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  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, the accent only marginally less sharp than the one downstairs.

  ‘I’m here about David Le Roux, I know you did business with him. Do you know he was arrested recently?’

  Dawson nodded. ‘In Denmark. Yes, I’m aware of that. Frankly, I find it hard to believe he’s being charged with a terrorist offence.’

  ‘I can’t go into that. What I’m trying to do is build up a picture of his business and social life in London. And his colleague, Ms Dajani.’

  ‘Mmm, don’t know that I can help too much with that. I don’t think he came to London very much. He certainly didn’t discuss his other clients with me.’

  ‘And you never saw him socially?’

  ‘Not really. Actually, I did go to this reception at the Saudi Embassy about six months ago, it’s just round the corner.’ Dawson stroked his chin, reflectively. ‘Yes, just David, Sylvie was busy doing something else. He was discussing this exhibition that’s coming to the British Museum - Saudi art. Wanted to contribute one or two pieces he had. The prince wanted his advice on some of the other pieces, too.’

  ‘The prince?’

  ‘Yes, the prince is sponsoring it. Forget his name, now. One of those long Saudi royal names.’ Dawson pursed his lips, trying to remember. ‘No, sorry, it’s gone. Anyway, the exhibition opens next week. It’s all pretty grand you know, a chance to emphasise the close relationship we have with the Saudis. There’ll be a champagne dinner that evening, too.’

  ‘At the British Museum?’

  ‘Yes, they’re pulling out the stops. Deputy Prime Minister will be there, if I remember rightly. If David hadn’t got himself arrested, I might have been able to wangle an invitation myself. Never mind.’

  ‘So I imagine both David and Sylvie would have been invited?’

  ‘David, at least. He’ll hardly be attending now though, will he?’

  ‘No, of course not. Tell me, has the prince ever met Sylvie Dajani?’

  Dawson raised his eyes. ‘No idea.’

  Nick closed his notebook. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else you can think of, that’s it. Thanks for your time.’

  When he got back to Sevenoaks, he checked on the exhibition. ‘One Thousand Years of Islamic Art’ would be officially opened on Tuesday evening, by a gathering of dignitaries including Prince Omar Bin Abdulaziz and the deputy prime minister. He knew that security would be tight and that MI5 would also be on the lookout for Sylvie. But if she and Le Roux had planned something in advance, she might find a way through. If this was truly the reason for coming back to the UK, what or who would be the target? Probably the deputy prime minister. If something should happen to him it would be a direct blow to the government and more than a little embarrassing for the Saudis. It was the best - the only, lead he had. He had to put himself in Sylvie’s shoes and try to work out just how he would go about assassinating the deputy prime minister of Great Britain.

  ‘How would you do it?’ he asked Oyama, over dinner.

  ‘There are various options. Maybe I’d shoot him as he arrived. Maybe I’d plant an explosive device in the venue, well ahead of the opening. Maybe, if I didn’t care too much, I’d simply find a way to get in and blow myself and the whole place to bits.’

  ‘Options one and three are feasible, I suppose. I’m pretty sure your explosive device would be found in a security sweep, so I’m discounting option two.’

  Oyama shrugged. ‘If she is going to do something inside the museum, then she must have planned a way to be there on the night. Think about how she might do that.’

  ‘She could poison him. She’s quite handy with poison.’

  ‘Whatever happens, Tuesday will be your last chance to find her. We’re taking you out of the country on Wednesday night.’

  This was news. ‘When were you going to tell me that?’

  Oyama smiled. ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘We’re sending you somewhere neutral - India.’ He raised his hand as Nick began to interject. ‘A long way from Kolkata, so no need to worry about bumping in to any old faces.’

  ‘Why not Japan?’

  ‘Yoshi thinks you might be too visible in Japan, in the short term. And we have training facilities in India. You’ll be given money.’

  So this was it, the point of no return. It seemed like an irrevocable step into the unknown, but it was the only option available.

  ‘And how am I leaving, precisely?’

  ‘By ship, from Harwich. You’ll be loaded as cargo, in a container.’

  ‘Great.’ He hoped the Crimson Dragon Society knew what it was doing. One way or another, he’d soon find out.

  There was no way to get on the guest list and if he tried to gain entrance by flashing his police credentials, someone would consult a database and find out he was no longer entitled to use them. All he could do was hang around and hope to spot her. He decided to share his concerns with Simms and then go along on the night. If Sylvie somehow got into the champagne dinner undetected, he would have to rely on the existing security measures to flush her out. If she wasn’t apprehended she’d have an exit strategy, so he might find her that way. Not ideal, but it was all he had. He returned to Chislehurst Railway Station and called his ex-colleague.

  ‘Yes, the place is locked down tight,’ said Simms, once Nick had explained the reason for the call. ‘It’s been swept for explosives, the guest list has been double checked, the caterers have been monitored and cleared and the place will be swarming with spooks. So don’t worry.’

