Blackout - John Milton #10 (John Milton Thrillers) Page 27

  Milton gazed out. "I'm the only reason he'll come ashore."

  "And if he does?"

  "Then we get him to implicate himself."

  The tender slowed down as it approached the yacht. There was a boarding platform at the stern, with the bright blue square of the yacht's swimming pool behind it. A mooring line was tossed out and the tender was tied up.

  Milton finished his cigarette and ground it underfoot. Hicks dropped his unfinished cigarette over the balcony and followed Milton back into the hotel room.

  * * *

  ZIGGY HAD moved his laptops to the table. They left him alone to work. His eyes were rimmed with red and patchy five o'clock shadow had developed on his cheeks and chin. He looked tired. Josie was sitting in one of the room's armchairs with her leg up. Her hand was pressed against the spot where the bullet had gone in.

  “Okay,” Ziggy said after an hour had elapsed.

  Milton crossed the room to Ziggy. "How are you getting on?"

  "Making progress."

  "His service records?"

  "That was easy. They're limited, as you'd expect, but I'm in."

  "How much can you change?"

  "As much as you like. But it's one thing to know that I can change them and another thing to know how much it's safe to change. We need to be careful. It's safer to tweak the stuff that conflicts obviously with what they'll see when they meet you. If we leave the rest, it'll be less likely that anyone notices. Better if you can remember everything else."

  "That's fine," Hicks said. "What do I need to know?"

  "Your name is William Logan. Let’s start there. We're lucky that he was around the same age as you. Similar build, too.”

  “Married?”

  “Unmarried."

  "So you'll have to take that off," Josie offered, pointing at Hicks’s ring finger.

  Hicks reached for his wedding band and worked it off. He dropped it into Milton's palm. "If you lose that, I'll be a dead man."

  Milton put it into his pocket and motioned for Ziggy to continue.

  "No sign of any relationship. You have an interest in slightly deviant porn—but we can brush over that. No siblings. Parents are dead. You have a flat in Shad Thames owned outright, no mortgage. You have social media accounts, but you haven't posted into them for years."

  Milton and Hicks crossed the room to stand behind Ziggy. They looked over his shoulder as he flicked through the various open windows on his screen.

  "You joined the Royal Marines at the age of eighteen. One year later, you attended selection for the Special Boat Service in Poole. You were successful."

  "No commando unit first?" Hicks said.

  "You got an exception. Apparently you were quite the soldier. You served most of your time with the SBS, but had secondments to the SAS and 14 Intelligence Detachment, both times serving in Northern Ireland. You left the Detachment and had a sabbatical for a year before you went back to the SBS, where you were posted to Maritime Anti-Terrorism operations for a year. One year after the posting to MAT you were transferred to MI6. Details are a little more sketchy from this point on. It looks like you left two years ago and went mercenary. There's no reference to individual jobs, although I've found references to you in Africa, South America and the Middle East."

  "Is that all?"

  "This is all off unencrypted servers," Ziggy protested. "That's the low-hanging fruit. I might be able to get more, but the Secret Service is more difficult. It'll take a lot longer to get through it. And you're meeting them at noon.”

  "But?"

  "I'll keep working. We just have to hope they don't have a way to get the material I can’t reach in time, or, if they do, that there are no photographs or anything else that would contradict your story."

  "Well done, Ziggy," Milton said.

  Ziggy nodded, evidently satisfied with Milton's praise. "Look at this." He moused over and pulled up a new document. Milton looked: it was an internal personnel record from the navy's human resources department. There was a face-on picture of Logan and a list of details including his address and next of kin. Ziggy had unlocked the document and, as Milton watched, he removed the picture and replaced it with one of Hicks that he had taken on his smartphone earlier.

  "Very good."

  Ziggy's fingers flashed over the keys again. "I'll change the pictures on his social media accounts. When I'm finished, it'll stand up to basic scrutiny. We'll just have to hope it's enough."

  "Very reassuring," Hicks said drolly.

