More Harm Than Good Read online

  MORE HARM THAN GOOD

  ALSO BY ANDREW GRANT

  EVEN

  DIE TWICE

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  MORE HARM THAN GOOD.Copyright © 2012 by Andrew Grant.

  Cover photo by George Cairns.

  For Tasha, who shoots electrics.

  MORE HARM

  THAN GOOD

  ANDREW GRANT

  Chapter One

  The man looked much older than his reputed thirty-five years. His hair was thinner, and his face was slacker and more sallow than his picture had suggested. I couldn’t compare his height, though. Because he was on the ground, kneeling in front of two Royal Marines.

  One of the Marines had a pistol levelled on the bridge of the man’s nose.

  And for a moment, I was tempted to let him pull the trigger.

  There are dozens of different job roles in all the British Embassies and Consulates around the world, but one thing unites everyone who works in them. A phone number. During their training, everyone – from Ambassadors to janitors to chefs – has it drummed into them. The number to call if they come across anything remotely suspicious. An unfamiliar piece of IT equipment. A strange noise on the phone. An unrecognised entry in a fax journal. A ragged seal on an envelope. A change in a colleague’s behaviour.

  The first alarm call from the Boulevard Joseph II was made by one of the Embassy chefs. He was an eight-year veteran of the diplomatic service. Before that, he’d spent twenty-two years in the Navy, feeding multiple generations of Royal Marines. And after dishing out more than thirty thousand meals, he was pretty used to the amount they liked to eat. So when two of the younger guys from the guard duty detail starting sending their plates back hardly touched, he noticed.

  The baton was passed to the Marines’ CO, and it didn’t take him long to find out why his men had lost their appetites. The pair of them had been caught carrying on with a couple of local girls. But not by anyone from the Navy. By a man from Liverpool. He called himself Kevin Truly. And he had a simple proposition. Carry an extra rucksack each onto the military plane to England next time they were on leave - neatly sidestepping any customs checkpoints or police officers with sniffer dogs - and their wives need never hear what they’d been up to.

  The analysts in London figured the danger most likely didn’t extend beyond garden-variety blackmail, but they needed to be sure. Navy policy ensures every threat - however minor it seems on the surface - is taken seriously. So they told the Marines to play along. And when Truly next got in touch - with instructions to meet him the following night - they decided it was time to send someone in to take a closer look.

  That ‘someone’ was me.

  It was less than a kilometer from the Embassy to the address Truly had given the Marines. It would have been a pleasant walk. Luxembourg City is beautiful. It felt like a scaled down version of Paris, crossed with Vienna, and set on a series of hills. The idea of taking a stroll through its elegant streets before getting my hands dirty was very inviting, but I couldn’t ignore a nagging doubt at the back of my mind. Given the subject at hand, it seemed unlikely that somewhere so central - or public - was going to be our final destination. My Liaison Officer agreed, and without waiting for me to ask, she picked up her phone and called the car pool.

  The rendezvous was set to happen at a trendy waterfront hotel. The building had recently been converted from a grand old department store. A new front entrance had been added, and this was separated from the River Alzette by a broad, block-paved promenade. The alleys on either side were too narrow for cars and vehicle access to the rear of the building was controlled by a secured gate, so I left my driver to his own devices and took a quarter of an hour to wander around the perimeter, observing the place from the outside. Then I made my way into the bar, ordered a glass of still water, and took the seat with the best view of the door.

  There were twenty-seven people in the room, aside from me. A group of twelve - half men, half women, mixed ages from twenty to fifty - had pulled three tables together in the corner. They seemed comfortable with each other, and the volume of their conversation was rising steadily as the level of their drinks declined. Four men in their late thirties or early forties were sitting separately at the bar, quietly nursing bottles of upscale Belgian beer. A woman was reclining in an armchair near the window, on her own, sipping cappuccino and tapping away at a laptop. Four couples were huddled around tall, round tables. And a pair of twenty-somethings in suits was sitting near the door, holding cokes but not making much effort to drink them.

  A quarter of an hour passed before I spotted the Marines. They strolled artificially slowly through the door, glanced around without letting their eyes settle on anyone in particular, then walked up to the table nearest the bar. They looked just like they had done in the photos I’d been shown, except for their clothes. One was wearing motorcycle boots, faded jeans, and a tasseled biker-style jacket. The other had Timberlands, grey cargo pants, and no coat. And as stipulated by Truly, both wore black Motörhead T-shirts.

  Five people left the bar over the next twenty minutes. Three came in. But no one made any attempt to approach the pair. I finished my water and ordered a black coffee to replace it. The waiter brought me one with cream, but before he had time to take it away again a guy entering the room caught my attention. I guessed he’d be in his late teens. He was wearing jeans, trainers, an Ajax football shirt, and a denim jacket with a torn right sleeve. His skin was pale. His face was covered with freckles. His ginger hair was draped over his head in a kind of half-hearted mullet. But it was the way he moved that stood out the most. He shuffled into the bar like a sulky teenager at his parents’ cocktail party. Then, as he drew level with the two guys near the door I saw him make eye contact with both of them. Brief, but definite. One of them nodded to him, very slightly. And after that he picked up speed, skirting round the remaining couples and walking straight towards the Marines’ table.

