The Shadow Network E-Book

Tony Kent

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Dempsey/Devlin
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 670

Beschreibung

'an absolute belter' IAN RANKIN 'The British Jack Reacher'The Sunday Times 'Packed with deception and espionage … Kent has become the British Baldacci, and there can be no higher praise.'Daily Mail Don't miss Book 5 from criminal barrister and crime author Tony Kent: The Shadow Network How do you take down an enemy when no one believes they exist? When the lawyers of alleged war criminal Hannibal Strauss are caught up in a terror attack in The Hague, barrister Michael Devlin immediately suspects all is not what it seems. Teaming up once more with Agent Joe Dempsey, they must find who's behind it all before any more innocent lives are lost. With their key witness on the run and assassins on their tail, their only lead is a codename: the Monk, a legendary and mysterious foreign agent with a fearsome reputation. But what is his stake in this dangerous game? And just who is part of his shadowy network of spies? Caught in a complicated web of lies, secrets and double agents, there's no one Dempsey and Devlin can trust but themselves. PRAISE FOR The Shadow Network 'What a ride! The very definition of a fast-paced thriller … Tony Kent's best yet.' IMRAN MAHMOOD, AUTHOR OF ALL I SAID WAS TRUE 'I couldn't put it down!' STEPH BROADRIBB, AUTHOR OF DEATH ON THE BEACH 'A blistering, bruising and utterly addictive thriller that never misses.' NEIL BROADFOOT, AUTHOR OF UNMARKED GRAVES 'Unrelenting tension, nerve-shredding action, and lightening pace. Joe Dempsey is this decade's Jack Bauer.' NEIL LANCASTER, AUTHOR OF BLOOD RUNS COLD

Leseprobe

Praise for No Way to Die

‘A pulsating action thriller’

– Sunday Times

‘Like sitting down in front of the best action movie you’ve seen this year. A brilliant, gripping thrill ride.’

– Cass Green, author of The Killer Inside

‘A thrilling journey across America that channels Baldacci and Crais, all leading up to the classic ticking clock climax. Terrific.’

– Mason Cross, author of What She Saw Last Night

‘What an absolute belter of a book. Dempsey reminds me of an amalgam of 007 and Orphan X. A blistering, two-fisted thriller you won’t want to put down until you’re done.’

– Neil Lancaster, author of Dead Man’s Grave

Praise for Power Play

‘Twist after twist . . . It builds to a brilliant finale.’

– Daily Mirror

‘A high-octane conspiracy yarn.’

– The Times

‘An intricate, twisty minefield of geopolitics and absolute power gone rogue. Kent has outdone himself with this one.’

– David Baldacci

‘A gripping conspiracy thriller.’

– Ian Rankin

‘Reads like Baldacci at his best. Really intelligent, bang-up-to-date thriller.’

– Steve Cavanagh, author of Thirteen

‘Scarily credible, and so pacy and well-written that I forgot where I was, who I was, and indeed that I was reading a book at all. Gripping, absorbing, a page-turner with characters you commit to 100%.’

– Judith O’Reilly, author of Killing State

‘The kind of fast-paced action thriller that keeps you hooked until the very end. I loved it.’

– Simon Kernick, author of The Bone Field series

To Lorne, to Pippa and to everyone at Elliott & Thompsonfor making a dream a reality.

And to Scott, to Nicola and to everyone atEwing Law for making that reality possible.

‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’The Tempest, William Shakespeare

ONE

Kon Frankowski did not register the single bead of hot sweat as it trickled down his cheek. He did not notice as it disappeared into the thickness of his fashionably unkempt beard, nor was he aware of the three further snaking lines of perspiration that followed it.

It was only the fifth droplet – falling from his brow onto the space key of his open laptop – that made him aware of the effect of the midday sun.

He wiped away the wetness as he glanced up from his screen, his concentration replaced by anxiety. Looking beyond his small, otherwise empty table, he tried to gauge if he was being watched by any of the hundreds of people who surrounded him. To his relief, none showed the slightest interest in a heat-swept tech geek and his homework.

Not a care in the goddamn world, Kon thought to himself, resentment stirring in his gut. Nothing but sun and liquor.

The Grote Markt had once been a centre for trade, the commercial hub at the heart of The Hague, itself the third largest city in the Netherlands. But like so many historic European centres, that past was long gone and those origins mostly forgotten. Today the old square was the city’s prime social destination, encircled by trendy bars and overpriced eateries, all designed to syphon off its patrons’ spare cash under the guise of providing fun-filled ‘downtime’.

From sunrise until way past sunset, the Grote Markt was guaranteed to be teeming with over-excited, over-stimulated bodies, all high on caffeine or alcohol or, later in the day, something a lot stronger and a lot less legal. Throw in the unusually tall average height across the Dutch population and a man of normal size – a man like Kon – could easily get lost in a crowd like this.

Precisely why he had chosen this location for the meet.

Kon pulled down the brim of his black baseball cap and returned his attention to his laptop, his nervous energy still firing as he refocused on his work. Kon wanted this over. All of it. He wanted his life back the way it used to be, before he got caught up in this nightmare.

He pushed that negativity aside as he studied the open page on his browser again. The information was dense but now familiar, displayed on a secure site of his own creation; a page he had thrown together for this very purpose. The on-screen data was the fruit of seven hours of research, done overnight on the flight from New York to Amsterdam to ensure that every detail Kon could need would be at his fingertips.

Two faces stared back at him, dominating the screen in all their high-definition glory. They belonged to two men, their names, features and personal details now firmly committed to Kon’s memory after his in-flight study.

The first picture was of Mendel Prochnik. An Israeli citizen, Prochnik had started life in Hungary sixty-four years ago and every one of those years was etched across the man’s deeply lined features. Evidence of hard living or hard drinking, Kon had figured. Maybe of both.

