Scarecrow

by Matthew Reilly

  ‘Captain Knight,’ he said formally. ‘I was wondering if I might be seeing you.’

  ‘Monsieur Delacroix,’ Knight said. ‘I had a feeling you’d be the assessor. I was just saying to my associates here what a charming fellow you were.’

  ‘But of course you were,’ Delacroix said drily. He eyed Schofield and Gant in their IG-88 gear. ‘New helpers. I did not know you had been recruiting from Monsieur Larkham’s fold.’

  ‘Good help is hard to find,’ Knight said.

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ Delacroix said. ‘Why don’t you come inside.’

  They passed through the castle’s showroom-like garage, filled with its collection of expensive cars: the Porsche GT-2, the Aston Martin, the Lamborghini, the turbo-charged Subaru WRX rally cars.

  Delacroix walked in the lead, pushing a handcart with the three head boxes stacked on it.

  ‘Nice castle,’ Knight said.

  ‘It is rather impressive,’ Delacroix said.

  ‘So who owns it?’

  ‘A very wealthy individual.’

  ‘Whose name is—’

  ‘—something I am not authorised to divulge. I have instructions on this matter.’

  ‘You always do,’ Knight said. ‘Guns?’

  ‘You may keep your weapons,’ Delacroix said, uninterested. ‘They won’t be of any use to you here.’

  They descended some stairs at the rear of the garage, entered a round stone-walled anteroom that preceded a long narrow tunnel.

  Delacroix stopped. ‘Your associates will have to wait here, Captain Knight.’

  Knight nodded to Schofield and Gant. ‘It’s okay. Just don’t be shocked when the doors lock.’

  Schofield and Gant took a seat on a leather couch by the wall.

  Delacroix led Knight down the narrow torch-lit tunnel.

  They came to the end of the forbidding passageway, to a well-appointed office. Delacroix entered the office ahead of Knight, then turned, holding a remote in his hand.

  Wham! Wham! Wham!

  The three steel doors in the tunnel whomped down into place, sealing Schofield and Gant in the ante-room and Knight in the tunnel.

  Knight didn’t even blink.

  Delacroix set about examining the heads—heads that were originally captured by Demon Larkham in the caves of Afghanistan: the heads of Zawahiri, Khalif and Kingsgate.

  Laser scans, dental exams, DNA . . .

  Knight stood inside the long stone tunnel, trapped, waiting.

  He noticed the boiling oil gutters set into its walls. ‘Hmmm,’ he said aloud. ‘Nasty.’

  Through a small perspex window set into the steel door, he could see into Delacroix’s office.

  He saw Delacroix at work, saw the immense panoramic window behind the Swiss banker’s desk revealing the glorious Atlantic Ocean.

  It was then, however, that Knight noticed the ships outside.

  On the distant horizon he saw a cluster of naval vessels: destroyers and frigates, all gathered around a mighty aircraft carrier that he instantly recognised as a brand-new, nuclear-powered Charles de Gaulle-class carrier.

  It was a Carrier Battle Group.

  A French Carrier Battle Group.

  Schofield and Gant waited in the ante-room.

  A whirring sound from up near the ceiling caught Schofield’s attention.

  He looked up—and saw six strange-looking antennas arrayed around the ceiling of the round ante-room, embedded in the stone walls. They looked like stereo speakers, but he recognised them as deadly microwave emitters.

  He also saw the source of the whirring sound: a security camera.

  ‘We’re being watched,’ he said.

  In another room somewhere in the castle, someone was indeed watching Schofield and Gant on a black-and-white monitor.

  The watcher was gazing intently at Schofield, as if he was peering right through Schofield’s bandages and sunglasses.

  Monsieur Delacroix finished his tests.

  He turned to Knight, still captive in the tunnel.

  ‘Captain Knight,’ Delacroix said over the intercom. ‘Congratulations. Each of your heads has carded a perfect score. You are now $55.8 million richer.’

  The Swiss banker pressed his remote and the three steel doors whizzed up into their slots.

  Knight stepped into Delacroix’s office just as the banker sat down behind his enormous desk and started tapping the keys on his standalone laptop computer.

