Days gone by sam pope se.., p.17
Days Gone By (Sam Pope Series Book 11), page 17
‘Correct me if I’m wrong here, Admiral, but Sam was a problem before I was in situ.’
‘Indeed.’ Wainwright continued. ‘But unlike yourself, there was never any indication from Commissioner Stout of possible collusion.’
The accusation snapped the whole room to attention, and McEwen’s brow furrowed with fury. He glanced to Patel, who looked just as shocked, and then to Mulgrave, who stared at the table before her. The reality of the situation had dawned on McEwen.
It was a set up.
With a wry smile, McEwen brought his hands together in a slow, sarcastic clap. Wainwright scowled, and finally, for the first time in the meeting, Doyle spoke.
‘It’s hardly a laughing matter, Bruce.’
‘No, I agree. For a second there, I thought there was a genuine grievance into the way I have gone about my job, but I see it clearly now.’
Doyle put down his pen and pursed his lips with arrogance.
‘Please enlighten me.’
‘Okay. Permission to speak freely?’ McEwen looked around the room and took their silence as acceptance. ‘Okay, well I know for a fact that, I’ve pissed a number of high profile people off over the past few months. People who were once untouchable have now got my people looking into them. Now, if I’m not mistaken, a great many of these rich and powerful people have generously donated to your government and…’
‘Careful, Bruce.’ Wainwright interrupted.
‘Yes. Any slanderous accusations won’t help your case.’ Doyle added on, like a school kid hiding behind a bully. McEwen pointed a finger straight at him.
‘How’s this for an accusation? She’s shit the bed…’ McEwen pointed to Mulgrave. ‘By allowing this government to bend over for Ducard, who has now had a man executed in our country. But instead of this government, for once in its pitiful leadership, taking the necessary responsibility for its inaction, you’re deflecting it elsewhere. Tell me, William, am I on the money?’
The room fell silent, as Wainwright glared furiously at the commissioner, and the Home Secretary shifted his jaw from side to side with agitation. McEwen shook his head, chuckled and stood.
‘We’re not finished here.’ Wainwright shouted, slamming his hand on the table. McEwen reached into his pocket, removed his police identity card and tossed it on the table.
‘Aren’t we?’
‘Commissioner Bruce McEwen, you are suspended pending an investigation…’ Doyle began, trying to take control of the narrative and assume authority. McEwen waved him off.
‘Save it, William.’ McEwen nodded a silent and respectful goodbye to Patel, and then headed towards the door. As he yanked it open, Wainwright stood, irritated by the man’s defiance.
‘You’re out, Bruce. You hear me.’
‘Loud and clear.’ McEwen said calmly. ‘Dipti, it’s been a pleasure working with you. As for the rest of you, a man is dead. Just remember that, when you’re working out how to spin my suspension as a positive.’
McEwen stepped through the door and let it slam shut behind him. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and then headed towards the famous black door with his shoulders straight and his head held high. He’d promised his wife that he would do the right thing, and as he stepped out into the cool, London evening, he knew that despite being relieved of his command, he had kept his word.
A large jolt sent Sam into the air, but his restraints slammed him back against the cold steel and startled him to consciousness. His brain felt like it had been melted down and then remoulded, and he tried his hardest to centralise himself physically. A loud, constant roar was piercing his ear drums, and at first he thought it was the after effects of the drugs, but then he realised it was something else.
An engine.
Another jolt took him off his seat again, but his shoulders wrenched back and he slammed back against the steel. He tried to move his arms, but they were locked in place, and the tightness of the metal cuffs around his wrists were digging into his skin. As his senses returned to him one by one, he blinked to try to restore his vision, which was shrouded in a black haze. With the engine roaring and shaking his aching brain, and the cold whipping his body with constant lashes, he soon understood that his eyes were wide open. His vision was obscured by the black bag over his head.
From what he could see, he was in a cargo hold, with a number of bags, suitcases and trunks, all stacked to one side, and a metal ladder that led to the upper deck.
An airplane.