The second image was of Will Duffy. A Scotsman by birth, Duffy hailed from the poorest part of Glasgow and, like Prochnik, he too had moved on from his beginnings; in his case it was London he now called home. He was the younger of the two men by eleven years but the difference between them looked closer to twenty. Duffy’s face carried signs of an eventful life – subtle scars and a broken nose – but he seemed to have kept the energy of his youth.

As physically different as the two men were, they had at least a career choice in common. Both were lawyers, even if Duffy didn’t look it; he could have been something else entirely, something a lot more physical. Prochnik, though? He looked a litigator to his very bones; his profession would be no more evident if he’d had ‘advocate’ tattooed across his forehead. Somewhere in the space between his biblically thick eyebrows and the most obvious wig Kon had ever seen on a man.

On any normal day he would have laughed at his own observation. But today was not a normal day. How could it be, in a situation like this? There were too many unknowns for the distraction of humour. Too many unseen dangers . . .

Kon’s gaze had drifted back upwards and away from the screen, his paranoia once again taking hold as he questioned why he had agreed to any of this. But before his thoughts could spiral into anxiety again, his focus was dragged back to the moment. What he had been waiting for had finally arrived.

Prochnik was smaller in the flesh than Kon had anticipated. Five feet five at best. But that was not what stood out the most. Even in the searing heat, he was wearing a blue three-piece suit so well tailored that it screamed both wealth and undernourishment; there was no way the frame beneath the bespoke cotton and wool blend was more than eight stone dripping wet. The build of a man who was busy working when he should have been eating.

Duffy, in contrast, was a little over six feet tall and built like a fighter. Dressed in khaki cargo shorts and an aged white T-shirt that carried a faded picture of a famous boxer, he was in better shape than a man in his fifties had any right to be. And he looked even less like a lawyer than he did in his photo.

More like the other guy’s minder than his partner, Kon thought.

Their sudden arrival provided a moment of welcome respite. A break from the constant dread Kon had been experiencing for days. In that instant of recognition he had thought about something other than the danger he was in. Something more than the risk he was taking. For that moment alone, Kon was unburdened.

An instant later and the fear was back.

Kon hesitated as he considered what to do next, unsure of the right approach to take. Now he was here, the situation was even more alien than he had expected it to be. One question, though, now stood out above all else:

How do I bullshit my way through this?

The uncertainty dominated Kon’s panicked mind as the two men drew closer, neither their faces nor their body language giving any guide to his best course. All he could read was their air of confidence. For all the incongruousness of their dress – one of them too formal for the hot weather, the other too causal for the seriousness of the occasion – Prochnik and Duffy were all business.

‘Konrad Frankowski.’

Prochnik’s words were a statement rather than a question, the heavily accented voice much deeper than Kon would have expected from so small a man. They left him in no doubt that Prochnik knew exactly who he was. And that made no sense at all.

It left Kon confused enough to keep him rooted to his seat.

‘How did you—’

Prochnik held up his hand as he came to a halt feet away. A clear indication for Kon to stop speaking.

‘We’re here to meet an American,’ he explained, moving around the chair ahead of him as he spoke. He pointed towards Kon’s head. ‘The Yankees cap. Might as well be a neon sign.’

Kon’s eyes swept across the Grote Markt in response. A quick scan that confirmed what Prochnik had noted: as busy as the square was, there was a complete absence of US sportswear. On any other day Kon would have found that fact noteworthy. Grist for those debates about the meaninglessness of a ‘world series’ when no one else in the world takes part.

Today it served only as an explanation for how he had been spotted so easily. An explanation that did not come close to answering all of Kon’s other concerns. His eyes were back on Prochnik and his next question was ready to fire as the lawyer sat down.

‘Well, that’s not—’

‘Do you have it, Mr Frankowski?’

Prochnik’s attention seemed focused on the snow-white handkerchief he was placing into his jacket’s left-hand breast pocket, rather than on the question with which he had interrupted Kon for a second time. If his intention was to unsettle then it was a success. Kon found himself scrambling for an answer.

‘I . . . I’m not sure—’

‘You’re not sure of what?’ Prochnik’s unblinking eyes shifted to meet those of his witness. ‘You know why we’re here, Mr Frankowski. So you know why we need to keep this interaction as brief as possible; this is dangerous business for us all. And so I’ll ask you again: do you have it?’

Kon took a deep, calming breath. He had practised this. He knew what he was supposed to say. He knew what he had to say.

But he would never get the chance.

The sound was louder – more violent – than any Kon had ever heard. A crack that seemed to split the very air around him and then reverberate from every side of the Grote Markt. Kon had no time to wonder what in the hell had caused it; the answer came before the echo, in the warm jet of blood that soaked his face as Prochnik was thrown violently backwards.

A single bullet had torn through the side of the old lawyer’s skull, its immediately fatal impact slamming his body onto the cobblestone floor of the square. Kon was left with no more questions. With no more anxious anticipation. With no more doubts.

He was left with nothing but horror.

TWO

Kon stared with puzzlement at the sight of Mendel Prochnik’s body as it lay lifeless on the floor ahead of him. The sight was more than he could comprehend in the heartbeat of time that was available to him. As small as Prochnik had been, a few moments ago he had seemed the very definition of intimidation; a force of nature who had needed only words to destroy Kon’s composure and leave him brutally aware of his limitations.

An instant more and the same man was a disfigured corpse, his life’s purpose ended by a single bullet.

Kon remained frozen in his seat as he failed to process what he had just witnessed. In all likelihood, he would have remained there longer had he not been pulled to his feet with a force he wasn’t strong enough to resist. A single word was screamed into his ear as he was lifted from the chair, before he even knew who had moved him.

‘RUUUUNNNN!’

The combination of physical force and the shouted instruction broke through Kon’s stunned paralysis, but the numbing shock remained. It took the crack of a second bullet – barely a moment after the first – for his survival instinct to be triggered.

Will Duffy had needed no such additional motivation. He had launched into a near-sprint even before the second bullet had rung out, his large, scarred fist gripping Kon’s collar tight and hauling the younger man along in his wake. Duffy’s sheer strength had given Kon no chance to resist, but with the incentive of further gunfire, the American no longer needed that encouragement.

