As part of his cover, Jack had asked Mathew’s secretary to book him a suite at the elegant Nova Varos Hotel, on the West bank of the Ribnica River. This area, referred to as the ‘New Town’ district, was inhabited and frequented by the more prosperous and influential citizens of Podgorica. This area was also the hub of Montenegro’s banking and financial system.
The drive from the airport was swift and, although the early morning traffic was building, the driver still managed to get Jack to the hotel in a little over ten minutes.
The taxi came to a stop under the elegant portico. A young valet rushed to open the door as Jack climbed out. ‘Good morning, sir, Welcome to the Nova Varos.’
Jack nodded. ‘Good morning,’ then added, ‘It’s fine,’ when the valet attempted to carry his luggage.
After checking-in, the same valet escorted Jack to his room and, in excellent English, gave the customary spiel about the suite’s facilities.
Jack nodded, said, ‘Thanks, son,’ then handed over a ten euro note.
After the kid had gone, Jack checked his Rolex, and although it was still only 4am in the UK, made the call to Nicole.
‘Jack?’ her voice was thick with sleep.
‘Hi, baby. I’m at the hotel. It’s early so go back to sleep.’
‘You okay, darling?’
‘I’m fine, baby. Going to see if I can get a couple of hours sleep myself.’
‘Okay. Good night.’
‘Good morning, baby.’
He heard her chuckle and the line went silent.
Chapter Nineteen
For the last five years Sir Anthony Grainger had woken at 5am. In the winter months he spent the first forty-five minutes of his day on the running machine in the basement. In the spring and summer however, come rain or shine, he ran in nearby Green Park. He’d just finished the final circuit and was at the side of the road, jogging on the spot, waiting for a couple of cars to pass. The screeching sound of the moped’s engine, as the rider accelerated towards him, startled Grainger. Then, above the clatter of the moped, three shots rang-out.
The first bullet missed and hit the nearby Royal Mail post-box, carving a large chunk out of the freshly painted icon. The second bullet shattered his clavicle, causing him to spin around, a scream of pain coming from deep in his throat. The third bullet smashed into his back, lodging in the scapula and knocking him to the floor.
The man on the back of the moped watched as the Knight of the Realm crashed to the pavement, motionless, then screamed at the driver, ‘He’s fuckin gone!’
Two hours later Rick Washington waited impatiently. The old warehouse East of the River Thames had been closed-up for years and was due for demolition. The area soon to be developed for upmarket apartment blocks. He looked at his watch again. They were late. ‘Where are these fuckers?’ he said out loud. Then he heard the clatter of the moped’s engine.
The two youths drove into the ramshackle building and screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and petrol fumes. Washington stepped to one side as the smoke from the exhaust drifted past him. ‘You’re fucking late.’
‘Chill out, man,’ said the driver.
‘Yeah, chill, man,’ said the shooter.
‘Is he dead?’ said Washington.
The shooter laughed. ‘Dead as disco, mate,’ then the two kids high-fived each other.
‘Okay, good. And the weapon?’
‘In the Thames, man. Just like you said.’
‘Okay, guys,’ said Washington, ‘you did good,’ He threw an envelope to the driver. ‘Here’s your money.’
The driver quickly checked the envelope and grinned. He showed the bundle of notes to his companion and they both high-fived again.
‘And here’s a little bonus,’ said the American, as he threw over a small plastic bag.
The shooter caught it and held it up, shaking the pills within. ‘What’s this mate?’
Washington grinned this time. ‘Only the best E’s in London. Knock yourself out. It’s party time.’
The two youths again hit the high-five, climbed on the moped and clattered away in a cloud of dust and fumes.
The media was awash with the news of the horrific shooting of Sir Anthony Grainger. Rick Washington read the paper and was a very unhappy man. Yes, Sir Anthony had been shot twice, but he was not dead. He’d been taken to hospital and was now in a serious, but stable condition. The operating surgeon had made a TV announcement on the steps of the hospital. His statement made it clear his patient was strong and in the best place to ensure a full recovery.
In a rage, Washington threw the paper to the floor, as the pages spread out across the carpet he bent down and picked up one of them. He read a short piece about two young men who’d been found dead in the East End of London. First indications were they’d died from a toxic chemical. A small quantity of tablets had been found and were being analysed. A police officer had commented that the pills were most likely the cause of death.
‘Not all bad news then,’ said Washington.
Chapter Twenty
The hospital reception area was extremely busy and with only two people at the desk, dealing with visitors, telephones, and questions from medical staff, somewhat chaotic.
Rick Washington waited patiently in the queue confident in his disguise. A light brown wig covered his own black hair, thick rimmed glasses and a false moustache changed his facial appearance. The padded oversize jacket made him look fatter than he was. His tradecraft as an ex-CIA agent told him people will only remember the obvious.
The queue moved slowly forward. The American smiled when the old man in front grumbled, ‘Bloody NHS. Not what it used to be.’
A few minutes later he was at the desk. He leaned over and with a charming smile said quietly, ‘Good morning. I’m from the American Embassy. I’m here to see Sir Anthony Grainger. Could you tell me where I could find him, please?’
The flustered woman looked impressed for a moment, then scanned the monitor in front of her. She too leaned forward and said quietly, ‘Intensive Care, First floor, sir.’
Washington flashed the smile again, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
He rode the lift to the first floor and went to the Ward Sister’s desk. The same charm was used. ‘Good morning. I’m Mike Vogler. I’m from the American Embassy. The Ambassador has asked me to visit Sir Anthony Grainger. The Ambassador is an old friend and keen to know how Sir Anthony is doing.’
This woman was not the harassed person from down stairs, and said, ‘Do you have some identification, please?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Washington flashed an American Embassy wallet and showed the fake Mike Vogler ID.
‘He’s in room five. He’s still very groggy from the operation. But you may see him for five minutes,’ her tone was stern. ‘Five minutes and no more now.’
‘No problem. Thank you, ma’am.’
At the door to room five, Washington waited while the attending nurse finished her checks. As she passed him he smiled, and said, ‘Good morning.’
She returned the smile and he watched as she disappeared around the corner. He entered the room and quietly closed the door. Grainger looked to be sleeping. Several tubes going in and out of his body were hooked up to various monitors. At the bedside Washington checked the screens. The man’s vital signs showed a constant, but low heart-rate. He took a seat next to the bed and gently laid his hand on Grainger’s upper arm. ‘Sir Anthony? Sir Anthony?’