  ‘Good.’ Nick didn’t prolong the conversation. Quite apart from being traced, he knew he was now outside the cosy fold of the City of London Police, and that feeling of exclusion was only emphasised by talking with a man who had, until recently, been a close colleague.

  Tuesday evening arrived. Nick stood with a small crowd, behind a cordon that barred access to the drop-off point outside the courtyard entrance to the museum. Armed police were watching the crowd, intently. It seemed that even VIP’s had to be deposited here and then walk into the museum, like everyone else. There was a steady procession of vehicles unloading, he recognised the deputy prime minister when he stepped out of a black chauffeur driven Jaguar. What he assumed must be the Saudi prince, in traditional Arab garb, was close behind in a Bentley.

  The entire opening ceremony and dinner would take only three hours, so it would all be over by 10pm. The crowd began to thin out and he began a perimeter patrol of the museum, pacing the streets that bordered it on all four sides. He tried not to make it too obvious, there’d be other eyes on these streets if the security mob were doing their job.

  After an hour and a half he wondered what had possessed him to come here. A last act of desperation perhaps, thinking he might get lucky and find the woman ultimately responsible for Lauren’s death. She was probably miles away. This was his fifth circuit of the museum and there were people around, but it wasn’t particularly busy tonight. He thought he might just go into Starbucks when he got to the next corner. Then he heard the explosion.

  It had come from the car park he’d just passed. Not a huge bang, but something had definitely been detonated. He ran back and then into the ground floor level. Nothing to see here. It was when he went up to the next level that he was blocked from getting through the door by a beefy man in a suit.

  ‘Sorry mate, this area’s reserved tonight.’

  Nick flashed his ID, this man wouldn’t know any better. ‘What’s happened?’

  The man gave him a long look, then motioned him through. Nick could see that this level of the car park was only occupied by the cars that had dropped the VIP’s at the museum entrance. One of them, parked at the far end, was now on fire. People were swarming around it with fire extinguishers.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell happened,’ said the man. ‘That car belongs to a member of the Saudi royal family. We’ll all get hell for this.’

  Nick looked at the scene. The
re were cars spread all over this level. Had this one just spontaneously combusted? Maybe the prince had been the target and Sylvie had got the timing wrong. They seemed to have it under control now, so he went back to the street.

  He spent the next hour in Starbucks, drinking too much coffee. If she’d been here, she’d screwed up. He would finish his vigil by watching everyone leave unharmed and then he would forget about Sylvie Dajani, for now. If she was still at large in six months, maybe by then in his new life he’d have the support he needed to track her down. He checked his watch - 9.45. He finished his third cappuccino and started back towards the museum. As he approached the cordon he could see that the first cars were arriving to pick up their passengers. There were some curious onlookers at the barrier, no doubt wondering what it was that necessitated the presence of armed police outside the British Museum. When he was still about twenty yards away he noticed a woman standing in a shop doorway. She was wearing a headscarf that also veiled her face and she had a mobile phone in her hand, as though she was just about to text someone.

  She didn’t see him till he was almost on top of her and then she looked directly at him. When he saw the eyes widen in recognition his blood ran cold and for a moment, he froze. At the same time, he recognised the Jaguar that had delivered the deputy prime minister. It had just stopped outside the entrance and the minister was getting in.

  As she pointed the phone at the car, it all fell into place. The prince’s Bentley had been no more than a diversion, she’d used it to plant a bomb on the Jaguar. How she’d secreted herself in the car park he couldn’t guess, but he knew he was right. And in two seconds she would hit the ‘Send’ key on that phone and blow the minister to bits. Less than two seconds.

  When he thought about it later, he couldn’t figure out how he managed to move so fast. He covered the distance between them and knocked the phone from her hand, ripping the veil aside at the same time. Sylvie Dajani looked back at him. Their eyes locked, and enough was said in that brief visual exchange to render words unnecessary. Then she brought her knee up into his crotch. He moved just in time and the knee brushed the inside of his leg, instead. Now her fingers were going for his eyes, but he gripped her wrist and bent it back, snapping it. She gasped in pain, but didn’t cry out. They were sheltered from the street in this doorway, out of view of the men with guns. Everyone else in the street had their eyes on the people getting in the cars, all looking for a famous face.

  He had her in an arm lock now and forced her to her knees. He kept applying the pressure, but she still didn’t cry out.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked.

  She looked uncomprehending, through the pain. Then she understood. ‘Your woman? Because I love him.’

  He bent her arm in the other direction, forcing her to her feet. ‘And I loved her,’ he said.

  Then he broke her neck.

  Epilogue

  India, eight months later

  As he walked into the courtyard of the Indian Museum of Kolkata, Nick couldn’t help but be impressed by the grandeur of the arched colonnades enclosing it. All the way round on two levels, these bright white columns gave the place a palatial feel. The courtyard was in quadrants, with a fountain at the centre. He’d taken a risk coming here. It was perilously close to the India Society, where he first met Alexander Marsh. There was no chance of running into him now, of course. He doubted that Inspector Shah would recognise him, either.

