The Alex King Series by A BATEMAN (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📕

by, transactions are made in cash or via automated bank transfers. We provide invoices for other goods, of course.”

Caroline watched a heavily pregnant woman struggle into a chair. Another, seven months pregnant, or so Caroline estimated, was rubbing the lower back of a woman who looked about ready. In fact, as Caroline watched, she could see the woman panting short, sharp breaths. The woman was already in labour.

Caroline could not help the tears forming, she reached up with her handcuffed hands and rubbed them away from her eyes. “You’re farming babies…”

Helena shrugged. “This has been in place for years. The dark web gives us the means and opportunity to plug a gap in the market,” she paused. “I struggle to think what to do with you. You’re a good-looking woman. You’ll probably do well for a sheik, but you’re pushing the age limit. Those horny bastards like women in their twenties, although we women knocking the door of forty know we’d certainly please them better than we would have fifteen years ago!” She laughed and shook her head. “But you don’t have children, do you? I think it would be worth a try. At least one before we send you somewhere…”

Caroline lunged at her, dug her fingers into Helena’s eyes and pushed her against the Perspex. The Beast was caught off-guard, but only for a moment. He smashed the butt of the pistol down onto the top of Caroline’s head and she slumped to the floor. Helena was screaming, cupping her eyes tenderly, inspecting for damage amid blood and tears. She kicked out and caught Caroline in the face.

Caroline was out cold.

Helena screamed at The Beast, “Get her back into the house!” Then she gently touched the edges of her eyes, inspected the mess of crimson on her fingers. “You bitch!” she shouted, then turned and saw most of the women smiling behind the Perspex. She turned and pushed past Jurgen, muttering in guttural Russian as she went.

42

 

Franschhoek, South Africa

 

The house was a ranch-style, or bungalow. It was constructed of wooden white-washed slats and red wooden shingle tiles on the roof. There was a modern stainless-steel chimney, the type so often paired with a wood-burning stove inside. The nights in South Africa could be cold, even in the summer. It was a tidy property, and not out of the realms of a senior intelligence service officer’s finances. The house was sat square in half an acre of lawn with shrubs and trees and a gravelled driveway with a white BMW X5 taking up half of it. To the right, a larger property sat in an acre plot, the building being some seventy-metres distant. To the left; twenty metres of scrubland before a road that right-angled at a crossroads.

Rashid studied the property from across the road. The location of the house put the houses on this side of the road at sixty-metres distant. Considering what he had to do, it didn’t get much better, other than a deserted farm. He was certain nobody would hear the man shout or scream, and he was confident he would be able to contain the situation. He had read the cobbled-together details on the journey over. An attachment on Ryan Beard’s phone.

The man in question was an unmarried forty-year-old named Harvey Botha. He was an intelligence analyst and had been with the South African Secret Service for eleven years. His file hadn’t been clean. There had been an allegation of sexual harassment, which had later been retracted. No further action had been taken. And then four years ago, there had been an embezzlement investigation. Botha had sought representation, fought the case and won his tribunal. It hadn’t been cut and dried though, as the investigating team had taken shortcuts, not followed protocol and the case had been dropped. Botha had been side-lined for a promotion which should easily have been his, and his security clearance had been lowered. The man was on a short leash, and Ryan Beard’s enquiry had flagged up a warning in certain circles. Funds had been traced to Botha via poorly set-up offshore accounts. Ryan Beard had not held out much hope for the SASS, but he knew that forensic accountants working for MI5 would be able to get details of the account that the money had been sent from. Neil Ramsay knew this as well, and had tasked Marnie with sending the details to the department that had worked on uncovering the terrorist organisation Anarchy to Recreate Society.

“What do you reckon?” Beard asked.

Rashid shrugged. “We need information, see if what the man knows can tell us more about Helena Snell, or Milankovitch, or whatever the hell she’s calling herself.”

“I’m sure your forensic accountants will get something from the account number.”

“I hope so,” Rashid paused. “For Caroline’s sake.”

“What do you mean?” Beard asked.

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“I thought that was why you contacted MI5?”

Beard shook his head. “What?”

“Caroline was abducted. Just over a month ago.”

“Shit…”

“Exactly right. King is working for Helena Milankovitch, just to buy some time. She’s using him, and she’s using Caroline as collateral.”

Ryan Beard seemed to ponder on this for a moment, looked at Rashid curiously. “You know her… boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

Beard shrugged. “I thought he’d come out here, hell-bent on getting some payback for the attempts on her life. I kind of sold it to my contact in the SASS. I thought it would stand me in good stead. Caroline dropped his name, The Reaper’s. I didn’t want to be another loose end.”

Rashid smiled. “Look, I don’t think that would be the guy’s style,” he paused. “He’s tough and resourceful, certainly isn’t a guy to cross, but he’s a decent bloke. Relax. He won’t come gunning for you. So, you know his name. We all do. I gather there was some business or other in MI6 that he’d