If anything, he was now moving quicker than the Scotsman.

At first Kon was so focused on his own escape, he did not notice the movement of the crowd around him. He did not hear the increasing sound of screams as more and more shots rang out, or the wild, uncontrolled pin-balling of bodies as literally hundreds of people began to run for their lives, most fleeing a threat they could not see.

And he did not stop to wonder why people were running in different directions.

But Duffy seemed to be well aware of the chaos around them. He kept his grip tight on Kon’s collar, pulling him close just as a man far larger than them both almost crashed between them. That movement sent the giant careering to Kon’s right instead, into a small huddle of terrified locals who went down like bowling pins.

‘THERE’S TOO MANY OF THEM,’ Duffy screamed, his words the first sounds Kon had truly registered other than gunfire. ‘WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE.’

Duffy’s grip on Kon did not loosen as he shouted, nor did his pace lessen. The two men kept moving forwards into a crowd that was now hurtling in every direction. Kon was finally beginning to see the terror-fuelled madness that surrounded him, but any focus he achieved was broken with the sound of every new gunshot.

Sounds that were now coming thick and fast.

‘THEY’RE ALL AROUND US.’

Duffy changed direction abruptly as he shouted and Kon now felt himself pulled to the left, turning a full ninety degrees off his path with only the smallest break in stride. A glance over his right shoulder at where they had been heading gave the reason for the change: even with the crowd between them six deep, he could not miss the sight of two more falling bodies.

Kon flinched at the bloody sight, but he had neither the time nor the stomach to watch further. Duffy was accelerating, passing even those few now heading the same way. Kon could not fathom how the Scotsman seemed to know where to go. How he knew where the danger was and where it was not. Instead he was just grateful for the certainty; for someone with purpose and with know-how, enough to make up for Kon’s own helpless terror.

The sound of another shot. The sight of another falling body, close enough this time that Kon felt the heat of the poor bastard’s blood as it splattered his own cheek. And then another sudden change in direction.

Had Kon been thinking clearly, he would have realised by now that Duffy was as lost as the rest of them. That he, too, was blinded by panic. By fear and by uncertainty. And that he no longer had any idea of the route to safety. Duffy – Kon would have realised – was running for his life with nothing but the sound of gunfire to direct him.

Gunfire that had so far sent him wrong at every turn.

But Kon saw none of this. His instinct – his need – to survive demanded that he believed in something. In someone. And so he had invested his faith in Will Duffy, utterly and completely. It was Duffy, Kon knew, who would keep him alive. It was Duffy who would get him through this.

Until the moment it was not.

With the blood and adrenaline pumping like a torrent through his veins, it seemed there was no way Kon’s heart could have beaten any faster. And yet that was exactly what he felt as he heard Duffy call out in pain and stumble to the floor.

The cause of Duffy’s fall was immediately apparent; the fast-flowing blood already pumping out of the puncture wound to his calf impossible to miss. A single round, in and out, it would make movement under his own steam impossible.

Kon leaned down towards him, intending to pull Duffy back to his feet. As he moved he was violently buffeted from either side and nearly knocked down himself, the panicking crowd taking zero care as they ran for their lives. It took Kon a second or two to regain his balance before he once again held out a hand to Duffy.

A hand that the Scotsman swiped away.

‘DON’T BE A FOOL, MAN,’ Duffy screamed. ‘THEY’RE HERE FOR YOU, KONRAD. YOU’VE GOT TO RUN.’

Kon felt his head spin as he processed the words. He did not understand what Duffy could mean, nor did he have time to think it through; it was all he could do to stay on his feet as the crowd surged past. An effort not helped as Duffy punctuated his next screamed instruction with a powerful shove to Kon’s chest.

‘GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.’

There was no mistaking the desperation – the fear – in Duffy’s voice. He had fought his way back to his feet and had put everything into his physical effort to get Kon moving. It had left him struggling to stay upright on his one good leg, causing him to stumble forwards into the American’s arms.

‘Trust no one.’ Duffy was no longer shouting. His words were now more like a plea, delivered from a distance of just inches. ‘You don’t know who’s behind all this. If you want to survive, you trust—’

Kon felt the crack of the next bullet before he even heard it. It caused him to flinch in fear, sure that the shooter must be just feet away, and so he missed the instant the round impacted with Duffy. But he did not miss the Scotsman’s fall. The weight Kon had borne for just a moment was suddenly gone, as Duffy had hit the floor for a second time.

And this time he was not getting back up.

Kon was on his own.

A fraction of a second later and Kon was moving again. With no one to follow, his base survival instinct shifted gears and fired him into action of his own. He had no idea which direction was safe – no clue even of how many gunmen there were out there – but still his lower brain took hold. It picked a direction and it gave him a single, simple instruction:

Run.

What followed would always remain a blur to Kon. A hazy, bloody and unwelcome memory that would haunt his sleep until his dying day, but one his conscious brain could not even time. He would never recall for how long he ran, how many terrified men and women he pushed aside, how many bullets flew past. All he would remember was fighting his way through hell as he sprinted through the crowd, clambering over the dead and the dying, with bodies and blood and . . . other things, all hitting him as he moved.

It seemed to be hopeless.

It seemed to be endless.

And then it was not.

Kon felt no relief as he pushed through what proved to be the perimeter of the crowd, nor did the sight of open space fill him with anything but fear. To break free of the screaming huddle was, he realised, to make himself stand out. And to stand out was to make himself a target.

And yet Kon knew that he had to take this chance. He had no perception of how long the bullets had been flying and so no way to guess how much longer this could go on. What he did know was that more and more bodies were dropping by the second, a river of blood beginning to flow beneath his feet.

To run into the open was to risk death.

To stay might just guarantee it.

