Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

unlock button. He got inside, dropped the fob into the cup holder. Then stamped on the brakes and pressed the start button. The instrument panels woke up. He released the parking brake, rotated the gear selector to Drive, followed the signs to the exit.

His hands had stopped shaking by the time he steered the Range Rover out of the garage. He hung a right on to Avenue Princesse Grace and drove south for half a mile, following the same route they had taken to the apartment block from the stadium, but in reverse. The relief he had felt at finding the pills quickly gave way to a gnawing unease. He had taken a big risk in searching for Lang’s stash. And it had very nearly cost him his life.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he hit the roundabout. He circled the roundabout counter-clockwise, slingshot north again on Princesse Grace. Past the dull apartments and the cafés and the Grace Kelly monument. He motored on until he spotted the Mercedes-Benz E-Class parked at the side of the road, next to the ice-cream parlour. Then Bowman eased off the gas and drew to a halt parallel with the E-Class estate, blocking the line of cars behind him.

A car horn blared as Mallet and Casey jumped out of the E-Class and jogged into the road. Both of them wore baseball caps. Mallet was clutching a laptop in a neoprene sleeve. The driver immediately to the rear stuck his head out of the window of his Rolls-Royce Cullinan SUV and hurled abuse at Bowman, honking his horn as Casey dived into the back seat. Mallet hopped into the front, pulled the door shut and said, ‘Drive.’

They pulled away, leaving Loader behind the wheel of the E-Class. He would keep eyes on the front of the apartment block, watching for any sign of Lang’s acquaintances or trouble from the police, while the rest of the Cell turned the screw on Lang.

Four minutes after leaving the parking garage, Bowman piloted the Range Rover back down the ramp. He berthed the wagon in the parking bay, and the three operators disembarked. The appearance of two strangers in the car park wouldn’t strike the security staff as unusual. Webb had already told the concierge that more guests would be arriving later that morning to ink the contracts. Anyone watching the footage would conclude that Lang had picked up a pair of business associates and ferried them back to his apartment to get the paperwork signed.

Bowman touch-tapped Lang’s key card against the control panel. The lift doors hissed open, the car rocketed them up to the eighteenth floor. They paced down the private hallway, and Bowman knocked three times on the front door to Lang’s apartment, giving the correct signal to Webb. He cranked open the door, pushed inside the foyer a step ahead of Mallet and Casey. Led them across to the living room.

The temperature dropped as soon as Mallet swept inside. Like the devil had just entered the room. Or the moment the sheriff stepped into the saloon to arrest the villainous cowboy. Lang stared warily at the cruel-faced Scot with the ruthless blue eyes and the wave of silver hair. Mallet didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The mobster and the tyrant both seemed to understand they were in the presence of a terrible man. Like coming face to face with an eight-hundred-pound gorilla. A primitive reaction, stretching back millennia, to the days when their ancestors roamed the savannah.

Roidhead slumped heavily in the armchair, half dazed, his bovine face lacquered with blood. Mallet glanced briefly at him, then rested his gaze on Seguma.

‘Step outside the room, sir.’

The president folded his arms defiantly. ‘I’m going nowhere. Not until someone tells me what the hell is going on. Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘We work for the British security services,’ Mallet said. ‘These three are my associates. We know about your meeting with the Russians later today. We’ve got orders to arrest David Lang.’

Seguma’s mouth went slack for a moment, before he swiftly recovered.

‘This is an outrage. I have done nothing wrong.’

‘You’re not in any trouble,’ Mallet said. ‘We just need to ask your mate a few questions. Straighten a few things out. Now leave us, sir.’ He motioned to Webb and Casey. ‘These two will wait with you in the study until we’re ready to talk.’

Seguma remained seated. He was the feared president of Karatandu. A man who commanded absolute loyalty and obedience from those around him. He wasn’t used to being told what to do, especially by hard-faced Scots with harsh Glaswegian accents.

‘Leave the room,’ Mallet said coolly. ‘If I have to ask again, it won’t be nicely.’

Seguma caught the severe look on Mallet’s face, evidently decided that the Cell team leader wasn’t bullshitting, and stood up. He seized his cane and hat, and then Webb and Casey escorted him out of the living room. Mallet frowned at Roidhead, as if noticing him for the first time.

‘Get that scumbag out of here,’ he said to Bowman. ‘Put him somewhere he won’t bother us. Then you and me will have ourselves a little chat with Davey Boy.’

Fifteen

Bowman hauled Roidhead to his feet and shoved him out of the living room. The guy limped along, breathing heavily as they crossed the hallway and pushed through the doors to the staff quarters. Which was bigger than a broom cupboard, but only marginally. Bowman dumped him on the floor, closed the door and backtracked to the living room. Mallet had taken a seat at the dining table facing out across the balcony. He had the laptop set up in front of him, the screen flipped open.

‘Close the door,’ he said to Bowman. ‘Bring Davey Boy over here. Let’s have a friendly chat.’

Bowman grabbed Lang by his arm, marched him over to the table, set him down next to Mallet at the head of the table. Bowman sat in the chair