BLOOD DRAGON Read online

They made light conversation about Jack’s trip until the coffee arrived. The waitress disappeared, leaving the room empty.

  “Does Jethro know you are in town?” Harris eyes sparkled, amused.

  “Sort of … the Station Chief usually likes to know when CIA staff visit, even when on holiday.”

  Harris chuckled. “Just in case you decide to go off on a tangent and get involved in some devious plot whilst on his patch … ”

  “That’s the sum of it.” Jack raised the cup of coffee to his lips. His eyebrows shot up. It was a decent blend.

  “It’s your job to be devious, you’re a snoop, not the Salvation Army.”

  “I had forgotten what the English sense of humour sounded like.” Jack grinned.

  “But onto some serious business. I had a call with my source. Ollie Wilson’s case is starting to look more complex by the minute.”

  Harris told Jack everything he had learned. The kidnapping that ended up with Ollie found in a heroin den, the ransacking of the flat, the fire, the fake SOCO team, the man Scotland Yard was trying to identify.

  “The Scotland Yard team is good.” Harris’s arms rested on the edge of the table. He moved forward to tell the story, bending a little towards Jack.

  “I presume we can conclude that the people who are after Ollie are professionals.”

  “Without a doubt, but not people MI6 has on its radar.”

  It was Jack’s turn to speak about the meeting with the Head of BIG and to share what he had learned about bioinformatics and the world of viruses.

  “Ollie’s story is credible.” Jack finished his cup of coffee. “But the drug addiction is of course an issue.”

  “And something to exploit, either to discredit him or to control him.”

  “Agreed … still we can’t disregard the fact that all this may simply be drug related.”

  Harris frowned. “Perhaps.”

  “We need to dig around who these pros are.” Harris glanced at the wall clock. It was time for lunch. “Do you trust me?”

  “An odd question … I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Jack gave Harris a side look, his eyes narrowed.

  “I’m talking lunch .. shall I order a real East End dish for you? They do it really well here.”

  “Go for it.” Jack had never regretted trusting Harris when it came to food in London.

  Harris picked up his mobile and ordered. “Two hips and ships, please.”

  Jack squinted at Harris but said nothing.

  “Agreed on the pros. If they haven’t popped up on our radar or Scotland Yard’s, they’ve got to be top agency people.” Harris was back to business.

  “I used to think that … that we were, you know, the best. CIA, SIS, Mossad and the old KGB now FSB … but I’m not so sure any longer. There are plenty of private organisations that are run by former agents from the East, ex-KGB. Officially they run information gathering platforms and at the same time they offer other ‘services’ of direct intervention under the radar. Hell … some of our own people have set up shop as well.” Harris stopped abruptly.

  Two pints of Pale Ale appeared on the table. Harris nodded his thanks and waited for a moment. He closed his fingers round the glass. “Perfect, nice and cool with a good head on the top.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” Jack took a sip of the golden liquid, yes … it was perfect. “If you are right, then whoever is employing the organisation has pretty deep pockets.”

  “Big pharmaceutical companies have very big pockets.”

  “But Ollie didn’t work for big pharma.”

  “Some of the small biotech companies do have links with them, not through ownership, but through research sponsorship or through the top management staff.” Harris stopped again and waved the waitress over towards the table. “Fish and chips, mushy peas and tartar sauce,” he announced proudly.

  “Hips and ships … fish and chips … is it because it sounds the same?”

  “Yep … good ol’ fashioned cockney rhyming slang, mate. You need to be brought up in the East End of London proper to understand. Hips because it rhymes with fish and chips, and ship because it is a ship with a sail … ale.”

  “Alright … it’s like …” Jack was making an effort to remember. “Porky pie … lie.”

  “Hey, I knew I was perfecting your education when I taught you some of that stuff.”

  Jack tucked into the battered fish. It was surprisingly crisp on the outside with a succulent chunk of cod at the centre, the tartar sauce was light and tangy.

  “But where does that lead us to?” Harris had taken a couple of bites, happy with his choice.

  “Ollie was not specific about what was bothering him. He wanted to check out his suspicions carefully first, but the one thing he did mention was China.”

  “If he is concerned about technology transfer, he sure is spot on …”

  Jack wiped his mouth and took a long pull of Ale. “I have access to some other information too.”

  “Information that gives you cause for worry?” Harris put his knife and fork together on his plate.

  “It’s an internal report … prepared for the Pentagon. I haven’t finished reading it, but it puts forward the idea that the US military is about to lose its supremacy.”

  “China is no longer a sleeping giant.” Harris nodded. “It’s a dragon alright, and the Chinese will know how to rise to the challenge. After all they invented the art of war.”

  “I didn’t mention China.” Jack pointed out.

  “Which other country could concern you that much? Russia? Not to be dismissed, despite what most world leaders think, but no … the main challenge to the US in this century is China. And they won’t compete on a level playing field … they’ll use technology and armament in novel ways.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack straightened up. MI6 had been doing their homework.

  “China can only establish supremacy in one way. It needs to prevent the US from deploying its assets around the Pacific …” Harris waved towards the waitress. “Coffee?”