  ‘So,’ Delacroix said, hands poised over the keyboard. ‘To which account would you like me to wire the bounty? Am I to assume you are still banking with Alan Gemes in Geneva?’

  Knight’s eyes were glued to Delacroix’s computer.

  ‘Yes,’ he said as he hit the ‘TRANSMIT’ button on the Palm Pilot in his pocket.

  Instantly, the Pilot and Delacroix’s computer began communicating.

  In the stone-walled ante-room, Schofield saw his Palm Pilot spring to life.

  Data whizzed up the screen at dizzying speed. Documents filled with names, numbers, diagrams:

  Schofield saw the last document, recognised it.

  The bounty list.

  The Pilot continued to download other documents. Careful to keep it concealed, Schofield clicked on the list, opening it.

  This list was slightly different to the one he had taken from the leader of Executive Solutions, Cedric Wexley, in Siberia. Some of the names on it had been shaded in. The full document read:

  The dead, Schofield thought with a chill. It’s a list of the targets who have already been eliminated.

  And verified as dead.

  Schofield could have added Ashcroft and Weitzman to that list—Ashcroft had been beheaded in Afghanistan by the Spetsnaz bounty hunters, the Skorpions, and Weitzman had been killed on the cargo plane.

  Which meant that, at the very best, only five of the original 15 names remained alive: Christie, Oliphant, Rosenthal, Zemir and Schofield himself.

  Schofield frowned.

  Something bothered him about this list, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on . . .

  Then he glimpsed the word ‘ASSESSOR’ on one of the other documents.

  He retrieved it.

  It was an email:

  SUBJECT: PAYMENT OF ASSESSOR’S COMMISSION

  PAYMENT OF THE ASSESSOR’S COMMISSION WILL BE MADE BY INTERNAL ELECTRONIC FUNDS TRANSFER WITHIN AGM-SUISSE FROM ASTRAL-66 PTY LTD’S PRIVATE ACCOUNT (NO. 437-666-21) IN THE AMOUNT OF US$3.2 MILLION (THREE POINT TWO MILLION US DOLLARS) PER ASSESSMENT.

  THE ASSESSOR IS TO BE M. JEAN-PIERRE DELACROIX OF AGM-SUISSE.

  Schofield gazed at the words.

  ‘ASTRAL-66 PTY LTD.’

  That was where the money was coming from. Whatever it was, Astral-66 was paying for this bounty hunt—

  ‘Good afternoon,’ a pleasant voice said.

  Schofield and Gant looked up.

  A very handsome young man stood at the base of the stone stairs that led up to the garage. He was in his late thirties and clad in designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren shirt which he wore open over a T-shirt in the manner of the very wealthy. Schofield immediately noticed his eyes: one blue, one brown.

  ‘Welcome to my castle,’ the handsome young man smiled. His smile seemed somehow dangerous. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘Colton. Tom Colton,’ Schofield lied. ‘This is Jane Watson. We’re with Aloysius Knight, seeing Monsieur Delacroix.’

  ‘Oh, I see . . .’ the handsome man said.

  He extended his hand.

  ‘Killian. Jonathan Killian. You both look like you’ve seen a fair amount of action today. May I get you a drink, or something to eat? Or perhaps my personal physician could give you some clean bandages for your wounds.’

  Schofield shot a glance down the tunnel, searching for Knight.

  ‘Please . . .’ Killian guided them up the stairs. Not wanting to attract unnecessary attention, they followed him.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ Schofield said as they walke
d up the stone stairway. ‘On TV . . .’

  ‘I do make the odd appearance from time to time.’

  ‘Africa,’ Schofield said. ‘You were in Africa. Last year. Opening factories. Food factories. In Nigeria . . .’

  This was all true. Schofield recalled the images from the news—footage of this Killian fellow shaking hands with smiling African leaders amid crowds of happy workers.

  They came up into the classic car garage.

  ‘You’ve a good memory,’ Killian said. ‘I also went to Eritrea, Chad, Angola and Libya, opening new food processing plants. Although many don’t know it yet, the future of the world lies in Africa.’

  ‘I like your car collection,’ Gant said.

  ‘Toys,’ Killian replied. ‘Mere toys.’