The gravity of the situation wasn’t lost on Sam, which he found somewhat ironic considering their altitude. He’d been in restraints before and his mind raced back to three years previously when he had been strapped to a chair by Jose Vasquez, a dangerous drug dealer who had started a gang war in South Carolina. Back then, he’d been worked over by Vasquez’s henchman, Edinson, who had pummelled Sam with sledgehammer-like fists until he spat up blood.
Both men were dead now.
Sam pulled against his restraints in frustration, but it was no use. Next to him, he heard a few groans of grogginess, and through the fabric of the sack over his head, he could make out the figure beside him.
Corbin.
As she slowly stirred, the panic set in, and Sam heard her begin to pull against the restraints, slamming her body forward, only for the cuffs to haul her back to her seat.
‘It’s no use.’ Sam shouted, hoping his voice travelled over the relentless engine.
‘Sam? Is that you?’
‘Yeah.’ He could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘Looks like your friend made some new ones.’
Silence followed, and Sam understood that Corbin was processing the betrayal. For all intents and purposes, Agard seemed like a boy scout, and Corbin had mentioned that they had worked together for years. But at some point during the events of the last few days, something had changed in the man. Sam thought he had noticed it, but it clearly wasn’t enough for him to outright confront him. Just something hadn’t felt right, and now, with his head pounding, Sam knew that he’d been right.
Agard had been compromised, and now he and Corbin were shackled in the underbelly of a plane, going God knows where.
‘That son of a bitch!’ Corbin yelled.
But Sam didn’t respond. She needed to grieve for a friendship and partnership that she had clearly trusted, and he didn’t know her well enough to offer any comfort. It was a horrible feeling, when someone betrays your trust, and Sam remembered the overwhelming pain when he discovered the truth about Project Hailstorm and the depth of General Wallace’s treachery. It had emptied the contents of his stomach and then fuelled him with nothing but revenge.
‘Use it.’ Sam yelled. ‘Deal with it…then use it.’
For the next twenty minutes, they sat in silence, with nothing but the thundering of the engine for company. Sam tried testing the resistance of his restraints, but after a few unsuccessful wrenches, he gave up the ghost. There was no way out of the situation currently, which meant they needed to stay calm, keep their composure and assess what happened next.
Sam didn’t believe in ‘no-win situations’, but his mind cast back to a conversation he had with his beloved mentor, Sgt. Carl Marsden. Years ago, in the heat of the Egyptian desert, Marsden had chastised Sam for his actions, explaining to him that battles weren’t won by the squeeze of a trigger, but by the sharpness of the mind.
It had stayed with him, and after he had mourned his mentor’s death, Sam had tried to apply that to his one-man war on crime.
But there was no way of avoiding what was to come. They were bound, stored away and most likely going to be delivered to their inevitable death. All Sam could do, was keep calm, stay focused, and if the opportunity arose to get Corbin out alive, then he had to be ready to take it.
His stomach did a forward roll as the plane dipped, making its final descent towards the ground, where the pilot guided them to a smooth landing. The wheels touched down seamlessly, and the plane eventually came to a stop. Above them, they could now hear the clear thumping of footsteps as the crew and passengers made their way to the doors, followed by a loud clunk of metal as the hatch to the storage unit was pulled open. A foot appeared on the metal ladder, and through the fuzz of the fabric, Sam watched as a muscular figure began to clamber down. Sam eased gently towards Corbin.
‘Just stay calm,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth, before a hand struck the side of his face with such venom, it snapped his head back against the metal. A chuckle echoed before them, and the man reached out and snatched the bags off their heads. Sam blinked away the blurred vision and looked up at Cissé, who glared at him with sickening pleasure. The man’s eyebrow had fresh stitches running through it like a centipede, and his lip was swollen and lacerated.
Cissé looked at his prisoners, turned his attention to Sam and then shocked them both by speaking in English.
‘Welcome to Paris.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Martin Agard felt sick.