  * * *

  “Are you sure?”

  Cora grinned in reply. She jumped out of the cab and started climbing the wall to the first-floor bedroom window she had left on the latch. The cabbie gave Nancy a quizzical look. “Should I be worried?”

  “No need.” Nancy assured him. “She is a performance artist. She likes to rehearse her number whenever she can.”

  “You mean performance, acrobats, like the Cirque du Soleil?”

  “Something like that.” Nancy waved back at Cora as she waved to her from the bedroom window.

  The cab sped through the backstreets of Hoxton and hit one of the city’s main roads. The traffic was surprisingly light. They arrived at London Bridge shortly before 11am. Nancy thanked the driver, paid and finished the journey on foot.

  The wind had changed direction, now blowing from the East. Nancy raised her coat collar, took a pair of gloves from inside her small rucksack and put them on. She hurried along the wide bridge across the River Thames. The water looked grey and murky. It gave a humidity to the air that penetrated even the warmest of clothes.

  She walked quickly down a set of stone steps, trailing a hand down the stone rail for balance. Borough Market was busy. She slowed down a little to take in the atmosphere, walking along the street stalls, enjoying the appetising smells of the food on display. Her mobile rang. Yvonne had already arrived at the café and was asking what she should order.

  Medium roast Colombian coffee, one sugar and a splash of milk.

  She pushed open the door of the Colombian Coffee Company and waved. Yvonne waved back, eager it seemed for a catch up.

  Nancy indulged her friend when she fired a salvo of questions centre stage to the inquiry … Nancy’s sentimental life.

  The coffee arrived, toget
her with an assortment of delicious looking pastries. Yvonne could never resist, thank goodness.

  She groaned. “I’m a romantic at heart … the fact that I cut people open, well dead people I should add, all day is just a way of hiding my true self.”

  “I’m glad that Jonathan is helping you connect with your true self then.”

  Yvonne roared with laughter. “Enough nonsense, though … so come on … what can I do for you?”

  “It’s not a matter that concerns an actual case.” Nancy drank a little coffee. “It’s more of a personal request.” She was conscious of the slight hesitation in her voice and noticed that Yvonne heard it too.

  Her friend grew serious. “Perhaps a little background might help as a way into it. If you feel it’s appropriate, of course.”

  Nancy nodded; it was a fair request.

  Her father had disappeared thirty years ago in Beijing, she needed to know why. Nancy elaborated whilst Yvonne listened without interrupting.

  “The document, an article called Contemporary Art in China under Deng Xiao Ping, tells me a lot, or at least things that I’ve never been able to gather before, about my father. I need to establish it’s authentic.”

  “How about the author?”

  “The internet search didn’t give me much … but I don’t want people to know I am searching his name in any case.”

  “Are you being overly cautious?”

  “Unfortunately not … someone paid a dear price for that document.”

  “Someone got hurt?”

  “Someone died, I fear.”

  “Fine … I get it … you want help from someone in an environment that protects them from interference and danger.”

  “That’s my aim … GCHQ perhaps?”

  Yvonne pondered the request for a moment. “I need to know more about your father’s disappearance.”

  “If you can spare the time and whoever helps really needs that information …”

  Yvonne interrupted with a shake of her head. “Forget GCHQ … you need MI6 and I might have just the person.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  One of Yvonne’s students had started the Y incision. Pole was standing in the observation gallery and Yvonne waved him in. He reluctantly donned a protective gown and overshoes. He grabbed a pair of gloves out of habit. There was no way he would be touching any part of what was coming out of the dead man’s internal cavities.

  Yvonne moved over to the door and released the lock from within. “I’ve just seen your good friend Nancy.”

  “Excellent.” Pole was not in the mood to be teased, not that it would stop Yvonne. She chuckled and lead Pole to the mortuary table.

  “I’m not going to tell you the obvious about our candidate on the table, but a few noticeable details … excellent teeth with zero work on them, which is a bummer because we won’t be finding him with that.”

  She moved closer to the young woman who had finished the large frontal incision, exposing the internal organs.

  “I think he had quite a few tattoos on his body. These have been removed, rather successfully, and probably a little while ago. The skin there is slightly different in texture, in particular this patch here, where the scar it left is still visible.” Yvonne was pointing to part of the man’s shoulder. “We have the same scars on the back.”

  Pole approached the body, to take a better look at the area Yvonne was pointing to on the man’s torso. He walked slowly around the mortuary table, viewing the body from different angles.

  “Can you recreate these tats by using some product or tool? Like ultraviolet light?

  “Good thinking, Inspector Pole,” Yvonne noted, enthusiastic at the thought. “I’ll have to check whether that is possible. I’ve not had to do it before.”

  Pole moved to the end of the table to view the man fully. He had only seen the picture the SOCO team had produced. As well as the one Yvonne had sent him when the dead man had arrived at the Mortuary.

  “Eastern European … almost certainly.”

  “Well spotted, and the blood type we’ve found suggests that too. B blood allele is very uncommon in Western Europe but much more widespread in Eastern Europe and Central Asia.”