  He guided them into a corridor branching off the garage. It had dark polished floorboards and pristine white walls.

  ‘But then I enjoy playing with toys,’ Killian said. ‘Much as I enjoy playing with people. I like to see their reactions to stressful situations.’

  He stopped in front of a large wooden door. Schofield heard laughter coming from behind it. Raucous male laughter. It sounded like a party was going on in there.

  ‘Stressful situations?’ Schofield said. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well,’ Killian said, ‘take for instance the average Westerner’s inability to comprehend the Islamic suicide bomber. Westerners are taught since birth to fight “fair”: the French duel at ten paces, English knights jousting, American gunslingers facing off on a Wild West street. In the Western world, fighting is fair because it is presumed that both parties actually want to win a given battle.’

  ‘But the suicide bomber doesn’t think that way,’ Schofield said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Killian said. ‘He doesn’t want to win the battle, because the battle to a suicide bomber is meaningless. He wants to win a far grander war, a psychological war in which the man who dies against his will—in a state of distress and terror and fear—loses, while he who dies when he is spiritually and emotionally ready, wins.

  ‘As such, a Westerner faced with a suicide bomber goes to pieces. Believe me, I have seen this. Just as I have seen people’s reactions to other stressful situations: criminals in the electric chair, a person in water confronted by sharks. Oh, to be sure, I love to observe the look of pure horror that crosses a man’s face when he realises that he is, without doubt, going to die.’

  With that, Killian pushed open the door—

  —at the same moment that something dawned on Schofield:

  His problem with the master list.

  On the master bounty list, McCabe and Farrell’s names had been shaded in.

  McCabe and Farrell, who had died in Siberia that morning, had been officially listed as dead.

  And paid for.

  Which meant . . .

  The great door swung open—

  —and Schofield and Gant were met with the sight of a dining room filled with the members of Executive Solutions, twenty of them, eating and drinking and smoking. At the head of the table, his broken nose wrapped in a fresh dressing, sat Cedric Wexley.

  Schofield’s face fell.

  ‘And that,’ Killian said, ‘is the look I’m talking about.’ The billionaire offered Schofield a thin, joyless smile. ‘Welcome to my castle . . . Captain Schofield.’

  Schofield and Gant ran.

  Ran for all they were worth.

  They bolted away from the dining room, dashed down the splendid corridor, Jonathan Killian’s scornful laughter chasing them all the way.

  The ExSol men were out of their seats in seconds, grabbing their weapons, the sight of another $18.6 million too good to resist.

  Killian let them hustle past him, enjoying the show.

  Schofield and Gant burst into the classic car garage.

  ‘Damn. So many choices,’ Schofield said, ripping off his bandages and gazing at the multi-million-dollar selection of cars before him.

  Gant looked over her shoulder, saw the Executive Solutions mercenaries thundering down the hallway in pursuit. ‘You’ve got about ten seconds to choose the fastest one, buster.’

  Schofield eyed the Porsche GT-2. Silver and low, with an open targa top, it was an absolute beast of a car.

  ‘Nah, it just isn’t me,’ he said, leaping instead toward the equally-fast rally car beside it—an electric blue turbo-charged Subaru WRX.

  Nine seconds later, the men of ExSol burst into the garage.

  They got there just in time to see the WRX blasting down the length of the showroom, already doing sixty.

  At the far end of the showroom, the garage’s external door was opening—thanks to Libby Gant standing at the controls.

  The ExSol men opened fire.

  Schofield stopped the rally car on a dime, right next to Gant.

  ‘Get in!’

  ‘What about Knight?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll understand!’

  Gant dived in through the Subaru’s passenger window, just as the garage door opened fully to reveal the castle’s sundrenched internal courtyard . . .

  . . . and the surprised face of Major Dmitri Zamanov.

  Accompanied by six of his Skorpions, and holding a medical transport box in his hands.

  A pair of Russian Mi-34 high-manoeuvre helicopters stood in the gravel courtyard behind the Spetsnaz commandos, their rotor blades still turning.

  ‘Oh, man,’ Schofield breathed. ‘Could this get any worse?’

  Down in Monsieur Delacroix’s office, Aloysius Knight spun at the sound of gunfire up in the garage.