He made the decision without missing a beat, breaking through the slowing confine of the crowd and hitting a speed he had not managed even in his youth. There were others breaking free, too, he now saw; other targets, he would later realise. But in the moment he gave them no thought at all. His focus was on one thing: the road that lay directly ahead, across the square and seemingly unmanned.

The primitive part of his brain – the base instinct that had kept him alive to now – was telling him that this was his route to survival. That this was his way out of here. It had got him this far; he was not about to ignore it now.

Without so much as a glance at the bloody carnage behind him, Kon ran.

THREE

Sarah Truman’s irritation was impossible to hide. She could hear it in her own exhale of breath, made through gritted teeth, as she brushed wet rusk crumbs from the baptism robes of her youngest son.

The damp marks left on the long white silk were most likely invisible to anyone else, she realised. But right now, with all the other stresses of the day, it was a problem she did not need. And one that should have been easily avoided.

The sound of footsteps made her look up, just as Michael Devlin walked through the door that led into the main reception room of their West London townhouse. Michael was dressed in his best navy-blue suit and he carried their other son, Liam – older by nineteen minutes than his twin, Daniel – cradled in his arm.

On most days there was no sight that Sarah could have enjoyed more. Tall and slim, Michael was as handsome at forty-one as he had been on the night they had first met. Combined with the primal appeal of a big, strong man holding their baby to his chest, her attraction to him should have only increased.

It usually did.

Today, though, was different. Today was a big day. And right now, whether he knew it or not, Michael was not helping.

‘Did you give Daniel a milk biscuit?’

Sarah could not keep the annoyance from her voice as she asked the question. It caused the barrister to sheepishly move his right hand behind his back and out of sight. A reaction Sarah could not fail to notice.

‘Now, it’s not that I’m saying I did it,’ Michael began, deploying that note of disarming charm he was able to inject into his voice at will, ‘but why would it matter if I did?’

‘Maybe because he’s gummed it all over his baptism robes?’

‘You’re not in Boston now, beautiful. It’s called a christening gown here.’

‘And you’re not in Belfast any more, Michael Devlin, so cut out the blarney.’ Sarah tried hard to stay stern, even as she felt a smile threaten the corners of her mouth. ‘Now tell me: how is it that I’m down here cleaning up the boys, less than twenty minutes after I finished dressing them? All I asked you to do was keep an eye on them while I got ready.’

‘I did keep an eye on them. They’re both still here, aren’t they?’

‘And what’s that behind your back, huh?’

‘Ah, now you’re just changing the subject.’

Michael grinned as he spoke. He knew he had been caught red-handed, Sarah could tell. But still he thought he could talk his way through it. That should have irritated her but somehow it just amused her. As always, she found it near impossible to stay angry with him.

Not that she would ever let Michael know that.

‘Is it another biscuit?’

‘How do you know it’s not something for you?’

‘Do I look like I eat baby rusks?’

‘Are you telling me you’ve never wondered about the taste?’

‘Michael, show me your hand.’

‘That’d ruin the surprise. Is that what you really want?’

‘Show. Me. Your. Hand.’

Michael’s smile broadened and he stepped forwards, towards the same white blanket where Daniel was lying on his back with his tiny head supported by a small, somehow ever whiter pillow. Michael leaned downwards and gently placed Liam next to his brother. For a moment he paused, his eyes fixed on his two sons.

All the while he kept his right hand hidden. Sarah watched him like a hawk throughout, well aware that sleight of hand was not beyond her fiancé.

Finally he straightened up, his full six-foot-one height towering over Sarah’s own five eight. Even with her eyes still on his hand, she could almost feel his mischievous expression. And for the first time she began to doubt herself; perhaps it was not a biscuit, after all.

‘Well, I was planning to give you this when you were in a better mood. But if it cheers you up then it’ll have done its job.’

‘Michael, I’m not—’

Before Sarah could finish, Michael held out a flat jeweller’s box and opened the top. Inside it was a pendant attached to a delicate necklace. The thin chain was made of gold, Sarah could tell, while the pendant itself was a heart of diamonds interwoven with a Celtic knot of gold and white gold.

The sight made her catch her breath, but her reaction was not because of the gift itself.

It was because she had seen this gift before.

‘Michael. That’s . . . this . . . it’s your mother’s pendant.’

‘And now it’s your pendant, darling. From me and from the boys. And from my ma, too.’

Sarah felt a tear begin to trickle down from her eye.

‘I can’t . . . it’s your mother’s, Michael. I can’t—’

‘And now it’s their mother’s.’ Michael indicated to their sons as he spoke. ‘She’d want you to have it, Sarah. We’re all that’s left of my family. The boys are all there is to carry it on. So it’s right that you have this. Besides, I want you to have it.’

‘What about Anne?’

‘Anne knows,’ Michael replied. Anne Flaherty was the partner of Michael’s late brother Liam. She was also the only living connection Michael had to his past. ‘And she’s happy.’

Michael reached out and gently wiped the tear from Sarah’s cheek. He then removed the pendant from the box, traced the necklace around her neck and connected the clasp. Done, he kissed her on her brow and stepped back. His grin was gone, replaced with a look of total affection.

‘It suits you. You look beautiful, sweetheart.’

Sarah struggled for a reply, aware that the tear Michael had wiped away had been replaced by another. When she finally did, it was with a question:

‘Tell me what it means.’

‘It means there’s no beginning and no end,’ Michael explained. ‘The flow of the knot through the heart represents unity and eternal life. It represents what you made when you made the boys.’

‘When we made them,’ Sarah said.

‘Let’s not pretend you didn’t do the heavy lifting on that one, gorgeous.’

Sarah laughed as she wiped away the tears from her cheek and from her eyes.

‘You realise I’ve got to go re-do my make-up now, right?’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Meaning you’ve got to keep an eye on the boys again.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘And just so we’re clear, “keeping an eye” doesn’t just mean keeping them breathing. You’ve got to keep them clean, too.’

Michael’s grin widened even further as he raised his left hand. Sarah’s eyes shifted to the rusk he was holding between his fingers.

