Crisis (Luke Carlton 1) Read Online Free
Author: Frank Gardner
his mobile rang from his jacket on the chair by the window he chose to ignore it. Of far more interest was the magenta bra of the woman in his arms. Rosalita was not her real name but she had been his favourite since his first, exploratory visit. True, they had had a brief falling-out last year when she’d given him an unwelcome dose of crabs, but they had kissed and made up, and now he was turning his attention to the clasp at her back. Bloody mobile! Why wouldn’t it stop ringing? Probably some imbecile checking up on him. With a groan he heaved himself off the bed, catching his reflection in the mirror and reminding himself to get down to the police gym. He snatched up the phone. ‘
Sí?
’
By the time he had put down the phone Major Elerzon’s libido had wilted. What the hell was an Englishman doing dead on his patch? This was no place for tourists. Must be a narco.
Twenty minutes later he was back at the police base in the fortified hotel, just in time to watch the patrol bring in the body.This was a disaster. If he didn’t move quickly the press would be all over it before he could file his report, and those
cabrones
in Bogotá would hang him out to dry. He retreated to his office to think, retrieving a half-empty bottle of tequila from beneath a crumpled copy of yesterday’s newspaper. Before long there was a knock on the door. The coroner, of whom he had seen far too much in the past year.
‘Well?’
‘
Es complicado
,’ replied the coroner.
‘You mean you don’t know what he died of?’ snapped the major, lighting a cigarette without offering one to his guest. He had never liked the coroner, a respected local family man who seemed to lead a squeaky-clean life.
‘Not yet, no. You see, someone really wanted him dead. I mean, really, really wanted him dead.’
‘Go on.’ The major breathed smoke up to the ceiling in a thin coil and watched it curl around the motionless blades of the fan. It still wasn’t fixed.
‘It’s as if he was killed several times over. He was stabbed in the ribs. I expect you saw that in the patrol commander’s report.’ The major looked down at his desk. ‘There’s the ear, of course, but he didn’t die from that, and then there’s a needle mark in his neck. He may have been injected with something. I’m sending blood samples up to the toxicology lab on the next flight.’
‘Any narcotics on him?’
‘Nothing. But they did find this.’ The coroner reached into his tunic and handed across a plastic evidence bag.
Reluctantly, the major put down his cigarette, opened the bag, took out a small notebook and flipped through the pages. There were scribblings in some foreign script. Japanese? Chinese? He didn’t know. Either way, it probably wasn’t important but he decided he should look after it himself.
Chapter 4
THE CALL CAME through on the secure line to Vauxhall Cross at just after 0600. It was the duty officer who took it, bleary with tiredness and nearing the end of his shift. From more than eight thousand kilometres away, the voice spoke, distorted by clicks and pauses on the line from inside the SIS Colombia station, tucked away in a nondescript farmhouse in the wooded hills just north of Bogotá. The DO stifled a yawn and began to jot notes – then nearly broke his pen. This was unbelievable. The CIA were always carving stars into that wall of theirs at Langley, one for every officer killed in the line of duty, but over here, in the Service? Unheard of. He peered across the desk at the emergency numbers taped to the wall, took a deep breath and dialled.
At 0630 Luke Carlton was in the gym in Battersea when his phone lit up beside him. He liked being up early: after twelve years in the forces it was a hard habit to shake, even if it sometimes infuriated his girlfriend. Although he was out now, a civilian, he still put himself through a punishing hour of CrossFit most mornings, the exhausting, all-round fitness programme of choice for those who had
Sí?
’
By the time he had put down the phone Major Elerzon’s libido had wilted. What the hell was an Englishman doing dead on his patch? This was no place for tourists. Must be a narco.
Twenty minutes later he was back at the police base in the fortified hotel, just in time to watch the patrol bring in the body.This was a disaster. If he didn’t move quickly the press would be all over it before he could file his report, and those
cabrones
in Bogotá would hang him out to dry. He retreated to his office to think, retrieving a half-empty bottle of tequila from beneath a crumpled copy of yesterday’s newspaper. Before long there was a knock on the door. The coroner, of whom he had seen far too much in the past year.
‘Well?’
‘
Es complicado
,’ replied the coroner.
‘You mean you don’t know what he died of?’ snapped the major, lighting a cigarette without offering one to his guest. He had never liked the coroner, a respected local family man who seemed to lead a squeaky-clean life.
‘Not yet, no. You see, someone really wanted him dead. I mean, really, really wanted him dead.’
‘Go on.’ The major breathed smoke up to the ceiling in a thin coil and watched it curl around the motionless blades of the fan. It still wasn’t fixed.
‘It’s as if he was killed several times over. He was stabbed in the ribs. I expect you saw that in the patrol commander’s report.’ The major looked down at his desk. ‘There’s the ear, of course, but he didn’t die from that, and then there’s a needle mark in his neck. He may have been injected with something. I’m sending blood samples up to the toxicology lab on the next flight.’
‘Any narcotics on him?’
‘Nothing. But they did find this.’ The coroner reached into his tunic and handed across a plastic evidence bag.
Reluctantly, the major put down his cigarette, opened the bag, took out a small notebook and flipped through the pages. There were scribblings in some foreign script. Japanese? Chinese? He didn’t know. Either way, it probably wasn’t important but he decided he should look after it himself.
Chapter 4
THE CALL CAME through on the secure line to Vauxhall Cross at just after 0600. It was the duty officer who took it, bleary with tiredness and nearing the end of his shift. From more than eight thousand kilometres away, the voice spoke, distorted by clicks and pauses on the line from inside the SIS Colombia station, tucked away in a nondescript farmhouse in the wooded hills just north of Bogotá. The DO stifled a yawn and began to jot notes – then nearly broke his pen. This was unbelievable. The CIA were always carving stars into that wall of theirs at Langley, one for every officer killed in the line of duty, but over here, in the Service? Unheard of. He peered across the desk at the emergency numbers taped to the wall, took a deep breath and dialled.
At 0630 Luke Carlton was in the gym in Battersea when his phone lit up beside him. He liked being up early: after twelve years in the forces it was a hard habit to shake, even if it sometimes infuriated his girlfriend. Although he was out now, a civilian, he still put himself through a punishing hour of CrossFit most mornings, the exhausting, all-round fitness programme of choice for those who had
Readers choose
Valerie Mendes
Francine Prose
Zane Grey
Rachel Carrington
Nancy C. Weeks
Kathi S. Barton
Jillian Michaels
Alex Connor
Lexi Connor
April Smith