  "This is crazy," Josie said. She stood, wincing again as she put weight on her bad leg. "Are you sure this is the best we can do?"

  "I'm open to alternatives," Milton said. "But he's leaving tonight, so you’d better make it quick."

  She shook her head. "I don’t know. It’s just—”

  "What's the one thing he wants?" Milton cut in. "Me. He made that a condition before he agreed to work with whoever it was who got him out of jail. He's obsessed. Hicks tells him that I'm still alive, and that he knows where to find me, and I'm betting de Lacey's judgment is affected. He'll buy it. He’ll come after me."

  "And when he does?"

  "We're going to need backup. Is there anyone you can trust?"

  "In the department?" Milton nodded. She paused as she gave the question thought. "My partner," she said eventually.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dalisay.”

  "See if you can get him to help. We'll need some firepower, too."

  "He has a shotgun."

  "Tell him to bring it."

  “Bring it where?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to help me with that. We need somewhere out of the city where we won’t be disturbed.”

  “I know the place,” she said.

  80

  HICKS PREPARED himself, dressing in the suit that Logan had left in the wardrobe. He grabbed the shoulder rig, together with the Sig Sauer P226 nestled inside the holster. He spent ten minutes obsessively checking the weapon to ensure that it was properly functional. He had expected that it would be. He looked up as he reassembled it and saw that Milton was watching him. The two men shared an understanding: it was a routine that both used to distract themselves from the uncertainty of an impending operation.

  * * *

  HICKS WAITED in the lobby. It was midday now, and the sun was burning bright. A Mercedes GLE pulled off the road and glided up to the entrance. The doorman bent down to speak to the driver, and then came inside.

  "Mr. Logan?"

  "That's right."

  "Your car has arrived."

  Hicks followed the doorman outside and allowed him to open the rear door for him. Hicks stepped down and slipped into the car.

  There were three men waiting inside for him: the driver, big and with a blond ponytail that was trapped against the seat behind his broad shoulders; a passenger next to him, shaven-headed and with broad shoulders; and a third man, sitting in the back, next to him. He looked to be in his late fifties, although he appeared fit and strong. He had a full head of hair, although it was greying a little at the temples, and his face was broad and flat. His eyes were dead, and, when he looked at Hicks, the feeling was disconcerting.

  "Mr. Logan," he said. "I'm Major Albert Lane-Fox. I work for Tactical."

  Hicks felt a flutter of nervousness. That could be a bluff. What if Logan had been lying, and he had met this man before? What if that wasn’t his name?

  He nodded to the men in the front. “Tango and Cash?”

  "They work for us, too. Shall we go for a drive?"

  Hicks nodded. The driver touched the gas and the Mercedes pulled away.

  "Where are we going?" Hicks asked.

  "Just for a drive, Mr. Logan. I'd like the chance to talk to you about what you said."

  * * *

  ZIGGY PULLED away. Milton was lying across the seats in the back.

  "They're going south," Ziggy reported.

  "Stay well back."

  "I know wh
at to do," he said indignantly.

  Milton knew that he did not know, that his experience in surveillance was most likely derived from Hollywood, but there was nothing else for it. He couldn't drive the car without being seen, and they needed two vehicles so that they could swap in and out of the pursuit and minimise the possibility that they might be made by whoever was in the other car. It was far from ideal. Hicks was in a car driven by men who were most likely skilled in counter-surveillance, and the only team he could assemble to follow them comprised a one-legged police officer and a middle-aged computer hacker who had delusions of being Popeye Doyle.

  Needs must, he thought. He had no other choice.

  He took out his phone and called Josie.

  "I'm on the move," she said over the phone's speaker. "Where are you?"

  He poked his head around so that he could see the satnav.

  "On the expressway headed south. Just coming up to the bridge over the Paranaque river."

  "I'm on Quirino Avenue."

  That was east of them. It ran parallel to the road that they were on.

  "Get ahead," Milton said into the phone. "Can you get onto the expressway at Victor Medina?"

  "No," she said. "Not there. The Longos Flyover."