‘Then I guess I’ll be putting this away until after church.’ He looked down towards the blanket. ‘Sorry, lads. No more snacking. Yer ma’s spoken.’

FOUR

Joe Dempsey crossed the narrow street to the pavement opposite the Church of St Thomas More, placed his hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the intensity of the sun and looked up.

The church was in London’s Chelsea district, just a short walk from the King’s Road and only a little further from Michael and Sarah’s home in Carlyle Square. It was not what Dempsey would have imagined from the surroundings. The building was surprisingly plain from the outside. Built in unflattering red brick. It looked almost as if a poorly designed factory had been dropped just a stone’s throw from the most scenic part of the River Thames, an effect worsened by the pretty, chocolate-box townhouses that surrounded it.

Not that Dempsey was here to appraise the architecture. No. He was here for a far more important task – to take on a duty to which, until just a few days ago, he had feared he was entirely unsuited, but to which he could also not bring himself to say no.

Dempsey’s opinion on that subject had been changed by the events of the past week and the lengths to which he had pushed himself to protect the son of his former friend. But that reassurance was the sole positive of what he had just lived through. His experiences in the past seven days – chasing down a dirty bomb across the State of Florida, failing to prevent a prison break in Texas and then leading a pitched battle against a domestic terrorist organisation in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains – had taken a physical and emotional toll that had left him close to exhaustion. And so this rare holiday – his first trip home in four years – was needed more now than ever.

Taking just a few moments more to enjoy the warmth of the sun, Dempsey inhaled a deep, reassuring breath, stepped off the curb and headed towards the church.

The large wooden doors at the front of the building had been left open for the arrival of the christening party, but the church itself seemed deserted. Dempsey was unsure if this was unusual. It had been a while since he had stepped inside a place like this and he could not remember the last time he had done so without it being full. Normal or not, for now he was completely alone.

The question vanished anyway as he paid proper attention to the building’s interior, which he now saw was nothing like the outside. It seemed older. As if it predated the exterior, which was of course impossible. But it was something more than that which had grabbed him.

It’s what? he asked himself. A feeling? Or a memory?

Dempsey looked around as he sought to answer his own question, a strangely familiar discomfort moving within his stomach as he did so. In contrast to the plain walls visible from the street, the nave of the building was filled with a combination of marble, gold leaf and fine art. Like all Catholic churches in England, it paled against the grandeur of Rome. Or even some of those in New York, or at least Manhattan.

But for that, this was a church. The kind Dempsey remembered from his childhood. This, his father had raised him to believe, was ‘God’s house’. That thought alone – that rare mental reference to the man who had raised him – explained the gnawing, unhappy feeling deep within his gut. Even one glimpse of that face within his mind’s eye brought back a thousand memories. Very few of them were good. And none of them were welcome.

For a moment, in the silence of the nave, Dempsey’s thoughts began to drift to a place he had avoided for years. A place he did not want to revisit. He was grateful, then, when they were drowned out by the sound of small wheels on paving stones, and by two very different accents.

Northern Irish and American. Both well-spoken versions, both with the tinge of British colour that years in London will inevitably add. Two voices that made Dempsey happier than he had been in a very long time.

They’re here.

Dempsey had not seen Michael Devlin or Sarah Truman in more than two years. Not in person, anyway. One of the few positives of the Covid-19 lockdown was how au fait the world had become with interacting on-screen. And while Dempsey had been less reliant on that tech than most, none of the international journeys his job had required while the planet was closed had brought him home to the UK.

It was via exactly that kind of video link-up that Dempsey had ‘seen’ Sarah Truman just thirty-six hours ago. From his hotel room back in Philadelphia, to explain why his trip to London had been delayed and to reassure her that its cause had been settled; that he would make it to the baptism. But all that call had done was to cement how screen contact was no substitute.

No amount of Zoom or Skype would ever replace the physical presence of a friend.

And it sure as hell doesn’t replace family.

The afternoon sun beamed powerfully as Sarah reached the church.

It caused the wooden doorway to frame her, creating a full body halo that left her features in shadow, too dark to make out. Not that those details were needed. Dempsey would recognise Sarah Truman in pitch darkness. Right now, he even knew how wide she was smiling.

That happiness filled her voice when she spoke.

‘The elusive Joseph Dempsey.’

Sarah’s face became visible as she took the few steps that separated them. The grin was there, as big as Dempsey had ever seen it, while her striking green eyes were alive with excitement and her arms thrown wide in welcome. An instant later and Dempsey was engulfed in her tight embrace.

‘My God it’s good to see you.’ Sarah spoke into Dempsey’s ear as she gripped him harder, every word filled with genuine feeling. ‘It’s been way too long.’

‘I know,’ Dempsey whispered. He would have been uncomfortable with this level of physical contact from almost anyone else. But not from her. Dempsey hugged back hard. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been back.’

‘You’ll be even more sorry if you don’t take your hands off my girl.’

The second voice – male and Irish – came from the sun-drenched doorway. Another silhouette that Dempsey could have identified at a hundred yards, even without the distinctive accent. Dempsey and Sarah each took a step backwards, and Sarah moved to her right to give him a clear view.

Michael Devlin stepped into the space she had vacated. The effect of the sunbeam was less angelic upon him than it had been on his fiancée. Which was, at least to Dempsey’s mind, entirely appropriate.

As Michael moved forwards, Dempsey could see a double buggy behind him, safely stationed in the shade just inside the open doorway. He thrust out his right hand and, with a nod of his head, he indicated the buggy.

‘You on parking duty, are you?’

Michael slapped Dempsey’s hand aside, took one step closer and threw his arms around his friend’s shoulders. It was the same reaction as Sarah’s, fuelled by the joy of being together again. And no doubt by sadness that it could not last.

Dempsey returned both the embrace and the sentiment. For the second or two that it lasted, neither man said a word.

‘OK. Enough of the emotional bollocks.’