  I sent a text to my driver: Contact. Stand by.

  The Marines watched the ginger haired kid approach, but neither of them got down from their chairs. He reached their table and stood and looked at the one in the biker jacket for fifteen seconds, fidgeting slightly as the bigger man returned his gaze. None of them spoke. Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, laid it on the table, turned, and walked away.

  As soon as the guy was half way to the door the biker Marine picked up the note he’d left. He glanced at it. Showed it to his friend. Then he dropped the paper back on the table, both of them stood and made for the exit themselves. I slipped some money under my saucer, waited until they were clear, then stepped across to where they’d been sitting.

  The note was written by hand, in pencil, but it wasn’t too hard to read:

  Unit 4. Rue Robert Schuman.

  30 minutes. Come alone. Take a taxi, don’t use your car.

  People will be watching.

  I looked up and saw the Marines had just reached the door. The two guys who’d nodded to the ginger kid stood up and moved after them, their drinks still untouched. I scanned the bar for anything else that rang a false note. Nothing struck me, so I made my own way outside.

  The Marines were striding away to my right, towards the nearest point where the promenade met the street. My car was already there, waiting, with its hazards on. The two guys were twenty feet behind, walking almost in step, hands in their pockets, not talking. And straight ahead, leaning on the railing that separated the river from dry land, was the ginger haired messenger boy. I strolled across and rested my forearms on the rail next to him, as if I was an old friend.
No one was watching from the far side of the river. No boats were moored nearby. The lad started to fidget. I guess he was uncomfortable, being so close to a stranger. I turned so my back was against the rail. No one was paying us any attention from the hotel or the road, so I drew my right arm across my chest. I glanced around one more time, and rammed my elbow into the side of the lad’s head. Then I stepped across and caught him before he hit the ground. He was heavier than he looked, but I was still able to support him with one arm while I reached into my pocket. I took out a flexicuff, fed one of his arms through a gap in the metalwork, bound his wrists together, and set off towards the road.

  The drive took twenty-two minutes, which was plenty of time for me to call the Embassy and arrange for them to have to the police scoop the boy up and keep him out of circulation until we saw what happened next. It turned out that the Rue Robert Schuman was in an industrial area that spurred off one of the major arterial routes from the north west of the city. It led to a T-shaped development, probably built in the 1980s judging by the design of the small factories and warehouse units that were lined up on both sides. I counted twelve of them. Unit four was at the left-hand end of the crossbar. I couldn’t help thinking Truly had chosen well. There were no houses nearby. No offices, or schools. With the nearby businesses closed for the night the whole area was deserted. An ideal situation, if he needed to move people and supplies around unnoticed.

  Without waiting for me to tell him, the driver turned to the right and didn’t stop until he’d gone another hundred yards. Then I climbed out and made my way back on foot. The other units all showed signs of occupation, but number four looked derelict. Its windows were boarded up. There was no company name. Patches of rust were showing through the peeling paint on the metal cladding. And there was only one vehicle – a jade green Ford Focus – parked anywhere near.

  As I moved closer I saw the Ford was occupied. Two people were sitting in the front seats. They were both men. It was easy to guess who they were. And after another ten yards, I could confirm it. They were the two guys who’d been sitting by the door at the hotel bar.

  I continued in the shadows at the edge of the pavement until I was level with the car. Then I drew my Beretta with my right hand, took hold of the passenger door handle with my left, and pulled.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, in French. “You now have two choices. Put your hands on the steering wheel. Or be shot in the head.”

  Neither of the men made a move.

  I tried again in German.

  They were both stock still for another 20 seconds. Then the driver put first his left hand, then his right, on the wheel. The passenger followed suit, very slowly.

  “Very good,” I said, pulling two more flexicuffs from my pocket.

  I dropped one in each guy’s lap.

  “You first, I said to the driver. “Cuff your friend’s wrists together.”

  He did as I instructed.

  “Now, you,” I said to the passenger. “Take care of your friend. Make it good and tight.”

  He also complied without a word.

  I checked the cuffs to make sure they were secure, then patted the guys down for weapons. They both had 9 mm pistols. A Ruger P-85, and a Colt 2000. I took the guns, tucked one into the waistband of my jeans, and slipped the other into my coat pocket. Then I took their phones, switched them off, and slid into the back seat behind the driver.

  “Did you see a taxi drop two men at unit four in the last few minutes?” I said.

  Neither of the men responded.

  I jammed the barrel of my Beretta into the bone just below the driver’s right ear, and repeated the question.

  “All right,” the driver said. “Yes. We saw the taxi.”

  “You followed it here?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “We were paid to.”

  “Seems like a good enough reason,” I said. “Now, think about when it arrived. Describe exactly what happened.”

  The driver shrugged.