  "Good," Milton said. "Let me know when you're there. We'll stay on them until then."

  * * *

  LANE-FOX WAS quiet for the first ten minutes as they started to head south. Hicks knew what he was doing: he wanted him to know that he was in control, that the conversation would begin when he wanted it to. Even though he could predict the behaviour, it didn't make the silence—and the two big men in the front of the car—any less disconcerting.

  "Thank you for your message," Lane-Fox said at last. "It was unexpected."

  "I didn't expect to have to deliver it."

  "Well, as I say, we were grateful for the warning. It seems that quite a few men escaped. Are you sure that Mr. Milton was among them?"

  "Yes," Hicks said. "I'm quite sure."

  "How's that?"

  "Because he's tied up in a trailer north of Manila."

  Lane-Fox cocked an eyebrow. "Really?"

  "Yes. Really."

  “You found him?”

  “I did. Yesterday evening.”

  "And yet he only escaped yesterday morning."

  "He was working with a female police officer. I was watching her. She led me to him."

  "And the officer?"

  "Not a problem any longer.”

  "You continue to surprise me, Mr. Logan. Your resourcefulness is impressive."

  "That's very kind of you. But I'd like to discuss it with Mr. de Lacey if I might."

  "It doesn't work like that," Lane-Fox said. "He's a busy man, especially so soon after his release. You see me first. If I think what you have to say would be of interest to him, maybe you get to see him. If not, you don't."

  * * *

  JOSIE MERGED onto the expressway and picked up speed. It was a three-lane road, and she indicated and made her way over to the fast lane. She put her foot down and saw the rental that Ziggy had hired from the airport just a few hundred feet ahead. She closed up until she saw the black Mercedes GLE that had arrived to collect Hicks from the hotel.

  Her phone was on the seat next to her. It was on speaker. "I'll take over," she said.

  Milton acknowledged her, and Ziggy touched the brakes to slow down.

  Josie went by, and, as she passed them, she exchanged a quick glance with Ziggy. Milton was in the back; she couldn't see him.

  * * *

  THE CAR picked up speed. Hicks realised that he had no idea where they were going.

  Lane-Fox spread his hands. "So what would you like to discuss with him?"

  "I thought that he’d be interested to hear that I can deliver Milton to him."

  "For the second time."

  "That's right."

  "And were you to do that, am I right in thinking that it wouldn't be free?"

  "Like you say, I've already discharged my obligations under our previous agreement."

  "Indeed you have. So this is new work?"

  "I don’t do this for charity."

  “Can you prove that you have Mr. Milton?”

  Hicks took out the phone that Milton had collected from Logan. He opened the photo album and tapped the one that they had taken in the hotel parking lot that morning. Milton was in the trunk of Hicks’s rental. His hands looked to be secured behind his back. The marks on his face were visible.

  Lane-Fox examined the photograph and then made an affirmative noise. He leaned forward and told the driver to pull over. There was a gas station ahead, and the man indicated and turned into the forecourt.

  "Would you mind stepping out of the car for a moment?" Lane-Fox asked. "I'd like to make a quick phone call."

  “Not at all,” said Hicks. He opened the door and stepped out into the boiling midday sun.

  * * *

  THE MERCEDES indicated that it was about to exit the expressway. Josie dabbed the brakes and watched as it slowed down and turned onto a ramp that led to a gas station.

  "They've turned off," she reported. "There's a Petron gas station. I can't follow."

  She looked over at the station as she drove by. The car had pulled over and, as she watched, she saw Hicks get out.

  "Hicks is out of the car."

  "Copy that," Milton said. "We'll take over."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Head north. I'll see you up there."