Michael stepped back as he spoke. He looked Dempsey up and down, as if suddenly all business. Dempsey realised he was being assessed for fresh damage. For new injuries, sustained since they had last seen one another. Dempsey knew they were there. He knew where they were. And he knew that most were too old now to affect his movement much, so he was confident that Michael could not spot them.

‘I’m not gonna lie, I can’t quite believe you’re here,’ Michael finally said, his grin returning as he spoke. ‘I can’t believe you really made it.’

‘Like I was ever going to miss this,’ Dempsey replied.

‘It was touch and go for a while there,’ Sarah said. ‘Any chance we’ll ever hear why?’

‘No chance at all,’ Dempsey replied. ‘You know we don’t talk to the press.’

‘Screw you. When was I ever “the press” where you’re concerned?’

Dempsey had no doubt that the outrage was fake and was happy that his answer had diverted Sarah from her question. As much as he loved them both, there were things about his ‘other’ life that he could not discuss. Not even with his closest friends.

‘And there was me thinking my job’s just not newsworthy enough for you,’ Dempsey joked. ‘But what does it matter? I got here, didn’t I? I was always getting here.’

‘Never doubted it for a second, buddy.’ Michael slapped Dempsey’s arm as he spoke, then waited a beat. ‘Well, maybe for a bit of a second . . .’

‘Well, I was confident about it, at least.’ Dempsey laughed. ‘I couldn’t leave you two hanging on this one.’

‘No. No, you bloody well could not.’ Michael’s smile widened as he spoke. ‘Speaking of which, isn’t it above time for the boys to meet their Uncle Joe?’

Dempsey walked the few paces to the buggy and for the first time looked down on the small, sleeping faces of the eight-month-old twin boys, just about discernible under their shawls and their hats. They remained motionless, sleeping tight through the big introduction.

Dempsey felt an unfamiliar sensation. Nerves, it seemed to be. Or anxiety. It was alien enough that he was unsure even what to call it, but he felt it now as he looked down on Liam and Daniel Devlin.

On his godsons.

Children had rarely featured in Dempsey’s life. He was unmarried, unattached and dedicated to a job that could end his life at any moment. It was hardly an ideal scenario into which to bring a dependent of any kind, let alone a child. But now, as he looked down at Liam and Daniel Devlin, he knew that his doubts about standing for them had been misplaced.

Dempsey could do this. He could love them. Most of all, if it were ever needed, he could protect them.

‘You alright there, Joe?’

Dempsey looked over his shoulder, only now realising that he had lowered himself onto his haunches. He shook his head at Michael.

‘Guys, they’re incredible. They’re just . . . they’re beautiful.’

Sarah laughed. ‘We think so too.’

‘Plus it’s important you like them,’ Michael added, ‘because, you know, if anything bad ever happens to us . . .’

‘Stop that.’ Sarah punched Michael in the arm. ‘Don’t even say that in here.’

‘Man’s entitled to know what he’s getting himself into.’ Michael chuckled to himself as he rubbed the spot where he’d been hit. ‘So what do you say, Uncle Joe?’

Dempsey looked from Michael to Sarah, and then down to the still-sleeping boys. Two people he loved, suddenly multiplied to four.

He took a moment, then stood back up.

‘Godsons or not, they’re family. Same as you. And you know I won’t let anything happen to my family.’

Dempsey finished with a deep breath, followed by a long exhale. An unconscious effort to expel the seriousness of the moment. When he spoke again, his tone was lighter.

‘Now let’s get this thing started before I change my mind.’

FIVE

Kon Frankowski’s lungs burned with the strain as he burst through the heavy wooden door that barred his way into the Polska Parafia Den Haag. The relief that the church was unlocked caused his legs to buckle a little, but somehow he managed to stay standing.

He steadied himself on the closed left-hand door, pulled shut its right-hand twin and searched for some means to lock the pair. He quickly found it. A large metal hinge bolt, centuries older than the doors themselves if its battered condition was any indication. It would have been more than enough to keep him out, had it been in place.

He pulled down the bolt and checked it was secure. He had no idea if he had been followed. And if he had, a locked door was a weak obstacle to someone determined to find him. But it was better than nothing. At the very least it would slow them down.

Reassured that he was safe for the moment, Kon staggered backwards. He felt his spine hit a tall marble column that stood between the doorway and the aisle and, with his fight or flight instinct now exhausted, he slid down its smooth, cold stone.

He had no idea if he was alone in the white-walled nave of the church. Nor did he care. His focus was on his hands. They were red with blood and they were shaking, even as he rested them on his torn, crimson-stained linen trousers.

But for all of the physical manifestations of his shock, Kon’s mind was clear. For the first time since the first gunshot in the Grote Markt, he could hear his own thoughts. Thoughts which now stretched beyond the next moment. And they left him with one inevitable question.

What now?

He had no answer yet but his mind was working fast. He was sure it would come. In the meantime, he needed to clean himself.

Kon climbed back to his feet and staggered to the ornate stone stoup just feet away, then plunged his shaking hands into the deep pool of holy water inside it. The clear liquid was almost instantly streaked with the red that had caked his skin. The sheer amount of blood first surprised him, and then it worried him: if there was so much on his hands, what about the rest of him?

He thrust his hands back into the water, only this time he scooped out a handful and threw it across his face and his scalp. He did the same thing twice more, rubbing hard at the skin all across his head and neck. Then, after a glance towards the parts of the church he could see to ensure he was still alone, he stripped to his waist and used his black T-shirt as a towel, dabbing away the excess water and with it the streaks of diluted blood that had stained him. Done, he pulled the wet cloth back over his head.

The sensation of the damp T-shirt was almost a relief as it clung tight to his torso. Kon realised now that he had been dripping with sweat as well, brought on by the mix of exertion and heat. And, he guessed, from the flood of adrenaline that had been like nothing he had ever experienced before.

