The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

‘Krilov has army,’ the thug said.

‘Krilov has an army,’ Boris clarified.

Gunnymede leaned over the thug again. ‘If the girl isn’t there you’ll belong to these men for the rest of your short and painful life.’

‘She there,’ he insisted. ‘She there.’

Gunnymede left the kitchen and walked out of the house.

Charlie and Boris went to the front door to watch Gunnymede go.

‘Where’s he going?’ Boris asked.

Charlie shrugged. ‘Take on a Russian army by the sound of it.’

Boris nodded approvingly. ‘Got balls.’

As Gunnymede climbed onto his bike, several police vehicles arrived at the end of the street and armed officers got out. Gunnymede started the engine and drove away.

He turned onto a main road, his mind buzzing, trying to understand what could be going on. He accessed his phone and called Bethan’s office number. A moment later the operator picked up announcing he’d reached Scotland Yard.

‘I want to speak with DCI Dillon.’

The operator asked him to hold. A moment later she came back to tell him Dillon was unavailable.

‘It’s an emergency,’ Gunnymede stressed.

The operator asked him to hold again. A moment later a man’s voice came on the line asking how he could help as Dillon was unavailable.

Gunnymede hung up. There was no point. He turned onto a main road and bombed along it.

He hit another phone contact. It picked up. ‘Aristotle?’

Aristotle was in a dark 4x4 parked in a deserted section of a dock. ‘Yes, Mr. Gunnymede.’

‘I need help.’

‘With what?’

‘Last night I met Milo Krilov.’

‘I heard.’

‘I was with a police officer. The one I went to Albania with. Krilov has kidnapped her.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘He’s taken her to an oil refinery down the estuary from Southampton Docks. Fawley refinery.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We expect Krilov to be in Southampton Docks for the arrival of his vessel.’

‘So why’s he at the refinery?’

‘Perhaps you have your information wrong,’ Aristotle said.

‘I don’t think I do. You need to send a team to the refinery to check it out.’

‘I will ask the police to send a patrol to investigate.’

‘No. Krilov is armed and dangerous. You have to send an armed response team.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we will need all our resources for the ship. You yourself reported there will be ISIS members on board. They could be armed. The crew could be armed and hostile. We have armed response teams and special forces here.’

‘Is that where you are right now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Something’s happening at the refinery and we haven’t got it covered.’

‘I’ll report what you have told me but I don’t think anything will happen at such short notice and without evidence.’

Gunnymede understood the dilemma.

‘Why don’t you go and check it yourself?’ Aristotle suggested. ‘Report what you see. If it’s significant perhaps that will convince superiors to send assistance.’

‘It’s a big place. I’ve got no gear.’

‘I don’t have any other suggestions for you.’

‘Great.’

Aristotle looked through his window at a SAS command station with troopers preparing their assault equipment. ‘I can meet you and bring you some “gear”,’ he said.

Gunnymede thought about that.

‘That’s all I can do for you, Gunnymede.’

‘Okay. I’ll meet you outside the refinery. I’ll send you an RV.’

Gunnymede disconnected and took a moment to think things through. There was nothing else for it. He opened a map app on his phone and searched the refinery perimeter. He found a location, pinned it and sent it to Aristotle.

He veered the bike across the road, took a sharp turn at a junction going through a red light and speeded away.

A line of vans drove along a disused road, the lead vehicle’s headlights cutting into the darkness. They passed through a pair of rusting, disfigured gates into a derelict section of Fawley oil terminal on the west coast of the Southampton estuary. Manning the gates were two men armed with AK47 assault rifles. When the last vehicle passed through they struggled to close them.

The vans followed the heavily potholed perimeter road, past a block of empty storage containers daubed in graffiti and over a pair of rusting railway tracks, the gaps between the rails filled with old sleepers to allow the vehicles to cross easily.

The road passed through a large, open space with warehouses dotted around its edges and to a ramp that climbed onto a long, poorly lit jetty that carried miles of piping between the terminal and the estuary landing stage. One of the vans remained at the bottom of the ramp long enough to unload armed men while the rest continued along the pipe jetty road above the salt marshes and over the shallows until they reached the landing stage suspended high above the water on dozens of concrete pillars.

‘Get the forklift truck,’ the leader barked and two of the men ran off towards the main terminal.

The vans that continued on came to a halt in a line at the end of the pipe jetty where it connected to the landing stage and a dozen more armed men dismounted. Krilov climbed out wearing a black one-piece and looked across the estuary, breathing in the air deeply as if savouring it. The sky was clear with a gentle breeze. The air smelled of salt and kelp, the dominant sound the estuary water lapping against the legs of the landing stage.

The landing stage was a long narrow platform a couple of hundred metres from the shore in deep water, designed for large vessels such as oil tankers to come alongside and discharge their cargo. Krilov walked onto it and climbed a large valve head in order to better observe the estuary in all directions. The waterway was busy with a sprinkling of coloured navigation lights from channel markers and boats.

One of the men escorted Bethan, her hands tied in front of her. Krilov looked