerfully, ‘it’s just procedure – nothing personal. You’ll be handcuffed until the hunt begins.’

  ‘Are you going to be the one doing the un-handcuffing?’

  ‘’Fraid not. You’ll be on your own in the woods by then. The handcuffs will be detonated. That’s the interesting unlocking mechanism I was talking about. Kerboom! When it happens, try to keep your hands as far from the centre of the cuffs as possible.’

  ‘Will it hurt?’

  She pulled a face. ‘The explosion is mostly internal, but yes, it will hurt a little.’

  They formed a procession to a waiting people carrier with blacked-out windows. Handcuffs, but no blindfold, thought Shelley as he settled in with Claire beside him, security men taking the other seats.

  ‘So what happens now?’ he asked.

  ‘You sit back and enjoy the ride.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’ll be there in approximately two hours.’

  ‘And where’s there?’

  ‘Questions, questions. A country estate hired by The Quarry Company is the answer, home for the weekend. Things will be getting a little wild.’

  ‘And I’m the main attraction?’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘Don’t get ideas above your station. You’re one of the attractions. But there can be no hunt celebrations without a hunt to celebrate. So you are indeed crucial to the weekend’s entertainment.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Oh, things are about to get very interesting.’

  Two hours later they came to a set of ornate gates guarded by two men in black combat trousers and bomber jackets. The sentries carried MP5 assault rifles and wore comms devices at their throats, though one of them relayed the arrival of the people carrier using a walkie-talkie, while the other one conducted a TSCM bug-sweep of the vehicle, greeting Claire by name.

  Then they were allowed through, taking a long approach road up an incline to the grounds, where beautifully manicured lawns swept down to a treeline. As they climbed, Shelley’s gaze went to what looked like miles and miles of woodland.

  The kill zone.

  On the front lawn of the stately home was the whole circus. A Hughes 500 personnel helicopter sat on the grass with its rotors drooping. Not far away stood a huge operations van, staffed by techs wearing headphones.

  Meanwhile, the players stood in groups, attended to by butlers in black suits offering sherry, champagne and nibbles. Some were dressed in traditional country tweed, the Savile Row country-gent look, and others in ostentatious combat garb, as though attending a military fancy-dress party. Shelley even saw one man smearing camouflage stick on his face.

  All for little old me, he thought, and did a headcount. Twenty-five. They would have to be divided into squads, deployed in some kind of grid formation to minimise the risk of shooting each other.

  Also there were clusters of security men, like the ones at the gate. Christ! He counted thirty. He hadn’t expected that, but it made sense. Each player would have his own personal bodyguard. After all, The Quarry Company wouldn’t want any harm coming to their players. Not after Lord Oakleigh. It was like Claire said: they wanted to provide risk but, more importantly, the illusion of risk.

  There was something missing from the scene.

  ‘Where are all the guns?’ he asked Claire, as their transport reached the end of the approach road.

  ‘Not sure,’ she said airily. ‘Maybe they haven’t distributed them yet.’

  Their arrival had caused a ripple of interest to run through the men on the lawn. One by one, they turned to look at the car as it reached a gravel parking area and came to a halt.

  ‘I love this bit,’ grinned Claire.

  Shelley soon found out why as, with everybody on the lawn now looking at the car, she stepped out to be greeted by a raucous cheer. She milked it, calling, ‘I still have to get dressed yet,’ provoking an even more boisterous greeting. ‘More girls arriving later,’ she winked, and the cheering reached fever pitch.

  She waited for it to die down, then gestured to Shelley, who stepped out of the people carrier with his arms handcuffed before him like a convict. The men on the lawn hushed, as though suddenly respectful. At the same time they were approached by three men: one was Tremain, who wore what looked like a Sig Mosquito in a shoulder holster, under his usual tan leather jacket. The other two were the same pair who had met Kenneth Farmer at the lawyer’s office on Chancery Lane.

  They thanked Claire and she gave them kisses in return, reserving a more intimate kiss for Tremain, before trotting off in the direction of the house. Now he stood with Tremain and the two Quarry Company bosses, one of whom carried a briefcase.

  ‘I’m Mr Curtis,’ said the other one, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘This is Mr Boyd.’ They all shook hands. ‘You’re familiar with the rules of the game?’

  ‘Go over them again, if you would,’ asked Shelley.

  Curtis
pursed his lips. ‘It’s simple. You’ll be taken by Land Rover to a spot in the woods, a secret spot known only to Mr Tremain. You see our operations van over there? From there we’ll detonate the cuffs. I trust Claire has told you all about our ingenious exploding handcuffs?’

  Shelley nodded.

  ‘It’ll hurt. I’m sorry about that.’ His wonky smile indicated that nothing could be further from the truth. ‘But it’s a minor burn. I’m sure you’ll consider it worth it.’

  ‘And on that subject, where’s my money?’

  ‘Oh, of course. Money.’ He pointed to Boyd’s suitcase. ‘In there are two envelopes. The first is for ten thousand pounds. You get that whatever happens. There’s also another ten thousand pounds, if you’re able to reach the perimeter. You won’t be getting that, though.’

  ‘Oh yes? Why’s that?’

  ‘Because you won’t be winning. If you manage to evade us for too long, we deploy drones to look for you. Callous as it may seem, we – like our clients – like to win.’

  ‘By stacking the odds in their favour?’

  ‘Now he gets it.’

  ‘And they’re stopping me with paintball guns?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Where are they, these guns? I’d be interested to see them.’

  Curtis wore a strained smile. ‘Not something you need to worry about. Now, why don’t we go over and meet the players?’

  They turned to depart from the parking area. At the same time an extraordinary thing took place on the lawn: the players arranged themselves into a line, like subjects about to meet the Queen. Some even removed their hats. For a moment, Shelley really did think he might be led along the line in order to shake each one by the hand. Instead, Curtis, Boyd and Tremain took him to stand in front of the men.

  ‘Quarry, show your handcuffs, please,’ ordered Curtis, and Shelley did as he was asked, trying to keep the contempt off his face. His eyes raked the line of men who stared at him with naked fascination. Among them was Kenneth Farmer, as well as a government minister he recognised. There was a Japanese man who wore a strange, enigmatic smile. Was he the current holder of the title Claire had mentioned? Was he the one who killed Cookie?