Kon was not sure how far he had run. Or for how long. It was further than it should have been, he knew that much; while the Church of St John Paul II was just three roads from the Grote Markt, in his manic state Kon had lost his way. But still, it could not have taken him that far out of his way.

And yet right now, despite having covered only a relatively short distance, his legs felt like lead.

That’s the terror, he told himself. Throw that into the mix and even an Olympian would be exhausted.

His tiredness, though, was hardly pressing. Instead he forced his mind back to the square. Back to the horror he had witnessed. To the bloody executions of scores of innocent people.

The memory was far from complete, but it was too much even so. Kon could feel the shaking of his hands worsen as the foggy images began to coalesce in his mind. Dead bodies littering the ground as he fought his way through the crowd. The horror . . . the carnage . . . it was more than he could take. And it was made worse by the shame that rose in his gut at his brutally honest assessment of himself.

You thought of no one else, Kon, he told himself. You thought of no one but yourself.

And you left Will Duffy to die.

‘You’re nothing but a goddamned fucking coward.’

He said the last words aloud and so, for the first time, he heard the tears in his own voice as he began to sob. Kon would later realise that this was natural. That this was human; it was just what happens to a traumatised human being when every distraction is gone and they are left with only shock, relief and disbelief.

He would learn all of this in time. For now he could do nothing but cry, his sobs growing more pronounced as grief overtook him. It left him as little more than a shaking heap on the cold church floor, his mind racing with questions:

How am I even here?

Why me, of all people? Why was it me who got away?

Why not Prochnik? Or Duffy?

Why not all those poor people I just stepped over?

The image that came with that final thought made his blood run cold.

Those people he had stepped over, as if they were nothing but an obstacle in his path. Why had they paid with their lives, when he had not?

For a time Kon could think of nothing else; he was lost in despair and debilitating survivor’s guilt. And then, just as suddenly as those thoughts had engulfed him, they were gone. Replaced by the words Will Duffy had shouted into his ear:

‘THEY’RE HERE FOR YOU, KONRAD.’

Kon’s sobs stopped in that moment, that precise, now-vivid memory clarifying in his mind and banishing all others.

It had not occurred to Kon that the shooting was anything but random. Even with Prochnik as the first victim – and even though Kon was acutely aware of the dangers of his situation – his mind had just not gone there. The people he was involved with were military professionals. They were elite. Surgical. That was the world Kon had stepped into; one where consequences come without fanfare. Where death is cold and calm, waged without waste of energy or resource.

The Grote Markt was the opposite of that. It was mass murder. Indiscriminate death on a grand scale. A terrorist attack, Kon had presumed. Or just another crazy sonofabitch with an automatic weapon, the kind of thing that happens way too often back in the States.

But then Will Duffy had said what he’d said, and was so sure of it. He had seemed to know immediately what was happening and why. And, since he clearly knew a hell of a lot more about all this than Kon, it was more than likely that Scotsman’s conclusions were correct.

‘Trust no one. You don’t know who’s behind all this. If you want to survive, you trust—’

They were the last words Duffy had ever said and they came to Kon now, just as the image of the lawyer’s fallen body appeared in his mind. Kon had barely heard them at the time, and he sure as hell had not registered their meaning. How could he, when he knew so little about what ‘all this’ even was?

But now? As little as Kon understood what was happening, he was convinced that his life was still in danger. Whoever was behind the hell in the Grote Markt, they would still be coming for him. He had to protect himself by following Duffy’s instructions, if only because Duffy had sacrificed his life to give them. And Kon knew his best chance of survival was to face that fate alone. It was a terrifying realisation. And it was more than he could take.

His breathing had become more and more shallow in the past few minutes and, with his stress hormones spiking, he began to feel lightheaded. The sensation was accompanied by a rush of cold, wet saliva against the walls of his mouth, along with a feeling of weakness in his chin. Kon recognised both as the physical markers that came before vomiting.

He climbed to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him, and forced himself to take in the biggest lungfuls of air that he could manage. The effect was as intended; the symptoms began to abate and the nausea lessened, and Kon’s head began to clear. His legs now steadier, he kept up the deep-breathing technique as he moved back towards the aisle, his vision steadier by the second.

It took just four steps more for Kon to reach the nave of the church, and for the first time he could see the full deserted grandeur of the place. It was a sight that gave him comfort. A left-over, he realised, from a childhood in which his parents’ Catholicism loomed large. For a religious boy back in New Jersey, the church was the ultimate safe space. The place to which he could run when he needed to escape the bullies who found sport in tormenting him.

Kon today was far from the shy, bookish child he had been back them. He was successful. He was confident. Hell, he was even an atheist. And yet this was still the place he had chosen when he needed sanctuary. As he moved further along the aisle and saw more of the building – new to him, but as familiar as all Catholic churches tend to be – he began to understand why.

I guess we don’t change so much after all.

Whatever subconscious drive had brought him here, it was the respite Kon required. A temporary enclave from the madness he had left behind. It could not last, he knew. The church would have to open soon enough.

But not for an hour. Not for two, even. As long as that door stays locked . . .

He bowed his right knee and lowered his head to the crucifix that hung above the alter ahead, all without thinking. Unconscious genuflection. Another tic from his childhood, maintained even into his ungodly adult years. Then he slipped into the pew to his left.

Kon’s eyes remained fixed above the alter as he slid along the hard wooden bench. The effect that the image of the crucified Christ had on him had changed over the years. As a boy it had signified hope. Life after death; the reward promised for faith. And then, as a man, it had meant something else entirely: it had become the visual representation of what Kon now thought of as a two-thousand-year-old cult.

But right now it was neither of those things. It was simply a totem upon which to focus. A fixed point in space at which he could stare while he rid himself of the thoughts – of the memories – that were tormenting him.

For a moment it seemed to work. Combined with his continued deep breathing, he could feel his heartbeat slow and his mental images begin to fade. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to pull through this. Like the horrors of the Grote Markt might not have stained his soul, after all.

For a moment, his mind was empty.

And it was then that the worst fear of all hijacked his every conscious thought.