It wasn’t due to the turbulence on the flight from London Heathrow to Paris, although being airborne was his least favourite part of the job. Over his eighteen years with the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, he had been on more flights than he could remember, but his fear of flying never abated. Corbin often ribbed him about it, making the odd snide comment about how he had been involved in multiple gunfights, high speed chases and hand to hand fights during his time working for the DGSE, yet it was being strapped to a first-class seat thirty feet above the ground that scared him the most.
His heart ached just thinking about her.
Somewhere below the deck, she was currently being held, along with Sam Pope, whom he didn’t care for, and it was his fault.
He had betrayed her.
It had all begun earlier in the day, when they had made their way to the old, decrepit building that Pope had once called home for a week. He had spun some story about lying low with an old friend who had sprung him from prison, but Agard hadn’t paid it much attention. As far as he was concerned, Sam Pope was a criminal, despite his intervention that had saved Chavet’s life. In his near two decades as an agent for the DGSE, Agard had proven himself an excellent judge of character, and while he didn’t perceive Pope to be a bad man, he was still a criminal. It was easy to get caught up in his crusade, which had been built off the back of doing the right thing.
But there was a right way to do the right thing, and a wrong way, and leaving behind nearly a hundred bodies in your wake, didn’t qualify for the first. After searching the abandoned apartment and finding a key within a hollow windowsill, Agard had received a call from a number he hadn’t recognised. As he had answered it, an ominous message came through.
‘Martin Agard. Pretend all is fine and move somewhere private.’
As he frowned, Corbin had sent a concerned look his way, and Agard had covered the received with his hand and announced to the room that it was their boss, Vivier. She motioned for him to take the call, and he stepped from the apartment, leaving Corbin and Sam to discuss the key’s purpose and Chavet to smoke out of the window. When he was finally alone, his anger took over.
‘Who is this?’ He spat in his native tongue.
‘Agent Agard, we currently believe that the two people that are currently within your protection have potentially damaging information regarding Pierre Ducard.’
‘Listen here, you’ve made a big mistake. Once I hang up this call, I’m going to have this number traced and you’ll be in a cell by dinner time. You understand?’
‘I would implore you not to do that, Agent Agard. Am I right in thinking that both Louis and Marc are at school today? St. Clemin?’
The threat stopped Agard in his tracks. He tried to respond, but the caller continued.
‘And your wife, Jeanette, she is at work in her salon, no?’
‘If you even think about touching my family…’
‘If you are unwilling to co-operate, Agent Agard, then we will see if they will.’
‘Okay…okay.’ Agard could feel his throat tightening with fear. ‘Look, we’ve found some key that Pope thinks will take us to the information. I will find out where and send you the location.’
‘Good.’ The voice hammered home the threat. ‘Make sure Chavet and Pope are in attendance. Mr Ducard insists upon it.’
The call hung up and the situation hit Agard like a slap to the face. Whatever information Pope was leading them to clearly had damning ramifications for their President elect, and he was willing to endanger the family of a DGSE agent to get to it. Every fibre of his being wanted to tell Corbin about the call, but he knew she wouldn’t relent. She would demand they call Vivier, setting off a chain of events that Ducard could well see as a challenge to his threat.
As far as he was concerned, the lives of his family were more important than those of an activist and a foreign terrorist.
Before they made their way to the storage facility, Agard had sent the address to the number that had called him, and received a notification when they were there. As they made their way inside, he received another message.
‘Bring Chavet to the walkway. Leave Pope for Cissé.’
Agard had already clocked the metal walkway on arrival, and after Cissé had located them, Pope had bravely stepped up to face the terrifying man. Despite Corbin’s best efforts, Agard was able to eventually lead Chavet to the metal walkway, holding the door open for the terrified civilian and ushered him through.
What happened next would haunt Agard for the rest of his life.
The visceral explosion of the man’s skull, as the bullet erupted through the bone was sickening, and the life left Chavet instantly. As he flopped to the ground, dead, Agard did his best to lead Corbin back to the car and to safety. They had the information, Pope had entrusted the USB stick to Corbin, and all they needed to do was get out of there and he would be able to arrange the transfer. But Pope emerged, gun in hand, to tackle the rest of Ducard’s men, having seemingly bested Cissé and Agard had to keep up appearances by bringing him with them.
