Brock Steele Sphere Page 23
Brock shrugged. “More importantly, where is the apartment? Floor three flashed into my mind in the lift, but my mind’s a blank now, The Ranskill woman said it was 26 …”
“Think Brock, anything seem familiar?” said Sarah.
Brock gazed around. Across the corridor a door flung open and an old man wearing a thick woolly white jumper appeared. Brock quickly turned his head but the man shouted, “Mr Steele! You stranger, where have you been all this time?”
He froze for a second and then turned towards him while he racked his brains over what to say.
“I’ve been away. Look, I’m afraid I’ve managed to lose my key, and I’ve got guests. Do you by any chance have a crowbar or something to wedge the door open?”
The old man gave him an incredulous stare, rubbing across his woolly jumper. “But Mr Steele, I have your spare key.”
“Oh!” Brock said. “My spare key …”
The old man disappeared into his apartment, returning a moment later with a set of keys.
Brock unlocked the door and they stepped into a spacious bright white hallway, letters piled up on the doormat. He caught his head on the tiny low-level chandelier hanging from the ceiling, then stepped into the expansive lounge. His eyes bulged at the pearly white leather three-piece sofa and lion skin rug laid neatly in front. Sarah wandered towards the balcony window, inspecting the white blinds hung neatly across. Opposite, Ty paced across the lavish pearl patterned floor tiles, pulling a glass and switching on the chrome tap, filling it with water. All stood silently still in sheer amazement. Sarah hovered over the large mahogany desk, picking up a framed picture next to the telephone.
“I take it this is your wife,” she said.
She angled it directly towards his face.
“Hang on a minute, I know her. It’s the rude policewoman I met at Camden police station! What am I doing in a photo standing next to her?”
“It looks like you were having a fling with her.” Sarah chucked the photo onto the mahogany desk, her nostrils flared. Edging over to the chair, she slammed her body into it, staring grimly at the computer.
“Coffee?” shouted Ty. “Lots of food, all out of date I’m afraid. This milk’s rank. Is black OK?”
Sarah nodded, concentrating on the computer. Brock rummaged in the desk drawer, grabbing a chequebook and some written notes. As he ran his hand across some scissors and a stapler, he reached to the underside of the drawer and slid his palm across it. Something was taped to it. He pulled at the tape and it came loose. He pulled out a nine-millimetre calibre handgun. His mouth fell open as he clicked the barrel open. It was already fully loaded.
Sarah shot him a glance but remained silent, clicking her fingers across the computer keyboard. Ty poured hot water from the chrome kettle into three matching blue mugs and brought them out on a black tray. Sarah grabbed the coffee.
“If it makes you feel any better, I think me and the policewoman fell out a long time ago,” said Brock.
“Why should that make me feel better? Anyway, we have a problem. The dialling tone is out. Your phone is probably disconnected.”
Brock picked up the telephone receiver himself and put it to his ear; the line was indeed silent.
Ty stepped into the room. “Should the phone be plugged in?”
Sarah bent over, plugging it in, but they all froze, Brock grabbed the handgun. Loud conversation had erupted in the corridor outside the apartment.
“Hang on a second … don’t you think it somewhat odd for someone like me to leave a set of keys with a neighbour?” whispered Brock.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” replied Sarah.
Brock edged over to the front door, holding the handgun behind him. Outside, he could make out the old man chatting to some woman. She laughed; the conversation appeared friendly. Brock unlatched the front door, pulling it slowly towards him and peering around it. A woman dressed in smart business attire had her back to him. The old man spotted him.
“Ah, Mr Steele, everything good? Settling in?”
The old man tapped the woman on the shoulder and she made her way across the corridor out of sight. Brock rubbed the sweat from his brow and clicked the gun’s safety catch on, pushing it neatly into the back of his trousers.
“I wondered if I could have a quiet word,” said Brock.
“Of course,” said the old man. He hobbled towards the door, glancing into the apartment hallway. “Oh, what a beautiful place you have here, Mr Steele. Do you need anything? I’m only across the hall if you do.”
“I wondered if you could tell me if anyone has visited my apartment since I was away.”
The old man shook his head. “Why, is there a problem?”
“No problems, but please explain why I leave my key with you.”
“Oh, Mr Steele! We’re very good friends! We’ve known each other for many years.”
“Of course, of course. I was just saying to my dear friends in there … how long have I lived in this apartment?” said Brock.
“You bought it new. Let me think, the year this place was built. Must be at least ten now. As I recall, you mentioned you would be busy, planning to move in several months after, which you did,” said the old man.
“Busy?” said Brock.
“None of my business, Mr Steele.”
“OK, thank you. One last thing, do you have the internet by any chance?”
“Wish I was that technically minded, Mr Steele.”
“Alright, well, thanks for looking after my place.”
“My pleasure.” The man hobbled towards his apartment door. Brock stood in the apartment doorway for a moment and then hurried into the lounge. Sarah’s face was flushed.
“I’ve tried to rig the internet up but I’ve encountered another problem. This lead is dodgy. And it’s odd that the line is still working. Who is paying the bills?”
