The Lethal Target
To Lynne, for ever
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
THE LAST ENEMY
Also by Jim Eldridge
Prologue
The scream echoed through the tunnel and into the cellar room. A man, screaming in fear. Then suddenly the scream was cut off.
The two men in the cellar didn’t react; they were concentrating on the equipment on a small metal table: a hypodermic needle and a series of glass phials containing some sort of liquid. The cellar was old, the sandstone and brick walls almost black with age. A metal bed frame had been screwed to the floor. No mattress, just the frame, with thick wire acting as crude springs. Iron manacles dangled from the bars at its head and foot.
The door of the cellar opened and two uniformed men entered, their uniforms army khaki, black jackboots on their feet shining dully in the half-light. Between them they held a naked man. A strip of thick grey tape had been fixed across his mouth to stop him screaming any more. The man looked towards the metal bed frame in the centre of the cellar. He tried to pull back, his eyes bulging with fear, sweat pouring down his face, his bare feet kicking out; but the grip of the men who held him was too strong.
‘Put him on it,’ said one of the watching men in Russian.
The two uniformed men dragged the prisoner towards the bed frame and pushed him down on to the wire springs. One sat on him, stopping him from moving, while the other fixed the manacles to his wrists and ankles. Then they stepped back.
The man on the bed began to buck and twist, pulling desperately at the manacles, his actions tearing open the skin of his wrists and ankles as they rubbed against the iron.
The man in command picked up the hypodermic needle from the table. He inserted it into one of the glass phials through the opening at the top and drew some of the liquid into the syringe.
‘Hold him,’ he ordered the two uniformed men, again in Russian. They moved to the bed frame and pressed their combined weight down on the struggling prisoner, holding him firmly in place. The man pushed the needle deep into the thigh of the hostage and slowly pushed the plunger down until the syringe was empty. Then he stepped back and nodded to the two men, who instantly released their hold on the prisoner.
The two soldiers retreated to the cellar door, where they stood and waited. All four men kept their eyes on the hostage chained to the bed frame.
One minute passed, then two, then three. Suddenly wisps of smoke began to appear from the pores in the man’s skin, tiny at first, then getting denser. The man struggled, his eyes wide in a mixture of pain and fear, his body arching and thrashing. Then a gush of smoke escaped from his nostrils. Smoke was pouring out of the man, through his skin, his scalp, his feet, his arms . . .
There was a sudden silent explosion, intense white flames bursting out through the smoke, coming from inside the man, and the next second the figure on the bed was a heaving mass of fire, the heat and glare making the watching men recoil.
Almost as suddenly as the fire had begun, it stopped, and there was just a cloud of oily smoke, while ashes fell through the bed frame’s wire springs to the cellar floor. All that remained of the captive was the hands and feet, still enclosed in the iron manacles, the whites of the bones visible through the scorched flesh.
The other man by the table, who had been silent so far, shook his head.
‘The reaction was too slow,’ he said in English. ‘We need the book.’
‘Our people are looking for it as we speak,’ replied the other. He looked at the smouldering pile of ashes and burnt bone. ‘This one was too big. I believe the excess fat under his skin caused the slow reaction time.’ He nodded thoughtfully, then called an order to the men by the door. ‘Bring in the young woman!’ To the man next to him, he growled: ‘Her flesh should burn faster.’
Chapter 1
Jake was worried; very worried. He walked around the supermarket, filling up his trolley with his week’s supplies, moving on automatic pilot. All he could think of was Lauren. It had been five days since he’d last spoken to her, and that had been by phone, not even Skype, so he hadn’t had the chance to see how she looked. She’d sounded odd. Nervous. He knew she couldn’t say why, their conversations were monitored by the intelligence services, but usually they found a way to drop a hint if something was worrying one of them, so they could read between the lines, put together the clues in texts and phone calls. But this last time, no hint, just an awareness in Jake that something was troubling Lauren. And since that last phone call, nothing. No texts, no emails, no phone calls, no letters.
It was at times like this he felt the distance between them: her in New Zealand and him in London.
The previous night, when it was daytime in New Zealand, he’d even phoned the place where she worked, the Antarctic Survey Research Centre in Wellington, in case something had happened to her, a serious accident, and she wasn’t able to make contact with him. But the woman he’d spoken to had said Samantha Adams (Lauren’s cover name in New Zealand) hadn’t been in to work for four days, and they hadn’t heard from her, which was very unusual.
They’d been in touch with Lauren’s flatmate, a young woman called Kristal, who said that Lauren had told her she was going away for a day or so, and not to worry. So she hadn’t. But since the Survey Research Centre had got in touch, Kristal had contacted the local police and hospitals to see if there had been any reports of an unidentified young woman having been in an accident; but there had been nothing.
‘We’re very worried about her,’ the woman told Jake. ‘This is so unlike her. If you hear from her, would you ask her to get in touch with us?’