  * * *

  HICKS CROSSED the forecourt to the gas station shop and bought himself a can of Coke. He popped the top and waited in the shade for Lane-Fox to finish his conversation. He guessed that he was speaking to de Lacey. He knew, if that was correct, that the success or failure of Milton's plan depended on what was being said right now. He had no idea whether he had been convincing. He had been on edge the entire time, fighting down the paranoia that every comment and every question was a test designed to trip him up. Everything was predicated on Logan having told Milton the truth. Maybe he had been lying. For all they knew, Logan might have been operating from a cabin aboard the Topaz. And if the paranoia was justified, if they knew that Hicks was lying... well, whatever might come next would not be pleasant.

  The car horn sounded. Hicks looked over; the man with the shaven head had lowered his window and was beckoning him over.

  Lane-Fox opened the door as he approached.

  "Get in, Mr. Logan."

  Hicks did as he was told.

  "Mr. de Lacey will see me?"

  "He will. Now, actually. How would you like to see the yacht?"

  He closed the door.

  The car pulled away.

  81

  THEY TURNED around and retraced their route back to the north. Lane-Fox didn't speak again until they reached the signs for the Alphaland Marina Club.

  "The yacht is at anchor," he said as the driver turned off the road. "We'll transfer across to it."

  The driver edged between rows of hundred-thousand-dollar sports cars until he reached a disembarkation point near the water. Hicks had seen the marina's clubhouse from the windows of Logan's hotel room. It was built on pilings in the middle of the water and accessed by a covered bridge. The man with the shaven head got out and then came around to open the door for Hicks.

  "Sir," he said, indicating that Hicks should get out, too.

  "Are you armed?"

  Hicks nodded.

  "Please."

  Hicks unbuttoned his jacket, reached in for Logan's Sig Sauer and handed it to the man.

  "Thank you," Lane-Fox said. "You'll get it back afterwards."

  The four of them made their way through the marina to the water's edge. There was a tender waiting for them. It was a beautiful vessel crafted from mahogany and metal, its chrome fixtures glinting in the early afternoon sun. The rear of the craft was taken up by a U-shaped leather banquette, and Hicks sat down with the driver on one side of him and the passenger on
the other. He had noticed the subtle bulges under the jackets of both men that indicated that they were armed. That was no surprise, but it was a reminder to him that he was vulnerable.

  * * *

  ZIGGY BROUGHT the car to a halt at the entrance to the yacht club.

  "It's clear," he said.

  Milton raised his head. They had a view down to the water and, as he watched, he saw a brown and white tender with five people aboard skim across the water toward the big yacht anchored in the bay.

  "Not much we can do now," Ziggy opined redundantly.

  He was right.

  Hicks was on his own now.

  * * *

  HICKS STARED at the yacht as they bounced across the gentle waves toward it. The vessel was large and, despite that, still managed to look sleek and graceful. It had sugar-scoop windows and a glass lounge that seemed to blend the yacht more seamlessly into the water. Crew in white shirts and khaki shorts busied themselves on the decks, making their final preparations. Deckhands cleaned the outside of the boat. Sun-loungers were set out on the teak deck, the towels placed out on them rolled in tight, neat cylinders.

  The tender approached the stern of the yacht. A deckhand threw out a line and the pilot caught it, looped it through a tow-eye and knotted it tight. The tender was brought up close and secured, and the passengers were encouraged to disembark.

  "Welcome aboard, Mr. Logan," Lane-Fox said. "This way, please."

  Not all the men he saw were deckhands. Hicks saw four other men, big and with close-cropped hair, who could only have been de Lacey's private security detail. They were dressed in dark suits, they wore dark glasses and headsets and had noticeable bulges beneath their arms indicating shoulder holsters and handguns. One of the men hovered pointedly as Hicks clambered aboard, fixing him with an even, professional regard.

  Lane-Fox led the way through a wide aperture at the stern of the boat and into the interior beyond.

  Female stewardesses busied themselves, tidying and cleaning in anticipation of their departure.

  Hicks thought it all a little vulgar. It was all about status. A yacht like this was hardly practical, and the costs of running it must have been exorbitant, but it served other purposes. More so than a multi-million-dollar residence, or an Italian sports car, this was the ultimate projection of wealth. It was also the perfect location for business meetings where illicit transactions might be discussed.