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Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

This was awful. Six times she had tried phoning Luke and each time his phone had gone straight to voicemail. She knew he was probably still at work, but that didn’t stop her worrying. What if he had taken it so badly that he went and ‘did something stupid’? That misleadingly harmless-sounding euphemism for taking your own life. No, she couldn’t see Luke doing that, but, still, his silence worried her. They needed to talk: there was the flat to discuss, their joint bank account, all their shared possessions that would need divvying up. Oh, God, she couldn’t bear this. None of it was what she wanted. It was just that it had all gone wrong after her mother died. Luke never made it to her funeral, he was still away in Iran, and that had really hurt, especially now he’d told her what he’d been getting up to over there. Hugo Squires, on the other hand, had been at her side, a shoulder to cry on. Dependable. Reliable. A rock of support. From that moment on, she supposed, things had just taken their natural course.

On which note, where was Hugo? She had tried calling him the moment Luke left that morning, leaving her forlorn in the emptiness of their doomed flat. She had rung him twice then remembered him saying he was going to be busy for the next few days. Doing what? He hadn’t said. Damn, this was all such a mess and she hadn’t even told Hugo about the baby. That was a conversation they needed to have very soon. She tried his phone again now. Another voicemail, but different this time. Hugo had erased his own message and left an automated one, a female one with a robotic twang. Odd. Elise shook her head as if to clear it of all the negative thoughts crowding in. She went to the sink, put the kettle on and texted her friend Susie: Need some company and a heart-to-heart. Battersea Square? When suits? Looks like I’m going to be free all weekend.

92

Vauxhall Cross

Sunday, 20 March, 1555hrs GMT

BY MID-AFTERNOON ON the third day they were ready, deep beneath Vauxhall Cross in the Stage. Ready for ‘the insertion’. To Luke, this was starting to feel like he imagined a full-blown Hollywood production would be. There were just so many moving parts to this piece. While teams of people worked on his Steve Keane alias, putting in the finishing touches, the first approach to WaffenKrieg90 had been made online by the team from GCHQ, using the contact details Luke had brought back with him from Moscow.