Brock spotted an overhanging cupboard above the desk and pointed at it. She opened it and pulled out a cable.
Ty plugged in the television, slumping his body over the comfy white sofa. Photos of Brock and Sarah were being paraded across every news station, describing them as armed and extremely dangerous. The public were warned to remain vigilant, and if the pair were sighted, everyone was encouraged to immediately report it to the police. They had been dubbed a cop-killing duo.
“What’s all this? Since when did we kill any police officers? What are we going to do?” cried Sarah.
“Forget it, Sarah, it’s his lame attempt at setting us up. I’m going to pop in the bedroom, get a change of clothes. Then we can leave.”
As he grabbed a shirt from the wardrobe, he knocked a suitcase from the shelf. It hit him on the head and knocked him to the floor. He howled in pain. When he turned his head, the suitcase was open on its side, full to the brim with money.
“I heard you scream,” said Sarah, rushing in. “Oh my God, look at this money. What have you done, Brock? Sighrus paid you this, didn’t he? Oh, Brock, I’m frightened.”
Brock grabbed the suitcase and followed her back into the living room. “We need to leave. We’ll bring this money with us and get out of London. Sarah, I swear—”
There was a loud knock at the door.
“It’s too late, Brock. The old man probably saw us on television. We’re finished.”
Brock slid his hand towards the back of his trousers, pulling out the handgun, and edged his way to the front door. Releasing the catch, he slowly opened the door. The old man was hovering on the threshold.
“Mr Steele, you mentioned the internet. I just remembered, the woman across the hall uses it. Would you like me to ask for you?” he said.
“Thanks, but I’ve sorted it,” said Brock.
He slammed the door shut and dashed into the lounge. Sarah was staring into the computer, her fingers whizzing across the keyboard.
“What exactly is it about you, Brock? First, you hand over a USB to the posh woman knowing she’s dodgy. Then a suitcase of money appears with lord knows how much money in. Now you disturb me sending these important files across. The files are big and this internet is slow. And get this bitch off the desk!” Sarah swiped the photo, sending it flying into the air. It hit the floor, smashing into pieces.
“Calm down. We have so little time, but of course you should send the files.” Brock spied a photo on the wall of him in army uniform stood next to Sighrus.
Sarah pulled the drive out and stood up. “Damn right, I owe it to my country. The files are sent.”
“We should make a move,” said Brock.
Chapter 36
Fumes filled the air of the busy road as Brock directed the red Nissan neatly into another busy junction. Sarah chucked the two USB drives into the glove compartment.. She had bragged about doing such a fabulous job locating the emails of several high-profile figures and the foreign office, even locating and sending the files over to Buckingham Palace’s email account. She chatted on, but he ignored her. He was confused by the easiness of simply walking into his apartment and sending the files.
“Do you think something seemed amiss at the apartment? I’m saying this because it was the Ranskill woman who gave me the apartment number,” said Brock.
“And you let us walk in right into a trap,” said Ty. “Of course it’s odd—phone line connected, no police around. I reckon it was tapped,” said Ty, rubbing his hand across the suitcase.
“Oh yes, something was funny alright,” said Sarah. “You bring us to the apartment, grab the money, and run. Of course something’s suspicious.”
As Brock’s foot hit the accelerator again, he spotted a familiar face standing at the roadside, waving and beckoning him to pull into a car park to the left. Ty also saw the little rat of a man and dipped his head. As he swerved the Nissan out of the slow-moving traffic into the car park, Brock accidentally sounded the horn. Sarah jumped up in her seat.
“Why are we pulling in here?”
Brock nudged his head towards Preston.
“Why is he here? Is this all part of your elaborate plan?”
Preston jogged up to the Nissan and tapped on the window. Brock stuck his head out.
“Sorry about Edinburgh! I tried my hardest to find you, but you disappeared. I’ve some friends who desperately need to chat. Don’t worry, it’s all safe, I promise. They’re on our side,” said Preston.
“And which side is that?” Sarah spat at Preston.
In the distance, a woman and two smartly dressed men appeared heading straight towards them. Brock raised an eyebrow at Preston.
“They’ll help you, honest,” he said.
“Help us? I doubt it. They look official. Hit the road, Brock,” said Ty.
The engine hissed and Brock shot a glance at the handbrake. “Who are these people?”
“We’re MI5, all of us.”
Brock glared at him and moved one hand to the handbrake, the other hand rubbing the handgun.
“Preston, you’re a traitor,” spat Ty. “Why would you join something like that? And lie to your mates … we’re buddies from the hellhole, for heaven’s sake. What happened to the real Preston?”
“He’s dead. He was . . . disposed of not long after Brock left hospital. He’d served his purpose. His time was up the minute those files got passed to Brock.
Brock let out a breath. “Preston was in the training programme with me. I remember. We were there together.”
“I actually didn’t think I’d fool you for this long—my hair is always a bit of a giveaway. But I figured you were both thick enough—”
“I’ll kill you,” Ty shouted.
Brock grabbed a breath to try to signal Ty to shut up, and Sarah stared at the floor as if avoiding the confrontation. The two men and the woman had reached the car now.