The order came through to drug the two, and although Agard pleaded for Corbin’s life outside the cottage, the ultimatum was either her life or the life of his kids.
So Agard had drugged them both, sent Ducard his location, and before he knew it, Cissé and a team of highly paid and highly trained soldiers arrived at the cottage. Now, he was sitting on the private plane belonging to Pierre Ducard, who busied himself at one of the tables, flicking through sheets of paper and murmuring to Cissé. The flight wasn’t a long one, but it felt like an eternity, and Agard knew it was being prolonged by his guilt.
Corbin would understand. Although she had never had a family of her own, she had been a big part of his life for years and knew his kids and his adoration of them. And although he had betrayed her, scuppered the case being built by the DGSE and had directed Olivier Chavet to his death, he had done it under the direction of the next President of France. In some ways, it was patriotic.
Agard stared out of the plane’s window as it landed on home soil, feeding himself a lie of patriotism to stop his inner turmoil from breaking him completely.
As soon as the plane touched down, Ducard nodded to Cissé, who needed little encouragement to collect their hostages. For a man who had lost his closest friend over the past few days, Ducard was impressed with Cissé’s composure. Although he had been bested in his fight with Sam Pope, Ducard had seen the cuts and bruising on Pope’s face, and he imagined that Cissé had relished every single moment of it. As the steps from the private jet were lowered, one of the cabin crew collected Ducard’s papers from his table and he stood, thanked them all for their hard work and then made his way to the exit. Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport was a hive of activity, and from across the vast, concrete runways, he could see the commercial flights all lined up in a neat row, ready to whisk the natives away and take the tourists home. The Parisian spring had been relatively warm when the sun was out, but now, under the darkness of a moonless sky, a bitter chill slithered around Ducard, and a cold drizzle fell upon him. His assistant rushed up the steep steps of the plane and snapped open a black umbrella, which he held over Ducard who thanked him. Three black 4x4s were waiting in the hanger, along with a police escort of two cars and four armed officers. They were there to ensure Ducard’s safe return to his estate, where he would no doubt have some pressing matters to attend to. Making his way into the hanger, Ducard made a point of shaking hands with every police officer and waiting member of staff, forever on the charm offensive. When the news broke about Chavet’s death, he knew the spotlight would be on him, and it was important that he maintained the usual perception of confidence to mask his culpability. He glanced across to the vehicle at the back of the line, and watched as Cissé lead both Pope and Corbin to the back seat, a black bag over their heads and their hands bound to the base of their spines.
No one said a thing.
Such power was hard to attain, and Ducard afforded himself a wry smile as he dropped into the back of his ride, where Martin Agard sat, a broken shell of a man, in the passenger seat. Eva hadn’t said a word on the plane ride over, and she slid into the back alongside Ducard, put in her earbuds and lost herself to her music.
Ducard admired her professionalism, which was less than he could say for the snivelling agent in the front of the car.
‘Sir, can we talk…’ Agard began, but Ducard held up his hand.
‘Not now.’
That was all it took. Agard returned his vacant gaze to the window, and as they filtered out of the airport, Ducard pulled out his tablet and checked his emails. There was a stream of messages from his campaign team, with a number of them showing colourful graphs that acted as proof that his popularity had grown, both at home and overseas, thanks to his trip to the UK. When it came to the matter of Chavet and his interview, he was surprised to see that the split was fifty/fifty. His fist tightened with anger, that so many people would sympathise with the man, and it made his death easier to take. Chavet had been no true threat to Ducard, be it physically or politically, and Ducard knew that. But, like a wasp buzzing around a family picnic, sometimes you just wanted to swat away a problem for good. The man’s death had been escalated due to Pope’s intervention, as the original plan would have been to stage a mugging. There would be conspiracies surrounding it, but nothing that they could make stick. Unfortunately, now, due to the violent nature of Chavet’s execution, there would most certainly be questions and Ducard knew that the Commissioner of the Met Police had him in his sights.