  “It pulled up outside,” he said. “The door to the building opened. A man came out. The men got out of the taxi and went inside with him. Nothing dramatic.”

  “Did it sound its horn?” I said.

  “No.”

  So someone had seen it arrive. They’d been watching.

  “Was the man who came out armed?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “What with?”

  “The usual. An AK.”

  That sounded like overkill, for the suburbs. But then, we were talking about drug dealers.

  “How many people are inside?” I said.

  “Don’t know.”

  I increased the pressure on the Beretta.

  “I don’t know,” the driver said.

  “Is Kevin Truly inside?” I said.

  “I don’t know who that is. You think the people who pay us tell us their names?”

  “Were you told to expect any other people or vehicles?”

  “Yes. Another taxi. The two men are supposed to leave in one.”

  “At what time?”

  “We weren’t told a time.”

  “What else were you told to do?”

  “Wait here. Make sure... never mind.”

  I gave him another prod.

  “Make sure no one was snooping around,” he said. “Stop anyone who tried. Call a number if there was a problem.”

  “What number?”

  He reeled off a series of digits.

  “Is that their regular number?” I said. “The one you normally use to contact them?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just for this job. For problems, only. It changes every time.”

  “Well, there’s certainly a problem now,” I said. “And the bad news is, the window for calling numbers has closed for the day. But it’s not all doom and gloom. There’s still something left for you to do.”

  Neither of the men responded.

  “In fact, three things. And they’re all simple. First, I want you to drive up to the building and stop in exactly the same place the taxi did, earlier. Second, wait for thirty seconds. And third, if no one has come out by then, sound your horn. Two long blasts. No more. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely, crystal clear? Because you’ll need to do a better job than you did of stopping me from snooping around.”

  “We’re clear.”

  “Do those three things, and nothing else. Nothing to warn whoever’s in that building that something is going on. Because if you deviate in any way at all - do you know what will happen?”

  The driver pressed his head sharply back against the Beretta for a second.

  “You’ve got it,” I said, sliding down low behind the front seats. “Now let’s go.”

  I slipped out of the car the moment it came to rest and moved backwards into the shadows until my shoulders touched the wall of the dilapidated building. The two guys remained in their seats, sitting still, staring straight ahead, and doing nothing to invite a bullet. I counted the seconds in my head. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Nothing stirred. We reached thirty. The driver raised his hands from his lap and started to reach for the centre of the steering wheel, but before he made contact I heard a harsh metallic squeal to my left and the door to the warehouse was flung back on its hinges. The side of the car was bathed in light. Boots crunched on gravel. A man appeared. He was a shade over six feet tall, broad, with a completely shaved head. The reflection of his face in the car window put him in his early forties. His clothes looked expensive - black Armani jeans and a ribbed, zip up sweater made from ultra fine cashmere. He was holding a radio in his left hand. And a folding-stock Kalashnikov in his right.

  The man paused for a moment, then approached the car. I fell in step behind him, and just before he reached the driver’s door I reached my right arm over his shoulder, wrapped it across the front of his body and grabbed a handful of soft wool just below his left armpit. My left arm snaked up fr
om the other side. My hand looped all the way around to the back of his skull. It kept going till I brushed his ear. Then my fingers clamped down and I pulled back hard in the opposite direction till I heard the telltale crunch of a pair of his cerebral vertebrae being torn apart.

  Fresh bodies are always awkward to move on your own. They’re slack and floppy - before rigor sets in, anyway - and their weight seems to multiply tenfold. That one was particularly uncooperative. I couldn’t get a decent grip on it, anywhere. Its arms and legs kept escaping. The head was almost uncontrollable. In the end I felt like it took me an hour to bundle it in through the rear doors of the car.

  “Is that the same guy who met the taxi, earlier?” I said, finally moving round to the front and pulling out two more flexicuffs.

  “I think so,” the driver said, after taking a deep breath. “But wait. You can’t leave...”

  “Hands out,” I said, feeding the tongue of the first cuff through the one binding his wrists, then looping it around the steering wheel.

  “You too,” I said to the passenger.

  He didn’t argue, so I secured him in the same way.

  “Now listen,” I said, taking the keys then reaching across and wrenching the rearview mirror off its mounting. “I’m going inside. You’re staying here. And you’re going to stay silent. You’re going to make absolutely no noise at all. Because if I hear one single sound, I’ll be back out. And you’ll both be joining that guy on the back seat.”

  Chapter Two

  The sentry’s Kalashnikov had fallen next to the car during the scuffle so I retrieved it, used the mirror to make sure no one unfriendly was lurking on the other side of the door, and then stepped through into a corridor. It was wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side, and extended all the way to an emergency exit at the far side of the building. A line of doors was set into the left hand wall. There were five. They were unevenly spaced, and all were standing open. The first led to an empty room. I guessed it had been an office, based on the shapes of the worn patches on the lino. A pile of squashed cigarette butts lay on the floor next to the window, and I saw that the board covering the glass had been pried away at both lower corners. That was probably where the sentry had been keeping his watch, but there was no one else in the room, now.