  Pole took a few steps back and turned towards her. “Let me know what else you find.”

  “As soon as possible and preferably yesterday … I know.” Yvonne was already moving closer to her trainee. The stomach was about to be taken out and Pole decided it was time to go.

  * * *

  Pole had left the bike at home. From the car he called Andy to check progress on the elusive Balham man. He plugged his mobile into the dashboard holder. The phone was ringing with no answer. Pole almost hung up.

  “Sorry Gov, was just on a call with London Transport Police. There was a bit of a scuffle with a chap whose description corresponds with the man we are following.”

  “Sounds promising.” Pole had stopped at a traffic light. He engaged the siren of his unmarked car. He manoeuvred the vehicle around the queue waiting for the lights to change and sped away. “Keep going … why is that important?” Pole raised his voice to be heard over the noise of the siren.

  “Someone in the crowd that witnessed the incident took a short video of it. They’re just sending it to the London Transport Police and they will forward it on to me.”

  “More good news?” Pole swerved his car around a lorry that was double parked, swearing silently.

  “Spot on … We can see the face of the guy under his hood.”

  Pole slapped the car wheel. “Well done, Andy. What comes next?”

  “I’ve tried new software designed for facial recognition. I know it’s not always accurate, but it’ll give me a better image of the chap and then I’ll broaden the CCTV camera search.”

  “Even if he has escaped from the Balham area. He might resurface in the neighbouring boroughs.”

  “Just my thinking Gov.”

  “Anything else?” Pole slowed down to ease his car through a busy junction onto the Thames Embankment. “I’ll be with you in 10 minutes.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss it when you get back.”

  “Any inkling?”

  “A request came to trace all mobiles that connected at or near Scotland Yard a few months ago. It coincides with the time we were working on the Mark Phelps case.”

  “Let’s talk about it in 10 minutes.”

  Pole changed gear ferociously. He terminated the call and got out his latest burner phone.

  “Harris … you’d better deliver,” he muttered.

  * * *

  “Have the forensic guys finished with my flat?”

  Cora was in the kitchen, preparing a lunch of soup and freshly baked bread, one of Charlie’s new culinary discoveries.

  DS Branning shook his head. “There were still at it when I arrived this morning.” He checked his watch and looked at the meal Cora was preparing with suspicion. It looked a little too healthy for a meat and two veg man like him.

  “I would offer you soup, but it may not be what you have in mind for lunch.”

  “Very kind, but I brought my own sandwich. Wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  Damn, DS Branning had been efficient and prepared. He was not going to leave the premises. Or perhaps …

  “You could get yourself a hot lunch from the café over the road, where you get your tea. I’m sure Renee wouldn’t mind if you called her to order and pick up a bit later.”

  Branning straightened up … an enticing proposition. He slumped back a little. “Better not.”

  “She does a mean steak and kidney pie.” Cora had not given up, anything to give her a few minutes on her own.

  Branning folded the latest copy of the Daily Mirror he was reading. “I thought you were vegetarian.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.
/>   Cora laughed. “I’m Chinese … you know what they say … if it crawls, I eat it, if it swims, I eat it and if it flies, ditto.”

  “Is that so?” Branning’s eyes widened a little. “I had snails once … they were okay. Though I mostly enjoyed the garlic butter.”

  He stood up and fetched a carrier bag that had seen better days. He took out his sandwich, white bread, Cheddar cheese and pickle, wrapped in cling film. Either Michael Branning lived on his own or his wife had little imagination.

  Cora wrinkled her nose at the sight. He watched her expression and shrugged. Cora picked up a mobile and waved it around playfully. “Last chance … I’ll make the call to Renee …”

  Branning hesitated. His stomach rumbled. “As long as it’s ready when I arrive.” Cora gave him the thumbs up. “It will be.”

  He had just crossed the small courtyard and turned into the road. DS Branning would be away for less than 10 minutes. Cora pressed the number on her frequent contact list as soon as the door had closed behind him. Philippe’s phone was ringing.

  “Please, please, please … don’t go into voicemail.” Her voice was low and anxious.

  Philippe replied with a muffled voice.

  “I haven’t got much time … first of all though, are you alright?”

  “Ain’t slept much and don’t know what to do.”

  “What is it?” Cora’s voice tightened.

  “Have you not spoken to Nancy?”

  Cora hesitated. She had better not talk about her unannounced morning visit. “Not yet.”

  Philippe sighed heavily. “Then you’ve not been told about Amy.”

  The hairs on the back of Cora’s neck bristled. She uttered an inaudible ‘no’.

  “They found her handbag and mobile phone on the Victoria Harbour jetty in Hong Kong.”

  Philippe’s voice faltered. He muffled a sob. “She hasn’t been seen …”

  There was nothing else to add.

  Cora bit her lips to stop herself from crying. She dropped abruptly to the floor. It was impossible. But denial would not make the grim reality go away.

  She recalled Amy’s enthusiasm at helping every artist that exhibited at Philippe’s gallery. She had been very excited about a recent discovery.