Jake promised he would. Just as he was about to ring off, the woman asked him if Samantha had any Russian connections.
‘Russian connections?’ Jake frowned.
‘It’s just that on the last day she was in the office she had a call from someone, and the switchboard operator was fairly sure the person was Russian.’
‘A man or a woman?’
‘A man.’
A Russian? Jake was puzzled. Lauren had never mentioned knowing any Russians. But then it had been five months since they’d last seen one another. Anything could have happened in that time. What was clear was that Lauren seemed to have vanished suddenly, and without trace . . .
I have to go to New Zealand, decided Jake. Maybe someone had got hold of her and was holding her prisoner.
His mobile beeped to let him know he had a text. He opened it, and read: L needs your help, followed by a phone number.
His heart leapt. Lauren! But why wasn’t she phoning — why text?
He checked the screen for the number that had called him, but was told it was ‘number withheld’. Which didn’t make sense, as whoever had texted him had given him a phone number. It was an 01680 area code, and he had no idea where that was.
He tapped out the number. It rang for a few seconds, and then a woman’s voice with a sof
t Scottish accent said: ‘Craigmount Guest House.’
‘Hi,’ said Jake. ‘My name’s Jake Wells. I had a message to call this number.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Wells,’ said the woman. ‘Miss Cooper told us to expect your call. We’ve sent you an email with our address and how to get here. Do you know when you’ll be arriving?’
‘Er . . .’ Jake was too taken aback to reply immediately. Arriving? Why? Then he remembered the message: L needs your help.
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Not far from Craignure,’ said the woman. ‘If the email hasn’t arrived, just call and we’ll send it again.’
‘I mean, where are you, specifically?’ asked Jake. ‘Southern England, northern, Wales . . .’
‘The Isle of Mull,’ said the woman, sounding a little surprised. ‘Scotland.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ lied Jake. ‘I’m sorry, I was getting confused.’
The Isle of Mull? Jake recalled an obscure press release from his time as a press officer at the Department of Science mentioning Mull. It was one of the Hebridean islands off the west coast of Scotland. How long would it take him to get there?
‘I should be arriving sometime tomorrow,’ he said, making a guess.
‘Check the ferry times from Oban,’ said the woman. ‘We’ve included them in the email. Will you be coming by car or as a foot passenger? I ask because we can arrange to meet you if you let us know which ferry you’ll be coming on.’
‘I’ll be driving,’ said Jake. Then, as an afterthought, he added: ‘Is Miss Cooper there? Could I talk to her?’
‘I’m afraid she’s out at the moment,’ said the woman.
‘Perhaps you could get her to call me when she comes in,’ asked Jake.
‘I’m very sorry, Miss Cooper left instructions she can’t receive or make phone calls,’ said the woman, and Jake noted the genuine note of apology in her voice as she said it.
Why? wondered Jake.
‘No problem,’ he said.
‘In that case, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow,’ said the woman.
Jake hung up.
In the two months since he’d been sacked from the department he’d had time on his hands, so he’d learnt to drive. It hadn’t been as hard as he’d thought. He didn’t yet have a car of his own, but he could hire one. He wondered if it would be better to hire one here in London and drive all the way to Mull, or catch a train and hire one when he got to . . . where was it the woman had said? Oban.
He’d check it out as soon as he got home, once he’d looked at the email.
L needs your help. But the woman he’d spoken to on Mull hadn’t sounded as if there was a panic situation. But who was this Miss Cooper?
He looked at the items in his trolley: food, snacks, milk, washing-up liquid. Well, I won’t be needing any of these if I’m going to be in Scotland, he thought. He dumped the trolley at the end of an aisle, and headed home. The sooner he was on his way to Mull, the better.
He was relieved to find the email from Craigmount Guest House in his inbox, with details of where the guest house was on the southern part of the island, and links to the ferry operator’s timetable of sailings. Within an hour he had his journey north arranged. By tomorrow afternoon he’d be talking to this mysterious Miss Cooper face to face.
He was packing for the trip when his phone beeped. It was a text: Don’t go to Mull.
Chapter 2
Jake stared at the text.
Don’t go to Mull.
Who’d sent it? And why? There was no clue. Whoever had texted him had made sure their own number stayed secret.
It has to be something to do with MI5, reasoned Jake. He knew his phone and his computer were kept under surveillance. That had been the case ever since Lauren had been sent to exile in New Zealand. So they would have been hacking in and learnt about Mull. There was no one else he could think of that would be bothered. It had been a long while since he’d had any contact with Pierce Randall, the dubious but wealthy international law firm, over the hidden books. And they’d already double-crossed him twice, so they were unlikely to be in contact with him. No, it had to be MI5 warning him off. But why?
He looked at the text again.
Don’t go to Mull.
Well, the hell with that, thought Jake. The woman I love needs my help; and if that means going to Mull, then there’s nothing on earth that’s going to stop me going there.