  Since arriving in India, he’d let his hair grow and he now sported a beard. Initially he’d hated it, but once he got used to it he felt less self-conscious. He looked more like an ageing hippy than a DCI and right now that was just fine. This was his first visit to Kolkata in that time, he was living in Jodhpur, almost 1200 miles to the north west. He had a little house in the old city - the ‘blue city’ as it was known. An old Indian woman came in twice a week to clean the place, but there was no housekeeper. Nick preferred to do his own cooking and was almost a complete vegetarian. He’d lost a few kilos on it, as well. There’d been no further talk about cosmetic surgery, for which he was grateful. He didn’t fancy the idea of having his face rearranged.

  Mashida wanted him out of circulation, but not going to seed. One room on the second floor of his house had been converted into a mini-dojo and twice a week a young Japanese woman named Kamiko would arrive, to practise with him. Where she came from, he didn’t know, the Japanese community in Jodhpur was almost non-existent. She didn’t talk much about herself and wouldn’t tell him where she lived. She carried a parasol with her everywhere, to protect her pale, flawless skin from the Indian sun. Kamiko was also teaching him Japanese and left weekly exercises to be completed before her next visit. She was polite, but reserved. He found the isolation somewhat trying at times, which she seemed to recognise. After practice one day she told him, in a matter of fact manner, that part of her job was to ensure certain other needs were met. If he was agreeable, she would begin today. He got the impression that she’d been told to make this offer, but he didn’t argue. She was a slow and sensual lover, but even when engaged in such an intimate act she always held a part of herself back, not wanting him to get too close to the woman inhabiting that smooth-skinned body. Lately though, there’d been signs in a smile or a gesture hinting at a melting of her reserve. He wondered if she’d thaw out and he’d find out what she was hiding before they took him out of this place.

  He went inside and found the gallery he was looking for. In contrast to many other parts of the interior this room had been spruced up, with re-plastered walls and a new skylight. The sunlight streaming through it lit up the four lions of Ashoka, one at each corner of the room, in sharp, glittering relief. The astonishment he remembered from his last sighting in Japan was kindled anew. There were dozens of people taking in the sight, but the gallery was big enough to accommodate them without it feeling crowded. As he strolled from one lion to the other, he felt those emerald eyes following him.

  There were plenty of Europeans in evidence, mostly tourists. He noticed something familiar about one of them. A woman in profile, with a baby propped on one hip. It was the wide purple streak in her long, black hair that had caught his attention. He went and stood beside her, just to make sure.

  ‘Hello, Rebecca.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I would hope you remember me.’

  The penny dropped. ‘DCI Severance! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you, I guess. Came to see these amazing creatures.’

  ‘Aren’t they beautiful? I’m so glad they’re back where they belong.’

  ‘More to the point, what are you doing back in India?’

  She laughed. ‘Actually, I had a stroke of good fortune. They gave me the 5,000,000 rupees reward money. So I’m taking a long holiday.’

  The baby was peering at him with an enquiring expression.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘This is Amy, a whole four months old.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ He was confused. ‘When did you find time to get pregnant?’

  Rebecca blushed. ‘I was pregnant when you met me, I just didn’t know it. Found out when I got back from Crete.’

  ‘Is the father here?’

  She shook her head. ‘It was a short and sweet liaison. He’s not interested. But that’s fine, we’ll manage without him.’

  Nick offered Amy his finger. She gurgled in the way all babies do and wrapped her hand around it. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

  ‘You should come and see us,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’ll give you my address.’

  ‘I’d like to. But it might be best if you hadn’t seen me.’

  She looked at him, with a troubled expression. ‘Yes, I forgot. I’m so sorry about your girlfriend. But the men holding her were killed, too. By you, if what I read is true.’ She didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘It’s a pity they never found that bitch Sylvie Dajani.’

  ‘She was found. She’s dead, now.’

/>   They exchanged looks. ‘Drop by, if you’re around,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’ She extracted a little notebook from her bag and scrawled down the address and phone number for him.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Amy, I’d like my finger back, now.’

  Amy seemed to understand. She looked at him with her wide blue eyes and opened her palm.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Nick. He felt a sudden dizziness.

  ‘What is it?’ Rebecca looked astonished by this sudden outburst.

  ‘What’s that on her palm?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Rebecca couldn’t understand his sudden concern. ‘It’s a birthmark. Strange, isn’t it? Like a perfect crescent moon.’

  An ivory crescent moon. The dream came back to him. He opened Amy’s unresisting fingers and looked at it, with wonder.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said. A sudden weight of spirit he didn’t know he’d been carrying, suddenly lifted. ‘I’d love to come and see you. I’ll give you a call.’

  He kissed Amy’s forehead and then followed up with a kiss on the cheek for a perplexed and happy Rebecca. He turned and walked out of the museum, into the sunshine of another bustling Kolkata day.

  A Trade To Die For

  A Trade to Die For

  Mark McKay

  (The Severance Trilogy, book 2)

  Copyright © 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  For more information on the author, and forthcoming books, visit

  http://www.markmckayauthor.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8