Deadly Crossing (Tom Dugan 2) (24 page)

Chapter Twenty Nine

Kairouz Residence
London, UK

The back garden was awash in the light of a full moon, augmented by nearby streetlights, and Fedosov cursed the time table that forced him to take risks he would normally avoid. But then any risk, no matter how high, was preferable to the certain danger if he disappointed the Chief. He shuddered at the possibility and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

He was well concealed in the shrubbery and had been since he’d arrived at two in the morning to find lights still burning throughout the stately home. An hour later, the lights began to wink out, indicating the residents were retiring — all except one — which was still burning now almost an hour later. He glanced toward the east — it would be getting light soon — and other than the single light, he’d no other indications that anyone was still awake in the house. Common sense told him to abort, but the memory of the last conversation with the Chief was a strong motivator. He crept close to the window of the room still showing a light, keeping his head well below the sill.

Fedosov rose slowly, not wanting sudden movement to draw the gaze of anyone inside, and as his eyes rose above the windowsill, he looked through the open blinds. The light was coming from a shaded desk lamp on an ornately carved wooden desk. No one sat at the desk, but slumped in an overstuffed leather chair in the corner he saw Kairouz, obviously unconscious. He wore a dressing gown, sagging open at the waist to reveal a hairy chest. His bare feet were on a footstool, slippers lying below them on the floor at odd angles, as if they’d fallen off. His head had fallen to one side, and his mouth was slack in sleep, a tendril of drool leaking out of one corner and down his unshaven chin. Beside him on a side table was an empty brandy snifter and a decanter with perhaps a half inch of amber liquid left in the bottom. Out like a light, no problem there. That left only the woman, and based on the timing of the lights being extinguished, she’d been asleep for over an hour.

He glided around the house to the back door into the kitchen, keeping in the shadows. He picked the lock without difficulty, entered the kitchen, and moved quickly to the security panel. The technician from the security company had been reluctant at first and, to his credit, unpersuaded by any amount of money offered. However, in the end, the graphic videos of what might happen to his family had convinced him, along with the promise that the information would only be used to relieve an obviously wealthy man of some of his possessions. By the time the technician figured out differently, he would already be implicated in the crime.

Fedosov covered the small speaker on the panel with his right hand to muffle the chirps, and tapped in the security code with his left, nodding as the lights on the panel flashed to ‘unarmed.’ He crept to the basement doorway off the kitchen and descended, lighting his way with a small headlamp rather than risking turning on a light. The utility closet was in a far corner of the basement, and in minutes he’d wired a voice-activated transmitting device into the phone circuit, rearranging the wiring to conceal it. There were still the Kairouzes’ mobile phones, of course, but since they seemed to be staying close to home, he reckoned they might be using their landline for the majority of calls. He quickly checked his work. Satisfied, he crept back up the stairs.

It was a moment’s work to conceal tiny listening devices throughout the ground floor in locations likely to yield interesting conversations. He considered planting some in the upstairs bedrooms, but he had no idea how soundly the woman was sleeping. No point in pressing his luck. Stopping in the doorway to the study, he spotted Kairouz’s mobile phone lying in plain sight on the desk just beyond the sleeping man. As he stood trying to decide whether to go for the phone, Kairouz moaned in his sleep and began to wave his arms as if he were struggling with some unseen assailant. His arm flew out to the side, and Fedosov jumped out of sight to the side of the door a scant second before he heard the sound of the brandy snifter smashing on the hardwood floor. He stood deathly still, his heart pounding.

“Alex? Are you all right?” came the woman’s voice from up the stairs, followed by the sounds of someone rising and then footsteps across the floor above. “Alex?” the woman said again.

Fedosov willed himself calm and faded quietly down the hall and around the corner into the living room as the woman’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He fingered the silenced pistol in his pocket and considered killing them both now. But no. The Chief wanted them all killed together and quickly. If he snuffed these two now, an alerted Dugan would be an exponentially more difficult target. He waited.

He heard shuffling and muttered curses from the direction of the study, and then a moment later the woman’s voice from the direction of the study door.

