Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

Portius looked like he’d rather have a full company of US marines come in and jump all over them in their boots. But he picked up the phone to summon an escort out of the building. Seconds later they were chasing the same marine guard back downstairs in double time.

‘You were rough on him,’ Riley said quietly, as they picked up their mobiles from the security desk.

Weller scowled. ‘Serves him right. If they’d shared their information years ago instead of playing silly buggers, we could have saved ourselves all this trouble.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘Did you see his face? Portius thought tonight was going to be all about me pleading mea bloody culpa over Myburghe. Now he’s had to admit one of their boys is a real stinker, he’s wriggling like a tart on a trapeze.’

Riley smiled at the imagery. ‘How about Myburghe — any sign of him yet?’

‘No. His car was found forty minutes ago under the Western Avenue flyover. It was empty.’

Riley mourned the fact that none of her time over the past few days was chargeable to the Home Office. They’d certainly had their money’s worth out of her. She almost felt admiration for Weller’s tactics. He’d played her all along just to stir the waters, and now he’d done the same with Portius. She was ready to bet that the mauling Portius had undergone at Weller’s hands was unprecedented. And now he was standing back to see what unfolded.

He handed her a card with his number on it. ‘Call me if you trip over him.’

As he disappeared into the night, Riley’s mobile rang.

It was Henzigger.

‘I’m real mad at you, Riley!’ he wailed, his voice a wild singsong and pitched high as if balanced on the edge of hysteria. The hum of a car engine filled the background, and she realised he was on the move. ‘I’ve got the feeling you weren’t being straight with me. Am I right? Are they closing in?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Riley said. ‘Where are you?’

‘C’mon, don’t kid a kidder. I know when something smells bad. I just got a call from a friend. Someone at the embassy wants my passport. Now why is that, I wonder? Still, never mind. I’ve got someone here who’ll make sure they play ball.’

Riley felt her throat tighten. She knew instantly what he was saying: he’d got Myburghe.

‘Now what do I do, Riley? Do I stick with the plan and hope I can get out in one piece? Or do I let it go and cut my losses? Whaddya say, huh?’

She couldn’t reply, unable to form the words.

When he spoke again, she felt a cold tremor running down her spine.

‘Or maybe I should let my guys hang Myburghe up in the same place they did his caveman butler!’

*********

Riley rang Palmer and told him what had transpired, and that Henzigger was on his way to Colebrooke House.

‘I’ll take a look,’ he told her without hesitation. ‘He might not be there yet. Can you get hold of Mitcheson? We’ll need backup.’

Riley said she would and dialled Mitcheson’s number, knowing full well what Palmer meant by ‘backup’.

To her surprise, Mitcheson was on the Bayswater Road approaching Marble Arch. ‘I had a feeling you might need help,’ he said. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

He was there within three, behind the wheel of a dark blue Land Cruiser. He was dressed in combat boots, slacks and a cotton windcheater.

‘My God,’ Riley said admiringly, as he turned the car towards west London. ‘What have you been doing — posing for a gay porn mag?’

He laughed. ‘I was actually getting ready for a night-time surveillance job. Fortunately, it’ll keep. What’s going on — and why were you in the Magic Kingdom?’ He was referring to the US Embassy.

She told him about the meeting with Weller and Portius, and how Henzigger had been running drugs with Myburghe’s help. Now, with Portius having mounted a watch on his activities, Henzigger was out of options and ready to kill Myburghe unless he got a route out of the country.

Colebrooke House was the only place Henzigger would go. She could feel it. Myburghe’s car being found along the Western Avenue was a definite pointer. Other than the M4, it was the main route out of London towards Gloucestershire. Henzigger must have followed Myburghe and hijacked him once he realised his plans were falling apart, and now he was planning the final curtain.

Once clear of the London traffic, the motorway was reasonably clear. The few hesitant motorists they encountered took one look at the charging Land Cruiser in their rear-view mirrors and moved out of the way.

Mitcheson jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate a steel box in the back. ‘I stopped off and brought some gear,’ he said. ‘I thought we might need it.’

Riley felt a sudden tug of concern. The ‘gear’ he was referring to most likely had triggers and made loud noises, and if they were stopped by police, would be enough to put them both away for a very long time. But she knew Mitcheson wasn’t overly bothered by such niceties. Like Frank Palmer, he took the pragmatist’s view that you used the right tools for the job. Unlike Palmer, though, she wasn’t sure how much control he would exercise in an all-round fight. She felt guilty for even thinking it, but hoped he could control it enough to keep casualties down to single figures.

‘Is it traceable?’

He gave a half smile in the glow from the dashboard display. ‘Not to me, it isn’t.’

While the road unwound beneath them, Riley filled in the gaps about Henzigger and Myburghe, and how the ambassador had been sucked into the world of drugs and ready money.

‘Only he can tell us,’ said Riley. ‘But I think he ran up huge gambling debts and realised there was only one way to settle them. Who would suspect a British Ambassador of helping clear the way for the occasional drugs shipment? It must have taken a while to reel him in, but it was worth it.’

‘Unless he was coerced,’ Mitcheson suggested. ‘It wouldn’t have taken much for his family to be threatened.’

Riley looked at him in the glow of passing lights. ‘You sound as if you’re making excuses for him.’

‘I know how they work.’ He let a few seconds go by, then asked, ‘What brought this to a head, anyway?’

‘I think Christian’s death tipped the balance. Myburghe had nothing left for them to hold over him. The girls were out of the way and his wife was no longer a factor.’ She remembered Henzigger’s word. ‘The leverage was gone.’

Mitcheson nodded. If the former diplomat had been operating under extreme pressure to do what he’d done, it made his actions at least understandable. Now, with that pressure gone, he was no longer the help Henzigger and his backers needed.

‘The DEA think Henzigger and his backers have been planning this for years,’ Riley continued. ‘He needed someone to make it happen at this end. Someone to help get the shipment through. He met Sir Kenneth and probably learned of his gambling debts. It was a weakness he could trade on.’

‘So the business with Christian was a bluff?’

‘To begin with. When he baulked, they picked Christian up and killed him. Whether intentionally or not, we’ll never know.’

Riley rested her head against the cool of the window. Somehow, two strands of Myburghe’s life and career had come together in an elaborate hoax; the letters and the fake bomb from Jacob Worth, a punishment for what the former Intelligence Officer had seen as the ambassador’s betrayal in a time of crisis; and the finger and ring from Henzigger and the people behind him, probably preceded by threats of exposure about his gambling debts to keep Sir Kenneth in line.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said finally, aware that she, too, was sounding as if she might be excusing Myburghe’s actions, ‘that the business with his wife and son was as clearcut as everyone thinks.’