21 July 2012
The moment Chris Bronson followed Eaton into the office at the back of the old warehouse situated at the edge of a trading estate in Essex early the following afternoon, he knew something was badly wrong. He’d been expecting to see one or two other members of the group there, probably Mike and maybe the man Eaton had referred to as “Georg.” In fact, Bronson found himself staring at Mike and half a dozen tough-looking men with unfriendly expressions on their faces.
But that wasn’t what worried him the most. Bronson’s attention was caught and held by a plasma TV set in the corner of the room, the picture frozen, but perfectly clear. It was a remarkably sharp image of his face, and below that the caption: “Police officer implicated in act of vandalism.”
And even as he registered that, Bronson was grabbed from behind by two other men who’d been hidden behind the door of the room. He twisted and turned, struggling to free himself from their grasp, but they were too strong. They hustled him across to a stout wooden chair positioned near the center of the room and forced him to sit down. Then, assisted by two of the other men there, they tied his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the chair, completely immobilizing him.
“I knew there was something that didn’t smell right about you,” Mike began. “We caught this on the news this morning. I recorded it, because I thought you might want to see it. Your fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak.”
He turned round, picked up a black remote control from the desk behind him and aimed it at the digital receiver mounted just below the television set.
The screen sprang into life as the announcer’s words filled the room: “…caught on a security camera at a construction equipment yard not far from the site of the Olympic stadium.”
The picture changed-two men entering through the gate, heading straight toward the camera. Then it altered again, to a view of the yard from above this time. The two figures could be seen approaching a bulldozer, and then one of them, the bigger of the two men, began hammering at something on the side of the engine.
The newscaster continued explaining the sequence of events, just in case any of the channel’s viewers were too dense to grasp what they were seeing.
“The two men were recorded by the security system as they broke in through the locked gates, carrying heavy hammers and other tools. Once inside, they made straight for this bulldozer and caused several thousand pounds’ worth of damage to the engine and controls, according to the company’s owner. Sky sources have positively identified this man”-the image shown on the screen returned to the still picture of Bronson’s face-“as Christopher John Bronson, a police sergeant living in Kent. The identity of his companion is so far unknown, but-”
Mike clicked a button on the remote control. The recorded program vanished and the live news feed was displayed. He pressed another control and the sound was immediately muted.
“When I first met you,” Mike continued, his tone conversational, almost friendly, “I thought you could be an undercover cop, but then I decided I had to be wrong, because not even the Metropolitan Police would be that stupid. Well, guess what? They really are that stupid, and now here you are, up shit creek without a paddle. Or even a canoe, for that matter. You’ve got no way out of this, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Bronson snapped.
“You got that right,” Mike sneered.
Bronson’s mind was racing, figuring the angles as he tried desperately to find some way out. The only asset he had was the Llama pistol, tucked into the rear pocket of his jeans and under his leather jacket. Nobody had searched him, probably because most British police were still rarely armed, and even undercover officers seldom carried weapons. But to get to the pistol he needed at least one of his hands free, and right then he didn’t see how he was going to achieve that.
What he did know was that there would be no point in appealing for mercy. From what little he knew of the man, Bronson guessed that compassion wouldn’t be very high on Mike’s list of qualities. If indeed it featured at all.
He hadn’t had the radio switched on in his car when he drove out to this rendezvous, the time and location specified in a telephone message from John Eaton, and neither Curtis nor anyone else at the Forest Gate police station had called his mobile. He’d walked into the situation cold.
“So, Mr. Policeman, now we have to decide what to do with you.”
Bronson said the only thing he could think of that might turn the situation around.
“You said the Metropolitan Police force was stupid, Mike. Well, from where I’m sitting, the only stupidity being shown in this room is what’s coming out of your mouth.”
Mike crossed the room in three quick strides and smashed his fist into Bronson’s face.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk when we put the screws on you. Until then, just keep quiet.”
Bronson’s cheek was numb from the blow, but he still seemed to have all his teeth, which was something.
“Do all your thinking with your fists, do you?” Bronson asked. “Easier to hit than use your brain?”
Mike spun round and raised his right hand again, but then a single voice cut across the office and he stopped instantly.
“Wait.”
Bronson had not even noticed the man until he spoke, probably because he was sitting in a chair against the far wall, rather than standing in a group with the other men. He had a thin, pinched face and a somewhat straggly beard that seemed barely attached to his chin, like some badly applied theatrical prop. He was slightly built, and although he was sitting down Bronson guessed he was well under six feet tall. But despite his unimpressive appearance, he exuded authority and seemed to be the dominant personality of the group. Certainly, his single word of command had stopped Mike in his tracks.
“You’re not going to listen to him?” Mike snapped.
“Sit down and shut up,” the seated man said, his eyes never leaving Bronson. Mike glared at him for a couple of seconds, then slunk over to one side of the room, dragged a chair forward and sat down on it.
“Right, Bronson-and I assume that really is your name, not ‘Alex Cross’-you’ve got sixty seconds. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t let Mike take you apart.”
“Simple, and I would have thought it was obvious. I’m not an undercover cop, and what’s just happened proves it.”
“Fifty seconds left. I’m not convinced.”
The seated man had a faint accent that Bronson couldn’t place. It wasn’t French or Italian, because Bronson spoke both, Italian fluently and French reasonably well, but it could have been German, or possibly he was from one of the Eastern European nations. The man’s English was fluent, but it clearly wasn’t his first language.
Bronson knew he had only the one chance, and his best bet was to tell the truth as far as he could, admit some things and hope they swallowed the big lie at the end. He’d discussed the possibility that he might be unmasked with Curtis before he went undercover, and between them the two men had concocted a story, a story that Bronson knew he was now probably betting his life on.
“My name is Chris Bronson,” he said, “and I was a police sergeant. But I left the force months ago. To be exact, I was thrown out.”
“Why?” the seated man asked. “Thirty seconds,” he added.
“If I’ve only got thirty seconds left, I’d rather skip the details.”
“Fair point. Go on.”
“I’ve done undercover work in the past, and to protect the identity of officers involved in that kind of operation, there’s a standard procedure that is followed by the media. Before any story is run that might identify a police officer, in any context, the Home Office has to be informed, just in case that officer is working undercover. If I was still in the force and trying to penetrate this group, that story”-Bronson nodded his head toward the TV set in the corner-“would never have been broadcast. And that proves I’m not who Mike thinks I am.”
In fact, Bronson had not the slightest idea whether any such procedure was followed, though he thought it would probably be a good idea if it was. But it sounded plausible, and that was what mattered. He guessed that Curtis would have been just as surprised by the contents of the news broadcast as he was, and he hoped he was even then doing something to mitigate its effects.