“For God’s sake, Alex, put your slippers on. There’s glass all over the floor and — oh, sit back down, you’ve cut your foot.”

“Fuck offf,” came the slurred reply. “… i’s my bloody foot, isn’t it?”

Fedosov heard noises as if someone was stumbling into furniture, followed by more muttered curses and then a bitter mocking laugh.

“And it IS a bloody foot, isn’t it?”

“Alex, SIT DOWN and let me look at it.”

“Oh? Givin’ bloody orders are we, dear? You’re good at that, aren’t you? Always has to be YOUR way, doesn’t it? You and Thomas bloody Dugan and those fuckin’ Russkis. I told you to leave it alone. I told you they were dangerous. But no, everyone knows better than old Alex, don’t they? She drowned in a box like a fucking rat! And where was I? Tending the bloody home fires while our little girl died. And what did Thomas and those fucking Russkis do? Bloody fuck all!”

“Alex, you don’t mean that,” the woman said. “You know Tom did everything—”

“THE HELL HE DID,” screamed Kairouz, and Fedosov heard the crash of what he assumed was the brandy decanter smashing against a wall. “THE HELL HE DID! IF HE’D DONE ALL HE COULD, CASSIE WOULD BE ALIVE!”

The outburst was followed by an unintelligible cry of anguish and then dissolved into the sounds of wracking sobs mixed with cooing sounds, as if the woman was comforting an infant.

“Come along, dear,” the woman’s voice said. “Let’s sit you down here on the sofa and have a look at that foot.” There was a pause. “It doesn’t look too bad, and the bleeding’s mostly stopped. Let’s get you up to bed. I have some plasters in our bathroom.”

Fedosov heard them making their way up the stairs, the man’s steps halting and stumbling, and he imagined Kairouz leaning on the woman. The sounds moved to the bedroom above, and he waited a moment, considering the risks. He had to reset the security system when he left, and with the woman fully awake, she might hear the chirps. Then the decision was made for him. He heard the woman coming down the stairs.

She seemed to stop at the bottom, and he heard muffled sobs. Slowly he peeked around the door, and in the light leaking into the hallway from the open door of the study, he saw the woman sitting on the bottom step, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking.

He began to panic. It was close to sunrise, and the stupid bitch was between him and his planned exit point, and she had a clear view of the front door as well. If she sat there and bawled until daylight, he may have to take her out anyway, regardless of what the Chief preferred. She began to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, and Fedosov ducked back into the living room.

Panic rose again as he heard her coming down the hall in his direction, and he put his hand on his gun. Then she stopped, and he heard her lift the receiver of the hall telephone.

“Tom,” the woman said, “I’m sorry to wake you at this hour—”

“Oh, you weren’t? Well, I guess none of us are sleeping too well these days,” she said, then responded to another unheard question.

“Me? Oh, I’m fine, or as well as can be expected, I suppose, given the circumstances. It’s Alex I’m concerned about. I’m going to cancel the meeting with Father O’Malley this morning, and I didn’t want you to come over for nothing.”

“I appreciate that Tom, but I really think it’s better if you don’t come over just now. Alex is in no state to see anyone, much less discuss the memorial service. I’m just going to tell Father O’Malley to schedule it for the day after tomorrow — well, I guess that’s actually tomorrow now, given that it’s almost morning — just after midday. We can all meet here at the house after the service. Just family and close friends.”

The woman was silent, as if she was considering the answer to a difficult question.

“Of course you’re welcome, Tom. But I can’t pretend this isn’t difficult for Alex. In truth I think he blames us all, myself included. They say that time heals all wounds, but … well, it’s possible that some wounds are just too deep. Time will tell, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Tom. I will. Best to Anna.” She hung up.

Fedosov tensed, anxious about the woman’s next move, then heaved an inward sigh of relief when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. He waited a moment and then slipped down the basement stairs and moved to one of the two small basement windows set high in the exterior wall and examined it critically. It would be tight, but he could make it. He pulled an all-purpose tool from his pocket and quickly wired around the security system sensor, so that the system would always show ‘closed’ regardless of the position of the window. He then unlocked it and made sure it would open easily before pulling it closed and gliding back up the stairs to exit through the kitchen, muffling the alarm and resetting the security system on his way out.