  He looked for Schofield in the ante-room at the other end of the tunnel.

  Not there.

  ‘Damn it,’ he growled, ‘can’t this guy stay out of trouble for more than five minutes?’

  He bolted out of the office.

  Monsieur Delacroix didn’t even bother to look up.

  Schofield’s turbo-charged WRX stood before Zamanov in the entry to the garage.

  The two men locked eyes.

  The look of surprise on Zamanov’s face quickly transformed into one of sheer hatred.

  ‘Floor it!’ Gant yelled, breaking the spell.

  Bam. Schofield hit the gas pedal.

  The rally car shot off the mark, exploding through the doorway, scattering the Skorpions as they dived out of the way.

  The WRX zoomed across the castle’s courtyard, kicking up gravel, before it shot like a rocket out through the giant portcullis and sped across the drawbridge, heading for the mainland.

  Dmitri Zamanov clambered to his feet just as shoom!-shoom!-shoom!-shoom!-shoom! five more cars whipped past him, blasting out of the garage after the WRX. There was a red Ferrari, a silver Porsche GT-2, and three yellow Peugeot rally cars with ‘AXON’ sponsorship logos on their sides.

  ExSol.

  In hot pursuit.

  ‘Fuck!’ Zamanov yelled. ‘It’s him! It’s Schofield! Go! Go, go, go! Catch him and bring him to me! Before Delacroix gets his head, I am going to skin him alive!’

  Four of the Skorpions immediately leapt to their feet and dashed for their two choppers, leaving Zamanov and two others at the castle with their head.

  The chase was on.

  WHITMORE AIRFIELD (ABANDONED)

  40 MILES WEST OF LONDON

  1230 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1330 HOURS IN FRANCE1)

  Thirty minutes earlier—at the time Schofield, Gant and Knight had been arriving at the Forteresse de Valois—Book II and Mother had been landing their stolen Lynx helicopter at the abandoned airfield where Rufus had dropped them off.

  They didn’t expect to find Rufus still there. He’d said that after unloading them, he would head to France to catch up with Knight.

  But when they landed, they saw the Black Raven parked inside an old hangar, surrounded by undercover police cars with strobe lights on their roofs.

  Rufus stood sadly by his plane, helpless, covered by six trenchcoat-wearing undercover
types and a platoon of heavily-armed Royal Marines.

  Mother and Book were grabbed as soon as they landed.

  One of the trenchcoat-wearing men approached them. He was young, clean-cut, and he held a cellphone in his hand as if he was halfway through a call.

  When he spoke his accent was American.

  ‘Sergeants Newman and Riley? My name is Scott Moseley, US State Department, London Office. We understand you’re helping Captain Shane M. Schofield of the United States Marine Corps in his efforts to avoid liquidation in an international bounty hunt. Is that correct?’

  Book and Mother blanched.

  ‘Uh, yeah . . . that’s right,’ Book II said.

  ‘The United States Government has become aware of the existence of this bounty hunt. From the information available to us at this time, we have assessed the presumed reason for it and have come to the conclusion that the issue of keeping Captain Schofield alive is one of supreme national importance. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘We might,’ Mother said.

  ‘So what’s this all about then?’ Book II asked. ‘Tell us the grand conspiracy.’

  Scott Moseley’s face reddened. ‘I don’t personally know the details,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Book II groaned, ‘you’ve gotta give us more than that.’

  ‘Please,’ Moseley said. ‘I’m just the messenger here. I don’t have the clearance to know the full story. But believe me, I’m not here to hinder your efforts. All I have been told is this: the person or persons behind this bounty hunt have the capacity and perhaps the desire to destroy the United States of America. That is all I’ve been told. Beyond that, I know nothing.

  ‘What I do know is this: I am here at the direct orders of the President of the United States and my orders are these: to help you. In any way I can. Anywhere you want to go. Anything you need to help Captain Schofield stay alive, I am authorised to give you. If you want weapons, they’re yours. If you need money, I have it. Hell, if you want Air Force One to take you anywhere in the world, it is at your disposal.’

  ‘Cool . . .’ Mother breathed.

  ‘How do we know we can trust you?’ Book II said.