At half past eleven that night, Jake arrived at Euston station by taxi, his overnight bag packed with essentials. He didn’t know how long he’d be away for: two days or a month. It didn’t matter. There was nothing for him to stay in London for.
At this time of night, the subterranean taxi area was almost deserted, just a few late-night people trying to get home and a couple of taxis at the rank. Jake headed up the stairs towards the ground-level concourse. Two young men wearing hoodies were coming down the stairs. Jake moved to one side to let them pass, but the two men moved with him, blocking his way. At first, Jake couldn’t see their faces — their hoods were pulled well forward — but then he realised they also had scarves pulled up under their hoods so that only their eyes were visible.
Trouble! thought Jake.
Jake moved again, to the other side of the stairs, but again the two men moved with him, blocking his way.
OK, thought Jake. I either stay here and fight them, and get beaten up and robbed, and miss my train; or I do a runner.
Jake moved suddenly to his left, sliding under the metal rail that divided the up and the down stairs, and began to run. He wasn’t quick enough. Being upstairs from him, the two men had the advantage. They both darted under the handrail and leapt at Jake. Jake swung his overnight bag and hit one of them hard, sending him stumbling back. Seeing that the man was caught off-balance, Jake swung his bag again, this time thumping it with all his might against the side of the man’s head. The man fell tumbling down the stairs, with a sickening crunching sound as he bounced down from step to step.
Jake went to swing the bag back to ward off the other attacker, but he was too late; the guy was on him, the fingers of one hand digging into Jake’s throat. Jake realised with horror that he had a knife in his other hand.
Frantically, Jake brought his bag up, just as the man swung the knife, and felt the knife blade sink into his bag. But his attacker’s fingers on his throat were like an iron claw, closing, strangling . . .
‘Oi!’
The shout came from down below.
Suddenly, the man’s grip was released, and then he was off running up the stairs. Jake looked down and saw a thickset man hurrying up.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the man.
‘Just about,’ said Jake. His voice sounded hoarse from where the man had tried to strangle him.
His rescuer shook his head.
‘Muggers!’ he said disgustedly. ‘More police here, that’s the answer! It’s all very well them being here in the middle of the day, but it’s this time of night those scum operate!’ He looked anxiously at Jake. ‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Jake nodded. ‘Though I wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t come along. Did you see the other one?’
The man frowned.
‘The other one?’
‘Yes. There were two of them, but I knocked the other one down the stairs with my bag.’
‘Good for you!’ The man grinned. Then he frowned again. ‘But I didn’t see anyone else. He must have scarpered when he heard my cab pull up.’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Jake.
He felt the side of his bag. The knife wasn’t there. His attacker must have taken it.
Jake found his seat on the train and settled himself down for the long journey. There had been a sleeping berth available, but it would have meant sharing, and Jake didn’t fancy the idea of being trapped in a sleeping compartment with someone he didn’t know, who might be a drunk, or deranged, or snore loudly. He’d decided he’d rather spend the night try
ing to sleep in one of the comfortable seats.
As he sat down, his phone went. Another text: We warned you. Don’t go to Mull.
A sickening feeling went through him. So those guys hadn’t been muggers; it had been a deliberate attack on him. The man had tried to stab him. If Jake hadn’t used his bag to stop the knife, he’d be dead!
The attack didn’t have the style of an MI5 operation: two hooded youths. But a late-night mugging in London, a stabbing, could be passed off as just another statistic. But why? What was there on Mull that was so important that they were prepared to kill Jake to stop him getting there? And who were they?
Chapter 3
Jake didn’t get any sleep for the first part of the journey. He spent most of the night watching his phone, waiting for further text messages warning him off, but there were none.
He was also too frightened to go to sleep in case his mystery attackers had put someone on the train. If they could arrange the attack on him at Euston station, they could certainly put someone on the train to follow him, and kill him.
Finally, after what seemed an age, he managed to doze off as tiredness came over him. But even then, it was a fitful sleep, half awake, opening his eyes every few moments. By the time the train pulled into Glasgow Central station just after quarter past seven the next morning, Jake felt exhausted.
But soon, I’ll be on Mull, he told himself. Providing there are no more unpleasant surprises waiting for me on the way.
It was half past nine by the time Jake left the car-hire firm in Glasgow at the wheel of a small car. He’d been waiting outside their doors when they opened at eight thirty, but then a whole hour had been taken up with filling in forms.
No one attacked him as he left the forecourt. No one crashed into him. No one seemed to be watching him; but then that was difficult to be sure of in a city as busy as Glasgow.
The motorway through Glasgow was a nightmare for Jake, with intersections every half a mile or so, and traffic criss-crossing lanes. Once he was out of the city and heading along the road winding round Loch Lomond, he felt he could relax. He didn’t spot any particular vehicle in his rear-view mirror as he drove. No one seemed to be following him. He was on his way.