He tried to appear casual as he strolled through the predawn light to where his car was parked several blocks away. It had been a productive evening despite a rocky start. He had the place and time of the hit nailed down and had arranged access to the site. All he needed now was a little time and a lot of plastic explosive. And from the sound of things, he’d be putting them all out of their misery. It was practically an act of mercy.

Dugan and Anna’s Apartment
London, UK

Dugan disconnected from Gillian and sat down in the wrought-iron chair on the small balcony of the apartment. He’d being lying awake when she called, watching Anna sleep, and going over the events of the last few days in his mind. The phone vibrated on the night table before it rang, and he had snatched it up before it disturbed Anna, and retreated to the balcony.

He looked through the closed glass door into the living room and saw Nigel sprawled on the couch. With Ilya in the spare bedroom, there was literally no place in the small apartment other than the bathroom where Dugan wouldn’t disturb someone. He considered going back to bed, but knew he’d only toss and turn and probably disturb Anna, and she needed her rest. He decided to stay out and watch the sunrise, so he set the phone on the table beside him, leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the rail of the balcony.

He jumped as the phone vibrated on the table beside him and picked it up, thinking Gillian had forgotten something and was calling back, but he didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID.

“Dugan.”

“I was beginning to think you were dead,” Ward said. “Don’t you check your voice mail?”

Dugan felt a flash of guilt, followed immediately by irritation.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been kind of busy. Where are you calling from, anyway? I didn’t recognize the number.”

“I was counting on that. I’m calling on the plane’s satellite phone. I’m over the Atlantic, and we should be landing in London in an hour. I need you to meet me.”

“For Christ’s sake. It’s five o’clock in the morning—”

“So if you leave soon, you can beat the traffic.”

“This isn’t the best time, Jesse. Care to tell me what this is all about?”

“I can’t, not over the phone. Just meet me there, okay? You won’t be sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve heard that before.” Dugan sighed. “All right. I’ll meet you. The private terminal at Heathrow, I presume?”

“Negative. Meet us at London RAF Northolt. Do you know it?”

“I know of it, but I’ve never been there. I can get there all right.”

“Great! I’ll wait for you on board. There are some things we need to discuss before we disembark. I’ll arrange clearance for you straight to the plane. The stairs will be down, just come aboard when you get there.”

RAF Northolt Jet Center
London, UK

Dugan rolled to a stop at the gate and lowered his window as the uniformed guard approached.

“My name is Tom Dugan.” He offered his passport. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Jesse Ward, who’s arriving by private jet.”

The guard took Dugan’s passport and scrutinized it closely before looking back at him with the same intensity. He then turned to a companion in the small guard shack and nodded, and the man walked out of the shack and got into a golf cart parked just inside the open gate.

“Yes, Mr. Dugan,” the guard said. “Mr. Ward touched down a few minutes ago. If you would be kind enough to follow my colleague, he’ll escort you to the plane.”

“Thanks.” Dugan accepted his passport back from the guard and put the car in gear.

He followed the golf cart down a perimeter road and around the end of what appeared to be a terminal building. Arrayed along the back side of the building were a number of executive jets of various sizes, but they bypassed them all and went to the last parking place some distance from the others, to a large Gulfstream sitting alone. The guard motioned for him to stop and then circled the golf cart around beside the car.

“Park your car there near the fence, if you will, sir. You’ll see some spaces marked as you get nearer. Then board the aircraft. I understand they’re expecting you.”

“Thank you,” Dugan said, and the guard touched his finger to his cap and sped away.

Dugan parked the car and walked across the tarmac, puzzled at the unusual manner of Ward’s arrival. On those rare occasions when he traveled on the CIA’s private jet rather than the more customary trips by commercial carrier, Ward normally landed at the private terminal at Heathrow. Thoroughly confused, Dugan mounted the short flight of steps up into the plane.