The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

on his companion. “Now, let’s stop sodding about. What do you think of our Billy Rogers?”

*

Central London’s skyline was changing nearly daily it seemed and in one of the newest, most exclusive and modern-looking high-rises, another dinner meeting was taking place. One of the most powerful ranking members of the United Kingdom’s parliament, one of the richest men in London, was having a similar conversation.

“So you think they’re trying to entrap you, is that it, Billy?” his uncle asked again. Thomas Sinclair, a lean, handsome man in his late 50s, was born into a powerful and well-connected bloodline that traced back to the French estates of Normandy. Sinclair’s family had been a part of Britain’s financial and political sectors since the time of the First World War in the early 1900s. A ruthless yet charismatic player, Sinclair chose to operate discreetly and had grown to become a valued friend or a feared enemy by mostly everyone in Parliament, Canary Wharf, or the Square Mile.

Rogers leaned forward and placed his now-empty glass of cola on the kitchen counter. “Yes, uncle, there’s no way they’d just drop the case against me and then turn me loose to kill for the CIA – or MI6, for that matter. There’s no way.”

“You’d be surprised what can happen when people of power decide they want something. There’s little to stop them, especially when the power values their lives or the lives of those that are dear to them. It happens all the time, and those bastards on the other side of the pond are particularly good at it.” Sinclair continued, “The ones that are operating right out in the open, like this Christopher you met, are often the most dangerous. They make the Russians and the Israelis look like amateurs.”

Rogers stood and watched as his uncle poured another Scotch, neat, and then continued his kitchen lecture.

“You may have lost something that day on the mountain, Billy.” His tone switched from authoritarian to compassionate. “Get back to being the type of man, the Royal Marine that you were. Post traumatic stress my ass. You’ve still got the brain and the heart to do whatever it takes to get what you want out of the rest of your life. America’s FDR ran that country from a damn wheelchair, so you aren’t going to let a few braces slow you down now, are you?”

Sliding the kitchen lights to dim, Sinclair walked to where his nephew stood and leaned against the counter alongside him. The two remained there, gazing through the floor-to-ceiling one-way glass to admire the night lights of their London town. The Eye, the massive Ferris wheel in the distance, rotated slowly above its perch alongside the Thames, with locals and tourists aboard enjoying a similar view. London was still the center of the United Kingdom and had become a melting pot for people from around the world seeking work or a better life.

“So you’ve given him the tracking number, yes?” the uncle asked.

“Of course,” Rogers responded. “Once he calls me on it, that will allow your group to track the movements of his phone and acquire any communication sent or received from it.” Smiling, the uncle turned and gave his nephew a pat on the shoulder.

“Well done. Now let’s turn the tables and set the trap for him. Let this play out. Go ahead and put him to the test. We’ll find out what we can from here, and if there’s any value to leveraging him or someone he’s working for, we will.”

“And if not?” Rogers asked.

“Then you can slice and dice him to your heart’s content, my boy. But for now, it’s time for me to head over to Downing Street. Something’s got the PM’s britches in a twist.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Hilton’s bar seemed too inviting to pass up. After a nightcap and a brief flirtation with a very attractive airline flight attendant, Mediterranean complexion, long brown hair, brown eyes – his type – Matt and his new friend spent the next hour close together in and around the freshly made king-size bed in his hotel room on the fourth floor. Once she excused herself and headed for her own room – she had an early wake-up call and long-haul flight to Sydney – Matt turned off his phone and the lights and fell asleep to a muted BBC news broadcast on the flat-screen TV. Morning would come soon, and it was time to set a trap for a killer of women.

“Billy, it’s Matt,” he said with an enthusiastic voice. “Glad you picked up.” The other end of the phone call remained silent for another 10 seconds, and then finally, the suspect spoke up.

“I’m willing to talk to you a bit more,” Rogers said. “But not over the phone. Let’s meet up today if you are game.”

Sitting by himself at a small table in the hotel restaurant on the ground floor, Matt gestured to the waiter for more coffee. “Sure. I never found out where you live. Are you in the city?”

“Yes, downtown,” Rogers replied.

“How about we meet in front of Buckingham Palace, the right front gate, at 13:00?”

“I’ll be there,” Rogers said and ended the call.

Matt thanked the waiter for the coffee and then asked to charge the meal to his room. He slipped the phone he had used to call Rogers into his jeans pocket and then called Charlie on his personal phone. A short time later, after the express train ride to Paddington and the cab to the palace front gates, Matt and Rogers reconnected among the hundreds of tourists taking selfies and posing for pictures in front of the massive iron gates and fencing that protected the property.

“Cheers,” Rogers said, keeping his hands in his coat pockets. Guarded as he was, Matt sensed he was actually happy to see him.

“Good to see you, Billy,” Matt said in response. “Still a bit tentative, I see.”

“I saw in an American movie once, I forget the name,” Rogers continued,