‘Maria.’

SIX

Kulvinder Vic Sethi threw his heavy cricket bag into the back seat of the 2012 Opel Vectra, slammed shut the door and climbed into the front passenger seat, all without even a glance towards the driver. Neither man said a word as the car pulled into the empty lane and began to drive away from the chaos that was visible in Sethi’s wing mirror.

Sethi had removed his black balaclava, his assault vest and trousers, his boots and his gloves in an alleyway less than two hundred yards from the square. Along with his AK-47 and two back-up pistols, those items were now stashed in the long sports holdall on the seat behind him.

It had been a risk to change so close to the site of the operation, but neither Sethi nor his three accomplices had any choice. Their assault on the Grote Markt had lasted just minutes, but that level of carnage was always going to attract police attention fast. The sirens were already close when Sethi had called a halt to the attack and so any retreat from the scene had to be short and well-planned.

Careful preparation had ensured it was exactly that.

Sethi’s earlier reconnaissance of the location had been thorough. Working against the clock, he had noted the location of every camera that surrounded the square – both local authority CCTV and independent security coverage from the nearby shops and bars – and he had used that information to plot the four clearest routes of escape. Each of these, he had ensured, would lead either him or a member of his group to a safe spot where they could quickly change their appearance unseen, before disappearing back into the horrified crowds.

It was the only safe way for them to exit once the job was done. And in Sethi’s case it had worked perfectly. For now he could only hope that the same was true of the others.

By now well practised, it had taken Sethi less than a minute to transform himself from gunman to something a lot less menacing. He had worn his white Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt and bright-yellow, knee-length shorts beneath his assault gear. They combined with his bohemian-style front-and-back sandals to form an already solid disguise, but their effect was improved by his long, oiled black hair and a pitch-perfect Northern English accent in the place of his native New Delhi. He looked like a British interrailer on tour. And his diminutive height of five-foot-two only reinforced his civilian camouflage. No one would take this Vic Sethi for the merciless mercenary he truly was. He knew that for one sure and certain reason: in all the years Sethi had been doing this, no one ever had.

With no further thought now needed on his escape, Sethi paid no attention to the long stream of city police vehicles that were driving at speed on the other side of the road. Instead he turned his attention to the laptop he had seized in the square.

It was, he was already sure, the key to all of this.

Sethi pushed the screen up from its near closed position and watched as it came to life. The machine had been open when he’d reached it, on the table closest to the corpse of Mendel Prochnik, and he had been careful not to change that. To close it completely could have triggered the need to re-enter a password that Sethi did not possess. And while he was sure his employer had technicians capable of circumventing that little detail, he also knew that time was not on their side.

He was relieved, then, to see the screen light up as he opened it fully. He even smiled when he saw what was on it. Two faces. Both of them familiar. Both of them now dead at the hands of Sethi and his team.

The smile faded quickly as he navigated away to the laptop’s desktop page. Sethi had hoped to see an array of folders there. The haystack in which he would search for the needle he had been instructed to find. To his disappointment there were almost no icons that indicated the presence of files. Instead the dominant image was its default backdrop.

Sethi had expected to spend hours searching the laptop for what he needed. Days, even, depending on how good its owner was. It took less than five minutes to teach him otherwise. The machine was brand new. Purchased and registered within the last forty-eight hours, no doubt intended for today’s task and nothing more.

If this guy had the file, it’s somewhere else entirely.

It was an unwelcome reality, one that Sethi knew his employer would not take well. And it was with that thought in mind that he turned his head towards a new sound within the car: the buzz of a vibrating mobile, a specialised model that was sitting in the central console between him and the driver.

Sethi had no doubt who was calling. And not for the first time, he found himself wondering if his employer might actually be psychic. He watched as the driver reached out, picked up the phone and offered it to him.

‘Is the encryption on?’

‘End to end,’ the driver replied, his eyes never leaving the road.

Sethi did not even nod in response. He just hit the connect icon and put the phone to his ear.

‘What happened?’

The voice was abrupt and to the point. By now Sethi would expect nothing else. In the four years since he had first been engaged by the Monk – the only name Sethi knew for the man – their relationship had never strayed so much as an inch beyond business.

‘As planned,’ Sethi replied.

‘Prochnik and Duffy?’

‘Dead.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Prochnik I hit first. Definite kill shot.’

‘And Duffy?’

‘One of the musketeers got him.’

The Monk did not ask who he was referring to. Sethi always assigned code names, as the Monk insisted that no team member should know details that could identify the others, a long-standing rule that Sethi obeyed without question. He usually based them on pop culture references, and had decided on the Dumas classic for this team. No doubt used to his code names by now, the Monk made no comment at all. When he spoke again it was as if his attention had been diverted not a jot.

‘You’re sure?’

‘I saw him go down,’ Sethi replied. ‘And I saw the body.’

‘And what about the contact? Did you recognise him?’

‘It wasn’t someone I knew, no.’

‘Did you deal with him? Did you get what we needed?’

‘I can’t say for sure. I lost sight of him once the crowd went crazy. There’s a chance one of the others got him but I’ll need to ask them. We hit a lot of people. The contact might have been one of them.’

‘Might have been?’

‘It’s not the perfect outcome, I know. But given the constraints of the plan—’

‘The plan was you kill the lawyers and whoever they were meeting, and that you secure whatever the third party was carrying.’

Sethi took a deep breath. He wanted to snap out his response – to give the Monk a reality check – but he knew he had to control his tone. He was speaking to a man who dealt with insubordination as harshly as he did failure. When he spoke again, he kept his tone respectful.

‘I understand that. But you also wanted it to seem like indiscriminate, amateur terrorism. That affected how obviously we could target these people.’

The Monk said nothing. As ever, Sethi did not know what was worse: the sound of his employer’s strange, roaming accent as it disparaged his efforts, or the silence as the Monk’s cruel mind ticked over, no doubt considering the severity of his response.

An instant more and he had his answer.