“I’m waiting,” said Brock pushing his head through the window.
Ty yanked his Glock, waving it in the air. The woman cleared her throat. “You applied for Sighrus’s training programme to join our security services. You started, then shortly after acquired some information and it all went badly wrong.”
“And he whacked a baseball bat into my head, dumped me in Hampstead Heath, and the rest is history,” said Brock.
“Can you prove it was him?”
Brock shook his head. “He tried to kill me, I’m only here because of the drive with all the incriminating information against him. Why else would he go to these lengths? All the files are on this USB.”
He dived into the glove compartment, pulling out one of the drives. One of the men stepped closer to the window.
“We need to bring you in, Brock. We’ve seen it already, the Foreign Office emailed it over. The information is rubbish. How can you expect us to take it seriously?”
Brock face drained, and he stared at him. “What? Everything is there, the virus, planned attacks. You realise Sighrus is planning to jump the country?”
The man shook his head. “Sighrus planned a holiday for his family and brought it to our attention months ago. All above board I’m afraid. We agreed with him nine months ago to order a safe house for your safety in Camden because of the attack. You required protection and we have a duty of care, what’s wrong with that?”
“Rubbish, Sighrus attacked me several times. He killed Lacy, for goodness’ sake,” shouted Brock.
Sarah jumped out of her seat, screaming. “It’s true!”
The man stared at Brock. “You killed Lacy. But we can still help. Let us take you in, it’s for your own good.”
“You people are insane.” shouted Brock. He slammed the handbrake, hitting the accelerator to the floor. The car jerked forward, heading towards the exit. The woman darted towards them.
“Let’s be sensible about this!” she shouted.
“Preston’s a complete idiot. Why did we ever trust him?” Ty muttered.
“What exactly did you email over?” said Brock.
“Every file. It all transferred, I checked—all twenty email addresses,” said Sarah.
“We should take a closer look at these files. Problem is, I’m too nervous to go to Meriden’s or the apartment.”
He yanked at the steering wheel.
“I made my mind up,” Ty said. “Preston’s an impostor. His hair couldn’t have turned ginger with age—those people set him up and we fell for it!”
Brock racked his brains as to what he should do. “We should examine these files. Sighrus is obviously desperate his antics. Our entire infrastructure could be at risk, thanks to the morons in the car park earlier.”
Silence overcame them, then Ty slammed the suitcase between the seats.
“Look, guys, we’ve got the full case of money, handed the files over to the authorities. I think we’ve done our bit. We should jump on the ferry and sail abroad, while we have the chance.”
“You mean to let these horrible people allow Sighrus to unleash a virus across out computer networks, disrupt the entire UK’s military installations, and screw up our whole infrastructure. It could finish us,” said Sarah.
Ty stared through the window, ignoring her, grabbing onto the suitcase. “I’m through with this stupid country and its damn system.”
The Nissan skidded forward, narrowly missing a taxi.
“Slow down, mate. Anyway, Rosa installed an internet connection recently,” said Ty.
“Who is Rosa?” said Sarah.
Brock shot him a smile.
“She lives in Walthamstow,” said Ty.
Brock laughed. “It’s dawned on me why I have the suitcase of money.”
Sarah’s eyes widened an
d she stared at him, waiting for him to speak. In front, a police car skidded, blocking them. Brock swung at the wheel, attempting to swing around it. A loud crash and the Nissan came to a sudden halt. Ty smacked his forehead into the front seat, yelling. Brock pulled himself from the steering wheel and spotted the two uniformed police heading to both sides of the car.
“Jumpstart the car!” shouted Brock.
Ty slammed himself forward, yanking the wires together. The engine turned over. Brock slammed into reverse; the red Nissan jerked backwards, then he forced it into first and the car leapt forwards, speeding up the street.
Sarah’s body was limp. Brock grabbed her shoulder while trying to control the steering wheel. He shoved her into her seat and Ty held her. She rubbed her forehead, disoriented.
“What happened? Oh my head.” Blood dribbled from her left temple, Ty picked up a white shirt, throwing it over, and she placed it on the cut.
Brock lounged across the brown settee, his arm around Sarah as he examined her the cut. Rosa, the Argentinian girl, appeared in the doorway, a blue dress thrown on and white trainers. She chucked a plaster towards him, then placed two mugs of coffee on the wooden table in front. Ripping the contents open, Brock stuck the plaster to Sarah’s head. Rosa went into the other room with Ty, and arguing erupted.
“We could be here for a while,” said Brock.
Sarah took a sip of her coffee, pulling his arm away. “In the car, you explained why you have the suitcase of money. Is it bad?”
They were interrupted by Rosa and Ty stepping into the room, holding hands.
“Ty’s told me so much about you. I apologise for the arguing in there. You guys are so cool,” she said in her Argentinian accent.
Ty stood behind her, briskly shaking his head and making mouth movements Brock couldn’t understand.
“Of course you can use my computer. It’s in my room upstairs, first on the left. Me and Ty both need to discuss our future. He’s proposed to me, and we’re getting married in Argentina.”
“Congratulations. Why Argentina of all places?” said Sarah.